The Nine Lives of Felicia Miller (2 page)

Before Felicia could react, Wally’s beefy hand snatched the rabbit from her arms. “Hey!”

“Don’t get your clitty in a twist, Pollyanna. Lookie, Spawwow. Mrs. Cuddles is a pwitty wittoo bunny wabbit. Isn’t she a pwitty wittoo bunny? Look, she’s twitching her pwitty wittoo nose.”

“She’s makin’ me hungry,” mumbled Sparrow, followed by an asthmatic chuckle. “Anybody else got a craving for rabbit stew?”

“Rabbit stew? Jesus, I’d have to call PETA,” said Wally. “And order a side of pita bread. Get it, Delicia? PETA bread?”

“Give her back.” Felicia made a grab for the rabbit but Wally swung the twitching furball high above his head. Dangling her by the scruff of her fluffy neck.

“Stop it! You’re hurting her.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want to hurt the widdle bunny wabbit, now would we? Maybe we can come to some kind of mutually satisfying arrangement.”

“Cum to a mutual satisfaction,” snickered Sparrow under his breath.

“Maybe I’ll just go tell your father what a sick delinquent you really are.”

“Oh, I’m shaking in my booties. Please don’t tell my daddy. Dadda might punish me. Boo hoo fucking hoo.”

Felicia felt hopeless. Knowing his cockiness was justified.

“What is going on in here?”

Felicia breathed a sigh of relief as Mr. Baxter marched into the room, glaring at the boys with his icy blue eyes.

Impeccably groomed and naturally imperious, everyone in the tiny town suspected Baxter was gay, but they also knew he was not a man to be messed with. Even Wally was wary of him. It was common knowledge that Baxter had a cousin in the governor’s office, and his power trumped even the Sheriff’s in the county.

“Nothin’,” Wally deadpanned, gently lowering the rabbit and petting it in a fake show of affection. “We were just checking Mrs. Cuddles for cooties.”

Mr. Baxter sneered dismissively. “Really? Well, if she didn’t have them before, I’m sure she does now, after you’ve had your grubby paws on her.”

Wally grimaced but held his tongue.
Someday I’ll kill this fuckin’ fag.

“Now put that rabbit away and get out of here, before I lose my temper.”

Scowling in defeat Wally plunked the bunny into Felicia’s arms and followed his skulking sidekick out the door.

“Later, Delicia,” he said coolly as he exited.

Sparrow made a hocking noise, but swallowed the phlegm as Baxter stared him down.

“Thank you, Mr. Baxter,” Felicia said, petting the rabbit to calm her.

“Don’t thank me, Felicia. Just put that animal in its cage and hurry up into your costume. The show is about to go on.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And relax, Felicia,” he added, “You’ll do fine tonight.”

5

Twenty minutes later Felicia sat in the gym equipment storage room, which doubled tonight as a makeshift dressing room. It smelled of old sweat and leather.

Felicia checked her hastily applied make-up in the mirror. She looked incredible, her face painted like a geisha’s. Over flat white greasepaint her eyes were lined with dramatic swirls of make-up worthy of an Egyptian queen. She couldn’t believe that under all that exotic color lurked shy, pasty-faced Felicia Miller.

I look almost beautiful.

“You’re on,” croaked Libby Silverman, whose froggy voice and authoritative manner emanated with unexpected power from a pudgy little gidget body.

“How do I look?” Felicia swept her kimono up like butterfly wings.

Libby rolled her eyes. “Fabulous,” she blurted indifferently.

“Thanks,” Felicia mumbled, her ego deflated. Libby’s half-hearted praise was enough to stir her goblins of self-doubt and trigger a bout of stage fright. Icy trickles of flop sweat tickled her underarms. She started feeling light-headed. Dim yellow spots danced before her eyes. For a moment she was sure she’d pass out.

Libby saw the sick expression on Felicia’s face and.felt guilty. “You’ll be fine, Felicia. Breathe.”

Felicia took a long deep breath and her head started clearing.

“It’s only a stupid school show,” said Libby, kneading Felicia’s tense shoulders.

“Right.”

“Break a leg.”

Felicia drew another long breath and headed for the school auditorium.

Libby shook her head and clucked, “A star is born.” Then she hurried backstage to man the lighting controls.

9

The overhead stage lights glared like hot white stars as Felicia walked nervously onstage. A round of heartfelt applause greeted her. Live entertainment was scarce in tiny Greenville, and people flocked into town from all corners of the county for just about any school show. You could only take so much quizzo and karaoke. Mr. Baxter’s high school plays and talent shows were the closest any of the locals would ever get to a real Broadway show.

Felicia moved through a dreamlike fog, half-blinded by the blazing spotlights.

A murmur of anticipation rolled through the audience. Their bobbing heads formed waves of silhouettes rippling like the current of a black lake. It was impossible to tell teacher from parent in the dark auditorium, but a particularly manic burst of applause let Felicia know exactly where her mother and father were seated.

Felicia swallowed nervously. This was a big night for her parents. They were thrilled that she was making an attempt to break out of her shell.
Acting like a normal teenage girl for a change,
she’d overheard her father say, when he thought she was out of range.

Now with the whole town eyeballing her, Felicia was grateful for the anonymity that her geisha make-up afforded. Without it she would have been too shy to perform in the show or even set foot onstage. But now that bridge was crossed and the ice was broken. Her talent was about to be put to the test. Perhaps now she could really open up and get more involved in the drama club as Mr. Baxter kept suggesting. It would all depend on how her performance went over tonight.

Her best friend Crystal had lobbied for her to do a Taylor Swift impersonation, arguing that her very pretty face and sweet singing voice were enough to carry the act. But Felicia didn’t want to impersonate anyone. That seemed too easy. A cheap imitation of true entertainment. She had fallen in love with the bittersweet tale of ChoCho San and her roving sailor lover when she first heard Madame Butterfly in freshman music class, and chose to do a song from the opera.

Now her moment had arrived. One way or another, her life and dreams would be changed forever on this night. She stepped to the middle of the stage and closed her eyes, shutting out the bright overhead lights.

At the lighting director’s controls backstage, Libby checked her notes by flashlight and flipped a numbered switch. Colored scrims shifted over the spotlights. Yellow lights deepened to amber, then to a single intimate blue spotlight, forcing all eyes to Felicia at center stage.

Felicia drew a final deep breath, her mind shuttling back and forth between the lyrics she was about to sing and Mr. Baxter’s advice about conjuring inspiration.

She thought about her character ChoCho San’s fictional sad situation, and then about the real life death of her family’s beloved golden retriever Hans, which still filled her heart with sorrow.

Hans had looked after her since she was a rugrat in droopy pampers. He’d been dead for more than three years, but the memory of his scratchy white whiskers brushing her cheek on their last day together still plucked a heavy chord in her soul.

Finally she started singing. The last of the audience’s whispered conversations fell silent in quick succession. Her voice sounded weak and hesitant at first, choked with emotion as she thought of young Hans prancing after his red rubber ball, then in his older years struggling to mount the back door steps. But it grew stronger and more assured with each passing lyric.

The audience sat mesmerized. Respectfully quiet. Unmoving. Their rapt attention fed Felicia’s confidence. As her courage grew her throat relaxed and her voice expanded, sounding sweeter with each passing minute.

Felicia’s parents watched in awe as their daughter blossomed before their eyes from a geeky teen bookworm into a budding diva. “I told you those voice lessons were a good idea,” her father whispered proudly, a little too loudly in the silent audience. He was shushed by his wife’s sharp elbow.

Felicia made the mistake of throwing her head back just as the lighting scrims shifted, and was blinded with dazzling white light. The sudden blinding seemed to freeze her senses and erase her mind. For a long scary moment she blanked on the lyrics of the song.

Libby sensed her dilemma and flipped a few switches on the lighting console. Blue and rose-colored scrims rotated into place, bathing Felicia in a sensual pastel glow, and without missing more than a heartbeat she was singing again.

Councilwoman Mandee Madisson squirmed nervously in her seat. A diehard left-brain pragmatist, she saw little value in non-commercial creative endeavors. In fact, she had recently initiated a campaign to slash funding for the school arts programs, and the show she was watching was one of them.

Like every public move she made, Mandee came to the show as a public relations gesture, not for entertainment. Felicia’s performance was unexpectedly impressive. But the good feelings buzzing through the audience around her and the resultant guilt Mandee felt at the moment only made her more determined to stick to her guns.

Mandee loved a good fight. Especially one that was rigged in her favor. And she had enough political dirt in her files to pull all the strings she needed to win this battle.

Let these riled up hicks rally in defense of their band camps and theatre geeks. I have this town in my pocket.

Mandee had tallied up the school’s assets, and had a new plan for every penny. She wouldn’t touch the football program, of course, except to cut back the coach’s overtime pay.

If Hank Nolan wanted his boys to get more practice, he could donate his personal time. And she knew he’d make that sacrifice. Hell, he’d probably pay the school board to let him keep coaching, as long as the team kept bringing home a trophy now and then. The team was the old boy’s sole reason for living.

But the arts programs were a different story.
Artists are a joke. Singers and dancers are a dime a dozen in any big city. And what are the odds that any of our little thespians could ever hope to compete in the real world anyway? The idea of subsidizing them is nonsense. A ridiculous waste of tax dollars.

Mandee had big plans for those funds. Like financing a new access road that would bring more development into the county. An access road through pristine woodland recently acquired by a shell corporation. A corporation owned by her cousin. New housing and strip malls would sprout up like

mushrooms after a hard morning rain. That meant huge profits for cousin Morrie and hundreds of new taxpayers to enrich the town’s coffers. Which would give Mandee something to crow about when she came up for re-election.

The fact that she was the single largest minority shareholder in Morrie’s shell corporation was gravy on the cake. No one in town was savvy enough to investigate and expose her true involvement, other than her partners in the scam. And as long as she continued to spout the jingoistic nonsense they wanted to hear about protecting family values and their Constitutional rights, they’d trust her to run the county anyway she saw fit.

There were a few worrywarts opposed to the planned developments. They argued that their town was perfect as it is, and were concerned that further development would strain the county’s resources and attract big city problems already plaguing some nearby counties. Urban street gangs seeking new markets for their drugs. Annoying and dangerous rush hour traffic. Overcrowded schools. More trash generated than the local dumps could handle.

Of course there would be a few problems. The Sheriff and fire and water departments would have to step up their game to meet those challenges. But Mandee knew she could cut sweetheart deals with their administrators. After years of frozen development, there was plenty of pie to go around.

There might be some graffiti and a little more crime. I can float bonds to expand the county jail, and to fund an anti-graffiti service. Those contracts will be valuable. And if the townies get nervous and gun sales go up, well, that’s why we have the Second Amendment.

A tidal wave of applause interrupted her rapacious reverie and bodies started popping up all around her.

Oh my god,
Mandee thought.
They’re giving this little cupcake a standing ovation.
She remained in her seat but made an exaggerated show of clapping, so people wouldn’t notice her lack of enthusiasm.

Onstage, Felicia bowed humbly, honestly surprised by her own success. She stood in a happy daze as nearly the entire audience rose up in the darkness, clapping long and hard. A few even hooted and whistled. But then Libby brought the house lights up and Felicia felt suddenly exposed, despite her heavy make-up. With a final embarrassed bow she jogged backstage, where she found her pal Crystal Gonzales waiting, wringing her hands, looking pale as a ghost.