“To begin with, I turn back time,” Jill said. “I reverse it to that quaint period…”
“The mid-nineties,” I said, interrupting her soliloquy. “Your mother bought that dress for our senior prom, the one we blew off as too bourgeois for a pair of tortured artists like us. I rented a tux, she wore that dress, and that night we wound up at the top of the Empire State Building.”
“Really? I had no idea,” Jill said, baby-stepping down the porch stairs in stiletto heels. “It’s quite beguiling, don’t you think? I found it hanging in the closet, all lonely and ignored.”
I didn’t believe her for a second, but I smiled anyway, running my thumb against the aluminum corner of the lasagna pan, the sharp edge pricking my skin, drawing blood.
“The play is a memory,” she said. “Being a memory play, it is dimly lit…”
Suddenly the porch lights shut off; another teenage girl, dressed in black, hid behind the rocking chair, her hand on the light switch. From her iPhone played a rough jazz number with piano and brush stroke drums on a hot Louisiana night. Only they’d gotten it wrong. The next line in the play referenced a fiddle, not a sax.
“I’m the narrator of the play, and I’m also a character.” Jill wobbled toward me, putting down the champagne glass and taking the lasagna from my hands. “What do you think? That’s the opening from The Glass Menagerie, by Tennessee Williams. We’re reading it in Drama Class. There’s some racist language, but that makes it true, you know, for those characters at that time. So it’s okay, right? Ms. Vaughn is giving us a feminist reading. It’s about …”
“I’ve read it once or twice,” I told her. Sophomore year at NYU I’d taken a Williams seminar. I’d read everything.
“I know those lines were written for a male, for Tom, but I did okay, didn’t I?”
“Five stars.”
“I just wanted you to see my range as an actress. I haven’t read your new play yet, but I can handle any role, I promise. When production starts, all I want is an audience, I mean an audition…”
The other girl rose from behind the chair and hurried down the steps, grabbing the tray from Jill as if even the idea of her carrying something was an insult. Her clothes, black sweatpants and a loose black T-shirt, made it clear who was the stagehand to Jill’s shining diva.
“Introductions are in order,” Jill said. “This is Ms. Madison Parker-Cattazano. We call her Maddie: we’re in love.” She draped her arm around Maddie’s shoulder and pulled her close for a kiss, her lips smacking wet and loud against the other girl’s cheek. “Maddie, this is Obie Award nominee Mr. Donatello Marino, my mother’s old boyfriend. He’ll be auditioning roles for his new play quite soon, I believe….”
“Pleased to meet you,” Maddie said, avoiding my eyes.
“Great to meet you as well.” The lasagna wobbled in Maddie’s unsteady grip. “Why don’t I take that tray back?”
“Nonsense!” Jill said. “A gentlemen caller does not perform chores. Ms. Parker-Cattazano can handle it.”
Maddie shrugged. “Thank you for offering.” She turned toward the house, the tray lying flat in her arms, her grip nervous and tight, as if the lasagna might come to life and jump.
“Word of warning,” Jill said. “My father and his psycho partner are inside, but they’ll be leaving soon. They installed a bunch of security cameras, so we can catch that guy who’s stalking Mom. I watched them the whole time so they wouldn’t put one in my bedroom, or in the shower, or something sick-o like that. My Dad’s partner is pretty rape-y.” She checked the house, making sure no one could hear through the window. “I can talk honestly to you, because you’re cool. Theater people are the greatest!”
I let her illusions stand. Theater people were the same as everyone else.
“I like guys too, you know, but I love Maddie,” she said. “My Dad thinks I should be dating football players. Mom says she’s okay with Maddie and me, but she’s not, I don’t think. But you’re cool! So is Clarissa—Ms. Vaughn, our drama teacher. You two should totally meet!”
So Amy’s and Clyde’s daughter was gay, or at least experimenting, a curious turn considering how many times I’d heard Clyde use the word “faggot” during high school. I hoped he’d be kind to her.
“Is Kelly inside?”
“You bet,” Jill said, and waved for me to follow. “I think the rest of the play will explain itself.”
The slow rumble of a thunderstorm bleated in the distance. Jill tapped my arm, pulling open the door and ushering me inside. As we passed the doorway, the overhead light caught the beads in the dress’s neckline, just like the moonlight had reflected off it outside a motel at midnight, Amy and I dancing on the boardwalk at Wildwood Crest, the beads glistening like stars stitched across her body, celestial patterns only I could see.
“Attention, everyone: the gentleman caller has arrived!” Jill said, her voice all fake sultry Southern charm. She held open the door, and I followed her into the house.
. . . . .
This is a memory play.
I’m outside the Drama Room waiting for Mr. Ronan when
