Short Read online

  Kids are just different, but he’s firstborn, so he gave my parents “unreasonable expectations.” That’s what I heard my dad say once to my mom. Tim’s guitar picks can be found all over the house. They’re like the droppings of some kind of animal.

  I did learn something in the year of piano class with Mrs. Sookram. I figured out how to make conversation with an adult and get them off track. The key to the whole thing is to ask a big first question, and then follow that with smaller ones that prove you are listening.

  My big question was always about Mrs. Sookram’s life when she was a kid. Where did she grow up and when did she know that she liked music so much? If I got her going, which wasn’t hard, she would just rewind back to a town in Idaho for the whole lesson. I heard about her childhood, piece by piece, week by week. I know more about this lady’s history than about my own parents. The main thing was that she grew up on a potato farm and she was so crazy about music that she walked four miles after school to listen to a lady play a harp in the lobby of a hotel.

  I think the harp must be the saddest instrument to fall in love with, because you can’t haul it around with you and you can’t just go into someone’s house and expect the person to have one, like with a piano. They won’t point over to the corner and say, “Yeah, we’ve got a harp. Why don’t you play us a song?”

  Once I figured out that Mrs. Sookram liked talking about music better than listening to me hit the wrong keys, the lessons were more under control.

  But then one day she said, “Julia, I’m going to call your mom this afternoon. I just don’t feel right taking her money.”

  I wasn’t sure what to say, but I managed “She doesn’t mind.”

  Mrs. Sookram looked sad. She said, “Honey, I don’t think the piano is your instrument.”

  I nodded in a way that was half yes and half no. And then I heard, “I’m going to miss you, Julia.”

  Mrs. Sookram took my hand. It was way warmer than mine. I realized she was telling the truth, because her eyes got all watery and stuff leaked out of her nose and I was pretty sure she was crying. Or else having bad allergies.

  I should have said that I was going to miss her too. I wanted to say it, but a lie that big would’ve been impossible. So I put my arms around her waist and I gripped her really tight. She was a big lady, so there was a lot to hang on to.

  Minutes later, I was lighter than air walking down her driveway. It was a kind of feeling that maybe happens when you’ve finished serving a prison sentence or have just gotten out of a full body cast. I didn’t realize until I was on the sidewalk how much I hated the piano, and how much I’d learned about potato farming.

  I pretty much haven’t thought about music since, and now here I am waiting to sing “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” with a zillion other kids at some big-deal audition that half the town has shown up for.

  I didn’t have a lot of time to figure out what to wear to this torture session, so I settled on my leather sandals and my jean shorts and a white shirt that’s called a “peasant blouse.” The shirt is my favorite. It has puffy sleeves and a round neck and it’s made of thin cotton. I didn’t give it the name “peasant blouse,” because that’s like saying “poor person shirt.” But that’s just what they call these things.

  We don’t have peasants in our area. We have some farmers just outside of town, and I’m guessing they hire workers who don’t make much money, but I don’t think those people wear festive blouses while pulling weeds.

  Anyway, I have on what I consider to be one of my best outfits, and that’s important because one of the things I’ve learned is that it’s good to feel cozy with what you’re wearing when you’re going into a situation that is new and scary.

  The last thing you want to do when you are nervous is wear wool.

  My little brother has on a striped shirt and brown shorts with an elastic waist that I think are very unfashionable. And he has a rubber band in his mouth.

  We all make our own choices, except of course when it comes to the big things. Those decisions seem to be made for us, which is why I’m standing here.

  After what feels like forever, it’s my turn to get up onstage.

  Most of the kids who went before me sang “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.” But I watched a girl ask the man at the piano if she could perform “Amazing Grace” and he didn’t have a problem with that. I could barely listen because her song reminded me of losing Ramon, so I put my fingers in my ears. My hair is long, so I made it look like I was just holding my head.

  When I walk over to the piano I suddenly come up with a plan and I say, “Can I sing ‘This Land Is Your Land’?”

  The guy nods and then winks at me. This is a nice thing to do because his wink makes me think he knows something I don’t know—like what I’m doing singing in front of two hundred strangers.

  I start “This Land Is Your Land” and look right out at the auditorium past the woman who is recording us on a video camera.

  I don’t want to be here, but Grandma Mittens says I’m a terrier and they can bark loud. So I sing with everything I have in my lungs and I make sure my hands aren’t all knotted up in fists. I watched some of the other kids before me and they looked like they were ready to throw a punch.

  After I finish my song I look back at the piano player and say, “Thank you very much.” He winks at me again. I can’t help it—I laugh. And then I take a small bow directed to the piano. I have no idea why I do this.

  I guess my mom knows that today is hard on me, because once we are done auditioning we go right to the bakery and Randy and I each get a chocolate cupcake. We eat them in the car on the way home, even though dinner is only a half hour away. While she’s driving Mom says, “You did a good job taking that bow, Julia. It was very theatrical. People liked that.”

  I don’t answer because I wasn’t trying to be theatrical—I don’t even know what that means. But I’m happy that she thinks I did a good job.

  I know my singing isn’t anything special. When my little brother sang I heard honey in his voice. Some kind of sweetness. My voice is loud but not sugary because I don’t have the right flow.

  Randy has what Mrs. Vancil (who was my favorite teacher at school) would call “real potential.”

  It’s not because I’m not tall, but my singing potential just isn’t that high.

  THREE

  I haven’t thought about the audition for four days.

  What’s done is done.

  I’m outside, lying on the grass and looking up at the sky while thinking about Ramon, and I decide to shut my eyes because then I can pretend he’s with me. All dogs like to sleep, and Ramon really loved a good nap. He could even fall asleep sitting up. I don’t mean to drift off, but it happens. Only I don’t have on sunscreen, and when I wake up I feel my face tingle with burn.

  I’m hoping my mom doesn’t notice. Using sunscreen is one of her biggest rules.

  When I go back into the house she’s in the kitchen. She wants to keep an eye on us, so she works from home more during the summer. She doesn’t say anything when the door opens, but she is really smiling. So maybe my sunburn isn’t that bad.

  Then my little brother yells, “Julia, we’re Munchkins!” He’s sitting on a stool at the counter and I realize now that he was waiting for me.

  For a second I think he’s saying I’m short, which of course I already know. But then my mom adds, “We got the call. You were both chosen for the play!”

  I feel a lot of emotions as I stare at them.

  They are grinning like Cheshire Cats, as Grandma Mittens would say. The expression means “super smiles,” and that’s what Randy and Mom have. They believe we’ve won.

  I smile back, but I’m forcing it.

  What about my summer? What about thinking about Ramon whenever I want, and writing letters to Kaylee and Piper? I still haven’t done any actual letter
writing, but I did start a drawing and if it turns out to be any good I was going to send that. My two best friends are counting on me to be here at home reporting back. I’m the glue that’s holding us together. Plus I’m a terrier. I can’t be a Munchkin.

  I work on my plan for hours, but the next day, which is when we will have our first rehearsal, I pretend-trip on the stairs and throw myself to the floor saying I sprained my ankle. Mom doesn’t even want to look at my leg (and the truth is, the only thing that really hurts from the fall is my right elbow). But I drag myself around with a limp anyway.

  It’s not working, because she won’t even give me an ice pack. So I stop walking weird and put on my peasant blouse and my shorts. I try to wear my leather sandals, but Mom tells Randy and me that we have to be in running shoes.

  Running shoes? They don’t go with the peasant blouse, but there isn’t time to come up with a new outfit. Obviously there is more to all of this than anyone is saying.

  There are other kids arriving when my mom pulls up to the theater. I don’t know any of them and I’m happy about that.

  What if Stephen Boyd turns out to be a Munchkin?

  He is the person who sat next to me in Mrs. Vancil’s class, and he’s better than everyone (except Elaenee Allen) in math. He’s great at kickball too. And also at spelling. This past year whenever there was nothing else to do I would look over at Stephen Boyd, and I don’t feel like I could realize my full potential if he was in the play with us. He’s a distraction, because he has very nice dark hair that is curly.

  Ramon’s hair was like a paintbrush. It was that thick.

  I can see that most of the other Munchkins have parents with them who are parking their cars. My mom figures Randy and I can handle it, so she just drops us off at the curb. Plus she has to get to work. I’m good with that, especially when right away a woman with a clipboard tells the other parents they can’t stay and watch. We will be having “closed rehearsals.”

  The parents look really sad about this.

  I have no idea why they’d want to watch us turn into Munchkins (which we’re told is going to take four full weeks).

  The woman with the clipboard pretty much orders the adults to go around to the front of the building to the box office. We have twenty-two performances in August, and she seems certain they will want to buy tickets to see every single one of these shows and bring lots and lots of friends.

  All I can think of is that four weeks of rehearsals and three weeks of performances is almost the whole summer.

  Poof.

  Gone.

  It’s possible I’m going to cry, but I hold in the problem and my eyes just look sort of extra shiny.

  Once we get rid of all the disappointed parents, we’re taken through the lobby into the theater. We’re a big group. I hear the clipboard woman count, and I stop listening once she hits thirty-five.

  It’s pretty dark in here, but I’m in the front and I see that three little kids are already up on the stage, where a door is open to the outside.

  One of the kids is standing in the doorframe, and I’m shocked to see that he is smoking!

  I can’t believe this is happening. Who lets a kid smoke a cigarette?

  No wonder the parents were told to leave!

  I just can’t wait to tell my mom and dad. My mom really doesn’t like smoking, and this is going to change everything.

  Then the smoking kid turns and steps back inside and I see his face.

  That’s when I realize he isn’t a kid at all, because he has a beard!

  So he’s a little adult. He’s the perfect Munchkin. The rest of us are just big fakers because as we get closer, I see that these three people have the right look.

  They are just like in the movie.

  It seems obvious to me now that there are not enough little adult actors in our town to play Munchkins, so they got us kids to fill in. That’s what’s going on.

  I can’t help it. I stare.

  It’s not polite, but I can’t stop myself. Plus it’s pretty dark in here, so maybe they can’t see us very well.

  There are two men and one woman. One of the men is black and he’s the smoker. He’s got the beard and a little mustache. The other man has hair the color of marmalade. I think he would be the most perfect leprechaun and not just because he’s wearing a green shirt. He has scruffy orange whiskers on his face like he needs a shave, and his nose is sort of red on the end. Maybe he has a cold.

  The woman is just a little taller than both of these guys. Her hair is pulled back in a long, dark braid, and she’s wearing big silver hoop earrings and a turquoise necklace with matching bracelets. Even though it’s summer she’s wearing leather boots that have heels. They don’t look like athletic shoes to me, but this is my first time being part of a semi-professional theater production, so I have no idea what will work onstage.

  I decide I really love her look.

  I’m going to get to know her so that I can find out where she got the leather boots with the heels. She has really small feet like me and I’m guessing they might be special order from somewhere.

  A few moments later the lights come on. I’m standing with my brother and the rest of the group when the small woman comes over and sticks out her hand and says, “I’m Olive. Nice to meet you.”

  She goes to each kid and says the same thing, which breaks the ice. This causes the two men to come alive.

  The smoking man is named Quincy. The leprechaun guy is Larry.

  It doesn’t take Quincy long before he explains he’s a professional performer. He’s had jobs mostly in circuses, but he also works rodeos as a clown to distract the bucking broncos. Everything Quincy says is interesting. He’s trained elephants and he also can ride a unicycle and do a great backflip.

  After Quincy shows us a few tumbling moves, Larry warms up a bit. He knows how to talk in a funny voice and he can speak in crazy accents and make great animal noises.

  We are all having a lot of fun when the door opens in the back of the theater and a man enters. He’s carrying a big notebook. He does not move fast, but he does not move slow either. He moves like he matters.

  We hear: “Please be seated.”

  The woman with the clipboard sort of darts out from backstage and says, “Shawn Barr is here.”

  We knew that, except we didn’t know his name.

  Shawn Barr is dressed in what’s called a “jumpsuit,” which means the top is connected to the bottom, like what a car mechanic wears. But Shawn Barr’s jumpsuit isn’t navy blue and it’s not loose fitting. It’s the color of a cantaloupe and it has a fake belt that clips together in front with a gold buckle.

  Shawn Barr is not wearing a costume. This is just his outfit, and I know because I can see his wallet in his back pocket, which has a worn spot, and that means the jumpsuit gets a lot of use. I try to think of my father wearing Shawn Barr’s orange outfit and it just makes me go crazy inside. But somehow Shawn Barr doesn’t look strange in this piece of clothing, because he seems very comfortable with what he has on.

  Shawn Barr is not a tall man. I would call him short, but never out loud because I don’t say that word. He couldn’t play a Munchkin, but he doesn’t tower over us until he opens his mouth.

  Some of the kids are whispering like little bees. I’m super-quiet. Shawn Barr claps his hands together once and then says, “Performers—when I speak I need absolute quiet.”

  All of the buzzing stops.

  “I am Shawn Barr. Many of you may have heard of me.”

  I sneak a peek by moving my eyes (but not my head) to look at the other kids. I don’t notice any signs that they have heard of him.

  “I have directed shows on Broadway. I’ve had my work run on the West End.”

  I sneak a peek again and I see that Olive, Larry, and Quincy are nodding.

  Even though I just met th
em, I really like them, so I nod too.

  Because I do this, Randy nods. Having a little brother is like having an employee. He understands he’s got a job as a loyal sidekick.

  I try to figure out how old Shawn Barr is, and it’s impossible to tell. He has gray hair, but it’s thick. He moves in a way that doesn’t seem like an old person. He does have all kinds of lines on his face, but he doesn’t have a cane or a walker. He is for sure older than my parents, who are old, because they are forty-two and forty-four.

  He might be super-super-super-old.

  Is he fifty-five?

  I have no idea.

  The oldest people I know—like Grandma Mittens, who is going to have her sixty-ninth birthday on the Fourth of July—are people I’m related to, so of course I know their age. I decide that I will find out how old he is later, because it is probably good to know more about him since he’s famous. He’s making that very clear to us as he speaks:

  “I have worked with many of the greats of the theater. And they all, with a few exceptions—a few aberrations— have one thing in common: They understand commitment.”

  I’ve heard the word “aberration” before, but I forget what it means. I know “commitment” means showing up, because I filled out the forms to be in the Girl Scouts last year but then my scout leader told my mother I didn’t show enough commitment after I skipped too many meetings.

  I liked the idea of the Scouts, but I guess not really being one.

  Shawn Barr keeps talking: “Our commitment is to the play and to one another. We will work very, very hard. I need the best from you. We will learn to sing and dance at the highest level. We will be a team that has one goal: Putting on a great show!”

  As I listen, I get sort of excited.

  Shawn Barr has a way of moving his arms when he speaks. His voice is deep and filled with energy and I guess what I’d call “feeling.” Everything he says is bold, and I’ve never thought about that word before.

  But it’s just a fact: This guy is bold.

  Then his voice changes and I hear something that makes my stomach squeeze.