The Saturday Boy

16

MY EYES FLEW OPEN at five-sixteen in the morning. I felt electric. I thrummed. My fingernails were even glowing, I swear. And it wasn’t because Christmas was less than a week away, it was because tonight was opening night. Instead of dancing sugar plums, my head was filled with visions of red carpets and paparazzi. Violet was with me, on my arm, smiling and laughing. Her dress was a candy apple red.

I thought about how I’d bow during the curtain call. How low should I go? And should I include a dramatic arm sweep? And with those things on my mind—how was I going to catch all the flowers I knew would be thrown my way?—I also thought about the very real possibility that the audience might demand a speech so I started to put together a list of people to thank.

I went through the day with my head in the clouds and before I knew it there were only ten minutes until curtain and I was in costume. I looked around the room at everybody, at Scrooge and Cratchit, the ghosts and Violet and Tiny Tim. They seemed calm. I wondered if I seemed calm to them. I hoped I did but the butterflies that were once in my stomach had been eaten by things that were bigger and much more ferocious and I was pretty sure that if everybody was quiet they’d be able to hear them chewing.

When there were five minutes until curtain Scrooge and Cratchit left the green room to take their places onstage. I wondered again why Mr. Putnam called it the green room. It wasn’t green. It was just a regular old classroom that happened to be across from the backstage door to the auditorium.

I wanted to sneak in and peek through the curtains to look for Mom. We hadn’t said much to each other this morning and the little we did say had nothing to do with what had happened last night and I felt bad. I wondered if she felt bad, too. She probably did. My stomach flipped. The butterfly-eating beasts dug their claws in and hung on. What if she was still upset? What if she was so upset that she decided not to come?

Suddenly I had to know if she was out in the auditorium but the play had already started and there was nothing I could do. The house lights were down and the stage lights were up and if I tried to peek now I’d be seen by the entire audience. I’d simply have to wait. I chewed my fingernails. I tapped my foot. I kept picturing a completely full house except for an empty seat in the front row with a little white sign on it that said “Reserved for Annie Lamb” in fancy writing. It was driving me crazy.

It had to be my turn to go on now. It just had to be.

I crossed the hallway and slowly opened the backstage door. Budgie was standing just inside.

“Close the door, Lamb,” he whispered loudly. “You’re not on yet!”

“Are you sure?”

He pushed me back into the hallway and pulled the door closed behind him. I looked at him. He was wearing a dark blue sweatshirt and dark pants, which made his sneakers seem awfully white.

“Aren’t you supposed to be wearing dark shoes?”

“Aren’t you supposed to wait in the green room?”

“Yeah, but nobody came and I was getting nervous,” I said. “I thought maybe you forgot.”

“I didn’t forget! It’s not even the second scene, moron!”

“But—”

He gave me a shove and turned around and went backstage again. I didn’t go back in the green room like I was supposed to. I paced the hallway instead. Back and forth. Waiting. Budgie didn’t come back out. Maybe he forgot. Then I started to think that maybe he was doing it on purpose—that this was his revenge for telling everyone his real name.

My heart didn’t just drop. It plummeted.

That was it. That had to be it. It wouldn’t matter if I forgot to let Violet lead me off or I didn’t project enough because Budgie was going to make sure I missed my entrance altogether. I’d be humiliated. Mr. Putnam would be furious. It’d be the perfect revenge if it weren’t about to happen to me.

I had to do something. I couldn’t just stand there and let Budgie do this to me. I would have preferred anything to this—a wedgie, an Indian rope burn, or even the dreaded French cuff, but no. Leave it to Budgie to figure out a way to cause maximum embarrassment with the least amount of work. I went to the backstage door, cracked it, and peeked in. I expected somebody to be there but the wings were empty. If I was going to do something I had to do it now. Without stopping to think about it I slipped inside and carefully closed the door behind me.

I moved to a dark corner in the wings and stood like a statue. My heart slowly climbed up out of my shoes and I found that now that I was backstage I wasn’t worried about missing my entrance anymore. I’d just stay here, listen to the play, and when it was time for me to go on I’d just go out and do my scene. I’d embrace Violet and remember to project. I’d let her lead me offstage into the wings and presto!—Budgie’s plot would have been thwarted. It was actually kind of perfect.

I smiled in the dark, picturing Budgie gnashing his teeth, stomping his feet, and shaking his fists in frustration. In fact, I was so busy imagining that I almost didn’t notice when he came back. He was standing at least as still as I was and if he hadn’t moved I was pretty sure I wouldn’t have seen him at all.

But Budgie wasn’t gnashing his teeth or stomping his feet or even shaking his fists. What he was doing, and doing gloriously, was picking his nose. He was two knuckles in at least, digging with his finger so far up one nostril I was surprised it wasn’t coming down the other side.

I blocked the laugh as it was coming out, clamping my hands over my mouth as hard as I could. My shoulders shook. I tried swallowing the laugh but that only made me have to burp. It literally felt like something was going to burst.

“You’re not on yet!” Budgie hissed. “Get out of here!”

I wanted to answer him but was afraid of what sounds would escape if I put my hands down so I shook my head instead.

“You idiot! You’re going to wreck everything! Go back and wait in the green room!”

Budgie came at me like he was going to grab me but I didn’t want to be grabbed. I didn’t want to go back to the green room. I didn’t even want to wait in the hallway. I tried to duck out of the way but there wasn’t a whole lot of room and he got a handful of my shirt.

“Get off me!” I whispered as loud as I could.

“Shut up!”

“Let go!”

“Dork!”

“Moose!”

I made a fist, swung, and punched Budgie right in the eye. It was the first punch I’d ever thrown at an actual person. Budgie stumbled back a few steps, then stopped and looked at me. Something had changed. The world around us suddenly felt smaller. I looked at my hand still clenched into a fist at the end of my arm—this part of me, this weapon that I never knew I had had done something I never thought I was capable of. Budgie had made fists of his hands as well. Both of them.

“Wait, Budgie! I’m sorry! Budgie, wait—”

But he didn’t.

His first punch hit me in the ear and my head sang with pain. Budgie just hit me, I thought. This is a fight. Holy crap, I’m in a fight! I threw up my hands in time to block the second punch but the third landed square in my gut and pushed all my air out. Then our legs tangled up and we toppled over backward and my head hit the floor so hard I saw stars. We rolled and I ended up on top of him. He wiggled underneath me, grabbing at my shirt, trying to throw me off. I held his wrists so he’d stop but he yanked one loose and punched me in the mouth.

“Stop! Hitting! Me!”

I struck him with each word. Then the dam burst and I couldn’t have stopped even if I wanted to. At some point the cracks just became too wide and too numerous and I ran out of stuff to fill them with. Besides, in a strange, horrible way it felt good to let go. So I let go. And from my head to my heart to my hands it all came out.