“You wicked, wicked girl! I never can write it again, and I’ll never forgive you as long as I live!”
—Little Women
Never work with children or animals. Whoever said that about acting was one hundred percent correct—as I’d learned from sharing the stage with a sister who was both immature and barely housebroken.
“I still don’t see why we can’t have a real fire.” Amy was sprawled across the threadbare armchair in our “parlor,” a part of the house that had been repurposed as a performance space. “It would give the scene more intensity.”
“Because I have to stick my hands in it.” Though, knowing Amy, adding a twist where Jo goes to the burn ward would be more of an attraction than not. She’d been after Mom for ages to perform some of Alcott’s other stories. Not the sequels, which might have made a tiny bit of sense, but the really sensational melodramas. Like we could magically pull an Italian villa and round-the-world boat chase out of the junk drawer.
It was one of the few Amy requests my mother had ever denied, probably because it was inconceivable to Mom that anyone could be sick of seeing the same old scenes. Like the one we were doing today, in which Jo discovers that Amy has maliciously set fire to the only copy of the manuscript Jo has been slaving over for months.
“What if I’m a pyromaniac?” Amy addressed the words to the brown ring on the ceiling, idly wrapping her pee-colored braid around her hand. “Maybe I can work that in. A psychological angle.”
“You’re a selfish brat. That’s your motivation. It’s not very complicated.” I stretched my chin to one side and then the other, hoping to release some of the tension from my neck. Pretending to lose it all day was exhausting. I’d been trapped in this costume, and inside this room, since morning, thanks to the busload of book clubbers Mom had invited to join the day’s “fun.” The only thing keeping me sane was the thought of stripping off my tights and going for a run the second it was over. According to the clock on the mantel, we had about ten minutes left.
“Amy is way more layered than you could possibly understand,” my sister said, pointing at me with the end of her braid.
“You mean like how she talks about herself in the third person?”
“If you ever did character work, you might understand my process.”
“Maybe if I actually wanted to be an actor, I would.”
“Sure.” Amy ran her pinkie between her front teeth. “You’re such a team player.”
“This place sucks up enough of my life. I’m not giving it more.” Did I enjoy or approve of our stupid family business? No. But I always showed up. There might be complaining involved, but at least I did the work. Unlike Meg, who smiled and pretended everything was golden, only to disappear when it was time for the heavy lifting.
“Thank you so much for your sacrifice, Queen Jo.” Amy placed a hand over her heart. “It must be so hard getting handed the lead in a professional theater production. Boo-freaking-hoo.”
There were so many things wrong with that statement it wasn’t worth the effort of arguing. I turned to the fireplace and spread out the ashes and scraps of paper, ignoring the creaking springs and snap of elastic from Amy’s direction. Finally I whipped around, ready to yell about jumping on the furniture, in time to watch her pull a power bar out of her tights.
“What?” She split the wrapper at one end. “I get low blood sugar.”
“I doubt you’ll go into a coma in the next five minutes.”
“Unlike some people, I don’t phone it in,” she said through a mouthful of shelf-stable protein. “I give a hundred percent to every performance. I am always on.”
“Then I guess you won’t mind taking it to the next level.”
“Please. I’ve been holding back so you don’t look bad.”
I cocked my head, listening to the unmistakable sound of approaching footsteps. “Try to keep up.”
“I will improv circles around you.” She shoved the empty wrapper under the waistband of her tights.
By the time the door swung inward, we had assumed our positions: Amy standing to one side of the hearth with her arms crossed in defiance while I loomed behind her, hands cupping my cheeks in a pantomime of shock.
A pair of women crept uncertainly across the threshold. People understood how to behave in a theater, but the fact that this was a house made it confusing. For all of us. After silently counting to ten, I took a deep breath, alerting everyone in the room that the wax-museum portion of the experience was over. There had been talk at one point about installing a big red button to “activate” a scene, but I drew the line at pretending to be animatronic.
“How could you do this to me, Amy?” My guttural yell made both women jump. Big dramatic moments weren’t normally my strong suit, but I had no trouble tapping into the desire to pummel my younger sister. “I poured my heart and soul into those stories!”
“Get over it, loser.” Amy made an L with her finger and thumb. “Take it from a real artist. Your book sucked.”
Most of our performances weren’t scripted, in the sense of using exact lines. Aside from a few iconic quotes, Mom was more concerned with capturing the “spirit of the book.” That allowed a certain amount of interpretive leeway.
I dropped to my knees and scrabbled at the ashes in the fireplace, plucking out a blackened scrap. “You suck! One day I’ll be famous, and you’ll still be painting teacups.”
Amy popped her hip. “At least my stuff is pretty.”
“Unlike your nose.”
“Shut up, Jo! Everyone knows you’re the ugly one. And you’re never going to get published writing crap like that. You should be thanking me.”
My hand, which had been lovingly smoothing the partially incinerated paper, clenched into a fist. “How can you say that? I will never forgive you for this!”
“Ooooh,” Amy taunted. “I’m so scared.”
I stood, flexing my fingers. We circled each other slowly, arms hanging loose at our sides like a pair of gunslingers.
“You are such a little—” I choked on the rest when Amy smacked me in the head, hard enough to make my eyes water. “Wretch,” I spat, though it came out sounding more like writch, thanks to the period-inappropriate word I’d come close to using.
“What are you going to do about it, Jo? I thought you were tough.” She punctuated her words by poking me in the chest.
I slapped her arm away.
“That the best you got? Come at me, sis.”
I grabbed the crispy yellow braid dangling over her shoulder and gave it a sharp tug.
“Hair-pulling, seriously?” Amy pushed her sleeves back. “Looks like somebody brought a knife to the gunfight.”
Before I could react, she threw herself at me, leaping onto my back and wrapping an arm around my throat.
“What—are—you—doing,” I ground out, twisting from side to side in an attempt to dislodge her. Amy clung like a koala, lace-up boots locked at the ankle in front of me.
“Give it up, Jo.” She leaned back with all her weight, pulling me dangerously off balance. My gargled warning was too late. We crashed to the floor, the rag rug barely cushioning the impact.
An elbow to the gut forced Amy to let go. I flopped onto my back, trying to catch the breath that had been knocked out of me. Probably I should say something, get the scene back on track—
“Ungh!” I grunted as Amy landed on top of me. She was straddling my stomach, knees compressing my ribs.
“Say it,” Amy growled.
“Say what?” I tried to buck her off.
“I’m the pretty one and the smart one.” She bounced up and down on my midsection. “Everybody likes me best. Especially Laurie!” There was a wild light in her eyes as she looked around the room. I assumed she was mugging for the audience until she grabbed a throw pillow from the wingback chair.
“There can be only one.” She raised the cushion above her head as though lightning bolts were about to shoot from the heavens and set the needlepoint on fire.
I scowled, sending her a silent message: Tone it down, Drama Queen.
“Goodbye, Jo.”
“Wait,” I started to say as the pillow descended toward my face. “Mmmph.” That was as close as I could get to rage-screaming my sister’s name through a mouth full of scratchy fabric.
“What’s that?” Amy taunted. “Afraid I’m going to mess up your ‘one beauty’? I wouldn’t worry. Your hair’s not that great.”
I tried to punch her, first with one arm and then the other, but Amy dodged every blow.
“Will you just die already?” she growled, twisting the pillow.
As my oxygen-starved brain caught on, I kicked my legs once, twice, and a third time, before my body went slack.
“Oh, Jo,” my sister wailed, collapsing on top of me. “I didn’t mean to kill you! Your book really was trash, though.” Classic Amy: Even during someone else’s death scene, she had to steal the spotlight.
After more fake sobbing and showily blowing her nose, Amy fell silent. One of the women offered a tentative clap, after which her friend joined in, the two of them managing a tepid round of applause.
“Excuse us,” one of them whispered, like maybe they thought it was rude to leave without saying anything.
As they shuffled out of the room, I heard the other ask, “Was that part in the movie?”
“Yeah, don’t you remember?” her friend replied. “One of the sisters definitely dies.”
Their footsteps slowly receded. I felt Amy’s laughter before I heard it.
“Get off.” I rolled to the side, dumping her onto the floor. Then I whomped her in the head with the rock-solid pillow, the weave of which was gouged into my forehead. “What is wrong with you?”
She shrugged. “You said you wanted to amp it up.”
I picked a strand of hair out of my mouth. “I didn’t mean one of us should Hulk out.”
“It’s called being creative. That was amazing. ‘I know one of the sisters dies.’ Classic.”
“Hard to believe Juilliard isn’t blowing up your phone.” I gently pressed a finger along the side of my nose, making sure my nostrils were still functional.
“You should be happy I didn’t use the poker.” She gestured at the brass tools hanging from a stand next to the fireplace. “That was my original plan.”
“Why would Amy murder Jo? It makes no sense. If anyone’s going to feel stabby, it’s Jo.”
“Jo, Jo, Jo. Blehhhh. She’s so full of herself.”
I shoved her in the shoulder. She kicked me in the shin. We were so busy slapping at each other’s hands that neither of us registered the shadow falling across the doorway. It was the burst of a flash that finally tipped us off. Well, that and the huff of amusement, in a distinctly male register.
I hurried to pull my skirt down, kicking my sister when she stayed sprawled across the rug, staring at an unfamiliar guy with reddish-blond hair and horn-rimmed glasses. His faded black tee had a picture of a man’s face on the front, with either a mohawk or a receding hairline, and an intense expression. Probably I was supposed to recognize whoever it was, but I was more interested in the person wearing the shirt. If the first glance said nerd, a closer inspection revealed full lips and rounded cheekbones, like the glasses were camouflage for his cuteness.
“Who are you?” Amy gave the question a flirty lift at the end.
She was out of elbowing range, so I settled for aggressively clearing my throat.
“I’m Hudson. Andrea’s assistant.” It sounded like that should mean something to us, but I had bigger concerns.
“How long have you been standing there?”
“I came in right before the—” He clutched his throat with both hands.
“She deserved it,” Amy assured him, batting her lashes. “Jo was super mean to me.”
“You burned her book,” I retorted. “The only copy. It was handwritten.”
Hudson shook his head. “I’m surprised you didn’t suffocate her.”
“Thank you.” I extended a hand in his direction. “He gets it.”
My sister’s expression turned sulky. “Jo can rewrite her stupid book. It’s not like she has anything else to do.”
“Whereas Amy’s life is so full of meaning.”
“This scene doesn’t really do justice to my character,” Amy informed our visitor. “She’s way more polished and elegant than her sisters.”
Said the girl who stored snacks in her underwear.
He pushed his glasses up his nose. “I prefer the more candid, backstage stuff anyway. Very Diane Arbus.”
I made a mental note to google Diane Arbus as soon as I was alone. It was obviously a reference to something sophisticated and a little edgy, and thus totally foreign to our cheeseball, wannabe-homespun world. Hudson looked like the kind of guy who hung out at painfully hip cafés in real cities. Places where no one ever smiled, or raised their voice, because they were so intellectual. Funny how you could tell something like that from a pair of jeans.
His phone buzzed, and he glanced at the screen. “The boss is waiting.” Our eyes met and he ducked his head, a hint of pink staining his cheeks. “See you around, I guess.”
“He’s not as cute as I thought,” Amy announced as his footsteps receded. “Doesn’t hold a candle to Laurie.”
I held a finger to my lips, relaxing slightly when the outer door closed behind him.
“That didn’t stop you from hitting on him.”
“At least I wasn’t staring at his butt.”
“I wasn’t—” I decided to save my breath. Like the rest of my family, Amy lived in her own reality. Nothing I said was going to change her mind. Besides, whatever fluke had brought Hudson here, the odds of running into him again were basically nil. People didn’t linger for days, immersing themselves in the magic kingdom of Little Women Live! You could maybe fill an hour—two if you walked really slowly.
“Five o’clock.” Amy stretched her arms over her head. Frowning, she sniffed her armpit. “I need to change before the reception.”
As she hopped to her feet, shaking out her skirt, I looked down at the coarse plaid of my own dress. Somehow I’d forgotten about the costume. You got so used to it, you started to think, Here I am, being myself, when in reality you were dressed up in a fake 1860s dress sewn by your mom. That’s what Hudson had seen: a seventeen-year-old with an unflattering hairstyle, wearing a cheap plaid sack.
“I’m going for a run,” I announced. Not that I needed anyone’s permission.
“Hello? What about meeting the press? Mom got fried chicken.”
“No one’s going to show up. It’s a waste of time.” And money.
“Laurie will be there.” This was clearly my sister’s trump card, as if everyone shared her obsession with our lone male costar. “And maybe Saggy Pants,” she grudgingly added.
“Who?”
Amy jerked her chin at the door. “The guy who was just here. The one you were checking out. But that’s fine. I’ll say hello to your little friend.”
“He wasn’t that little.”
“Five-nine, tops.”
“Which is totally average.” Not in our family, which tended more toward the Amazonian, but for the rest of the population.
“I’ll take a closer look and let you know.” She did a double eyebrow twitch. “He’ll probably like me better anyway. I’m the fun one.”
The clock on the mantel ticked in the silence. “There’s no way he’s here for the media whatever.”
Amy examined her cuticles. “If you’re sure.”
“Mom’s probably just going to make us do a bunch of team-building exercises.”
“Guess it doesn’t matter, since you won’t be there.” She was being suspiciously laid-back all of a sudden. It creeped me out.
“I already wasted a whole Saturday.”
“Whatever. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”
For the life of me, I couldn’t tell whether this was reverse psychology or another instance of sisterly sabotage.