Chapter 4

ALL SHE COULD MANAGE

“Abhi, I think I have figured out who should be that Had-a-Tweezer Scrooge guy,” José announced, flashing his grin.

“Eh-BA-NEEZ-er, El!” Abhi turned her sparkling smile toward El Pollo Loco.

Great! Here was my chance to be the attention-getter, and José was, once again, stealing my thunder.

“That’s great news!” Abhi patted José on the back, “I hoped somebody good would go for the lead role. Plays are so much fun!”

Abhi! He didn’t even know the main character’s name. I didn’t either exactly, but why him? Why not me? My stomach lurched. I wanted to yell, Wait! Look at me, Abhi! I am somebody good, and I’m going to try out for Scrooge. But I didn’t. I just stood there, letting José soak up all my attention.

“Yeah, I’m a great actor.” José nodded his head up and down, slower than slow, like a real creep. “My mom always believes whatever I tell her.”

If I were more like El, I’d probably say, Hey, over here, Abs! Remember me? You were just asking me if was auditioning for Scrooge, and I was about to say yes. But I’m not like José. I’m like me, keeping my trap shut, letting everything go the way it goes.

José just took whatever he wanted. I’ve never been like that.

My courage slid through my fingers like fine store-bought sand, pouring onto the library floor. Why would I even consider trying out for Scrooge anyway? I guess I could take a backstage role. That’s where I belonged anyway. But what was the point? I could never compete with José, the attention-getter crazy chicken.

“I think I might like to go out for the role of Scrooge as well,” Marquis announced.

What?

Somebody pull the emergency brake on the bus! My head involuntarily popped toward my best friend, causing some kind of friendship whiplash. Now Marquis wanted to be Scrooge, too? This couldn’t be happening. Was this some kind of nightmare where everyone had the guts to take an onstage part except me? Wake me up! Mom? Dad? Somebody? Please!

“Oh, this is simply splendid news, thespians.” Mrs. Darling beamed.

“What’d you call me?” José squinted.

In a British accent, Janie explained, “A thespian is someone who participates in the thea-TUH!” Janie seemed to know a lot about this thea-TUH thing. She even knew how to say it. And speak British. Man, there was so much I didn’t know. So much I’d probably never know.

“Why are you talking British, Janie?” El asked.

“Duh,” Cliché said, bobbing her head. “That’s how you can tell she’s acting.”

Janie curtsied.

Once Marquis piled on that he was trying out for Scrooge too, it felt like globs of dry organic peanut butter clogged my throat. My mouth opened, but nothing came out.

“That’s so funny you’re trying out for Scrooge, Marquis.” Cliché touched his arm. “I was just getting ready to say that I was auditioning for Mrs. Scrooge.” Cliché too? Was there a plot against me?

“There is no Mrs. Scrooge, silly,” Abhi giggled, explaining to Cliché. “But there is a Mrs. Cratchit.”

Cliché rolled her eyes.

“Who else is in?” Abhi put her hand out flat in the center of those who’d gathered around Mrs. Darling. Abhi, the new quarterback for the Actin’ Alamos, brought us in like we were her team. Team Abhi.

Without a word, I smacked my hand on top of Abhi’s before anyone else knew what had happened. Starting now, I’d said to myself, I would be the guy who acted first and thought later.

Scowling, José slapped his hand down on mine—hard. Janie’s hand followed, then Marquis’s, then Cliché placed her hand on Marquis’s. They both giggled. We looked around to see who else was going to bring it in for the Actin’ Alamos. And I wondered what I thought I was doing.

“I just lotioned my hands.” Sophia held up her shimmering hands, like a surgeon on TV. “Soooo . . . ” She scrunched up her nose and stared down at our pile of hands like they were riddled with some contagious skin disease.

Chewy paced back and forth, and then his hand hung above the stack of hands.

“What happens if you have to go to the bathroom during the play?” Chewy looked pleadingly over his shoulder at Mrs. Darling.

“You won’t be onstage. You’re my assistant director.” Mrs. Darling said. “You can go whenever you feel the urge.”

“Hurray!” Chewy disappeared.

“Urine the play,” El called after him. “Justkidding.”

Blythe cleared her throat. “I know you already said who you’d chosen for assistant director, but don’t you think you should consider moi: Blythe Balboa, student council representative?” She handed Mrs. Darling a business card, which she’d scribbled on a torn-out page of her notebook. “I’m more assistant director material? I mean . . . ” She looked over her shoulder to the door Chewy had escaped through and shrugged. Man, this girl is a sneaky snake.

“I see you more as a stage manager, Blythe.” Mrs. Darling cut her off.

Blythe stopped talking. Her face went from mad to maleficent, like the Disney villain. “Hear that, y’all? I manage it all!” Blythe projected her voice to the entire library—and beyond—motioning her hands at the entirety of the universe. “Everything on the stage, I manage.” She pointed to herself. “Two words and four syllables to remember: Stage Man-a-ger.” She shot two finger pistols in the air, blew off the imaginary smoke, and shoved her hands into her white cardigan pockets like holsters.

“Bossy Blythe has spoken,” José added. “Justkidding.”

Everyone laughed this time, except Blythe. She gave José a dirty look and scribbled something in her little notebook, like she knew something we didn’t.