OUR FIRST THESPIANS MEETING. When Madame Thespian arrives, she’ll announce the plays. It’s always a Tennessee Williams, a holiday play, and a musical.
Everybody’s here except Madame T., so I pass out the lemon bars I baked and the kids do monologues. Gary does “To be or not to be...” Lin Wong does Blanche DuBois. Reenie does Beth from Crimes of the Heart, only her Southern accent sounds like an English one.
What I like about theater is the same thing I like about cooking. You start with a few ingredients, and out of that, something amazing can come—although recipes are more dependable than actors.
Nobody says anything about my hair or weight loss. But I guess that’s because I’m a behind-the-scenes kind of gal. Even in the career I want, as a chef, I will be invisible in the kitchen. Everyone does notice my lemon bars. Amber says they’re heaven. Gary asks me to bring more next time.
“Let’s give a hand to Sage,” Lin says, “the best stage manager on the planet!” and everyone claps, which feels kind of good, but embarrassing.
I wish there had been more of them so I would’ve had more votes.
I need to forget that stupid election.
Madame T. finally arrives, preceded by the smell of clove cigarettes and vodka. The fall play is A Streetcar Named Desire. Big surprise. The spring musical is Grease.
Barf. Why not Les Miserables or West Side Story? Now all the guys’ll be doing their John Travolta imitations: “I got chills, they’re multiplying...” I can’t stand that song.
After, I go out to the football field, hoping to run into Roger, but it’s empty. He’s probably in the locker room, so I wander through the parking lot looking for his car.
Roger drives a white pickup. The plate says: ROGERW. His parking space is 112. Just seeing that truck makes my heart pound.
No one’s around, so I get up close. The truck’s beat-up; the paint is scratched and the driver side door is wired shut. At least he’s not a rich kid.
I peek in the window. There’s a notebook on the seat, some Snickers wrappers, fast-food bags, and crunched up Coke cans on the floor. Taped to the dashboard is a photo of Mona. That says it all.
I don’t even remember walking home; I was so upset and cold.
But now I’m here. Have you ever heard of a repetition compulsion? We’re studying it in psych. It’s doing the same thing over and over, even though it’s destructive. I have that. Every day, when I come home, I expect to find a mom who gives comfort, or at least a bowl of soup. I wouldn’t even mind if it was canned. But the house is dark. I can hear Mom in her room tearing things apart; paper ripping, like she’s a hamster making a nest. She’s got a rant going, but I don’t listen. They’re all the same, entertaining only for her.
There’s no dinner, nothing in the fridge, and I can’t find Selfish. Cramps hit me like a train wreck in my body.
I think about the white truck. And Mona. I’ve been wading in this little puddle of hope (or should I say, fantasy) for the last month and it’s dried up. My stomach aches from hunger. The cramps cramp. Tears make their path down my cheeks. What was I thinking? Roger is going with Mona. I’ll never be her. I should just feel lucky that I haven’t been made fun of, the way Wal-Mart has all these years.
It takes me about ten minutes to find Selfish. He’s sound asleep on a pile of laundry in the living room (Why is the laundry in the living room?).
I search for aspirin and tampons, but there’s nothing, so I deal with a wad of toilet paper—pathetic—then head for my room.
On my bed is that book Mom keeps shoving at me: The Purpose Driven Life. The book is magic, Mom says. When some murderer in Atlanta broke into this lady’s house, she showed him the book. He wept like a baby and let her go.
I tuck Selfish under the covers and get into bed next to him. Then I skim the first twenty pages. The book says that God decides your life. And God decides wisely. You just have to let go, to hand yourself over to God like you would to a beautician giving you a makeover.
“Okay, God,” I say. “Take over. Send me a prince, a new dress. Change a pumpkin into Roger Willis.” But that’s not letting Him decide. “Just give me something to lift my spirits. Anything. I’m ready, God. Here’s my life.”
But I doubt that He hears. How could He with Mom shrieking her prayers 24-7? Or with people starving and being wiped out by genocide, wars, and natural disasters?
God, if He exists, must have His hands fuller than full. Every day must be a bad day, and every night sleepless.