To Pat Moss: “And in the future, if my daughter has an issue at school, I expect that you’ll include me in the conversation, not some other student’s parents. Or maybe the Family Educational Rights and Privacy Act means nothing to you?” Leave it to Maggie’s mom to make our principal squirm.
So, Maggie’s back in the play, and once Coach heard we were arguing with Dr. Moss, Jessa and I only had to do a few extra sprints. It’s turned out to be a pretty good day. Everyone told me my serve looked less pathetic; Mr. Feiler says I’m far enough ahead in APUSH I can skip the next group assignment; I found my big blue cardigan in the winter bin, which will save my mother from criticizing my sweatshirt; and what was that other thing? Hmmm, was there one other thing to be glad about today?
Oh yeah. I don’t have to sit next to Tyler at the musical.
Because I am going to sit next to Jackson.
It’s like my freaking birthday.
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On the way back to school, I say super casually, “Oh, I told Jackson Oates—you know, your client’s son?—that I’d sit with him tonight. He didn’t have anyone else to go with.” I’m trying to make it sound like I enjoy helping new folks settle in. Just like she’s raised me.
“That’s nice of you,” says Mom, sort of suspiciously. “He can have Dad’s ticket.”
I am prepared for this. “Right. That’s what I was thinking. But it might be better if we don’t actually sit by you. Just so he can meet more people. More kid people.”
She looks at me sideways. “Mmm. Of course. Good idea.” I don’t care what she thinks as long as we don’t have to talk about it.
“Why do I have to go to this?” In the back seat, Tyler seems to be working very hard on creating a duct-tape ball. He has informed me that it must be very even and very, very tight or it won’t work right. I wonder how you know if a duct-tape ball “works right.”
“We’re going because we like to support the arts,” Mom says. What she really means is “We’re going because I like to see other parents to compare children.”
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Turns out Melinda Oates and Quinlan have also decided they wish to support the arts. Jackson sees me see them and gives a big shrug. Mom spots seats near someone she thinks Melinda should meet. Jackson and I decide to head to the other side of the auditorium where more of the underclassmen are.
“Jackson wants to sit by his new friends,” Mrs. Oates tells Quin.
“But Greer can still sit with us,” she says.
We take off before there’s a scene. Tyler glances back at me like I’ve left him to the bears, which might be true in the case of Quinlan and my mom, but Mrs. Oates seems pretty nice.
We spot an open pair of seats down in front, but on the way, we hear, “Klaus! KLAUS!” German-class girl is furiously waving. I follow Jackson like a straggling sheep. “I got you a seat!” She pats the spot next to her.
Jackson looks uncomfortable. “I was going to sit with Greer.”
“But I thought we were going to meet here?”
Now Jackson looks like there is an invisible scorpion stinging him. “I thought you just said you’d see me here.”
“Well, I have this seat for you.” She talks like she’s giving instructions. She crosses her legs, which makes her short skirt ride up shorter. Her legs are smooth, not a bit of stubble showing in the house lights. There are no moles, bruises, scratches, or veins, either. Maybe they are plastic. She drapes a bangled wrist over one knee, and that’s when I really notice the rest of her. She’s got on a sheer black top over a lacy cami. Her hair is down and she’s straightened it. She’s wearing enough mascara to make her eyes look like spiders (pretty spiders), and her lips are so glossy and reflective you could use them for night biking.
To a school play.
I, on the other hand, am wearing a Hagrid-size cardigan that I now see has a hole in one elbow, the same jeans I had on at school, and some faded orange Keen sneakers I borrowed from my mom on the way out because my own shoes were sweaty. This is how it is. Girls like the Fräulein bring their A game, and I don’t even realize there’s a game on. No wonder Jackson looks like he is in pain.
There’s an awkward conversation in which I offer to go sit by our moms (guess who loves that plan?) but eventually the other people in the row move down so we all fit. Me, Jackson, Her. (Turns out her real name is Elliana and her German name is Monika, but I am going to keep calling her Dummkopf because every time I repeat, “Greer,” she says, “Keira?”)
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The play, surprisingly, is really good. Not the story, which is if anything even more ridiculous since Maggie persuaded them to make it less kidnappy. But the performance is solid.
Maybe the lights or the makeup or the acoustics make things seem better, but even the brothers are pretty good. And however much Maggie and Lizzie hate each other, they seem like the sweetest of friends out there in nineteenth-century Oregon.
There are little curls of green snaking out from under Maggie’s white bonnet, like a secret she’s doing a bad job of keeping, but she sings like a finalist on a TV voice competition, and when she harmonizes with Lizzie, it makes Lizzie sound better, too.
At intermission, I talk with Anitha Das and her little sister about a girls coding clinic they went to, while Jackson and you-know-who share a bag of Gummibärs. I spy my mother looking over at us. She looks disappointed. No kidding, lady. Best case was that this was kind of a fake date. Now it doesn’t even turn out to be my fake date. I am a third wheel on someone else’s fake date. Maybe this whole thing was him making sure I had somebody to sit next to. He seems to have no problem making friends.
The last act finishes with barely a hitch, except for Keely jumping her cue and starting a song early, and Aidan Neal stepping on another brother once or twice.
But now things get interesting. At the end of the bows, someone hands Lizzie/Milly a bouquet of grocery-store flowers, because she’s the leading lady. She crosses her hands over her chest like it is the most moving gesture ever made, even though it happens in every play. The whole cast motions to the orchestra pit, as I know they’ve practiced, so the lowly musicians will know that we are clapping for them, too.
Here’s where things go off script. Very off script. A bunch of kids from the pit orchestra stand up on their chairs so you can actually see them—or at least their heads—for the first time. They are wearing bonnets, or if not actual bonnets, then kerchiefs or babushkas tied over their heads like bonnets. Most of the audience, which doesn’t know about Braidgate, laughs. They think the musicians are being cute. They don’t know that bonnets are a symbol of civil unrest.