“You could always pick up a pencil again.”
“True. I know a great place I could shove it.”
“At the hospital, it looked like you had a bunch of drawings. Art therapy?”
“Something like that,’ she said, looking away.
“I’ll bet they’re great. I’d love to see them.”
“Be careful what you wish for,” she said, her voice on edge, and Jill, sensing the change in her mother’s mood, leaned across the table.
“Hey, guess what? A bunch of people are planning to occupy the beach next week, right before Memorial Day, as a protest. They’re going to set up tents and live there for the summer. It’s being organized by some activists in New York, people who were at Occupy Wall Street. Real life radicals!”
“What are they protesting?” Kelly asked.
“Everything: climate change, racism, patriarchy…how the whole country is basically shit.”
“Watch your language,” Amy said.
“A few of the kids from the drama club are thinking of joining. We’ll put on plays and draw crowds and be part of a community. Ms. Vaughn said there’s a tradition of activist theater. We read this play called Awake and Sing by Eugene O’Neill...”
“Clifford Odets,” I said. “He wrote Awake and Sing, not O’Neill.”
“Oh yeah—Cliff; Ms. Vaughn said most people think the theater means The Lion King and Mamma Mia, but there’s a whole tradition of social commentary.”
“I liked The Lion King,” Amy said, almost like a dare. She knew I hated musicals.
“It’s Ms. Vaughn’s first year at the school. She’s opening my eyes!”
“You’re better off keeping them closed,” Amy said, reaching for the wine.
“I’ve never seen The Lion King. I’ve heard it’s fantastic,” Kelly said. “Before we leave, Donnie, I hope you’re taking me to a play.”
“The other kids are ready to do it,” Jill said. “It’s our beach, not theirs. Ms. Vaughn said she would join us, but she doesn’t have tenure yet and the principal has a small mind. She can’t risk her job because her student loans are like Godzilla.”
“She sounds like an inspiring teacher,” Kelly said.
“She’s the best.”
Her enthusiasm made me think of Mr. Ronan, who had charged my high school brain the same way Ms. Vaughn inspired Jill.
“She mentioned your play,” Jill told me. “She said that you were the first and only student at West Ocean to write a play staged by the Drama Club. Your name was an extra credit question on our first quiz. Donatello Marcino—I got three extra points!”
Kelly kicked my leg. “Wow—you’re worth three points!”
“Back in September Ms. Vaughn challenged us to write a play, but no one did. We’re actors and directors, I think. At least I am.”
Amy grabbed a napkin from the dispenser and began shredding it, one of her old nervous habits. As kids we’d hang out at the Jaybird for hours, and at the end of the night the table would be littered with white napkin shards, like a bed of snow.
“This occupy the beach thing will never work. Your father will arrest them the minute they hit the sand. I don’t want you anywhere near it.”
“He can’t keep us down forever!” Jill said. “The world is changing!”
“Maybe this is the summer you finally visit your grandparents in the Poconos.”
“The Poconos? That’s child abuse. As soon as I’m eighteen, I’m moving to New York.” She turned to me for validation. “That’s what you did, right?”
“Guess again. He’s a college boy,” Amy said. “He has a degree from NYU. Dean’s list and everything.” Her eyes gave me a nudge. “Tell her how important it is not to run away to New York.”
“A good theater program can help you immensely.”
“Maybe Jill can intern on your new play,” Kelly said.
Jill bounced in her seat, beaming. “That would be…amazing. Thank you!” She reached over the table and grabbed my hand. “Do you think my friend Maddie could intern, too?
Uncle Dan came by and set down a large cheese pizza.
“You wrote a new play?” Amy said.
“What’s that?” Uncle Dan said, the pepper grinder tucked under his arm. “There’s a new play?” He reached over and patted my shoulder. “I knew you weren’t finished. Sometimes the dough just needs extra time in the oven. I’m proud of you for not quitting.”
“Has it been cast yet? Who’s in it?” Jill said. “Are there any young female roles? I’ll audition if you want, but really, I’m perfect for it!”
“There’s no new play yet. Yes, I wrote a draft …”
“I’ve read it,” Kelly said. “It’s wonderful.”
“It’s a work in progress …”
“What’s the title?” Jill asked.
“The Revolving Heart,” Kelly said.
“Oh God, it’s not about us, is it?” Amy asked.
“Maybe …” Kelly said, turning toward me.
“No,” I said, maybe too quickly. “It’s fiction. I made it all up. Why do people always think works of art are about real people?”
“Wait ‘till I tell Ms. Vaughn!” Jill said. “Mister DeMille, I’m ready for my close-up. That’s a line from …”
“He knows where it’s from,” Amy said. “He knows where every line’s from.”
It felt weird, (weird good, but weird nonetheless) to discuss The Revolving Heart as if I were still an active playwright. Maybe I should send it out to a few old theater friends for feedback, I thought.
Jill kept babbling about try-outs and auditions, but all the talk about the play left me anxious, so I asked Amy about her parents, a subject guaranteed to launch a rant, and as expected, she launched into a lengthy bill of grievances, particularly about her mother, who she had never forgiven for not believing her accusations about Mr. Ronan.
Kelly grabbed a second slice and smiled politely, but I could tell she had tuned out Amy’s soliloquy. She was probably thinking about her cats back home, maybe wondering what the hell she was doing in a pizzeria in New Jersey, wondering what the hell she was doing with me.
At that moment I felt alone, a ridiculous feeling considering that the people I loved most in the world
