Maybe I Will Page 2

  That or something better, my mom’s voice whispered in my head. Mom had this theory when things didn’t go exactly her way that there was something even better out there that never occurred to her. It was all very optimistic and Zen, but I was more like Dad. I’d just as soon have what I wanted to begin with and not deal with the disappointment.

  You get what you get, and don’t throw a fit. That was what Cassie’s mom always told us when one of us wanted what the other one got. God, I’ve got a lot of voices in my head. If I’m going to be Peter Pan in two hours, that’s the voice I should be zeroing in on.

  And so I did. “How clever I am!” I crowed uncertainly to myself. “Oh, the cleverness of me!” I’d need to convince myself first before I had any hope of convincing Hamilton.

  3

  Such tricks hath strong imagination

  That if it would but apprehend some joy,

  It comprehends some bringer of that joy;

  Or in the night, imagining some fear,

  How easy is a bush supposed a bear!

  —A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Act V, Scene i, Lines 18-20

  EACH MINUTE OF the afternoon was like an empty boxcar on a slow-moving train to nowhere. I was ready to audition and be done with it.

  I actually hate auditions. Sure there’s the adrenaline and the vision in my mind of the perfect performance and the absolute knowing that I can do it, but it is really painful to watch other people totally crash and burn. At try-outs, everyone has to act all nice and proper, but you know the people competing against you for the part, plus all of their friends, are secretly hoping that you will screw up big time.

  Once all of the parts were assigned, the cast would start to pull together as a team and really support each other. Hamilton really preached cooperation over competition once we all had our parts. I just needed to get through today.

  I had study hall last period. This worked out great when we had plays and musical productions in full swing because I could get a pass from Hamilton and get a head start on rehearsals. Hamilton wasn’t handing out passes today, though. So I signed out to go to the library in search of the real Peter Pan.

  I went straight to fiction and started looking for the last name Barrie. I was pretty sure Mom and Dad had read Peter Pan to me when I was growing up, but I didn’t really remember the book compared to the play or the movie versions. I came across a well-worn copy of the classic by J.M. Barrie and started flipping through the pages. Very near the end of the third chapter, these words jumped out at me: “I solemnly promise that it will all come out right in the end.”

  The words somehow reassured me. Of course, they weren’t talking to me about my life. They were promising a “happily ever after” for Wendy and John and Michael Darling. Still, I wanted to believe these words for myself, too.

  It was the kind of promise you’d never get from Shakespeare. Exactly the opposite. Shakespeare only guaranteed that things would NOT come out right in the end. He put it right in the title: The Tragedy of Julius Caesar, The Tragedy of Macbeth. Hamlet, King Lear, Othello … all tragedies. Talk about your truth in advertising. Everybody always dies in the end.

  “It will all come out right in the end.” Maybe if it doesn’t seem right, it’s not really the end. But right for who? My father’s face appeared frowning before me in my mind. For whom. It’s the object of a preposition. I had so many voices in my head, even then, before my own tragedy struck.

  I checked out the book and found a seat at a table where I could read until the bell rang. Things I learned in those last few minutes before try-outs:

  1. Barrie actually wrote the play first and the book seven years later. Like Shakespeare, Barrie was really a playwright.

  2. The library clock was three minutes fast.

  3. Barrie was a very short man and a very unhappy adult. He loved childhood and children, but never had any of his own. Children that is. I’m pretty sure he had a childhood.

  4. Mrs. Randolph, the librarian, was way more disruptive hushing people than the people that she thought needed hushing.

  5. The name Wendy didn’t exist before Peter Pan. There was a little girl who tried to call Barrie “my friendy,” but it always came out “Wendy.”

  Finally, the bell sounded. Students erupted into the hallway from every room. I resisted the flow toward the exits and began making my way to the auditorium.

  “Hey, Sandy,” a voice called from behind. “Wait up!”

  I glanced backward and saw Shanika Washington. She played the Motown Bad Girl last year in Seussical. She was really good, too, and a senior this year. “Hi, Shanika,” I called back. I held my ground as Shanika pushed her way toward me through the mass exodus. “Are you on your way to auditions?”

  Shanika nodded. I turned to walk beside her. “Are you going for Peter Pan?” she asked.

  “Definitely,” I replied. We walked toward the auditorium together. “How about you? Which part do you want?” I held the door for her to walk in ahead of me.

  “What part do I want or what part do I think I can get?” asked Shanika.

  “What part do you want?” I asked again, this time with more emphasis on the want.

  “Peter Pan, of course,” she replied.

  I laughed. “Peter Pan. Of course!”

  Shanika tilted her head back and narrowed her eyes at me. “Are you dissin’ me?”

  I sobered quickly. “No way,” I said. “The play’s called Peter Pan ; everybody who’s anybody wants to be Peter Pan.” To be honest, though, I’d never really pictured a black Peter Pan. In my mind, Peter could be a boy or Peter could be a girl dressed up like a boy, but who ever heard of a black Peter Pan?

  We walked down the aisle together in silence. I found a seat toward the front of the auditorium and Shanika sat down next to me.

  “I’d make a great Peter Pan,” said Shanika. She nudged me with her elbow. “You should be worried.”

  I didn’t know what to say. Voices bounced off the ceiling and the walls all around us, but I couldn’t find mine.

  “What?” Shanika shook her head. I couldn’t tell if she was disgusted with me or amused by my embarrassment. “You don’t think Peter Pan can be black?”

  “Well, actually, I . . . I . . . ” I just looked at Shanika.

  “Shoot! And you think you can act?” Shanika was smiling now.

  I threw my hands up and lowered my head. “I guess I’ve just never seen a black Peter Pan, and I never really thought about it. I’m sorry.”

  “You got nothing to be sorry about,” Shanika said. “I’m the one who’s sorry. I’m sorry your parents never read you Amazing Grace. That was my favorite book growing up.”

  “Amazing Grace?” I asked. “What’s that about?”

  “Not what—who,” said Shanika. “It’s about Grace, a little girl who loves stories.” She leaned in toward me and drew out the word loves in a way that made me wonder if I ever loved stories as much as she did. “Grace loved stories so much that she acted every one of them out, and I acted them all out with her. Joan of Arc, Aladdin, Hiawatha, Mowgli… didn’t matter what the story was, me and Grace, we always gave ourselves the most exciting parts.”

  Shanika leaned back in her seat. “Anyway, in the end, Grace got to be Peter Pan in the school play even though she was black and even though she was a girl.”

  “Sounds like a pretty good book,” I said. I wished that auditions would hurry up and start already.

  “So what was your favorite book when you were a kid?” Shanika asked.

  My mind raced. Why is she asking me this? Is she really going to try out for Peter Pan? Should I be worried?

  “Your mama and daddy did read to you, didn’t they?” Shanika made it sound as if I must have had the most pathetic childhood ever.

  “My parents read to me.” My words had a defensive edge to them. I took a deep breath and remembered sitting on my dad’s lap reading book after book. “My favorite was Harold and the Purple Crayon. Only my dad always r
ead it Sandy and the Purple Crayon. He read me the story a hundred times before I realized that my name started with an ‘S’ and there wasn’t a single ‘s’ in ‘Harold.’”

  “I remember Harold.” Shanika laughed. “That crazy bald kid who drew his own adventure.” She stood up and stretched. Then she looked down at me just long enough to make me uncomfortable. “I like Harold,” she said finally. “He had almost as much imagination as Grace.” And with that she walked away.

  I watched Shanika make her way through the crowd. She never did tell me what part she was really trying out for.

  4

  When you do dance, I wish you

  A wave o’ the sea, that you might ever do

  Nothing but that, move still, still so,

  And own no other function. Each your doing,

  So singular in each particular

  Crowns what you are doing in the present deeds,

  That all your acts are queens.

  —The Winter’s Tale, Act IV, Scene iv, Lines 140-146

  HAMILTON RAN AUDITIONS by classes rather than parts. He started with the seniors and worked his way down to the freshmen. He said it showed respect to the upperclassmen and was good “reality therapy” for the underclassmen. As a freshman last year trying out for the Cat in the Hat, I was one of the very last people to audition. Watching the upperclassmen go first actually helped calm me down and give me confidence. There were some people who were freaking out by the time it was their turn, though, and even some who just left and never tried out at all.

  I went down to the front of the auditorium and signed in under sophomores. We had to give our first, second and third choices for the parts we wanted. I looked through the sign-up sheet and found Shanika’s name. Tiger Lily, Captain Hook and Peter Pan. I flipped back to my name and put down Peter Pan, Captain Hook and Wendy. Some dopey freshman named Gavin had written Peter Pan, Peter Pan and Peter Pan. I laughed. No freshman is going to steal my part. Poor Gavin—you’re destined to be a lost boy for sure.

  I made my way over to Mrs. Shields at the piano and told her that I would be singing, “I’ve Gotta Crow.” Unlike the local youth theater where you never sang songs from the actual musical for auditions, Hamilton subscribed to the Broadway tradition. We each had to commit to a specific character and perform a song from Peter Pan. Mrs. Shields nodded and made a note to herself. Then I went back up to the very back of the auditorium and waited. It wasn’t long before Hamilton called for order, gave us the instructions and wished us all good luck.

  “All of the parts, including understudies, will be posted outside the auditorium on Monday morning,” he said. “Do not call me or e-mail me or text me over the weekend. If you see me, you can smile and wave and say hello, but don’t ask. In fact, you’d be better off not talking to me at all between now and then. If you can’t wait to find out what part you got, you’ll have no part at all.”

  He meant it, too. Last year Camden Reynolds’ mom called Hamilton after auditions to tell him that Camden didn’t test well, but would be perfect for the Horton the Elephant part. “I’m sure he would,” Hamilton told his mom, “but too many directors spoil the play.” At least that’s Camden’s story on how he ended up doing costumes and make-up.

  I was singing quietly to myself along with the seniors trying out for main parts just to warm up my voice. Then Shanika came out. She took a flash drive to the sound guy and went to the center of the stage. Dressed all in black, she looked strong and confident. She crossed her arms and nodded. The sound of beating war drums filled the auditorium. “I am Tiger Lily!” Shanika cried. And she began to dance.

  She was good. Really good. Not only did she do cartwheels and all of the regular Tiger Lily moves, she added several back and front walkovers and two back handsprings followed by a back aerial. She even did the splits. “I am Tiger Lily!” she roared.

  I felt sorry for every underclassman who signed up for Tiger Lily. How could anyone compete with that?

  When the music stopped, there was a moment of silence as Shanika once again stood in the center of the stage with her arms crossed. Then the hushed auditorium exploded in thunderous applause. Arms still crossed, Shanika gave a formal bow before strolling back over to the sound guy to collect her flash drive.

  Up until Shanika, I felt like I could do at least as well or better than every senior that auditioned, regardless of the part. Maybe she’s the one who should be applying to Juilliard. I had enough rhythm that I could handle simple dance steps. With a little practice, I could probably do a decent cartwheel. But a back aerial? The splits? Hey, you’re applying to the Juilliard school of DRAMA, not dancing. Nobody expects you to dance like that. My mom’s lawyerly voice of reason. Great for her clients and the courtroom. Not much help when it came to tryouts.

  Shanika slipped into the seat beside me. “What do you think?” she asked.

  “I think you’re amazing,” I whispered.

  Shanika beamed. “You got that right!”

  “So where did you learn to do all that?” She wasn’t a cheerleader. I didn’t think she was on the school gymnastics team, either.

  “Taekwondo,” she replied. “You should see me with nun chucks.”

  “Do you break bricks with your forehead, too?” I asked. I slapped my palm on my forehead.

  “Not bricks,” she responded. “Just wooden boards, and only with my hands, feet and elbows.” She extended her left hand, palm out, in front of her and cocked the heel of her right palm in by her side. Then pulling her left hand back in, she snapped her right palm forward with enough force to flatten me if I’d been in front of her instead of beside her.

  I nodded. “Remind me never to pick a fight with you.”

  Shanika laughed and shook her head. “Sandy, I can’t see you whoopin’ anybody’s butt anywhere but on a stage.”

  “You got that right,” I agreed.

  And with that, Shanika disappeared.

  By the time it was my turn, the crowd in the auditorium had dwindled significantly. There was no applause from the audience and nothing but a nod from Hamilton, but I was pleased with my performance all the same. I was better than any of the seniors or juniors who tried out for Peter Pan. And I was the only one who sang, “I Gotta Crow.” Everyone else did “I Won’t Grow Up.” Attitude is everything.

  I thought about sticking around to watch Gavin-the-freshman crash and burn, but decided against it. I walked back to my locker and then down by the gym to see if Cassie was still there working out in the weight room. She was already showered, and it looked like the only thing holding her up was Aaron Jackson, the school’s star wrestler. He had a full-ride scholarship to some Big Ten school in Michigan next year.

  “Hey, Sandy.” Cassie greeted me. “What’s Shakin’? How’d the audition go?”

  I gave her a thumbs up. “The world’s mine oyster.” I looked at Aaron, but he was totally ignoring me. He had his arm on the wall over Cassie’s shoulder and looked like he was ready to pin her if I hadn’t showed up.

  Cassie nudged Aaron. “You know Sandy, right?”

  “Right,” Aaron grunted, but he still didn’t look at me.

  “My dad will be here at 5:00,” I said to Cassie. “Want a ride home?”

  “I’m her ride,” Aaron snorted.

  I gave Cassie a “what-the-heck” look, and she just shrugged.

  “We’ll pick you up around 6:30 then,” I said. “We’ve got reservations at the Greek place for 7:00.”

  “Today’s Sandy’s birthday,” Cassie explained to Aaron.

  Aaron mumbled something that faintly resembled the words, “Happy Birthday, kid.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Thanks a lot.” I waved to Cassie. Once again Aaron was totally ignoring me. I stuck my finger in my mouth making silent gagging motions.

  Cassie giggled. “See ya, Sandy.”

  I waved to her again over the top of my head as I walked away.

  5

  Prepare for mirth, for mirth becomes a feast.
>
  —Pericles, Act II, Scene iii, Line 7

  WHEN WE ARRIVED at The Palace Athena, Troy was there waiting. Nikos, the owner, greeted me with a warm, European hug and kiss on the cheek and a lively “Happy Birthday, Sandy!” He shook hands with Dad, clapping him on the shoulder and nodded politely to Troy and Cassie. “Welcome,” he said. Then Nikos reached for my mom’s hand and raised it to his lips, planting a big ol’ Greek kiss on her knuckles. “How’s my favorite lawyer?” he asked.

  Before he opened The Palace, Nikos was a used car salesman. He and some distant cousins in New York and Chicago were all indicted on federal fraud and conspiracy charges for rolling back the odometers on a bunch of vehicles. Mom represented Nikos, and the jury found him not guilty on all charges. Everyone else went to prison.

  “You will sit at the best table!” he cried and led us toward the back wall with a huge mural of the goddess Athena standing in front of the Parthenon dressed like a warrior with an owl on her shoulder. Her face was the perfect reflection of my mother. When Nikos said Mom was his favorite lawyer, he wasn’t kidding. He pretty much worshipped the ground she walked on.

  “Drinks on the house!” Nikos proclaimed as we each found a seat at the round table. “What can I bring you? Some Ouzo to start the festivities?”

  Mom laughed and shook her head. “Soft drinks for the kids, Nikos. And I’ll have an Alpha.”

  “Make mine a chardonnay,” said Dad.

  Nikos nodded and began handing out menus. “What soft drink for you, Sandy?”

  “Club soda with lime, please,” I said. Troy ordered a Mountain Dew and Cassie asked for a Cherry Coke.

  “Very good,” said Nikos. “I bring you pita and tzatziki to nibble. You need anything, anything at all, you just ask Nikos.”

  When a waitress returned with our drinks and appetizer, we took turns digging our triangular pita pieces into the yogurt and cucumber spread.

  “No double dipping, Troy,” Cassie announced.