Little Red Lies (12 page)

“The auditorium will be alive with germs. You’re not going,” Mother says.

“I’ll be fine, and I’ll be there,” he says with conviction.

I grin all the way to school.

Friday night’s performance is about to get under way. Mr. Tompkins gives a little pep talk to the actors backstage, just before the curtain goes up. “Resist the temptation to look for your parents in the audience. You won’t be able to see them over the glare of the lights, anyway. Now break a leg, all of you.”

From my position on a tall stool in the wings, ready to furnish anyone’s forgotten lines, I can glimpse the audience, at least the first row or two.

Hazel Carrington comes up behind me and whispers, “My father’s coming. He promised to sit near the back.” She looks really excited and proud of herself, and she has big red spots on each cheek radiating through the makeup. If I were in her shoes, I’d be just the same.

“What about your mother and sister?”

“My mother has a headache, and Vera’s coming tomorrow night.”

Mr. Tompkins looks at us pointedly, his finger to his lips. I don’t think Hazel is aware of how loud even her whisper is. The houselights go down; the footlights come
on; the hush in the audience is immediate. Beside me in the wings, Hazel peeks at the first few rows and, with a hand over her mouth, smothers a high-pitched squeak.

“What’s wrong?” I whisper.

“My father
and
my mother. In the front row. I can’t go on.”

“You have to.”

Hazel looks shattered.

I stand up. I am the same height and stare ferociously into her eyes. “Do it, or I will write a play about the day you spoiled everything for everybody.”

“Psst!”
the male lead whispers and pushes Hazel toward the stage. She glances back at me.

Quickly, I go through the motions of writing on the palm of my hand. It’s all she needs. From that moment on, Hazel begins to act as if her very life depends on it. She gets through the entire play without needing to be prompted once.

Ruthie does well, too. Her scenes are brisk and smooth, and she plies that feather duster like a pro. One thing, though: she adds a petulant tone to her voice. Did I recommend that? It certainly isn’t in the script, but it works pretty well for the thankless role of the maid.

From time to time, I keep an eye on the front row. After the intermission, with the play in the homestretch, Mrs. Carrington nods off to sleep against her husband’s shoulder while Hazel booms out her lines onstage. Hazel doesn’t
seem to notice, thanks to the glare of the footlights, otherwise she would need my prompting service with every second line. The play ends, and Mrs. Carrington comes to with a start. The audience claps loudly and someone even yells bravo.

For Saturday night’s performance, I arrive at school early to get the stage ready. It strikes me that I’m a bit tired of the play. If I were one of the actors, it would be a different story, but being behind the scenes is wearing thin. Once the stage is set, I go into the classroom we’re using for makeup to open the jars of cold cream and grease paint and to prop up the mirror.

Hazel hasn’t arrived yet, but we all go about our business. She’s often a little late but always bustles in, eventually, ready to shout out her lines. Mr. Tompkins is looking at his watch when the school janitor knocks on the door to say that he’s wanted on the phone. He returns five minutes later with a long face.

“Hazel has broken her leg!” he moans.

Everyone gasps.

“How could she?” Ruthie says. “Is this a joke?”

“She really did break her leg,” Mr. Tompkins says.

“Isn’t that just something you say to actors to mean the opposite?”

No one hears me. They’re crowding around Mr. Tompkins asking questions.

“Now what are we supposed to do?” someone asks.

“My parents waited until tonight to come,” Ruthie says.

“Do we have to refund the audience their money?” I ask. The proceeds from the two nights’ performances were to go towards expanding our costumes and props department.

Mr. Tompkins—chin on his chest, hands on his ears, eyes closed—is trying to think. A moment later, he opens his eyes and looks directly at me.

“You have to play Alexis Ravelthorpe. I know you know the lines. I’ve watched you prompt without even looking at the script. It has to be you. We have thirty minutes to make sure Hazel’s costumes fit you. Dressing room. On the double.” I stand there like a brainless statue. “Ruth, you go with her. Quick!”

I feel hot and cold at the same time. “I can’t do this,” I say to Ruthie as I put on the first-act costume, a ruffled blouse and a fancy emerald green suit. I can see in the mirror that the costume fits and even looks kind of snazzy on me. My cheeks are so red, I’ll hardly need makeup.

“Of course you can do it. You could say all Hazel’s lines backwards, standing on your head, if you had to.”

“But, I don’t know how to act.”

“Yes, you do. You taught me everything I know. You can see when a person’s acting is too flat, and you know how to fix it. If you can do that, you can act.”

Ruthie hands me the high-heeled shoes, a little tight but wearable. I wobble when I take my first few steps but soon get my balance.

“Mmm. Maybe you’re right.”

I’m absorbed by my reflection in the mirror. I have just been transformed into a sophisticated rich lady in an elegant green suit. And suddenly, that’s who I am. All I need is a few dabs of pancake makeup, a slash of my
Little Red Lies
lipstick, and the role is mine. “Okay, I’m ready to become Alexis Ravelthorpe.”

Mr. Tompkins will prompt in my place. He goes onstage before the play starts and announces the change in cast. “Miss Hazel Carrington, playing the role of Alexis, will not be with us tonight due to an injury. The role of Alexis Ravelthorpe will be played by Miss Rachel McLaren.”

I hear a buzz of surprise in the audience. I cannot even imagine how astonished my parents, my grandmother, and my brother must be. If their hearts are racing half as fast as my own, they’ll be having heart attacks. I feel like a starlet in one of Ruthie’s sister’s movie magazines, getting my big break, my chance to show the world my magnificent talent.

Standing in the wings, I can’t think of my first line. My leg bones are rubbery. If I scratch my arms one more time, they’ll bleed all over the green suit. In the second before I am to make my stage debut, with the houselights down and the audience silently awaiting the action, I experience
a moment of truth. I’m not a good actor; I’m a good critic. I have no idea how to act.

I walk quickly onto the stage, dressed in Hazel’s costume. Ruthie, as maid, is busily dusting the fake pictures on the fake walls. I say my lines mechanically and not very loudly. I sit on a fake chair, knowing this is what I’m supposed to do, rise when my elderly fake mother enters stage left, and speak my lines rapidly because I can’t wait to get them out of the way. At the end of my scene, I walk briskly through a fake door into another room of the nonexistent house.

Backstage, Mr. Tompkins nods encouragement. He shakes his shoulders around. “Loosen up,” he whispers.

I want to go home at intermission, only I can’t find my clothes. I think Ruthie hid them somewhere.

I do not loosen up. My acting does not improve. When the curtain comes down and the audience applauds politely, I do not go out for my curtain call. I run back to the dressing room and tear off Hazel’s costume. I scrub at my makeup with a handful of absorbent cotton, not even bothering with cold cream. I’m out of the room and out of the school moments before the audience surges out through the front door. I’m in bed before the rest of my family returns, and when they do, I refuse to talk to them through my locked door. Tonight I blindly leapt from the steepest cliff I will ever encounter, never to rise again. I lie beneath it, splattered and shattered.

Sunday morning, my eyes are red and puffy. I didn’t mean to cry half the night. But, every time I remembered the disastrous play, I heard my own voice rattling out the lines like popcorn popping as I rushed to get through them.

I go down to breakfast knowing I am a disgrace.

“Don’t say anything,” I’m at the kitchen doorway. “I know it was a disaster.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” Jamie says over his coffee cup.

“It wasn’t bad at all,” Mother says. “You spoke a little quickly, that’s all.”

“I thought you were great to step in and save the day,” Dad says. “Magnificent, in fact.”

“Liars,” I say.

I hurry back upstairs because my eyes are filling again. Passing my parents’ room, I see their open suitcase on the bed. Beside it is Mother’s best blouse, and on the floor, Dad’s polished shoes. They intend to drive Jamie to Toronto this afternoon to see the specialist tomorrow. I wasn’t planning to go, but now I think I will. I can’t face school. I throw what I’ll need into a small suitcase and put
Little Red Lies
into my skirt pocket, I don’t know why. It didn’t help me pass myself off as an actress. I feel like a fraud.

But, I wash my face, soak my eyes, and go back down. “I’m going with you.” I say it loudly and firmly. I will not be talked out of it.

“But you have school tomorrow,” Mother says.

“I’m never going back.”

“Oh, now, now,” Dad says. “Never is a long time.”

“Give her a break,” Jamie says. “She’s had a traumatic experience.”

“Oh, I don’t think it was as bad as all that,” Mother says. “There’s no need to be quite so dramatic, Rachel.”

“I’m not going!” I glare, not at them, but through the window, my arms folded majestically, my brow a firm line. Mrs. Hall, sweeping her steps next door, sees me and waves. I turn my back.

Dad says, “Dora, she’ll miss only a day or two.”

So he thinks
, I say to myself.

“It’s silly to give in!” She takes another look at me. “Oh, well—but bring your books. You’ll have to study.”

I run upstairs to get my bag. I pull my hair closer around my face and, at the bathroom mirror, add a smear of
Little Red Lies
to hide my puffy lips. With a little imagination, I look fine. The lipstick’s back in my pocket.

Downstairs, Mother takes one look at my lips and says, “Hand it over.”

“What?”

“You know very well what.” She’s staring at my mouth. “It makes you … look like someone you’re not. Give it to me.”

“But I bought it with my own money,” I say as I put it in her outstretched hand.

She places it in a corner of the nearest kitchen cupboard. “There it will sit until you’re twenty years old. By
then, maybe you’ll be old be enough to see that less is actually more. Now go and wipe your face.”

Sullenly, scratching my arms to shreds, I sit next to Jamie as we drive to Toronto. We’re spending the night with Dad’s second cousin Betty, an elderly woman who lives alone in a big house.

She welcomes us by bustling in and out of rooms, showing us where we’ll be sleeping, asking if we’d like a cup of tea, and giving Jamie and me the critical once-over.

“Rachel,” she says, “Is something wrong? You look as if you’re moping.”

I bare my teeth, which she can take as a smile … or not. If I had an ax handy, I’d wedge it in her head.

To Jamie, she says, “Dear boy, what have you been doing to yourself? You’re awfully frail, my dear. Do they not feed you?”

He draws himself up tall, as if he can make up in height what he lacks in width. This will not be a pleasant visit.

Promptly at nine, next morning, I mope along behind the others to the specialist. Jamie goes into the doctor’s office while the rest of us stay in the waiting room. After about twenty minutes, Doctor Latham calls us all into his office.

“I’d like to admit Jamie to hospital here for further testing,” he says.

Jamie’s arms are folded defiantly. “Actually, I feel fine now and have for the past week. I think it was just some bug I picked up.”

Dad says, “Jamie, have the tests. We’ll come back for you as soon as they’re over.”

Mother says, “I’ll stay.”

“No need,” Jamie mutters. “Go with Dad. This is a waste of time.”

“I’ll take Rachel back,” Dad says. “She should be in school.”

“I’m not going back to school. I’ll take correspondence courses.”

Doctor Latham clears his throat.

“This is something we’ll discuss later,” Dad says.

I get my wish. They let me stay with Mother. I try my best to be nice to Cousin Betty, and she rewards me by letting me look at all her books, of which she has hundreds. “Choose whatever one you like,” she says, “as long as it’s appropriate.”

I start looking for something racy and come up with
The Anatomy of the Human Body
, a textbook for medical students with her brother’s name on the flyleaf. Flipping through it convinces me I’ll know more than I ever wanted to about people’s private parts.

Each day, we visit Jamie in hospital. Visiting hours are two to four, so we always get there sharp at two to make the most of them. He shares a room with a man who spends most of the day snoring, but Jamie is lucky enough to have the window side.

“I don’t mind the snoring,” he says, “I just wish he’d talk
a bit.” He has to rely on books and magazines for company.