Starry-Eyed (45 page)

Then I really realized I was going to cry, so I lowered my head and sped past Theo, out the gym doors. I knew Kimberly would be furious that I cut out, but I couldn't stay there any longer, not after what I'd done to Jessica and what I'd said to Theo. Jessica was right; something was wrong with me.

I raced back to Liza Minnelli with tears streaming down my face. I passed by two fourteen-year-old girls who looked like they'd been let out of Stage Makeup early; they were made up like old women, with wrinkles painted like grooves into their cheeks.

“That girl must be coming from the Method Acting class,” one whispered to the other, gesturing to me. “She's really good.”

4. Consider Yourself

Later that night, long after Kimberly found me in my room and chewed me out for being careless (Jessica was going to be fine; as for me, I was excused from Stunt Fighting for the rest of camp), long after dinner (breaded cheese sticks that still tasted mostly frozen; I ate half of one, standing up by the juice dispenser), long after I tried to apologize to a swollen-looking Jessica on my way out of the cafeteria (she brushed me off and huddled with her friends), I decided to write a letter to my parents.

The rule at Backstage was: one phone call home per week, but no limit on letter writing. Over the past month, I'd sent my parents several short, breezy letters. My mom had been hesitant about sending me to camp in the first place. The night before they drove me up to Connecticut, I'd heard her whispering to my dad that maybe I wasn't ready. I'd been loath to prove her right.

Tonight, though, I didn't want to keep anything in any longer. What happened in Stunt Fighting had been replaying in my head all evening, eclipsing the usual
Oliver!
songs. I'd been so high on myself, so proud of my shot at semi-stardom. But now all of that seemed dimmed, almost insignificant. The punch I'd thrown at Jessica felt like it had landed on me too. Why had I been so obsessed with proving my talents onstage? So single-mindedly focused on getting my chance in the spotlight? Was that why I'd been unhappy here? Or was I just . . . not ready?

I sat on my bottom bunk in my pajamas, my box of stationery on my lap. Stephanie, to my relief, was next door, singing
Oklahoma!
songs with Hannah. My roommate must have forgiven the other girl for “stealing” the lead role. I heard them trilling together about it being a beautiful day.

I sighed.

Then I pulled out a fresh sheet of flowery paper, picked up my pen, and started writing.

Dear Mom and Dad
,

Today was National Cheese Day here at Backstage. You can imagine how I felt about that. Here's the thing: I'm really hungry. All the time. Sometimes I feel dizzy in dance class, but I don't think it has to do with the pirouettes or turns. We rehearse all morning and don't even break for lunch, just go straight to our first class. Nobody else seems to mind, but I kind of miss reading under the air conditioner. I have a feeling most of the kids who come here all want to be actors when they grow up, and I'm not sure I really do
.

I also have to lift a girl and hold her on my shoulder for I think ten seconds
.

Something good happened today, and also something bad. The bad thing was that I punched my friend during Stunt Fighting class. I didn't tell you, but yeah, I'm taking Stunt Fighting. I'm not very good at it, but I guess I am stronger than I thought. The good thing was that I get to say a line in Oliver!, but I don't even feel glad about that now
.

Also, remember how I told you I got cast as the Artful Dodger? Well, that was a lie. I'm sorry I lied. I'm only in the chorus. That's why getting to say a line was so exciting. I hope you won't be mad
.

I also lied when I said my roommate was pretty nice. She's not. I think maybe she has mental problems. She keeps yelling at me that I'm stealing her stuff
.

Also, I miss Mom's cooking. A lot
.

Love
,

Ruthie

Before I could change my mind, I stuffed the letter in an envelope, scrawled the familiar address, and ran to Julianne's room. She bunked with another counselor at the end of the hall, and collected the mail from us to send off in the mornings.

“Good night, angel drawers,” Julianne said, adding my letter to the mail pile and giving me a kiss on the cheek.

I said good night and hurried back to my room. I crawled into my bottom bunk and pulled the covers up to my chin. I listened to Hannah and Stephanie singing until I fell into an uneasy sleep.

5. Be Back Soon

My parents showed up four days later to collect me.

“We're springing you,” my mom whispered, giving me a hug as soon as I opened my door for them. “Good God, you're skin and bones.”

“No, I'm not!” I said defensively. “What are you doing here?” It was before breakfast; our camp director had woken us up over the loudspeaker with the promise of pancakes (I was suspicious). Stephanie was washing up in the bathroom, and I'd just gotten dressed.

“Well, we got your letter,” Mom said, closing the door behind her. She was wearing a long flowy skirt with a blouse and sandals. My dad was wearing his “driving” outfit: aviator sunglasses, a Polo shirt, shorts, sneakers, and, embarrassingly, socks pulled up to his calves. The realization of how much I'd missed them made my throat constrict.

“Oh yeah?” I said, trying to play it cool.

Mom studied me with her wide, green-blue eyes, so much like mine. “I know sometimes your imagination runs away with you, Ruthie, and you think things are worse than they are. But in this case, it really does sound like this isn't the right place for you. We understand that you want to come home.”

“I don't know,” I said. I needed them to leave before Stephanie witnessed this scene. This scene had
amateur
written all over it.

“Come on, sweetie,” my dad said, sitting gingerly on my bottom bunk. “This place sounds awful. Constant rehearsing? Terrible food? Stunt fighting?” He paused, and said, “Okay, stunt fighting sounds sort of fun. But not for you, honey.”

“I'm not in Stunt Fighting anymore.” Since Kimberly kicked me out, the Stage Makeup teacher had grudgingly agreed to squeeze me in. This meant more quality time with Stephanie and grease paint, but at least I didn't have to encounter Jessica's hurt expression. “The food isn't always terrible,” I went on, not sure who I was convincing. “Yesterday there were Sloppy Joes, and I'm pretty sure they were made with real beef.”

My parents exchanged a look.

“And rehearsals aren't so bad,” I continued, leaning against the dresser I shared with Stephanie, who would be showing up any minute. “I have a speaking role!” Over the last four days, my enthusiasm over my semi-solo had waned. But now, as I imagined leaving with my parents, I felt the tug of wanting to stay for that role. Who would Brad give it to in my absence? Slouching Meredith? Asthmatic Andy?

“All right, Ruthie.” My mom held up her hands. “If you want to stay, you should. We were just worried about you. There's nothing wrong with leaving camp early. But it's up to you.”

I studied my sneakers. I knew the right thing to do, the Afterschool Special thing to do, would be to stay. Stay on and fight. I'd be the star of the chorus and ace my one line. I'd rebuild my friendship with Jessica. I'd apologize to Theo for calling him a jerk and maybe even kiss him. I'd show up Tara in Dance class, and give Stephanie her comeuppance. I'd learn a lesson about perseverance, about not looking for easy ways out.

Stephanie walked into the room, her blonde hair stuffed under a cowboy hat. She eyed my parents with open hostility. She'd met them when they'd dropped me off and hadn't been any friendlier then.

“What's going on?” she demanded.

I stepped forward, and decided.

“I'm leaving,” I said.

“What?” said Stephanie.

My parents exchanged another look.

“Yeah.” I thought fast. “My parents won a prize—an all-expense paid family trip to Europe. We need to leave tomorrow or the prize goes to waste.”

“Really?” Stephanie said at the same time as my dad. I saw my mom nudge him.

I nodded, surprised at how quickly I'd invented that lie. I had a thought then: I might not have been the best singer or dancer, but I was pretty good at fabricating things.

Stephanie frowned and bolted forward, flinging her arms around me. “I'm going to miss you so much!” she cried. “Promise you'll come back next year?”

I opened and closed my mouth but couldn't answer.

Finally, Mom put her hand on Stephanie's shoulder, and my roommate released me. “Yeah, maybe next year,” my mom said.

I wished Stephanie good luck with
Oklahoma!
and watched as she raced out the door, clearly eager to spread the news of my early exit to Hannah, Tara, and beyond. So that was that, then. There was no undoing it now.

“You didn't need to make up a story,” my mother said, shaking her head but looking amused. “Too bad there's no camp for fiction writers.”

“I think you made the right choice, honey,” Dad said, standing up and giving me a hug. “Let's get you packed.”

An hour later, after I'd packed up my belongings and Mom and Dad had explained to the camp director about the Europe trip (they were now coming around to this story), I got in the car. I'd wanted to stop by the Julie Andrews to say good-bye to Brad, but the camp director told my parents it would be too disruptive. So I was left to buckle my seat belt and wonder if they were singing “Food, Glorious Food” now, and if anyone had noticed I was missing.

The car started and I felt immense relief mixed with melancholy. I had pulled off the ultimate dodge. I watched Backstage out the back window
until it was a small green dot. Just like that, my experience with camp was over. I told myself I
would
try again next year, when I was older and wiser, more ready.

But I never returned to Backstage. I got busy with summer jobs and friends and most of all with writing. I put my too-big imagination to good use, and my scribbled stories became typed manuscripts. I ate well, and read books, and kissed a boy. I never saw Jessica again, but I was grateful for the friendship she lent me.

I may have been more ready for camp at fourteen or fifteen, but by then I'd made peace with being an amateur. Once I got to high school, I realized I could love theater, could appreciate the thrills of it, without needing to be a star.

I still dance and watch musicals, and I always sing along to the songs in
Oliver!
And singing along, enjoying from the sidelines, can be just as satisfying as having a solo. The performing arts are magical
because
they are inclusive: because everyone from the megastar to the bit player, from the stunt fighter to the scriptwriter, from the director to the audience member contributes to the dazzle. I'm not sure I would have fully understood that if not for all that had happened at Backstage when I was eleven.

Because of my abrupt departure, my time at Backstage often feels half-real. Unfinished. Sometimes I picture myself back there, on opening night of
Oliver!
I'm wide-eyed and skinny in my raggedy brown costume. The backdrop has been painted to evoke nineteenth-century London: all street-lamps and fog and cobblestones. There's the hushed anticipation of the audience, and the heat and glow coming from the footlights at the edge of the stage. I sing clearly and I move my feet in time to the music. I lift Meredith easily, and I stride forward and ask, “How much is that boy?” with the perfect British accent. When we take our bows, the applause makes my ears ring and my cheeks flush with pleasure.

Is that really how it would have unfolded, had I stayed on at camp that summer? I'll never know.

But I can always imagine.

ANECDOTE: LYNN COHEN