Chapter 2

WITNESS PROJECTION

“What do you mean by projection?” Cliché asked, hand on her hip.

“Great question, Cliché.” Mrs. Darling pressed her hand on an oversized cheetah-print scarf, which swooped around her neck like a medieval shield. “As in, the art of being heard.” She widened her stance and performed to the entire library. “As in the thea-TUH!” She thrust her arms up toward the ceiling tiles. Making eye contact with her audience around the library, she thumped her chest and extended her right arm outward. “As in, projecting one’s voice to the back of the thea-TUH!”

The class flinched at the sheer volume.

“Why is she yelling?” Cliché whispered.

“I don’t know,” Marquis said, shrugging and sticking his fingers in his ears. “Maybe she’s mad.”

“She’s not mad,” Janie assured us. “She’s talking about the smell of the greasssepaint and the roar of the crowd.” People used to tease Janie about her lisp, but now they just see it as a part of her, like her brown hair. Janie handed the book off to Cliché and joined in Mrs. Darling’s show. “She’s projecting so the audience can hear every sscrumptioussss word of the playwright!”

It sounded like Janie was now an expert on movies and the theater.

“Sorry Mrs. D., and no disrespect, Janie,” Cliché scoffed, “but we’re not interested in the thea-TAH, with its smells and greases and whatnots.” She turned back to The Enormous Book of World Records, which she now controlled.

“Ma says I have a dramatic flair.” Marquis stood straighter, smiling.

Thud!

Cliché dropped the huge record book to the floor.

“Oh, Marquis!” Mrs. Darling cupped his face in her hands. “You are just the kind of man I hope will show up at the auditions tomorrow.”

“Did I hear someone is interested in . . . a man?” El Pollo Loco, José’s alter ego, interrupted, stroking his imaginary mustache.

Everybody watched.

“There is no need for, how you say, an audition.” He gently took Mrs. Darling’s hand. She attempted to pull it away, but José gripped it tighter and stared straight into her green eyes. “I am the man you are looking for, I can assure you, my lovely library lady.” I thought he might bend down and kiss her hand, right on her old library-green fingernail polish.

“She’s telling us about the theater, El.” Janie nudged herself between Mrs. Darling and José. He stepped back as if Janie were radioactive, releasing Mrs. Darling’s hand.

“It’s about acting—not about who you are.” Janie thumped her chest as Mrs. Darling had. “Theater is about who you could be.” She may not have been radioactive, but something had infected Janie, and it was the acting bug.

“Not being yourself? That could be a good role for you, Janie,” José jabbed, flipping up the red collar on his uniform shirt. “Ha! HA!” When no one laughed, he put his collar back down. Disappointed, José added, “Justkidding.”

For the last couple of weeks, after multiple detentions, whenever José insulted or pranked anyone, he immediately added a quick justkidding at the end, all at once, as if it were one word, and as if it were an eraser that made his harsh words disappear into little dark rolls of nothing. He was changing a little, I guess. “Awareness is the first step,” the school counselor, Dr. Smith-Cortez always said. At least José was trying to erase his mean jokes, but even so, his victims were still left hurt.

“Acting is a way to entertain people without hurting feelings.” Mrs. Darling mussed José’s hair.

“Hey, Miss Library Lady, don’t touch my do!” El Pollo Loco raised his hand to protect his part.

Ignoring him, Mrs. Darling picked up a large gold bell and raised it above her head. José ducked. “Hear ye! Hear ye! Hear ye!” Mrs. Darling rang the bell, like the town criers we learned about in fifth-grade American history. “For the fifteenth year in a row, as sponsor, director, and playwright, I’m happy to announce the Actin’ Alamos’ annual production of Charles Dickens’s A Christmas Carol.”

“My nana’s name is Carol!” Chewy Johnson said as he joined the growing group.

Mrs. Darling slammed the bell on a shelf, sighing, “Be that as it may, I am searching for people who can project for onstage roles.”

Not me, I thought, trying not to make eye contact with Mrs. Darling. I wouldn’t want an onstage role to save my life. I know how this works: I get volunteered to do something I don’t want to do. Can’t do. And then I’m supposed to pull myself up by my bootstraps, and I don’t even know what bootstraps are. I don’t even own a pair of boots. I definitely needed to stay away from this. I tried to step away. I could hear my heart thumping, and it wasn’t a good kind of excitement. My survival instinct was kicking in, like Mr. Stankowitz taught us about. I was choosing flight instead of fight.

“What about backstage roles?” Bossy Blythe Balboa asked. Now that Blythe was taking the focus, I felt relieved and was able to slip back a few steps. Blythe continued, “I want to be in charge of stuff.” Her eyes widened. Besides being the sixth grade’s student council representative, she was always trying to be in charge of stuff like cooperative groups. In her eyes, cooperative groups were created so that everyone would cooperate with whatever she decided.

“There will be both onstage and offstage roles.” Mrs. Darling tried to keep moving forward, but the questions flew at her, splatting on her surprised face like bugs on the windshield of Mom’s Honda.

“What do you mean roles?” Cliché asked.

“It’s like a part in the play, like a starring role.” Janie’s eyes glazed over and her shoulders rolled back.

I took a few more steps back and leaned on a bookshelf. Count me out. I wasn’t going to star in anything. I turned toward the nonfiction shelf and pretended to browse.

“I have more of an onstage look, don’t I?” El smoothed his black hair.

Now even I shortened José’s nickname to El. Only a few months ago, he was the school bully. Now he was looking for other ways to get all the attention—especially from Abhi. So I guess now he’s the type that goes out for parts in plays, performing for everybody. Not me. Not ever.

“How much does this theater gig pay?” El asked, squinting.

“We’ll all be paid through the adoration and applause of an appreciative audience, like on those singing competition shows you watch.” The class gathered closer to Mrs. Darling, leaning in.

“Is A Christmas Carol that movie with that goofy kid Ralphie with glasses?” Marquis asked, zipping his powder-blue warm-up jacket up and down.

“Yeah, I love that movie,” I nodded, stepping toward the group again, “that blond kid keeps wanting a Red Ryder air rifle the whole time.”

The class laughed and nodded.

“A goofy kid with glasses?” El zoomed in on me like an airborne drone. “Well, well, well, Zack.” Target identified. “That sounds like it was written just for you.”

Embarrassment missile deployed.

Not justkidding.