LOCAL ORGANIC AUTUMN

(Age Fifteen)

My conversation with Isaac cleared the air between us, somewhat. He stopped avoiding me, I stopped obsessing about his avoiding me, and I made a (possibly exaggerated) point of saying hello to him, particularly when I was with my friends, to show him I really wasn’t “one of them” as he put it. Everything was friendly.

Friendly-ish.

There was still something awkward between us, though. He would catch me looking at him in class, usually when he’d said something particularly smart, which was often, and I would turn away, my face feeling hot. Or I would notice him hovering at lunchtime or recess, acting like he wanted to talk to me, but then he’d wander off once he noticed me noticing.

I was curious and disturbed by him, and filled with a kind of . . . expectancy.

And then he fell into the clutches of Autumn Robarts.

Became friends with her, I mean.

Autumn was perfectly nice . . . in a perky, overly positive, possibly secretly evil sort of way. It was just that she always had to be the person to point out that your jeans were probably made by a child laborer, or that the cheese in your lunch wasn’t real cheese. Whatever you had, or thought, or did, she had/thought/did it better/cleaner/more ethically/ecologically. She gave up coffee and sugar and wheat and dairy and nightshades (what?) and television and her phone and found it transformative.

“I’m so much more present,” she said.

Was I the only person who considered this a bad thing?

But we were a tolerant school, and if someone wanted to spend their spare time in conspicuous meditation and/or proselytizing, fine. Some people even joined her.

It galled me to see Isaac hanging out with her. They were in music together (a subject I did not take, due to the not-subtle discouragement of Mom, even though it would have been an easy A for me), and I noticed him helping with her campaign to get rid of the school vending machines—a campaign Juno was campaigning against. In fact, suddenly Isaac seemed involved in everything—band, rugby, basketball, fund-raising, track-and-field, good cause X.

“You’ve become quite the joiner,” I said in early November when I saw him putting up posters outside the theater. This came out a little more acidic than I’d meant it to, and his eyes narrowed.

“Why not?” he said. “College applications aren’t far off. And it’s a good way to make friends.”

“Plus you’ll be saving the world,” I said, unable to help myself. “You know, with your friend Autumn.”

“You don’t like her.”

“I never said that.”

“Then why are you being such a bitch all of a sudden?”

“Why are you still not talking to me?” To my surprise, this came out almost a wail, which was embarrassing.

“I’m talking to you right now.”

“I know, but it’s still . . . it’s not . . .”

“Look, Ingrid . . .” He stood in front of me, flustered now and gripping the stack of posters tightly in both hands. “It’s . . . I don’t know. I recognize it’s still weird. But . . . it’s not like we have to be friends. Maybe that’s the problem—we’re both working on the illogical hypothesis that we should be. But we weren’t friends before.”

“We didn’t have a chance to be friends.”

“We wouldn’t have been, though. If you’d stayed. You’d eventually have risen to a higher social circle, and we wouldn’t have been friends.”

“Okay, you have to forget about that. Neither of us has any idea what would have happened. It’s done. But . . . just come with me.” I gestured to the posters. “Put those down and come with me.”

“What? You want to drag me over to the track and argue again? It’s cold out.”

“No, I just . . . want to talk to you. Don’t you feel like . . .” I looked up and down the hall to make sure we were alone, and then felt awkward because he’d seen me doing it.

“Like what?” he said, and took a half step closer, then took the same step back again.

“I just have this . . . I keep having this sense that you and I, that we know each other.” I paused, waiting for him to say that we did or that we didn’t, but he was just watching me, waiting, so I barreled ahead. “I realize we don’t, actually, but I feel like one of these days we’re going to start talking and . . . it’ll be crazy because we won’t be able to stop. We have things to say, both of us, and I think we can say them to each other.”

“Don’t you have Juno for that?”

“Yes, but . . . no. Juno’s awesome. Very fun, very loyal, and she’s hilarious, but . . .”

“Nothing bad has ever happened to her?” Isaac said. “That’s how she seems to me. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

“That you just said that is exactly what I’m talking about. You get it. We’re meant to be friends, Isaac. Like, we already are friends, but just haven’t . . .”

“Activated our friendship program?” he finished for me, a funny smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Yes!”

“You’re a weirdo, you know that?”

“Why?”

“You go from shy to persistent to bitchy back to shy, and now you’re this tornado of intensity.”

“So . . . what are you saying? You don’t feel it?”

“I’m saying you confuse me. Yes, I have a similar feeling of knowing and yet not knowing you and being . . . curious about you. But we might find each other boring and stupid and nothing alike. What happens then?”

I shrug. “Well, I know you’re not stupid at least. And neither am I, so we’ve got that part secure.”

“You’re very all-or-nothing, Ingrid.”

“I just want to be your friend, Isaac. No big deal.” It was a big deal, though. “I’m sorry if I’m being a freak.”

“Well, why don’t we start by doing something normal?” he said, and held out the posters. Autumn had made them, to advertise auditions for The Wizard of Oz. “You can help me put these up.”

“All right,” I said, taking them.

“Awesome,” he said, and handed me a roll of tape. “Just give me a poster, then hand me pieces of tape. Easy.”

We focused on the task for a few minutes before I asked him what he’d been up to the past couple of years.

He checked to see if anyone was around before answering, and then did so in a low voice. “I stuck out another year at school. Then things got a little worse. My parents—they’re professors and . . . idealists.”

“What, like, professionally?”

“Ha-ha. Professional Idealist.” His eyes brightened for a moment, but then he turned serious again. “But really, idealist in the sense that they wanted me to hold my head up and be proud to be different, and somehow, you know, overcome all that stuff with the force of my intellect, and differentness.”

“Yeah, that always works,” I said, rolling my eyes.

“They meant well. They tried. Put me in Tae Kwon Do, bought me all kinds of biographies of brilliant people who’d been through the same thing and survived and gone on to win Nobel Peace Prizes. And I got lots of free lectures about individualism, Darwin, social constructs, the hormones of the teenage human brain.”

“Oh my God.”

“They wouldn’t let me leave, though. Until finally . . . well, let’s just say they clued in. The school wasn’t going to help; nothing helped. So they let me homeschool for a few months, and then my aunt offered to take me traveling with her. She works for the Red Cross, and goes to South America and Asia to train people. I got to go with her. Kept up with school via computer, which is what I was doing anyway. Did that for a couple of years, and then came home, got in here, that’s it.”

“How did you like traveling?”

“Loved it. Whatever I do with my life, travel has to be part of it.”

“Me too. I spent most of my childhood living all over Europe with my mom.”

“Really?”

“Really. So . . . are you happy? I mean, is it hard to stay in one place, after all that? Do you miss it?”

“Did you?” he asked.

“It was a long time ago,” I said, looking at the floor, then back up at him. “I was . . . pretty preoccupied with our new life and didn’t think about it at first, but yes. I missed it. I still do.”

“I miss it,” he said, holding his hand out for tape, reminding me that we actually had a job to finish. “But, uh, my parents thought I needed what they call ‘normal teenage social interaction.’ ”

“Oh, that!”

“Yeah, that. Not sure where ‘normal’ comes in, though, or whether I’ll even know it when I see it.”

“You could just go for ‘not horrible’ and consider it done,” I said.

“Aim low?”

“No, I mean—”

“You mean in the context of my previous experience.”

“And mine.”

“Speaking of social interactions,” he said, “am I living up to your big expectations? Do I have enough to say? Am I brilliant and funny and your soul mate already?”

I started to laugh, and he laughed too, and before I knew it, the posters were up and we were finished.

“You cut my time in half, I bet,” he said.

“You’re welcome,” I said.

We were back where we started, in front of the theater doors.

“So . . .” he said, shoving his hands into his front pockets. “You going to audition?”

“Not my thing. And anyway, as my mother would say, it’s not practical.”

“Not practical?” He gave me a skeptical look. “In what sense?”

“You know, for life.”

“This isn’t life; it’s the school play,” he said. “It’s for fun.”

“What’s for fun?” Autumn’s high, bubbly voice announced her arrival as she rounded the corner and turned her big blue saucer eyes on Isaac.

“This,” Isaac said, pointing at the poster.

“Oh, we have so much talent in this school,” Autumn said. “We’re going to have a real orchestra so the music will be live. Isn’t that wild?”

A real orchestra didn’t exactly seem wild to me, but I refrained from saying so.

“You both going to play?” I asked. Isaac played trumpet and guitar, and Autumn played oboe.

“Probably,” Isaac said.

“Actually . . .” Autumn said, “a little bird told me I have a good chance at being Doro—ahem—in the cast. And didn’t you say you wanted to stage-manage, Isaac? Since you already have music on your résumé?”

“I’ve got to go,” I said, irritated that she’d horned in on my time with Isaac, and even more irritated at how she was making plans on his behalf.

“Ingrid,” Isaac said with a pointed look, “they need singers.”

“Oh,” Autumn said, wincing. “You wouldn’t know this, being new, but poor Ingrid is . . . not musical, Isaac.”

“Really?” he said, with a quizzical glance.

The thing is, to prevent people from asking me to join choirs, et cetera, I always mumbled my way through any necessary singing at school, and gave the general impression of being a musical dunce.

“Plus you have to be able to act,” Autumn continued, with a smile so sweetly pitying, I wanted to smack her. “But we’ll need help with props and costumes and painting the set if you want to get involved.”

It was suddenly obvious that she did not want me to get involved.

“Maybe I could audition just for kicks,” I found myself saying. “Not all the parts are singing parts, right?”

“Yes, but everyone sings as part of the ensemble!” She moved close to Isaac. “Everyone has to sing at the audition!”

“So? I’m not allowed to try?”

Isaac, all this time, said nothing. He just leaned against the wall, eyes sliding from one of us to the other.

“It’s not for kicks, Ingrid!” Autumn was really getting into a lather. “It’s serious! You can’t just audition like it’s a joke. You can’t—”

“Oh, I can’t audition according to you? I can do whatever I want, Autumn.”

And that is how I found myself signing up to audition for The Wizard of Oz.

Remorse set in immediately.

I would die of a combination of mortification and stage fright at the audition, if not before. I would suck. Or I wouldn’t suck, and I would land a part and then my mom would kill me. Or go to bed for the next five years.

I hadn’t told her about it yet.

Meanwhile, Autumn could be heard practicing “Over the Rainbow,” complete with the extra intro that she told us with great self-importance is not in the movie, but is in the play. She practiced in the hallways between classes and every recess and lunch hour. She’d started wearing her curly blonde ringlets in freaking braids. These actions, combined with her false modesty about whether she’d get the part (resulting in people reassuring her that she was awesome and would totally get the part, even though her voice was mediocre at best) made her more annoying than ever before.

“Good news,” she told me the day before the auditions. “I just heard there’s another non-singing part available—there’s the Wicked Witch, of course, but you’re a bit short for it, and it’s a major acting challenge. But Rhea’s changed her mind about bringing a real dog onstage. They’re going to cast a student as Toto! So . . .” She sidled up close and whispered, “You could be my dog!”

“No, Autumn,” I said, seething. “In no way could I be your dog.”

“Listen, it’s not too late to change your mind,” she said, fake sympathy all over her face.

Oh yes, it was.

Beyond a couple of low-volume run-throughs in the shower, I did not practice.

Call it denial, call it pure terror, but I basically pretended it wasn’t happening.

And yet the day came and there I was, sitting outside the theater with everyone else. The worst thing, besides the gut-gripping fear, the sweating, and the racing heart, was that the theater’s acoustics were excellent and the place was not soundproof, even with the doors closed. This meant everyone waiting outside to audition could hear everyone inside when they went to sing.

Awful.

Juno had decided to audition too, so I had her for company, but still I nearly bolted. Fortunately, Autumn’s presence (conspicuous vocal warm-ups, pretending unsuccessfully not to listen and judge every audition) helped to anchor me to the spot while I waited for my turn.

It took forever and still came too quickly.

Godark had kept the larger of the two theaters that were in the old church when the school took over the building, and it was constantly in use for various school activities. The theater was a faded beauty, with about two hundred rubbed-thin velvet seats, a balcony held up by Corinthian columns painted deep blue with gold leaf, real lights, and a thrust stage.

Inside, it was lit up as if for performance. To one side was a piano with Mr. Krauss—the music teacher—sitting behind it, and on the other was Isaac in a chair with his stage manager’s clipboard. Halfway back, in the audience, was a table with muted red lights, where Rhea sat.

“Miss Burke,” Rhea said, her voice booming out of the semidarkness as I reached center stage, “I’m pleased to see you auditioning.”

I heard her shuffling papers, and squinted, trying to see her.

“You did not specify a role,” she said. “Is there anything particular you’re interested in?”

“Well, this isn’t the kind of thing I usually do. I just signed up because . . .” I glanced at Isaac, and then quickly away. “Um. Because I thought it might be . . .” Fun would be the wrong word, I realized just in time. Rhea’s vibe was dead serious.

“Yes . . . ?”

“Actually, I love the story. There’s something about it. . . . The movie is iconic, of course. But also there’s Wicked, which I saw years ago, and I’ve read the original books a bunch of times. There are so many big themes—learning that you carry what you need within yourself, learning to be careful what you wish for, embracing where you come from, friendship, good and evil . . .”

I’d gone from unable to speak to unable to stop.

“Anyway, if there’s something I’m right for and you want to cast me, great. I’m short, but I might make a good witch, or . . . whatever part. Except . . .”

“Except . . . ?”

Autumn’s dog. Please God.

“Nothing. Any part.”

“And do you sing?”

“I . . .” I glanced at Isaac, thought of Mom, then shrugged. “I can sing a bit.”

Surely I could sing well enough for a chorus part. It was just the high-school play.

“Fine, we’ll try a few things,” Rhea said, then came forward to the foot of the stage and handed me a couple of scenes. “You’ll read with Isaac.”

I read for various parts—Glinda, the Wicked Witch of the West, the Scarecrow, and Dorothy. I hadn’t worried much about the acting part, but it was flustering and weird, and I only settled down by focusing on Isaac, who, thank God, was a good reader.

“Very nice,” Rhea said when we were finished. “Now, did you prepare a song?”

Not exactly.

“Which, um, which one do you want?” I said. “I kind of know them all. I think.”

Mr. Krauss put his hands to the keys and played the opening notes to the intro of “Over the Rainbow.”

Oh crap.

I stepped forward, clasped my hands in front of me, unclasped them, stepped back. Realized if I’d had sheet music at least I’d have something to do with my hands. Realized maybe I looked unprepared not to have it. But the opening notes were coming to an end, and I needed to take a breath because there was no turning back now. . . .

What was I thinking, signing up for this?

Somehow I was singing. It was a miracle I’d even managed to open my mouth. Damn, it had a big range, this song, and here came the first high note, the one we kept hearing from the hallway in all the auditions, coming out flat and/or screechy: the wince note. I would be no better, probably worse. . . .

But no, I wasn’t flat or screechy. I’d had a shaky start, but I’d hit that note no problem, and no way was I going to screw this up with Autumn outside the door, listening.

When it was done, I stood there blinking, pulling myself atom by atom back into the present. I had gone to Oz, and it took some time to return. People were talking and I was answering on autopilot . . . and then it was done, and Isaac was escorting me, flashlight in hand, off the stage, up the aisle, and to the door. There, he paused.

“Why are you giving me such a funny look?” I whispered.

“I’m just happy you auditioned. If that’s making me give you a funny look, so be it. Get ready for more funny looks.”

“Why?” I said, panic starting to rise in my throat. It had felt so good, but that didn’t mean it was good.

“Ingrid,” he said, shaking his head. “You just blew the roof off.”

“I did? Like, in a good way?”

“Seriously? Yes. Now go—I have a job to do.”

And with that, before I really had a chance to register his words, he pulled the door open and ushered me out into the bright light of the hallway.

Juno started cheering and clapping when she saw me, and other people did too.

Not Autumn, though. She was staring daggers at me and was quite pale—so pale that I actually felt sorry for her. I gave her an encouraging smile, and said, “Break a leg, Autumn.”

I am such a bitch, I thought. But I’m a bitch who can sing.

When the cast list went up, my name was on it. I was playing Dorothy.

The news hit me like hundreds of tiny explosions going off up and down my spine. How had I gone all these years without knowing how much I wanted this?

Only a high-school play, as I kept telling myself, but still . . .

I hadn’t told Mom yet.

Andreas had been away coaching some executive in Ireland, and I’d been hoping to have him there if/when it became necessary to tell Mom about the play. But finally it was giving me too much anxiety, and so one morning I decided to tell her over breakfast.

“Mom?” I cleared my throat. “I’m . . . trying to add some extracurricular activities so I look more . . . well-rounded on my university applications.”

“Smart idea. What is it—debating? Soccer?”

“No, I thought I’d . . . That is, someone suggested I try out for this little . . . play.”

“Try out?” Her eyebrows climbed up her forehead.

“Audition.”

“I’m aware of the meaning. You are auditioning for a play?”

“Y-yes,” I said, making the lightning-fast decision to save the part about how I’d already auditioned and landed a role, the role, for another conversation.

“Why is it little?”

“Huh?”

“You said a ‘little’ play. What is little about this play?” she said, her diction becoming crisp as her attention fastened on to the subject. “Because it’s a bad play? Or an insignificant one?”

“Nooo . . . it’s not a bad play. Not insignificant, either. It’s just the school play, Mom,” I said, then stood up and started clearing the breakfast dishes. “Anyway, it would mean staying late for rehearsals . . . for a few weeks. But I won’t get behind on homework or anything, and it would look good on my résumé.”

She gazed fixedly at me and tapped one long nail on the tabletop.

“What play is it?” Her tone was light, conversational.

I mumbled the answer, “Wizardofoz,” while making a beeline for my coat and shoving my feet into my boots.

I don’t know quite what I expected when I finally met her gaze, but what I found there was sympathy.

“Oh dear, you think you can play Dorothy.”

“You don’t think I can?”

“Ingrid . . . we’ve been over this. You are not a singer and that is not the life for you. You deserve stability. Respect. Something where you can’t be thrown away like yesterday’s trash. I don’t want you to be disappointed if you are not cast, or they give you one of the smaller parts. There are small parts.”

“You don’t mind if I audition, though?” I said, grabbing on to the small window of opportunity I could see open. “Just to give it a shot?”

“If you must,” Mom said with a sorrowful gaze. “I’ll be here for you.”

“Oh, Mom, thanks,” I said, and then we stood and hugged in the entryway while, in my head, I began to re-create my timeline for auditioning and landing the part . . . that I was starting rehearsal for that night.

If only I’d had a time machine, it wouldn’t have been lying at all.

A week later I burst into the house, on a high from a great rehearsal, and told her.

“I got a part!” I said, trying to recapture and re-create the crazed and amazed feeling I’d had when I first found out. “The part. Dorothy!”

“Oh!” She’d been so sweet and solicitous over the past few days, I was convinced she’d be happy for me. “Sweetheart. Ingrid. Well, that’s . . . Well, isn’t that . . .”

“Great?”

“Yes. Great. Congratulations, darling. That’s wonderful,” she said, then hugged me and kissed me on both cheeks. “Magnificent!”

It was exactly what I’d wanted her to say.

So I should have felt fantastic.

Except she looked like I’d just dropped a house on her.