We don’t find my birth mother in the yearbooks, but for a few hours it did get our minds off the impending awards ceremony and the fate of my college dreams.
Which is all I’m thinking about now.
Nyla and I dress up for the ceremony. Last year we were still wearing our nuns’ habits when we won, and it was kind of embarrassing going up there. If you win first place you get to have your picture taken with your drama teacher, and that picture gets framed and put into a glass display case back at our high school, with all the baseball trophies and basketball jerseys, the pride of the school.
“The governor’s here,” Mama Jo whispers to us as we sit next to her in the auditorium where they’re going to announce the winners. “See him?”
“The governor? Of Idaho?” I whisper back.
“No, silly, of Indiana,” Nyla laughs. “Of course of Idaho. There he is.” She cocks her head at the bald man in the suit sitting with the judges on the stage. He looks mildly uncomfortable, or bored, like he’d rather be somewhere else. I don’t blame him.
I ask the obvious question: “Why is the governor of Idaho coming to the state drama awards?”
“Something to do with the scholarship,” Mama Jo says. She smiles. “Good luck, girls. Not that you need it.”
I need it.
We don’t have to wait long. There are only a few categories, and each category has a third, second, and first place. They start with comedy. Then classical. Then musical. Then dramatic, which is us.
We don’t win third. We don’t win second. It’s either all, then, or nothing.
I clutch Nyla’s hand. I want it all.
“And first place in the dramatic category goes to Nyla Henderson and Cass McMurtrey for their stellar depiction of the famous struggle between Helen Keller and her teacher, Anne Sullivan, in The Miracle Worker.”
I let out the breath I was holding. People are clapping. We stand up, and Nyla hugs me, and I hug her back, and we hug Mama Jo and wander up to the stage to collect our golden trophies and take a bow.
They’re not Oscars, but they’re pretty freaking good. And we don’t have to give a speech, which is even better.
“Oh, stay here, girls,” a judge tells us when we move to go back to our seats. He turns to the audience.
“We’d also like to announce a couple of special awards. Now every year, a sponsor has generously provided a scholarship to a deserving senior who performs in a spectacular way at the state competition. It’s called the Excellence in Acting Award, and it is ten thousand dollars, per year, for four years, to be used toward the tuition of the college or university of the recipient’s choice.”
This is it. I’m holding the trophy in one hand and Nyla’s hand in the other, and she is squeezing me tight. I feel dizzy. I feel sick. I really might throw up this time.
In the back of my mind I understand that Nyla could win this. We’re both seniors. She’s amazing as Annie. But I want to win so bad, and Nyla doesn’t need this money, so I believe—deep down—that the scholarship will go to me.
“This year it was extraordinarily difficult to choose the deserving senior,” the judge continues. “So difficult, in fact, that we were unable to come to a clear decision.”
Um, what?
“So, in the face of this conundrum, the theater department at Boise State decided to step up and offer a second scholarship, of equal value, to a second deserving student.”
Wait, I’m thinking. There are two scholarships now?
Nyla grins. She’s almost laughing. I go weak with relief. It’s happening. The universe unfolds as it—
“So I am pleased to announce that the Boise State scholarship will go to Cass McMurtrey.” The judge gestures to me. Another judge hands me a piece of paper. Applause, applause.
“And the Excellence in Acting Award will go to Nyla Henderson.”
Mama Jo is on her feet, cheering loudly. All the kids from our school are shouting and whistling and clapping.
Me, however, I’m looking at the paper they gave me.
Ten thousand dollars.
Per year.
For four years.
My eyes are blurry. I almost can’t read the last line of the paper. Which says:
To go toward tuition and expenses at Boise State University.
Then Nyla and I have to get our picture taken with the governor. We stand on either side of him and he puts his arms out like he’s got them around both of us, but he avoids touching us. His hands hover a few inches behind our backs, then drop the moment after the photo is taken.
“Congratulations,” he says. Or I think that’s what he says. I’m not really listening at this point.
“So where do you think you’ll be using your scholarship?” he asks Nyla.
“I want to go to the University of Southern California,” she answers, still beaming.
I try to match her smile.
“Fantastic,” says the governor. He turns to me. “And Boise State is going to be lucky to have you, young lady.”
“Thank you,” I manage.
This is when Nyla realizes. “Wait. Hold on. What?”
“I guess I’m going to BSU,” I murmur, and show her the paper.
The governor shakes our hands again and walks away. Nyla reads over the paper slowly, then turns to me. I’ve never seen this particular expression on her face before, this epic combination of horror and guilt. She could win an award solely on the basis of this singular expression.
“Oh crap,” she says breathlessly. “Oh shit.”
Yeah. That about sums it up.
I try to put on the it’s-okay face, but I’m not that good of an actor.
But then Mama Jo is touching my shoulder, pulling me away, off the stage, not smiling anymore, not cheering, as somber as I’ve ever seen her. She says something about a phone call. I have to come with her now.
“It’s about your mother,” she says.