I’M SPENDING MORE and more time at Sarabeth’s. Mostly it’s her, Shawna, and me rehearsing. We work on harmonies and choreography. We practice solos. We record ourselves and play it back, looking for ways to improve. Other times, we just hang out. Do our homework. Listen to music. Eat junk.
The week before Halloween, Shawna opens a cabinet in the basement and finds all of Sarabeth’s old dolls—the ones that used to be up in her bedroom. She says, “Holy crap, S.B.” (This is what Shawna has taken to calling Sarabeth: S.B.) “What are these?”
“Collector’s items,” Sarabeth says. “My grandmother gave them to me.”
“We have to do something with them,” Shawna says.
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Something.”
And Shawna comes up with this crazy idea to dress the dolls in costumes and put them out on the Muellers’ front porch, to scare the trick-or-treaters. At first Sarabeth doesn’t go for it. She thinks her grandmother would be mad. But then she admits that she’s never liked these dolls anyway; they give her the creeps.
So we go to work. Sarabeth busts out the toilet paper and felt and masking tape. We make a mummy, a zombie, a devil, and a werewolf. We make a headless horseman and a bride of Frankenstein. We bring the dolls outside and take a bunch of stupid pictures of ourselves holding them, and we laugh like idiots.
Sometimes I look at these girls and think, okay, they are so weird. Other times they surprise me. Like when Sarabeth confessed that she hates her name, and on her eighteenth birthday she wants to change it to Sadie San Marco. Or when Shawna told me that her dad’s a plastic surgeon. He gets paid a ridiculous amount of money to make women look like supermodels, and he keeps offering to “fix” Shawna. Every time he offers, she does something that she knows he will hate. She dyes her hair black. She pierces her belly button. Sarabeth and Shawna are a lot more interesting than I ever gave them credit for. Weird, yes. But not in a bad way.
Mostly, I am just glad they’re here. My mother is no longer consuming my every thought. I am too busy to spend every waking moment agonizing about her. Is she eating enough? Is she smoking too much? Is she taking her medicine? I can’t worry every two seconds that she’s going to kill herself. There’s school. There’s rehearsal. There’s homework. There’s Friday-night football. There’s a sleepover at Reese’s. There’s the Jack-o’-Lantern Spectacular at the Roger Williams Park Zoo. This is how it goes as we head into November. And suddenly, it’s talent show time.
I call Regina’s house on November 1. Until now, I have avoided mentioning the talent show. The conversations I’ve had with my mother have been short. How are you feeling? I ask. Better, she says. How’s school? she asks. Okay, I say. Twice, Regina has had me over for dinner, but she is the one who does all the talking. My mom and I are careful with each other. She is careful, I think, because she doesn’t want to worry me. I am careful because I don’t want to worry. Which is why I don’t bring up the talent show until three days before. There’s a part of me that doesn’t actually want her to come. If I wait until the last second, maybe she and Regina will have other plans.
“Anna Banana!” Regina says when she answers.
“Hey,” I say.
“How are you, honey?”
“I’m good.”
“Good, good. What’s on tap for the weekend?”
“Actually, that’s why I’m calling … What are you and my mom doing Friday night?”
“Nothing.”
“Oh.” My stomach drops a little. “Okay.” I lower my voice, even though my mother can’t hear me. “Do you think she’s okay to come out in public?”
“Why don’t you ask her yourself?”
“No. I want you to tell me what you—”
“Frannie!” But Regina is already calling my mother. “Fran! Anna’s on the phone!”
There’s some shuffling around in the background. Then, “Anna?”
“Hi, Mom.”
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah. How are you?”
“I’m doing okay.”
Really? I think. How okay is okay?
“Um … listen,” I say before I can change my mind. “I’m in this talent show thing on Friday night and I’m calling to see if you and Regina want to come.”
Silence.
“Mom?”
“You’re in a talent show?”
“Yeah. I’m singing. With two other girls.”
Another silence. Bigger this time. Then, “Oh, Anna, I would love to come.”
Her voice is wavery with emotion.
“Are you sure?” I am already regretting it.
“Yes.”
“Because if you’re still … you know … you don’t have to…”
“I wouldn’t miss it.”
“Okay … well, great. Put Regina on and I’ll give her the info.”
* * *
I can’t believe tonight is the night. Giddiness overtakes me as the three of us crowd around Sarabeth’s mirror to see how we look. Did we practice enough? Are we as good as we think we are? I feel a little sick to my stomach, but it’s not all about getting up onstage and singing in front of hundreds of people. It’s about my mother being there. What was I thinking, inviting her? Just because she seems better doesn’t mean she is. She could still do something embarrassing.
Shawna is pushing on my arm, trying to get closer to the mirror. Sarabeth is behind me with the straightening iron, working on my hair.
“I’m nervous,” I announce.
“Nerves are good,” Sarabeth says.
“I might barf.”
She hands me a trash can. “Here.”
For a second I think I really might. But then I take a deep breath, and the moment passes.
“I’m okay now,” I say.
Sarabeth pats my shoulder. She is as cool as can be. She’s used to performing in Irish step competitions, so tonight is no big deal. Her job is to keep me and Shawna composed.
“If I get detention for singing my song right, you’re both coming with me,” Shawna mutters.
At tech rehearsal, Shawna was told she would need to change the lyric “I don’t give a damn” to “I don’t give a hoot.” Why? Because Shelby Horner is a “profanity-free school.”
Thankfully, Shawna didn’t make a stink about it to Mr. Winters, the drama director. She waited until afterward to tell us that (a) “damn” is not a swear word—blasphemous, maybe, but not indecent—and (b) she is going to do Joan Jett proud, no matter the consequences.
“Don’t worry, Joan,” Sarabeth says. “If you go down, we all go down. Right, Anna?”
“Damn right,” I say.
Shawna gives me a sloppy-wet smooch on the cheek.
“Eww.”
“Accept the love, woman.”
* * *
“Are we ready?” Sarabeth asks. “Are we pumped?” We are out in the hall, and she is walking back and forth between me and Shawna, rubbing our shoulders like we’re the Outsiders, getting ready to rumble.
“We’re gonna be great,” Shawna says, bouncing up and down on the toes of her biker boots.
“Of course we are,” Sarabeth says, and I can tell she’s enjoying the looks we’re getting from the ninth-grade boys who just walked by.
“We have to be better than Beyoncé and the Bobbleheads,” Shawna says.
“Hey, now,” Sarabeth says. “That was technical difficulties.”
It was so cringeworthy, watching Jessa Bell, Whitney Anderson, and Dani stumble around the stage in their platform heels, wearing way too much makeup and way too few clothes. Their lip-synching to “Single Ladies” was painful enough, but when someone backstage tripped over the extension cord and unplugged the speakers, the three of them just froze. Some boys in the crowd booed. I almost felt sorry for Dani. Almost.
We walk through the stage door and gather behind the curtain. There’s one more act before ours: two seventh-grade boys with yo-yos. They are really good. Yo-yos fly everywhere—over their heads, behind their backs. The yo-yo-ers move all over the stage. One of them even does a cartwheel without dropping his yo-yo. When they finish, Shawna sticks her fingers in her mouth and whistles louder than anything I’ve ever heard.
Sarabeth and I turn and stare at her.
She shrugs. “My dad taught me.”
Before we can find out how she does it, we hear the MCs—two ninth-grade girls in sequined hats—announce us, and bam—here we are onstage. Sarabeth is blowing her pitch pipe, and her feet are starting to stomp, and Shawna is sneering like a rebel, and the lights are bright and the air is hot, and for a second I think I might pass out.
But then I open my mouth.
It’s hard to describe how it feels up there. The whole space is ours, and, even though the words aren’t really ours, we own them right now. We’ve put them together in our own patchwork way. We are brave, we are rebels, we are dreamers who dare to dream. Our voices are pure and strong and open and defiant. I can smell the leather of Shawna’s jacket and the wax of Sarabeth’s lipstick as we dance around each other. When I break out of the group to sing my solo, I think I spot my mother in the crowd—a shock of black hair, a green shirt—but then I lose her. I lift my chin and let the words soar out over everyone’s heads. High and sweet, shimmering like lemon drops.
That’s where …
you’ll …
find me …
I forget to be nervous. I forget that my mother is watching. It’s just me, right here, all lit up.
When I stop singing there’s a beat of silence, then applause.
Chloe, Nicole, and Reese are going nuts. Some of the ninth-grade boys in the front row are doing that slow-motion, sarcastic clap thing, but I don’t care. No one is booing. No one is laughing as far as I can tell. Sarabeth and Shawna and I hold hands, bow, lift our arms in the air, bow again. There’s another act after ours, but I don’t want to leave. I want to rewind time and do it all over again.
* * *
Afterward, the lobby is packed. Just when I think I’ll never find anyone, Regina grabs me and puts me in a headlock.
“You were staggeringly good,” she says. My face is smashed into her chest, which smells like tomato sauce. “I am staggered.”
When I come up for air, there is my mother. The first thing I should say is that she looks good. The best she has looked in a long time. Her hair is smooth. She’s wearing lipstick. A green silk shirt. Who would have thought she’d go to this much effort for a Shelby Horner Middle School talent show?
I let her hug me.
“You look so grown-up,” she murmurs. “When did that happen?”
When you were stuck in concrete, I think. I’ve aged ten years in the past six weeks. But I tell her, “It’s just the dress.”
Then I hear my father’s voice behind me, and I’m glad because it gives me an excuse to turn around.
“Wow.” My dad pats my shoulder, over and over. “Just … wow.”
“You liked it?”
He nods.
“Really?”
“I loved it,” he says firmly. To my mother he says, “Hello, Fran.”
“Hello, David.”
They do a weird, polite cheek kiss thing.
It’s awkward for a moment. Then my dad says something that kills me. “She looked like you up there.”
“You think so?” my mother says.
“Spitting image.”
It’s good to see my mom smile, but then Regina has to go and ruin it. “Where’s your wife, Dave-O?” she says. “Is it past her bedtime?”
“She’s home with the baby,” my dad says, ignoring the barb. He looks at his watch. “I should be getting back … Anna? You coming with me?”
I remind him that I’m sleeping at Sarabeth’s tonight. Her mom will drop me off in the morning. “Thanks, Dad,” I tell him, “for coming.”
“Wouldn’t have missed it,” he says, and squeezes my arm.
After he leaves, Mr. Pfaff appears out of nowhere. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him in jeans.
“Anna … you were great.”
“Thanks,” I say.
“Really great. I didn’t know you could sing.”
I shrug. There’s a lot Mr. Pfaff doesn’t know about me.
I am trying to think of a way to free myself from this conversation when I notice Mr. Pfaff noticing my mom. I am ever so slightly horrified when he says, “Frannie?… Frannie Whipple?”
My mother looks at him. “I’m sorry. Do I—”
“Peter.” He points to his chest. “Pfaffenbichler … Staples High School? Inklings?”
Something clicks into place and my mom’s mouth drops open. “Oh my God.” To Regina she explains, “Pete and I worked on the school newspaper together, a hundred years ago.” They go through the whole how-long-have-you-lived-here, how-did-we-not-know-this routine, and then Mr. Pfaff says, “You haven’t changed a bit.”
“You have.” She grabs hold of his goatee. “What’s this?”
His face turns pink.
My mom smiles. “I like it.”
“You do?”
“I do. You look like a journalist.”
Now he’s smiling, too. Wait—are they flirting? Please tell me that my mother and my English teacher are not sharing a moment. This is too Twilight Zone for words.
Luckily, Shawna grabs my arm and drags me away. “He did it,” she says.
“Who did what?”
“Mr. Winters. He gave me three days’ detention for saying damn.”
“Don’t worry,” I tell her. “We’ll do it with you.”
“I’m not worried.” Shawna laughs. “I don’t even care! My dad will be pissed because I’m making him look bad, and he and my mom will have a huge fight about whether or not to ground me, but since he didn’t come tonight, he won’t know until Winters calls him—”
“Your dad didn’t come?”
Shawna snorts. “Ha!”
“Why ha?”
“Are you kidding? It’s my mom’s weekend. My parents can’t be in the same room for more than five minutes or they start throwing things.”
I nod. “Rough.” It occurs to me that my parents did pretty well tonight, considering. Maybe it’s because Marnie didn’t come. Maybe it’s because my mom is actually taking her medicine. It doesn’t really matter what the reason is. I’m just glad, in a weird way, that they were both here.
“Whatever,” Shawna says. “I don’t care if my dad’s mad. It was worth it. This is the best night of my life!… Come on.” She grabs my hand. “Let’s go find Sarabeth.”
* * *
She looked like you up there. You think so? Spitting image.
All night at Sarabeth’s house, the words whisper in my head. It’s the nicest thing my father has said to my mother in a long time. He made her smile tonight, and I don’t know why, but it feels like a good omen.
The three of us lie on the floor in Sarabeth’s basement, eating popcorn and talking. About everything. Teachers we like. Teachers we can’t stand. Boys we’d kiss. Boys we wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole. We have a heated discussion about whether the boys who were mean in elementary school could eventually become nice boyfriends.
“Everyone’s capable of change,” Sarabeth says.
“No way,” Shawna says. “Once a jackass, always a jackass.”
“What about Inspector Gustav, from Hugo?” I say. “He’s the ultimate jackass until he falls in love.”
“Or Snape, from Harry Potter,” Sarabeth chimes in. “Everyone thinks he’s bad, but really, he’s just heartbroken.”
“Or Mr. Pfaff—” Shawna says.
I whack her with a pillow.
“Hey!” Shawna whacks me back. “He could be the best boyfriend ever, you don’t know. He could be your mom’s true love.”
I stare at her. “I don’t want my mom to have a boyfriend.”
“Why not?”
“I want her to focus on getting well.”
Sarabeth smiles. “Maybe Mr. Pfaff is the best medicine.”
“Please,” I snort.
“He can read Shakespeare to her,” Shawna says. “He can recite sonnets.”
“Any day now,” I say, “you’ll shut up about Mr. Pfaff and my mom.”
Shawna smiles wider.
Sarabeth giggles.
I whack them both with a pillow. “I will never. Tell you guys. Anything. Again.”
“Sure you will,” Shawna says.
“You love us,” Sarabeth says.
When Sarabeth turns out the lights and our voices fade into silence, I lie there in the dark thinking, I love these freaks.
Maybe Sarabeth is right after all. Maybe everyone is capable of change.