The Princess of Las Pulgas (27 page)

Juan comes from the boys’
dressing room and leans against the wall. He’s let his beard grow
the last two weeks—a special relaxation of the school rules for his
role—which only makes him more annoying as far as I’m concerned. He
catches my eye and I look away. I have to concentrate on what's
coming in the next hours. Juan Pacheco does not exist anymore. Only
Othello counts. I have to think about the Moor, my lines and cues,
and the blocking that Mr. Smith planned so I will move in the right
direction at the right time. For the next two hours, I have to
become Desdemona—poor, doomed, love-struck Des.

The introduction is almost
over.

“And so why
Othello
?” Mr. Smith asks
the audience. “At the heart of this play is a message for each of
us—appreciate yourself for the person you are. Sometimes this is
not an easy task. How often have any of us thought, ‘I’m not smart.
I’m not rich. I’m not pretty, handsome, strong, athletic’? Now pay
attention to what Mr. Shakespeare has to say about a powerful man
who has everything, except the ability to appreciate who he is. His
tragic flaw allows jealousy to rule his better judgement. This will
cost him the one person he loves most in the world and it will cost
him his life.”

The curtain parts in the
middle as Mr. Smith returns backstage, leaving the applause to
slowly fade behind him.

Now sweat pops out on my
forehead. Stage fright is like jumping into the deep end of a
swimming pool and realizing there’s no water. On the way down, you
have just enough time to know landing is going to hurt like
hell.

As I rub my damp palms on
the red skirt K.T. shakes her head at me. I look away directly into
Juan Pacheco’s dark eyes. He winks and gives me that slow sideways
smile.

My mind goes blank, and
it’s as if I’ve never memorized a single line of this play, never
mind memorized it.

Chapter 44

I’m shaking in the wings.
My quivering knees have a lot to do about having to enter with
Chico for my first scene, and even more about what I have to say in
the scene itself. Trapped birds beat their wings inside my chest
and my throat threatens to collapse.
Focus
on Brabantio and your character. This has nothing to do with your
real life or your real dad.

“‘
Here comes the lady; let
her witness it.’”

That’s our cue. Chico looks
at me and then gives me a push, so my first step onto the stage
looks like I’ve tripped into the play by accident.

“‘
My noble fa . . .’” I
have to swallow or nothing else is coming out. “‘ . . . father,’” I
close my eyes to stop them from stinging. When I open them Pavan
Gupta has such a pleading expression on his face that I hurry to
say the rest. I have to get my lines out before I can’t. Juan
cranes toward me, as if he’s sending telepathic messages of
support. Even Chico crosses his fingers.

In the wings, K.T. mouths
the words along with me, and then rolls her eyes to heaven when I
make it through the first part. But the hardest part is still ahead
of me. I still have to hear my father tell me he’s through with me,
and I still have to hear him tell everyone he doesn’t want me in
his home again. And I still have to say I don’t want to be with
him, either.

“Carlie love, you will always be my girl no
matter what you do.”

“No matter if I . . . begged for you . . .
to die and then hated you for leaving me?”

As my heart gives up the
truth I’d love to bury and forget, tears roll down my face and I
stammer through those lines, looking out over the audience. I need
to see Mom, but before I can find her, Juan takes my hand and pulls
me toward the wings. “‘ . . . we must obey the time.’”

Once I’m safely off stage,
I pull away. I have a break until the second act and I need to sit
in a quiet place alone.

I open the girls’ dressing
room door.

“You got through it.” Juan
says from behind me.

I nod, not trusting that I
can say anything without losing it again. I don’t want to break
down in front Juan Pacheco.

“My first scene was the
hardest for me, too.”

I don’t tell him that any
other first scene wouldn’t be a problem for me—only this one. I’m
relieved that I’ll never have to say those words again, and I duck
quickly into the dressing room.

When Act IV is almost over,
I catch Nicolas mid-yawn. And then, when I open my mouth to say my
lines, nothing comes out. The words have flown into outer space.
Dolores goes blank-faced, her eyes switching back and forth as if
she’s searching for a script pasted on a wall somewhere on the
set.

It feels like an hour ticks
its way around the dial on the auditorium clock dial, and uneasy
bottoms shift in the metal seats. I pretend to look for something
to hand to Emilia, praying it will cover the silence.

“‘
Beshrew me if I would do
such a wrong for the whole world.’” K.T. hisses my line at me from
the wings.

I make up a transition
line, then give the one Mr. Shakespeare wrote—one I’ve known for
weeks and forgotten when it really counted. I’d begged Mr. Smith to
change that word, beshrew. Nobody knows what it means. Now I owe
K.T.
Merde
.

By the time Act V arrives
I’m the Moor’s wife. Carlie Edmund doesn’t exist. The bed chamber
glows an ominous crimson. Othello delivers his death sentence to
Desdemona and at the “knock knock” joke part of the scene I have no
trouble remembering what I have to say.

As Juan leans over me, his
hands clutching a crimson pillow, I plead one more time for my life
and Othello says, “It is too late.”

In rehearsal he always
covered my face, leaving me a little space to breathe and my death
scene moved along just as Shakespeare wrote it. But tonight, when I
take a deep breath just in case Juan is too much into his part, he
doesn’t bring down the crimson death. Instead, he says that line
again as if I haven’t heard it already, and kisses me. The Carlie
Edmund I know seems to have gone on vacation, letting Desdemona
responds. The kiss lasts longer and becomes deeper than the small
peck in Act II that’s given me fits for weeks, and suddenly I have
pulses at points in my body I didn’t know existed. Finally, he
pushes the cushion onto my face.

Off stage Dolores pounds on
the prop door and shouts. “My lord, my lord! What, ho! My lord, my
lord!”

The spell of Othello’s last
kiss is broken. Dolores always delivers these lines of Emilia’s as
if she’s discovered a child doing something bad.

“Well done, Des,” Juan
whispers. “Great kiss.”

I have no come back. I’m
dead. Well, almost. I have two more gaspy lines, which I hate
because they clear Othello of murder. But tonight, when I say the
words for the last time, I really struggle for breath.

“Gotta go meet my destiny,”
he murmurs, his back to the audience.

Once Othello does himself
in with the fake dagger, the curtain comes down and the audience
applauds.

I’ve done it. When I look
around, it’s as if I’m standing in a whole different place; not the
set for Othello, just a place behind a curtain with the sound of
hands coming together.

The minor cast members file
across the stage and take their places for the curtain call. The
curtain rises and the applause becomes louder. Then Othello,
holding my hand, sweeps us onto the stage along with Iago, who
doesn’t hold my hand. Together we bow low as the applause swells
and most of the audience comes to their feet. Now I get why actors
love what they do. Again everyone bows from the waist just like Mr.
Smith trained us. The curtain falls, but swoops up again before
anyone moves.

K.T’s in control and I pray
she won’t milk the audience and bring up the curtain three times.
But then Mr. Smith walks onto the stage and bows to more applause.
He leaves and, to my relief, takes the control from K.T. and the
curtain falls for the last time.

It’s over. Weeks of
rehearsals, hours of memorizing lines, and now “the end.” I’m
relieved, yet as the cast hug each other and go over the things
that went wrong, I almost miss being Des.

K.T. hobbles over to me.
“Not bad. ‘Course I could’a done better—like, no way would I blow
my first scene, or forget that ‘beshrew’ line. I mean, come on,
Des, beshrew ain’t a word you can forget too easy.”

“I owe you.” I must sound
sappy because K.T. gives me her shifty-head move.

“Damn straight.” She hops
away and punches Dolores on the arm. “You did good, girl.” I guess
K.T. only holds certain grudges.

Keith crosses the stage,
with Mom and Jeb following behind him.

She holds a bouquet out.
“Not roses, but—” The flowers with a Las Pulgas Market sticker on
the cellophane wrapper are a bit wilted, but I love
them.

“Thanks, Mom.”

“Congratulations on an
excellent job,” Jeb says.

Keith shoves his hands in
his pockets. “I thought you were a goner. Where’s Juan? I’m
thinking of hiring him to do some
real
smothering. You know, freeing
up some bathroom time for myself in the morning.”

“I’d laugh, but you’re so
not funny.” I fake a punch at his middle just as Mr. Smith joins
us.

“How quickly our star steps
out of character.” He turns to Mom. “You must be proud of your
daughter. I certainly am.”

Mom's expression is
dazzling. “Very much.” She puts her arm around my shoulders. “Oh,
and this is Jeb Christopher, a friend.”

Mr. Smith shakes Jeb’s
hand. “Jeb and I know each other quite well and have for a very
long time. You
must
be good friends because I can never lure him into Las
Pulgas.”

“You don’t come to the
orchard anymore either, so we’re even,” Jeb says.

What other surprises does Mr. Smith have for
me?

Mr. Smith says, “You’re
right. I must change that—soon.” He turns to Mom. “As you know, Mr.
and Mrs. Pacheco are hosting a cast party. I am already driving one
of our cast members, so I will be happy to see that Carlie arrives
there and home, if that is agreeable with you, Mrs.
Edmund.”

“Carlie, is that okay?” Mom
asks.

I nod.

“Then I will meet you at
the side exit in half an hour.” To Mom, Mr. Smith says, “It is a
pleasure to have you in our community.” He shakes Jeb’s hand. “I’ll
come for a visit if you promise me stew like your dad used to
make.”

“Deal,” Jeb
says.

Mr. Smith makes his way to
other clusters of families surrounding kids from the
cast.

Mom watches him walk away.
“So that’s
the
Mr. Smith. I understand what you mean. He's amazing.” She
hugs me again. “I’m so proud of you.” She squeezes my hand. “See
you later at home.”

After the three of them
leave, Lena pokes her head through the curtain and, dragging Eric
Peterson behind, pushes her way through the cast, family and
friends. Nicolas Benz strolls after them, his blond hair glowing
under the bright stage lights. He does look wonderful; I’m glad
he’s my date.

“Hey, Des.” Lena
waves.

Somehow I don’t like the
sound of my nickname when she says it.

“Not bad,” Lena says,
eyeing me up and down. “You sure looked like Desdemona from the
audience.”

Implying I don’t look like
her now?
“Thanks.”

Her eyes dart around the
backstage.

“Cool,” Eric
says.

“Very cool.” Nicolas
touches my arm, and suddenly I’m even more excited that he’s taking
me to the dance.

Juan comes out of the boys’
dressing room, holding a towel. He’s changed into his own clothes
and taken off the heavy make-up K.T. insisted added to his sinister
look. Lena’s eyes rest on him.

I’ll be polite.
“You know Lena from the Shack, Juan. This is her
boyfriend, Eric, and this is Nicolas.”

Nicolas doesn’t put out his
hand, but Eric does and Juan shakes it. “Glad you came to the
play.”

“Carlie, we have to go
someplace to celebrate,” Lena says.

“I can’t. There’s a cast
party and I’ve already told people I’d go.”

“You
have
to come with us.” Lena twists
her face into a Knudson pout. “We made
plans
, and you asked us to
be
here, so we
came
and—”

“Your friends can come to
the party. My parents won’t mind.” Juan wipes the towel across his
forehead. “They can follow one of us to the house.”

The image of the hotel with
the barred windows and the front yard of overturned shopping carts
might just as well be projected on my face.

Juan shrugs. “It’s up to
you.”

As he returns to the
dressing room, Chico and Anthony come across the stage. They make a
point of walking between Eric and Nicolas and bumping against them
before they follow Juan inside and bang the dressing room door
shut.