Bad Girls, Bad Girls, Whatcha Gonna Do? (3 page)

As they waited to begin, the people in the room were talking, entirely relaxed, planning to enjoy themselves. Drama had the reputation of being a lot of fun. The last teacher, Mr. Maxwell, had been young, and single, and he drove an old MGB sports car with the top down, winter or summer, as long as the skies were clear. But Mr. Maxwell had handed in his resignation the day after Labor Day, the last day before the first day of school, causing something of an uproar. After a frantic search, the school had found someone new to town, just out of college with a drama degree. People were curious about her. But she wasn't in the room, so there was a brief exchange of information while they waited, for the teacher to arrive and let them find out for themselves about her, for the bell to ring. “Young, pretty, engaged,” were the basic bits of information they knew about her, plus, “This is her first teaching job.”

It was that last that made her such a big question mark for everyone. Nobody wanted to take part in someone's bad play, a play that people might make jokes about afterwards, or think you were a jerk to be in. Most of the people in the
room were in wait-and-see mode, ready to check out of the activity if it looked to be un-cool.

It was a good sign that the teacher arrived at the center of a small group of seniors, probably from the acting class, one of them carrying a big cardboard box. The box was taken up to the platform while the knapsacks were dropped on top of the pile, and then the four students came to sit at the front of the room, while the teacher stepped up onto the stage and they could all get a good look at her.

For once rumor was accurate. She
was
young and pretty, with soft, wavy brown hair and big eyes. A diamond flashed on her left hand, so that, too, was accurate. But what rumor had not mentioned was that she shone with happiness. In loose-fitting slacks and one of those styled t-shirts that adults wore, she was certainly easy to look at, but it was the smile on her face that captured you. It lit up the whole room. You wanted to smile right back. You thought that at any minute you were going to start having a really good time, and even if you didn't, you were going to be happier than before. Because this teacher was really glad to see them, and really glad to be there in class with them.

Her cheeks were a little pink, so they knew she was nervous, and she jammed her hands down into her pant pockets the way a nervous person does. But her voice was strong and confident, and happy, too.

“Hello. Good afternoon. Let's see—my name is Jeanette Hendriks and I prefer to be called Ms. Hendriks, if you
would, please.” She grinned then, as if suspecting that the title was too dignified but still, she hoped they would try using it. “And this as you know is Drama. Drama Club. Out of which we will put on the three productions of the year—one of which I promise you will be a musical. Okay, that's the really important and interesting thing to cover today, our plans for the year, but if I remember high school correctly, you'll want to hear a little about me before we settle down to work. Yes?” and she smiled approvingly at them.

They smiled approvingly back.

Ms. Hendriks was just finishing up telling them about the course requirements, and thesis requirements, for a drama major when Hadrian Klenk scuttled into the room, keeping low as he took a place beside Margalo. Margalo glanced at him, not paying much attention, thinking about the chances of getting any kind of a role in a play, and about the chances of anybody else wanting to be assistant director.

Then she looked again. Hadrian was tucking his shirt into his khakis, awkwardly. It isn't easy to tuck in your shirt when you're sitting on the floor, and it's even harder if you are trying at the same time to unobtrusively wipe tears from your cheeks. “What happened?” Margalo whispered.

Hadrian shook his head. “Nothing.” Then he shrugged. “Nothing new.”

“You okay?” Margalo whispered.

He nodded.

Ms. Hendriks was looking in their direction as she told her
story about moving to town because it was where her fiancé lived—and here she took her left hand out of her pocket to show them the ring. Margalo met the teacher's gaze with a bright, attentive face. Probably Hadrian did the same, since her attention moved on, away, as she reported to those who hadn't heard the news, “Mr. Maxwell has taken a job in California.”

This was explained by Richard Carstairs, the senior who had played every male lead for the last couple of years, usually with Sally King (who happened also to be his girlfriend) getting the female leads. “He wants to act. He wants to be in movies, but the job's not acting. It's just another teaching job. But it's in L.A. He'll be on the spot.”

Ms. Hendriks reclaimed their attention. “I myself always wanted to direct. For my senior thesis I directed—entirely on my own, casting, costumes, sets, everything, which I guess makes me a producer, too. I did have an advisor, for when I had doubts, which,” she admitted with another happy smile, “
did
happen, and not infrequently. Anyway, the play I chose was
The Lady's Not for Burning,
which I understand some of this year's ninth graders were in a production of last spring? Were any of you involved in that production?”

Four hands went up and she nodded. This was good news.

“So I am not without experience in producing and directing a play,” Ms. Hendriks went on. “And I am especially not without . . . I guess you have to call it enthusiasm.” For some reason this made them all laugh. “As I see it, the director
takes all the different ingredients—script and actors primarily, but also sets and staging, lighting . . . The director gets all of these component parts to work together to bring her vision of the play alive, onstage, and it's . . . It's wonderful,” she told them, her eyes glowing, “to see a play come alive. To be part of that.”

Every student in the room was smiling back at her, and at the possibility and excitement of working on a play with her. She went on. “The first thing you need to do for Drama Club, then, is pick up your copies of
A Midsummer Night's Dream.
That's Shakespeare, of course.” She indicated the box beside her. “Some of these are the Folger edition, some the Cambridge University Press. Both have good notes,” she reassured them, misunderstanding the sudden silence in the room. “For the first few weeks in here we'll study each scene and talk over the characters and their motivations to be sure we understand the lines. Shakespeare can be difficult,” she explained, in case they didn't know this. She smiled around at all of them, to include everyone in the excitement of it all.

“So if you'll each come up to get a book, and sign the book assignment sheet? Then, if there is any time left, I'll give you the historical background of the play. Do you know the layout of Shakespeare's theater? The Globe?”

Only one hand went up, Hadrian's. This puzzled the teacher, but she went on to ask, “Does anyone have any questions?” at which Hadrian's hand went down and Richard Carstair's hand went up. “Yes, Richard?” she asked.

“Mr. Maxwell promised we'd do comedy this year.”

“
Midsummer Night's Dream
is a comedy.”

“We did
Romeo and Juliet
last year and
Macbeth
the year before,” Richard tried to explain, and a few sympathetic groans greeted the memory. “Macbeth, that was”—“Grim.” “But the witches were fun.”—“dumb.”

Ms. Hendriks considered this for a long moment, while they watched her. Then she made her own explanation. “You know, Shakespeare is a real actor's writer. Anyone who is serious about acting studies Shakespeare. Anyone who wants to learn about theater. His characters, his language, his . . . the drama of his works. I wouldn't feel right not giving you this opportunity,” she concluded happily.

“I get enough Shakespeare in English class,” somebody protested.

“He's not relevant,” someone added.

“He's not funny.”

“Mr. Maxwell said.”

Ms. Hendrik's smile didn't fade. She was entirely sympathetic to this point of view. “Then probably there's no point in your staying in Drama, is there? If you feel that way.”

At that a lot of people stood up and left, maybe half of the crowded room. Shawn Macavity explained to Heather as they left that it would be a better career move for him to take Martial Arts, no matter what the teacher said. “These days you have to know karate moves, you know? To get work,” he added, in case she didn't follow his reasoning.

Only thirty-four people remained in the room. Ms. Hendriks looked around at them eagerly, saying, “Before you come to get your books, we should get acquainted.” She came to the edge of the platform and sat down on it, making everyone almost equal.

Margalo and Hadrian were the only ninth graders in the group.

“You already know my name and my theatrical experience,” Ms. Hendriks said. “It's your turn now to tell me about yourselves. Who wants to start off?”

Neither Margalo nor Hadrian volunteered.

“W
here's Hadrian?” Casey looked up from a copy of
Murder Must Advertise.
“Lunch is half over and—have any of you seen Hadrian?”

It was the fourth Friday of ninth grade, and certain concerns were beginning to establish themselves, like seedlings taking root. Hadrian was just such an established concern, right up there with grades and boy/girl-friends. Less major were: Louis Caselli's chances of passing any of his courses in the first marking period; what was wrong with Tanisha Harris; Rhonda Ransom's mother refusing to let her daughter take sex education because that was something a child should learn at home (“And we all know what
that
means,” Cassie remarked); whether Ralph had really copied his History report off the Internet and, then, if he'd get caught; and—back to sex, many things got back to sex—why the
school thought ninth grade needed to start off the year with sex ed. But nobody wanted to talk about that.

Nobody, also, knew where Hadrian was. They had all been looking up occasionally at the door, or glancing around at the edges of the room for a scurrying figure in case they had missed his entry. All now included not only the usual—Mikey and Margalo, Casey, Cassie and Jace—but also two new lunch companions. Tenth graders. Boys. Tim had joined Casey one lunch to continue his attempts to talk her into changing her mind about accepting one of the submissions to the literary magazine (he had succeeded in this) and then had fallen into a ridiculous and, he claimed, useful discussion with Margalo about the “Dear Stella” advice column in the school newspaper, which he wrote, along with occasional op-ed pieces. The next day he had been back, and with him his friend Felix—one of those skinny, long-haired boys whose shoelaces are often untied. Felix claimed to be a photographer, although he never had a camera with him at school because he didn't want it ripped off and he didn't take Photography or any other Art course because he didn't want anybody messing with his talent.

Not one of them, for all the looking, had seen Hadrian Klenk that lunch period.

Margalo gave voice to their concern. “He's taking a long time getting here today.”

“Everything in ninth grade is taking a long time,” Mikey
pointed out. The tennis coach hadn't spoken to her except to assign her to one court or another for drills.

“Probably he's spooking around somewhere—in the library?—waiting for a chance to bolt for the cafeteria,” Jace suggested.

“Who are those goons anyway?” Margalo asked Tim and Felix. “Do you know them? Are they in your class?”

“No, they're eleventh graders, they did the same kind of things to some of us last year. It's—”

He was interrupted by the arrival of Ronnie Caselli at their table. In the surprised silence that greeted her she pulled out a chair opposite Mikey and Margalo, Hadrian's usual chair if she had known it.

“Hey everybody,” she said, dividing her smile equally between the girls and the boys. “Am I interrupting?” she asked, aware that, for this lunch table, to have Ronnie Caselli sitting and talking with them would cause a big boost in their ratings. But Ronnie wasn't one of those stuck-up popular high school girls; she also managed to be a pretty nice person, at least a lot of the time, especially when there wasn't any boyfriend situation in question. Now she asked them, but looked to Margalo to answer, “You know, I haven't had a chance to catch up with you since . . .” She hesitated, figuring out how long it had been.

“Sixth grade?” Mikey suggested.

Ronnie laughed. “Come on, Mikey, it hasn't been that long. But how was your summer? Did you play a lot of
tennis?” and then she asked Margalo, “Did you have time to do anything besides baby-sit? Because that savings account of yours must be getting sort of fat by now, even without any Café ME money. But why
did
you decide to close it down?” she asked them both.

“When we were in Texas—,” Margalo began.

“That's right! You went to see Mikey's mother and her new husband. I forgot all about that.” Ronnie turned to explain to Tim and Felix, “I get distracted because in August a whole lot of Italian boys come over to work for a month at a restaurant—the owner's a friend of my dad's. They come to improve their English, and Sophie—she's my cousin, she graduated last year—she and I sort of have to show them around.” Ronnie grimaced, not unhappily and turned back to Mikey. “Is your new stepfather as rich as they say?”

“I don't know. How rich do they say he is?” Mikey asked, and Ronnie laughed again. Ronnie had a good laugh, as warm and quiet as soup bubbling on the stove. It made you want to join in on enjoying whatever was so funny. That Mikey hadn't meant to crack a joke never entered anybody's mind when Ronnie laughed.