Speak
ACTING
We get a day off for Columbus Day. I go to Heather's house. I wanted to sleep in, but Heather “really, really, really” wanted me to come over. There's nothing on television, anyway. Heather's mom acts very excited to see me. She makes us mugs of hot chocolate to take upstairs and tries to convince Heather to invite a whole group for a sleepover. “Maybe Mellie could bring some of her friends.” I don't mention the possibility that Rachel would slit my throat on her new carpet. I show my teeth like a good girl. Her mother pats my cheek. I am getting better at smiling when people expect it.
Heather's room is finished and ready for viewing. It does not look like a fifth-grader's. Or a ninth- grader's. It looks like a commercial for vacuum cleaners, all fresh paint and vacuum- cleaner lines in the carpet. The lilac walls have a few artsy prints on them. Her bookcase has glass doors. She has a television and a phone, and her homework is neatly laid out on her desk. Her closet is opened just a tad. I open it farther with my foot. All her clothes wait patiently on hangers, organized by type--skirts together, pants hanging by their cuffs, her sweaters stacked in plastic bags on shelves. The room screams Heather. Why can't I figure out how to do that? Not that I want my room screaming “Heather!”--that would be too creepy.
But a little whisper of “Melinda” would be nice. I sit on the floor flipping through her CDs. Heather paints her nails on her desk blotter and blathers. She is determined to sign up for the musical. The Music Wingers are a hard clan to break into. Heather doesn't have talent or connections--I tell her she is wasting her time to even think of it. She thinks we should try out together. I think she has been breathing too much hairspray. My job is to nod or shake my head, to say “I know what you mean,” when I don't, and “That is so unfair,” when it isn't.
The musical would be easy for me. I am a good actor. I have a whole range of smiles. I use the shy, look-up-through-the- bangs smile for staff members, and the crinkly-eye smile with a quick shake of my head if a teacher asks me for an answer. If my parents want to know how school went, I flash my eyebrows upward and shrug my shoulders. When people point at me or whisper as I walk past, I wave to imaginary friends down the hall and hurry to meet them. If I drop out of high school, I could be a mime.
Heather asks why I don't think they would let us in the musical. I sip my hot chocolate. It burns the
roof of my mouth.
Me: “We are nobody.”
Heather: “How can you say that? Why does everyone have that attitude? I don't understand any of this. If we want to be in the musical, then they should let us. We could just stand onstage or something if they don't like our singing. It's not fair. I hate high school.”
She pushes her books to the floor and knocks the green nail polish on the sand-colored carpet.
“Why is it so hard to make friends here? Is there something in the water? In my old school I could have gone out for the musical and worked on the newspaper and chaired the car wash. Here people don't even know I exist. I get squished in the hall and I don't belong anywhere and nobody cares. And you're no help. You are so negative and you never try anything, you just mope around like you don't care that people talk about you behind your back.”
She flops on her bed and bursts into sobs. Big boohoos, with little squeals of frustration when she
punches her teddy bear. I don't know what to do. I try to soak up the nail polish, but I make the stain bigger. It looks like algae. Heather wipes her nose on the bear's plaid scarf. I slip out to the bathroom and come back with another box of tissues and a bottle of nail- polish remover.
Heather: “I am so sorry, Mellie. I can't believe I said those things to you. It's PMS, don't pay any attention to me. You have been so sweet to me. You are the only person I can trust.” She blows her nose loudly and wipes her eyes on her sleeve. “Look at you. You're just like my mom. She says 'No use crying, just get on with your life.' I know what we'll do. First, we'll work our way into a good group. We'll make them like us. By next year, the Music Wingers will be begging us to be in the musical.”
It is the most hopeless idea I have ever heard, but I nod and pour the remover on the carpet. It lightens the polish to a bright vomit green and bleaches the carpet surrounding it. When Heather sees what I have done, she bursts into tears again, sobbing that it isn't my fault. My stomach is killing me.
Her room isn't big enough for this much emotion. I leave without saying goodbye.
