Counting Thyme (19 page)

“Oh. Cool.” That explained the headdress. There was also an Egyptian-looking mask hanging on the wall, and a pretty hat balanced on a stand over by Sylvie's cage. When I looked back at Mr. Lipinsky, he had a far-off look in his eyes, but he wasn't sad. His mouth was halfway to a smile.

“I'm working on a play at school,” I said, and his eyebrows rose.

“So you like being onstage, then. Should've known it, from how you carry on up there.”

“No, I'm backstage. On sound production.”

He slapped his leg. “Imagine that. Never woulda thought you had it in you.”

“Neither did I.” I felt a mix of excitement and nerves, but mostly nerves.

“I was a stagehand, you know,” he said. “All it takes is doing. You jump in, grab a brush, coil a rope. It's a team sport. As long as you do your part, the show goes on.”

“I don't know how to do any of that stuff.”

“Chin up,” he said. “You'll be fine. Ada would tell you that I've forgotten more about theater than you'll ever know. You have any problems, you see me.” With that, he fixed his attention on the checkers, but soon Mrs. Ravelli bustled into the room. She said dinner was “all taken care of” and that it was time for us to go, because Val and Mom might be back by now. I wondered when she'd started fixing his dinners. Was that how she'd gotten a copy of his key?

I stood up, and Mr. Lipinsky spread his hands wide. “What? In the middle of a game?”

“I have to check on my brother.” It felt weird talking about Val with Mr. Lipinsky. I was afraid that he'd say something horrible.

“I've seen those contraptions on his head.” He wiggled his hands by his ears where Val's hearing aids stuck out. “How bad is it?”

“Not great,” I said, “but he's a fighter.”

Mr. Lipinsky nodded. “I'll get you next time,” he promised, and waved me out.

The living room was empty, so I went to Mom and Dad's room to see if she and Val were home yet. He'd done so much better at the end of his last week of 3F8, I guess I had hoped he would be fine this time. Sitting on the bed playing with his lovies, talking about which train they rode.

Instead, Val was lying in their bed, his eyes puffy and red. Mom raised a finger to her lips, and I stopped. Then she slipped off the bed and steered me into the hall. “He needs rest.” Her voice was scratchy. “Your father went to the office to get some work done. Your sister should be here soon. She said she had something after school today.” Mom looked skeptical about that. I thought of Cori sneaking her protest shirts to school and changed the subject.

“Is Val okay?” I asked, even though I hated that question. Asking if everything is okay pretty much guarantees that something is
not
okay.

Mom ran her hand through her hair. It was longer now, flopping into her eyes. She needed a trim. “Everything's fine. But the pain lasted longer today, so it's taking him longer to sleep it off.” Her voice trembled as she spoke. I was just glad she was actually telling me what was going on. After talking to Mr. Lipinsky, I was even thinking I should just tell her about the Spring Fling. Plus, I had to ask about staying after school for the weekly production meetings.

Then she said, “Let's not talk about it anymore.” She straightened up, pulling herself back into line. “What's new with you?” Her eyes were red-rimmed and bleary. She looked
like the last thing she wanted was to listen to me blab about my day.

Suddenly, the Spring Fling, and Emily losing the part, and me getting on the stage crew seemed like the smallest news in the world.

“Nothing,” I said. “Nothing much happened today.”

GIVE IT TIME

THE DAY MOM GOT THE CALL THAT VAL MADE IT INTO THE CANCER
trial at Sloan Kettering, she'd taken us all out to Chuck E. Cheese's, given us a hundred tokens each, and told us to do whatever we wanted. Cori had complained that she was way too old for Chuck E. Cheese's. Until I started beating her at Skee-Ball. Then she stopped whining and started putting some serious effort into winning. Back then, getting into the trial had seemed like a miracle. We didn't know about the pain and the hives and the way our lives would get jerked around, one week to the next. All we knew was that Val needed it.

“They didn't tell us it would be this
hard
, every time,” Mom said on Tuesday night, after Val's second day of 3F8 for January. He was asleep in Mom and Dad's room again. Things had gone a little better, but he was still too exhausted to eat dinner with us.

“They said there could be a lot of side effects,” Dad said. “I think this is within the range.” He set the pot roast that Mrs. Ravelli had cooked on the table in front of him while Mom scooped fluffy mounds of potatoes onto our plates.
Mrs. Ravelli's potatoes. My mouth watered, but I forced my fork to wait until the gravy arrived.

Mom reached for the gravy boat but then stopped, her fingers resting on the handle. “I don't know,” she said. “If he keeps this up, sleeping for hours and hours . . .” She frowned. “He can't go on like this. It's not right. Maybe we should try the therapist in SoHo, the one Sara's parents are using. She says the acupuncture helps with the pain.”

“Val's friend Sara?”

Mom glanced at me. “Yes, actually. She's on the same cycle this week.”

“Oh. Good,” I said, relieved to hear that Sara was okay, but Mom had already drifted off again.

“If you want to try the guy in SoHo, we can try him,” Dad said, attacking the roast with a carving knife. “I know it's hard, but we have to give it time.”

He dumped a pile of meat on my plate and then Cori's, while Mom ran her finger back and forth along the gravy boat's ceramic handle, lost in thought.

“Mom?” Cori said.

Mom didn't answer. Dad rested a hand on her shoulder. “It's going to be fine, hon.”

“I know—” Mom began, but Cori interrupted her again, louder this time.

“Mom!”

Mom looked up, eyes blazing. “What? What is it that's so important?”

Cori slumped back in her chair. Her hair wasn't in a fancy
style for once, but long and straight like mine. The eyeliner was still there, though. “I just wanted some gravy,” she said.

“Me too,” I added, and Mom's scowl melted.

“Sorry, girls. I'm sorry.” She hustled thick puddles of gravy onto our plates. “It's just complicated right now, with your brother. We want the best for him.”

“So do I,” Cori and I said at the exact same time.

Cori stuck her tongue out at me. “Jinx, you owe me a soda!” A giggle forced its way out of my mouth, which I'd just overstuffed with gravy and mashed potatoes. I bent over, laughing as big, wet drops of brownish potatoes hit my plate.

“That's nasty, T!” Cori wailed, slapping at my arm. Which, of course, made me laugh even harder. Dad got in on the game, making faces as I tried to chew. Even Mom smiled.

Then Cori told us how she was planning a fund-raiser for her drama club, and Dad gave her a thumbs-up, and for a few minutes, dinner felt normal. Like it was okay to talk about other things besides cancer treatments and acupuncture and blood tests.

“So, Thyme,” Dad said. “I hear you have something to tell us, too?”

I swallowed fast. “I do?”

“Well, we couldn't help noticing the change this week. Mrs. Ravelli said you could explain.” My heart raced. Had Ravioli spilled the beans about the Spring Fling? “About Mr. Lipinsky?” Dad said with a knowing look. “He hasn't banged on the ceiling in days. No notes, either.”

“Oh. Right.” I was relieved they hadn't found out about
the Spring Fling, but also a little disappointed. It was hard to tell if I wanted them to know or not.

“I figured he was dead,” Cori mumbled.

“Cori,” Mom scolded, though she was smiling. Then she turned her smile on me. “So what happened? Tell us.”

I told them how I'd gotten to know Mr. Lipinsky over the last week or so, and that he wasn't such a terrible neighbor after all. That he had a bird named Sylvie who liked to whistle, and that he was even sort of nice, in his own mean way. It was funny to hear myself say that. I wouldn't have thought that about Mr. Lipinsky just a couple of weeks earlier. But sometimes, people change. Or I guess the way you see them changes, and suddenly, they are someone else completely.

“Well it's good to hear that he's been nice to you, but I'm still reserving judgment,” Mom said.

Dad smiled at me. “Kill 'em with kindness, right? That's my girl.”

A sunny feeling swept through me, and before I'd even decided to ask, I told them I needed to stay after school for something. “You've been a busy bee,” Dad said. “Tell us more about this ‘something.' It doesn't have anything to do with a boy, does it? I've already lost one daughter to hormones. Don't think I'm ready to lose another.”

Cori groaned. I almost fainted. “
No
, Dad. I just want to check out our theater group.” It was embarrassing, admitting it to them, like I was shining a light on all my secrets.

“Really?” Cori said. “That's awesome, T.”

“I think that sounds good, too,” Dad said. A drop of gravy
had caught his chin. Mom reached with her napkin to wipe it, but he swatted her away. “I can clean my own messes, thank you very much.” And with that, he added a huge blob of potatoes to his chin.

“Michael,” Mom scolded, trying to hide her laughter. “Thyme, just let Mrs. Ravelli know what time to pick you up, okay?”

By then, Dad and Cori were competing to see who could fit the most potatoes on their chin.

Mom dug her fork into her own food. “That's enough, you two. We all know I've got you both beat.” Her fork hovered in front of her chin, the potatoes piled so high, it was a miracle they balanced on the tines. Cori giggled, and Dad leaned forward, wiggling his eyebrows at Mom. Slowly, Mom's fork came to rest on her chin.

“No way,” I whispered. It was like our old mom had shown up again, the one who'd started a food fight with Dad when he spilled pancake batter on the kitchen floor last year.

Mom's potatoes started to slide. But just when they were about to crash, she ducked her head and slurped the potatoes into her mouth.

“Aw!” Cori exclaimed. “You totally had that.” She was right. Mom was back.

But soon enough, we heard a sound from Val in the bedroom, and it was over. Mom wiped off her face and folded up her napkin. And then she was gone again.

SOUND PRODUCTION

ON WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON, MR. CALHOUN WORKED HIS WAY
across the stage, handing out packets of information to different groups of kids seated on the well-worn floor.

“Here you go—this is for sound production,” he said, tossing me a stack of paper still warm from the photocopier. “Make sure each person in your group gets a copy.”

I passed a packet to Jake and the two other kids sitting with us, a girl with a wispy nest of hair and a quiet dark-skinned boy who drummed his fingers against his jeans while Mr. Calhoun waited for everyone to finish. Satisfied, he stepped to the edge of the stage and raised his arms. His bow tie of the day was green with black polka dots.

“Good afternoon, everyone, and welcome to our production of
The Wizard of Oz
.” Some of the kids clapped and whistled, but Mr. Calhoun raised a hand for silence. “I expect the show will be fantastic. But first, let me say that no matter what role you fill, the show will only be a success if we all work together.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd.

Across the stage, Emily and Lizzie were sitting together,
but they weren't talking. Lizzie's eyes were on the floor, while Emily nodded at every word Mr. Calhoun uttered. She'd missed school the day before, but her bright eyes and glowing cheeks didn't look very sick. I guess she'd needed some time to get over losing Dorothy. I wondered if she'd ever find a way to forgive Lizzie for winning the part.

Mr. Calhoun continued. “While it may seem like the acting parts are the most important roles in a production, crew members are essential. Without sets, we cannot run down the yellow brick road. Without lights, we cannot see Dorothy escape the Wicked Witch. And without sound, there is no drama,” he said, eyeing our small group. He paced back and forth as he spoke, his long fingers drumming the back of his clipboard.

“The stage crews will work with faculty advisers, whom you can find waiting with Mrs. Smith by the piano. Those of you with acting parts, please follow me for a brief orientation to the stage. After that, our parent volunteers will work with you in groups. Starting tomorrow, you'll report to the auditorium during your lunch period and your assigned music or theater elective, if you have one. Afternoon rehearsal schedules vary by role, but Wednesday production meetings are mandatory for everyone. All right. Let's move, people!”

Somebody shouted, “Break a leg!”

Mr. Calhoun's bushy eyebrows twitched, but he just said, “Save it for opening night.”

Jake and the other kids stood up, so I grabbed my book bag and followed them to the piano. Mrs. Smith, the music
teacher, waved us over to her side. Music wasn't one of my electives, but I'd spotted Mrs. Smith in the halls before. Lizzie said she was a real singer, that she'd even sung backup on old records like my dad's.

“Are you my sound team?” She punctuated her words with a flutter of piano keys.

“That's us, Mrs. Smith,” the other girl said.

“Nice to see you, Amelia.” Mrs. Smith smiled at the rest of us. “Hello, Davis. And Jake, my guitar player.” Jake ducked his head, and Mrs. Smith's wide brown eyes settled on me. “What's your name, sweetheart? I don't believe we've met.”

“It's Thyme. With an H-Y.” And then, like I needed an explanation, I blurted out, “I'm new,” and felt my cheeks growing redder, though maybe that was just because everyone was looking at me.

She nodded. “And do you play an instrument, Thyme with an H-Y?”

“No.”

“That's fine. We'll get you all set up, don't worry.” Which, of course, made me worry. What had I gotten myself into? Everyone else already knew Mrs. Smith. They are probably all musicians, and I hadn't even been able to play the plastic recorder in third grade.

Mrs. Smith flipped to the back of her packet, where Mr. Calhoun had included a diagram of the stage. “First things first. Let me show you where you'll be working.” She waved for us to follow and headed across the stage.

Jake walked next to me. “Don't worry about the instrument
stuff, that's for the orchestra kids. We won't be playing regular instruments, anyway. That's what makes it so fun.”

“Thanks,” I said, but I still felt out of place.

“Here we are.” Mrs. Smith led us behind the tall red stage curtains. “This is stage left, for those of you who don't know.”

Amelia with the wispy hair frowned. “But it's on the right.”

“Exactly. That's why I told you it's called
stage
left.” Mrs. Smith tapped her finger against a copy of the stage diagram. She explained that stage directions are based on the actors, not the audience. So what seemed like the right side to someone in the seats was actually stage left to someone onstage. Then she ran through the other words on the diagram—
downstage
, which was closest to the audience,
center stage
, and
upstage
, which was at the rear.

Next to the curtains, ropes descended from the ceiling in thick bunches that hooked into metal levers along the wall. “These, you do not touch,” Mrs. Smith said. “They hold up the lights, the scenic elements, the curtains—and we don't want any of that falling on our heads.” She waved us over to a folding table next to the wall. “Our work space is here, next to the prop tables. This is where we'll organize our sound cues during the show.”

She reached under the table and pulled out an enormous trunk. The brass-edged case was worn, its dark sides scuffed. As the lid creaked open, a cloud of dust puffed into the air.

Mrs. Smith coughed and fanned the dust away. “Everything we have from previous shows is in this box.” She reached in
and pulled out a set of long, ribbed sticks. They looked like croquet mallets to me, until she rubbed the sticks together, producing a rasping, rattling sound. “Some of these old props might work. But some of the sounds we need are new. So we'll have to make it work. I know there's something in here for thunder.”

I breathed out with relief. We were all going to make it up as we went, musicians or not. That still sounded like a lot to figure out, but not impossible.

Just then, Mrs. Smith spun around holding a thin sheet of metal.

CRACK!

The metal popped back and forth between her hands, producing a sound so loud, it made me jump. I landed on something lumpy, only to discover it was Jake's foot.

He smiled, but my skin turned hot with embarrassment anyway.
Oh, here, Jake, let me crush your foot.
Brilliant, Thyme. Maybe next I could offer to smack him in the head with one of the wooden sticks! Then he'd like me for sure.

At the thought of Jake liking me, my face burned even hotter.

Mrs. Smith dropped the metal sheet back into the pile. “Why don't you all have a look at what's in the trunk, and then we'll go over the plan for the next seven weeks. I know it's only January now, but March will be here before you know it! Amelia, come with me to the music room. I set some drums aside for the show.”

She and Amelia left through the doors to the hallway, and
Jake and Davis climbed into the prop trunk, which was easily big enough to hide several bodies. They picked out objects, shaking or striking them to make noise while I flipped through my information packet. There was a list of scenes for each act of the play, with little stars noting the sounds needed for each scene. A number written inside each star matched a key at the bottom of the page—like star five, which was the sound for lightning. As in, the lightning that strikes before the tornado sweeps Dorothy off to Oz. I remembered that part from the last time I'd seen the movie. Lightning flashed, gray clouds swirled, and then—the tornado.

Jake climbed out of the trunk and came over to look at my paper. His springy brown hair had bits of dust caught in it from rooting around in the trunk. “I'll never get it, you know. Dorothy had all the warning in the world. Why didn't she get out of the way? Or hide? She knew that tornado was coming, and she just let it sweep her right up.”

“I don't know about that.” He looked at me, and I glanced down at the page. “What I mean is, if Dorothy didn't get sucked up in the tornado, there wouldn't
be
a
Wizard of Oz
. She didn't have a choice.”

Jake twirled one of his earbuds, thinking. “I guess not.”

“Sometimes, you don't have a choice about where you go. Because it's somebody else's story you're living. Plus, she had to get her dog, right?”

“I guess that makes sense.” He thumped my shoulder. “Come on, I'll show you the thunder sheet. That way you won't get scared next time.”

“I wasn't scared!”

“You could've fooled me.”

“Whatever. It takes more than a thunder sheet to scare me,” I said, crossing my arms over my packet, even as a smile snuck onto my face.

Jake laughed, an easy, musical sound. “Tell that to my toes.”