Of Mice and Nutcrackers: A Peeler Christmas Page 8

  “Hey, Mr. Gebohm!” I say. Over and over. I’m right beside him. I’m right next to him. I’m on his heels, yakking into his ear. He can hear me all right. “Hey, Mr. Gebohm! Hey, Mr. Gebohm! Hey, Mr. Gebohm!” He moves down the sideline. I follow him. He moves onto the court. I’m right there in his ear. “Mr. Gebohm! Mr. Gebohm! Mr. Gebohm!!” I’m like the water torture. After a minute or two of this, he can’t stand me. He simply can’t stand me.

  “You!!” he says. Well, who did he think it was? “Peeler! What Is It?” he asks. The boys are in the middle of a passing drill. He turns to glare down at me. “What Is It? What Is It?” A vein is bulging high up on his forehead.

  I smile brightly up at him. “This is our rehearsal period in the gym,” I say. “We’ve been waiting all week for it. The principal said we could have it.”

  He ignores me.

  “We’re putting on The Nutcracker at the winter concert on Tuesday. You know, the story with the toy soldiers and the Mouse King and the Candy Princess. It’s usually a ballet, but we’re doing it more like modern dance. You’ll have to send the boys home.”

  “Go Away!” he roars. Like I’m a dog. “Go On, Get!” He curses for a while. I’ve heard all the words before, from Grandma.

  “No,” I say. I look back across the gym. My cast huddle in front of the stage, looking lost and unhopeful.

  Mr. Gebohm gestures to the tall captain. “Gill,” he says.

  I guess Gill is the boy’s name. I hope it’s short for Gilbert. What kind of parent names their kid after a part of a fish?

  “Keep this nuisance away from me, Gill.”

  I open my mouth. Nuisance? Gill is smiling. He looms over me like a cliff. I come up to his belly button. He smiles down at the top of my head. I stare up at his armpit – not pretty. I look away.

  Gill stands between me and the coach. I step to my left, and he steps to his right. He’s still in front of me. I’ll get through him the way I’ll get through War and Peace.

  The guys are throwing hard passes around. The basketballs fly through the air. I walk away from Gill, and Mr. Gebohm. I look back.

  They’re smiling at each other. A mistake they regret almost immediately. I march over to the light switches beside the hall doors and push them all down at once.

  Darkness. And, for just a moment, silence. I raise my voice. “Cast of The Nutcracker – onstage now!”

  Then there’s a couple of thwacking sounds, and cries of pain. The basketballs, which were in midair when the lights went out, have landed.

  I hear some scrambling around in front of me. I hear some familiar voices – Justin’s stands out – saying, “Come on. Let’s go.”

  Good for him.

  I stumble forward. I can make out the shape of the stage ahead of me. I can hear cries of pain from behind me. Also cries of rage, mixed in with some cursing. More Grandma language.

  The stage lights are on a grid hanging from the ceiling. The switches working the stage lights are on the wall to the left of the stage – that’s the right side as you face it from the audience. I’ll be standing there during the performance. There’s a phone on the wall, and a place to put my notebook. I hit the switches marked SR and SL – stage right and stage left. The stage lights come up. All of them: reds and blues and greens and whites and yellows. I don’t bother adjusting them for atmosphere now.

  “On your marks, people,” I call loudly. Those crosses I taped down are where they’re going to start from.

  There is one more switch on the wall, marked HOUSE.

  The cast is trying to work out which marks are theirs. Mom and I went to the theater downtown a few weeks ago to see A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum, and I noticed that many of the cast were staring down at the floor during one of the dance numbers. Looking for their marks. Tsk tsk. Mom and I shook our heads at each other.

  The gym is lit again. Coach Gebohm has found the light switches. “You!” His voice echoes.

  I ignore him.

  He runs right up to the edge of the stage, where I’m standing. “You – Peeler!” He doesn’t climb up. He stands there on the floor of the gym, puffing and panting and throwing his hands around. “You Come Down Off That Stage Or I’m Going To –”

  And then he stops. He can’t think what he’s going to. His face is working like a kicked ants’ nest. He’s got a round red mark on his cheek – a missed basketball pass.

  Gill runs up beside him. “What’re we supposed to do next, coach?” he asks.

  “Keep practicing! What else? Are we going to let a bunch of … of actors stop us?” He stares up at me. Of course I’m not an actor. He turns and shouts to his team, “Layup Drill – Starting … Now!”

  The players start bouncing balls and running to the baskets. Coach Gebohm moves back down the gym. I wait a beat or two, then walk over and hit the light switch marked HOUSE. The gym lights go out.

  The bouncing stops. The layups stop, except for one poor guy. He’s high in the air when the lights go out, hands over his head, getting ready to dunk the ball. I hear a scream from his direction. I can’t see what happens to him. The only lights that are on are the stage lights.

  “Cast,” I say quietly. “Let’s walk through the dance number. I’ll count you in.”

  The gym lights go on again. Coach Gebohm is standing by the wall switch. One of the boys is on the ground. Not the dunker – some other guy. His friends help him up.

  I turn the lights off. I hear a snicker from the stage – Michael, I bet. Coach Gebohm turns the gym lights back on.

  I turn the lights off – he turns them on. I turn them off – he turns them on. This is a “Bugs Bunny” skit. I feel like I should say click! and then he’ll turn the lights off for me.

  *

  “Move a little to the left, Jiri,” I say. “Face front. Let us see you.” The cast is moving slowly through the dance number. Essa steps out of the line.

  “Jane,” she says. “I don’t think we all got the step-ball-change.” Meaning that she and Justin got it, but no one else. A step-ball-change is a dance step where you bounce quickly from foot to foot and back: left-right-left, or right-left-right.

  “Start again,” I call. “I know it’s hard without music.”

  I turn off the houselights again. Gebohm turns them on. I turn them off. I smile. I actually do. The poor coach doesn’t know what he’s up against. Doesn’t he realize, I’m not going to lose the gym. And I have more power than he does. I can turn off his lights, and he can’t turn off mine.

  In the glow cast by our stage lights, I can see a couple of the ball players. They’re not practicing. They move slowly away from us, toward the center of the gym. One of them is hobbling. Other players are standing around in the flickering light and dark.

  Gebohm turns on the lights. I turn them off. On – off. On – off. Strobe effect.

  The locker room door squeaks a couple of times. The gym lights go on and off … and on and off … a little slower now. Maybe Gebohm’s fingers are getting tired. Mine aren’t. I could do this for hours. The locker room door squeaks again. Fewer and fewer players in the gym.

  The dance ends, with everyone except Jiri on their marks.

  “Where are you supposed to be?” I ask Jiri.

  The gym lights go on. I shut them off.

  “I think … over by Michael,” he says.

  “Good for you. That’s right. So why are you over there by Justin?”

  Jiri smiles. “Because I forgot.”

  I smile back. “Right.”

  The locker room door squeaks again. And again. The gym lights stay off. All the ball players have left the gym – it’s ours.

  I turn on the houselights myself, and step out onto the stage. “Now,” I begin, but before I can say another word, the applause starts. I don’t know who starts it, but suddenly everyone onstage is clapping. Michael whistles through his teeth. I blush.

  I can’t talk. I stare at Patti. She’s clapping too. Does she still like me? I ca
n’t say. I’ll never forget what she said to Brad, but I can’t help remembering other times we’ve had together: happy times, laughing times.

  Friendship isn’t always straight ahead.

  I wave my hands to stop the applause. I feel silly. “Thanks,” I say. I can’t think of anything else. “Thanks.”

  The gym door opens and Miss Gonsalves comes in with a smile the size of a banana. “Sorry I’m late,” she says. “I was talking to the principal.” She kicks a basketball out of her way, notices the other balls lying around. “What are these doing here?”

  “Um, there was a little problem with Mr. Gebohm,” I say. “He wanted to use the gym for basketball practice.”

  “Oh, dear!” says Miss Gonsalves. “He’s such a strange man. I’m glad you were able to deal with him, Jane.”

  The class look at each other. Michael hoots with laughter. “Oh, yeah, Jane dealt with him all right.”

  An hour later we’ve run through the big scene a few more times. The Nutcracker comes to life to defend Maria from Dame Mouserink. In killing her, his sword breaks. The music turns threatening (dum de dum dum) and the Mouse King appears in all his seven-headed glory. The mice attack again. (The step-ball-change comes in this bit. It’s easier with the music.) Things are looking grim for the toys, and then the Nutcracker borrows a sword from one of the toy soldiers, and attacks the Mouse King. They fight, and the Nutcracker wins. The mice run away.

  I’m pleased with the way the scenes look. We’ll know more when we get the costumes, but most people can find their marks, so that they end up in the right place after the big dance-fight sequence. Now we’re working toward the finale. Maria clasps her hands together and says:

  “O Nutcracker, you’ve saved the day,

  Killed the Mouse King: hip hip hurray!

  See here, you’ve chopped off every head –

  He’s dead dead dead dead dead dead dead!”

  I’m pretty proud of these lines – except for the last one, maybe, but if you count you’ll notice that there are seven deads to stand for the seven heads of the Mouse King. Patti doesn’t do much with them. Dead dead dead sounds like a kid shooting a pretend machine gun.

  The toys are cheering. Brad stands there with his sword in his hands, looking modest, and says:

  “Your words are far too kind, Maria,

  I only killed the king to free ya.

  And now that I’m a prince again,

  I’d like to have you share my reign.”

  Michael doesn’t snicker this time, the way he usually does. I stare at Patti as Brad is saying this. His expression is properly wooden. But the look on her face is really swoony. She’s slow on her cue.

  “Share your reign? Could you explain?” she says. Finally. She’s supposed to turn to the audience, but she keeps staring at Brad.

  I bite my tongue to stop myself from yelling at her. “Good,” I say. “Now, Brad.”

  He gestures broadly, and takes her hand to lead her away:

  “You’ll become Princess Maria.

  Your subjects all will want to see ya.

  (Except for those who’d rather be ya.)”

  That’s a joke line, of course, and Brad has a smile on his face as he says it. A stiff wooden version of his you-are-special smile.

  Jiri moves into position to deliver his line. He checks with me. I nod and give him the thumbs-up. He smiles, spreads his arms in welcome, and –

  “Stop! Stop!” Patti steps to the edge of the stage and frowns down at me and Miss Gonsalves. “I don’t know why we need to make fun at the end,” she says. “This is a happy story. Why can’t, um, Brad and I …” she blushes “… walk into Candyland arm in arm? The other toys can stand in two lines, and we’ll walk between them.”

  “Like at a wedding?” I say.

  Now Michael snickers.

  Patti is blushing. “Well, yes,” she says.

  Miss Gonsalves nods her head, considering. “A wedding. Yes, that might work. A more traditional ending to the story. What do you think, Jane?”

  I don’t know what to say. Part of me wants to wipe the simper off Patti’s face. Quite a big part of me, actually. She’s got hold of Brad’s hand. Before I can say anything, he twists his hand free. It’s his left hand. He stares at it – at the wrist, really. That’s where his watch is.

  “5:00! I’m late! My mom will kill me.” He jumps right off the stage and keeps going. Jiri drops his arms, and stares after Brad.

  Patti calls, “Wait! Braddie!” but he doesn’t even turn around. She clenches her fists.

  “He left you at the altar, hey, Patti?” calls Michael. He laughs. I can’t help laughing too. Miss Gonsalves smiles.

  I think about continuing the rehearsal. We could do the earlier scenes again – the ones without Brad. Miss Gonsalves sees me hesitate. She knows it’s late.

  “What do you think we should do, Jane?” she asks.

  “I want to go home,” says Essa.

  “I’m hungry,” says Michael.

  The cast is crowding around the front of the stage, murmuring agreement. They’re tired. They’ve worked hard.

  “I’d like to send everyone home,” I say, “but I’m afraid of Mr. Gebohm. What if he insists on using the gym on Monday? This might be our last chance to rehearse onstage.”

  Miss Gonsalves laughs out loud. “He won’t be able to insist. Not after my meeting with Mr. Gordon. Do you all know where I was yesterday, when I wasn’t in school?”

  Headshakes.

  “I was visiting a friend at CITY TV. I told him all about our show – how Jane here wrote it, and it’s really a student production – and he was really interested. And this afternoon his producer called me about filming us for the news.”

  Cheers. Except for me. I can’t breathe. Justin smooths his shirt automatically. “Let’s keep rehearsing,” says Patti. “If this is our last chance.”

  “But it isn’t our last chance, Patti,” says Miss Gonsalves. “I went to the principal’s office after school. When Mr. Gordon heard that we’d be on TV, he was as excited as you are. He guaranteed us the gym Monday after school, for as long as we want it.”

  More cheers. “So we can go home?” asks Essa.

  “What do you say, Jane?”

  I swallow. “Home,” I say. “Let’s go home.”

  They jump down from the stage and begin collecting their coats and knapsacks. They’re all strangely silent. If they’re like me, they’re thinking about being on TV. And worrying a bit.

  Jiri starts to laugh. “Left at the altar,” he says. “Like a wedding, yes?”

  Michael pats him on the back.

  When I get home from practice, it’s almost dinnertime. Four bells in the middle dogwatch, or something. I can’t remember all this sailor stuff. Grandma’s in the kitchen. She’s got the radio tuned to an incredibly oldies station, and is crooning along with it. Something about doing things her way. She sings, then coughs and spits. I run up to the third floor to see how Dad’s doing. Mom’s there, peering at a thermometer.

  “How is he?” I ask.

  She shakes her head, then the thermometer. “He’s hot. The doctor said that the fever would probably break tonight or tomorrow. I hope it’s soon.”

  Dad is tossing and turning. His forehead is red and dry. Mom sits down on the office chair and closes her eyes.

  “Guess what!” I say. “Our Nutcracker is going to be on TV.”

  “That’s wonderful, dear.”

  “At least, it might be.”

  “When?”

  “Um … I don’t know.”

  “Oh.” Her eyes are still closed. “Well, it’s wonderful news.”

  The kitchen table is set for four. Bill and Bernie are sitting in their chairs. Grandma is spooning out applesauce for Bernie. With –

  “Hey!” say Bill and I at the same time. “That’s my spoon.”

  “Mine!” I say.

  “Mine,” says Bill.

  Grandma gives the spoon to Bernie. He sm
iles. “Mine, now,” he says.

  Grandma snorts – that’s her kind of humor – and goes back to the stove. Something horrible is steaming away there. She lifts the lid off a big pot and stirs. Bernie takes a mouthful of applesauce with my favorite spoon.

  We’ve always had the spoon. I can remember the feel of it in my mouth when I was even younger than Bernie. Beautifully rounded, with a deep bowl, and soft on the teeth and gums for all it’s made of metal. A perfect spoon for picking up the last bits of cereal from the bottom of the bowl, or for stirring hot chocolate so that the cocoa bits melt into the water or milk, or for holding a too-hot mouthful steady, so that you can cool it without spattering yourself or the table.

  Bernie holds the empty spoon out in front of Bill, then jerks it away. Then holds it out again. Bill takes it.

  “Hey!” says Bernie.

  “Grandma, I want the spoon,” says Bill. “I always pick it out of the drawer.”

  “Why should you get it, Bill?” I ask. “You had it at dinner last night.”

  “Well, you used it for breakfast this morning.”

  “Did not. I gave it to Bernie.”

  We both stare at Bernie. He opens his mouth, then closes it. Looks away. He knows that he shouldn’t get the spoon for two meals in one day. I reach across to grab it. Bill sticks out his elbow, catching me under the chin. It hurts. I punch him back. (Not back, because he didn’t really punch me first.)

  “Grandma, Jane hurt me.” The big baby.

  “You hurt me first. And anyway, you asked for it.”

  “Did not.”

  “I’m hungry,” says Bernie. “And I don’t have a spoon.”

  Bill tries to flip the spoon and catch it – and, of course, it goes flying. Bill pretended to be a magician once. He went around in a cape and top hat, saying “hey presto pass” and “abracadabra” and trying to pull trick flowers out of things. One of his short-lived fads. He’s not very well coordinated. Neither am I. None of us is. Dad trying to catch a football is one of the funniest things I have ever seen.