The Forget-Me-Not Summer (25 page)

B
ecause Zinnie had backstage duties, she and Jean had decided it would be best if her play were the last act in the talent show. It started off great. As the chorus of wildflowers Miss Melody's modern dance class was step ball changing and back brushing in perfect time to the jaunty ditty Tony had composed for the show. Their fluttering hands were delicate petals in a believable summer breeze. Ashley was a bold narrator with her accent and hand gestures. She definitely had what Ronald P. Harp would call presence.

Zinnie was funny as Forget-Me-Not. Marigold thought that Ronald P. Harp wouldn't approve of her over-the-top facial expressions and hand gestures, but they worked just fine here at the casino. People laughed at the spots where they were supposed to laugh, like when Forget-Me-Not tried to join the Goatsbeards'
party and didn't know the secret handshake, or when she tried to attend a Ladies' Tresses' dance circle but was too clumsy.

“Oh, my God, the short one with the black hair is mouthing everyone else's lines,” Amanda said, elbowing Marigold. “Watch.” Marigold hadn't noticed until Amanda pointed it out, but she was right. Zinnie was mouthing everyone's words! Her lips were moving right along with Ashley's! The only time she stopped was when she was speaking.

“I have to put this on YouTube,” Amanda said. “It's too hilarious.”

“Don't,” Marigold said, grabbing Amanda's hand as she reached for her camera phone.

“What? Why?” Amanda freed her hand from Marigold's grip. “It's going to be so funny. I'll tweet it, and I bet it will get like a million hits.”

“No,” Marigold said, picturing people laughing at Zinnie from behind the safety of their computers. “I'm serious. It's not nice.”

“She'll never even know,” Amanda said. “Oh, my God, look at that yellow sweater. This is too funny.”

Marigold turned to see half of Zinnie's body stuck inside that disgusting yellow feather sweater. Even though it was the narrator's job to play Gus, the chicken, Zinnie was doing it! She was going to play both roles! That is, if she could ever get the sweater on.

“Uh, one second,” Zinnie said to the audience. Her
voice was muffled through the polyester, and Marigold could see she was starting to panic. She was trying to stick her head through one of the sleeves, and it looked like she was stuck.

“This is amazing,” Amanda said, laughing and aiming her camera phone at the stage.

“Shut up,” Marigold said, “and put your camera away.”

“Why are you being such a freak?” Amanda asked.

“Because that's my sister,” Marigold said, “and no one is allowed to make fun of her except me!”

Then she stood up, kicked off her wedges, and marched onstage, deciding that the only way to not be a chicken was to be a chicken.

W
hen the tacky yellow sweater was finally off her head, Zinnie couldn't believe her eyes. Marigold had helped her. And what's more, she was now throwing the sweater over her own head. Zinnie's jaw hung open as Marigold fluffed up the feathers on the shoulders, tucked her thumbs under her armpits, turned to the audience, and said: “
Bock
-
bock-bock
, what's a flower fairy like you doing on a lonesome road like this?”

“Uh . . . ,” Zinnie said, unable to hide her amazement, “I'm looking for the people who are going to pave over my flower field to make a supermarket. I must stop them before it's too late.”

“Well, you've found the right chicken,” Marigold said, and added a few more
bock-bock-bock
s. Then Marigold did some short, quick head movements that
made her look like a real chicken.
She is such a good actress,
Zinnie thought. “That's where I'm headed,” Marigold said. “See, they're going to have a big poultry section in that supermarket, but I'm hoping once they meet me and see what a talented dancer I am, they'll realize that chickens deserve to live and decide to go vegan.” The audience laughed. “I can take you to their home—it's right down the road—but the only problem is I'm not sure which style of dance will impress them the most. Can you help me decide?”

“Okay,” Zinnie said. “Let's see your ballet moves!”

“Here goes,” Marigold said, and she did some pirouettes, but in a very chicken-like way.
“Whoa, whoa!”
she said, landing the last pirouette on her butt. The whole audience laughed. Zinnie couldn't help it. She laughed, too. She'd had no idea that Marigold could dance like that.

“Hmm. I don't know if ballet is your best bet. Let's see some Latin moves,” Zinnie said. “Try a salsa or a tango!” Zinnie heard her dad's distinctive laugh.

“Cha-cha-cha!” Marigold said, grabbed Zinnie, and tangoed the full length of the stage, to the delight of the audience.

Ashley cleared her throat. “So . . . um, the chicken continued to try many styles of dance, including hip-hop, belly dancing, and even Bollywood.”

To Zinnie's surprise, Marigold was really getting into it. With every new style of dance that Ashley
listed, Marigold became more ridiculous and silly.

People were laughing so hard that Zinnie broke down and started laughing, too. Trying not to laugh only made her laugh more. But Marigold stayed in character. She kept a serious look of surprise on her face as she hopped wildly around the stage.

“Then they—” Ashley started, but she had to stop and wait for the audience to quiet down. “Then they met a little girl named Hope. She was practicing her own ballerina moves.” Out twirled Lily. She must have been very excited by all the laughing and clapping, because she completely forgot her lines and twirled until she was so dizzy that she almost fell on her face. But she didn't, because just as she was about to tumble over, Marigold stepped up and caught her.

There was an awkward moment of silence until Marigold whispered something into Lily's ear. Lily regained her balance, sprang to her feet, and said, “Hi there!” The play continued, with Tony improvising on the piano as Marigold, Zinnie, and Lily, as Gus, Forget-Me-Not, and Hope, skipped across the stage to the field of flowers. Miss Melody's class showed their technique and training as they waved their scarves with grace and expression.

Lily even got her line right as she called out, “Mama and Papa, you must not build that supermarket or the enchanting flowers will die!” She was supposed to say the lines into the cell phone prop that
Zinnie had carefully tucked into the tutu before the show, but Lily addressed her own mom and dad in the audience instead. And when it was time for Zinnie's closing monologue, Marigold took Lily by the hand and stepped quietly to the side, so that Zinnie could have the spotlight all to herself.

A
fter the performance Marigold felt like a Fourth of July sparkler. All her acting experience had been in her acting class and on the set of
Seasons
. She had never acted in front of a crowd before, and she had found it thrilling to look out and see so many people watching her with great big smiles on their faces. Marigold had glowed as if the audience's laughter were a great beam of energy shining directly on her. And when she took her bow with the rest of the cast, she was filled with so much lightness, she couldn't be quite sure that she was touching the ground.

As she scanned the audience, her heart nearly popped with surprise and happiness when she saw her parents cheering. Mom and Dad were standing up, clapping wildly. Then Aunt Sunny, who was sitting nearby, stood up and clapped. Soon the whole audience
was on its feet. Marigold waved to her parents, though she wasn't sure they could still see her through the standing ovation. After she took her final bow, she ran off the stage, up the center aisle, and right into their arms, not caring if Amanda saw.

“You're here!” Marigold said.

“You were fantastic,” Dad said.

“You're such a wonderful actress,” Mom said.

Her sisters weren't far behind her. Mom picked up Lily and pulled Zinnie in for a hug. As Jean made some announcements about the judges' tallying the scores, Dad leaned over to Marigold and whispered, “I was so glad to see you up there. There was a rumor that you weren't going to be in the play.”

“Was it in the
Hollywood Reporter
?” Marigold asked. “I thought you knew better than to believe show biz rumors!” Though she was joking around with Dad, she knew that she had something important to do, and she didn't want to wait another minute. She leaned over to Zinnie and whispered, “I'm sorry.”

“It's okay,” Zinnie said, and though Marigold searched Zinnie's face for hurt and anger, there was none. Her sister's eyes were shining, and her cheeks were rosy and round with happiness. It could have been because Zinnie's play had been such a success that now Marigold's bad behavior didn't seem like such a big deal. But when Zinnie went one step further and embraced Marigold in a bear hug, Marigold
knew that she had been totally forgiven.

Marigold was suddenly aware of a big difference between Zinnie and her. Marigold could hold a grudge for days or longer, even after several apologies. She collected her hurts the way Peter collected his sea glass. Zinnie, on the other hand, was quick to forgive. All Marigold had to do was say sorry, and
poof!
The fight was all over, and Zinnie had her arms around her. This was part of what made Zinnie so, well, so Zinnie. Tony played a few lively chords to get the audience's attention, and Jean hushed the crowd. And for a split second, as Marigold hugged Zinnie back, their long-standing roles reversed: it was Marigold who wanted to be more like her sister, instead of the other way around.

A
fter the prizes had been handed out and the crowd had thinned a bit, Marigold was still riding high. In fact, Marigold didn't think she had ever felt more exhilarated, even though they had only won second place. Ashley won first place, and Joey and his animal impressions came in third.

Amanda was long gone. Maybe she was going to tweet about it, but Marigold hoped not. She didn't have time to look for her and ask, because people kept coming up to her and telling her how funny she was. Aunt Sunny gave her a huge hug and a big kiss on her cheek. “I'm so proud of you,” she said. Marigold put her hand to her face and felt a lipstick mark. Aunt Sunny was wearing lipstick!

When she turned around to tell Zinnie, she found herself looking right at Phil Rathbone. It was the
moment she'd been waiting for. And yet she couldn't find any words. She stared at him. She smiled weirdly. She wished she had thought to take off the feathery sweater.

“Uh . . . hi there,” he said. “I'm Phil Rathbone.”

“I know,” she said. “I'm Marigold Silver.”

“Nice to meet you,” he said, and extended his hand. She remembered that a firm handshake was sign of confidence and shook his hand heartily. It may have been a little too hearty, because Phil Rathbone shook out his hand a little and said, “That's quite a handshake you've got.”

“Thanks,” Marigold said. “I'm an actress, you know.”

“I can see that,” he said, and smiled. “You were very funny. You make an excellent chicken.”

“Thanks, but um . . . in L.A. I mean,” Marigold said, “I was on
Seasons
.”

“Oh,” he said, his eyes twinkling with recognition, “so you were. You do drama and comedy. Very impressive.”

“Yes,” Marigold said, standing straight and tall. “And I really want to be in
Night Sprites
.” She could see Aunt Sunny out of the corner of her eye, lingering by the punch table, within definite earshot of Marigold and Phil Rathbone.

“I'm afraid it's totally cast,” he said, and Marigold's heart dropped an inch. “I suppose I could always use another extra. You don't want to be an extra, do you?”

Marigold thought about it. She really didn't. She was a real actress, and she wanted a real part.

Phil Rathbone must have gathered this from her expression. “That's what I thought,” he said. “But tell you what, I'll keep my eye out for you. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to mingle. I built a house here last year, and the locals seem to really dislike me. I wish I knew why.”

He was about to walk away when Marigold placed a hand on his arm. “It's because of the piping plovers,” she said.

“What do you mean?” he asked. “What are piping plovers?”

“The little shorebirds. When you built your house, you destroyed their nests.”

“I did? Oh, no. My lawyers didn't tell me that. They just said there was a problem and they would make it go away. Then I came here and found myself very unpopular.”

“But . . . how did you not know?” Marigold asked.

“I have six houses,” Phil Rathbone confessed. “And each house has its own staff. I don't always know the details. If I did, I wouldn't have time to make movies.”

“Well,” Marigold said, “if I were you, I'd think about making a donation to the Piping Plover Society. A big one.”

“That's a great idea. I didn't even know there was a society. Who do I talk to about that?” he asked.

“That lady right there,” Marigold said, and pointed to Aunt Sunny, who was chatting with Dad. Aunt Sunny smiled and looked away, as though she hadn't been listening to the whole conversation. “Her name is Sunny.”

“The truth is, I'm a big environmentalist,” Mr. Rathbone said. “I've even hired a producer to help me find an environment-related documentary to produce.” He nodded in the direction of the high-heeled woman they had met in the general store.

“You see that man Sunny's talking to?” Marigold asked, pointing to her dad. “He's just finished a documentary about the tallest redwood.”

“Really? Hey, thanks for the tip,” he said. “And have your agent send me your stuff.”

“Okay,” Marigold said. “I will.”

As they shook hands again (this time Marigold was more gentle), Peter walked right past them. He didn't even look at her. After Marigold and Mr. Rathbone said one last good-bye, she turned quickly to follow Peter.

“Peter,” she called over everyone's heads. “Peter, wait.” He turned around at the sound of his name, but when he saw that it was Marigold, he shook his head and kept walking.

“I don't think he wants to talk to you right now, honey,” Jean said matter-of-factly. She put a hand on Marigold's shoulder. “He's more sensitive then he looks, and he was pretty bummed out after the dance.”

“I know,” Marigold said. “I want to say I'm sorry.”

“I don't know if he's ready,” Jean said, giving Marigold a little squeeze. “He'll come around. Give him some time.”

But we're leaving the day after tomorrow
, Marigold thought.
I don't have time
.