Five Things About Ava Andrews Page 5

  I let out a long, loud sigh. “My parents are so bogus, making me come to San Diego for spring break. They say it’s America’s Finest City. But ice-cream cones cost seven dollars, and a seagull pooped on mine. It’s just one annoying thing after another.” Snorts come out of the audience.

  I move around the stage, my head to one side like the teenager I saw. “You know what my ideal spring break is? Sitting alone in my room. Which I painted black.” A big laugh pushes me along. “Listening to the saddest songs ever, as loud as possible. And writing poetry. I do all this in the dark. Lights out. That’s the kind of spring break I want to have.” I shake my head. “They want me to be like my brother Johnny. Just because Johnny’s student body president and plays basketball and everybody loves him doesn’t mean I should be like him. You know?”

  “Awww,” a few people murmur.

  The hair on my neck and arms stands up. I’m talking about my brothers, I realize. Though my parents have never said it to my face, I know my parents wish that I was more like them. Wish that I could just chill out like they do.

  I mean, I kind of wish that, too.

  “But I’m not them. I’m me.” I shrug.

  The class startles me by bursting into applause. It’s not the kind of soft claps people do just to be polite—they liked it.

  Am I supposed to bow? Now all my feelings catch up with me. My whole body burns. I shouldn’t want to go hide, but I do.

  I walk past my chair, past the class, through the lobby, and don’t stop until I go into the bathroom and lock the stall door, my pulse throbbing in my neck like it’s trying to escape my body.

  I breathe in and out. I try to name my emotions, like Mr. Matt taught me. He calls it the Gut Check. What I’m feeling, and why.

  First, I feel stupid for hiding in the bathroom. Again. I pat my sweaty face with toilet paper, waiting for my insides to stop moving like a stormy ocean. Whenever Zelia reads my stories, I have to hide my face until she’s done, even though she always squeals with delight. This is like that, times a thousand. I’m embarrassed. Frightened. And also . . .

  Delighted. Delighted? I ask myself. If I’m delighted, why did I book out of there like a zombie was after me?

  A blissful kind of feeling fizzes in me, the same way I felt when Zelia and I played action figures when we were little. There’s no time to do anything else, no time to think or tell myself I’m doing things wrong. Just time to be swept along this river of energy with the others. Not worrying about a thing.

  I don’t make any sense at all.

  Someone enters and taps on the stall door. “Ava, sweetie, are you okay?” Miss Gwen says.

  “Yeah.” I flush the toilet with my foot, though I haven’t done anything. “I just had to . . .”

  “That was wonderful!” Miss Gwen’s enthusiasm carries through the metal. “The details were superb. I loved how you presented the character’s relationship to his parents and brother, and the problem he was having with his family.” She pauses. “Actually, that’s the hardest thing to teach. To have that realism.”

  I open the stall door. “So you got that it was a boy character?”

  Miss Gwen’s standing right outside. She grins. “Totally.”

  I wash my hands, blushing all over again. Pride. Another new emotion. Mr. Matt would be happy that I can name it.

  Miss Gwen seems to understand that I need her to stop going on about me because she does. She takes a few paper towels. “You know, I started doing improv when I was your age. I was having a really hard time at school. I never talked to anyone.”

  I rinse the soap off my hands. This doesn’t seem possible. A teacher who was shy? Not to mention, Miss Gwen is a real live professional. Zelia says that everyone tells Miss Gwen she should move to LA or Chicago, where she can perform with some of the best companies in the world. “That’s . . . weird.”

  Miss Gwen laughs. “It is kind of weird.” She gives me the paper towels. “The thing I found about the stage is it’s different from real life. I feel—I don’t know. Safe up there.” She shrugs. “Actually, a lot of us are introverts, if you can believe it.”

  I can’t. Not really. Then again, I just managed to do something I never thought I could—say what was going through my head, like I was writing with my mouth instead of my fingers.

  Who knows if I can ever do that again?

  She puts a friendly arm around me. “Why don’t you come back to class? You can sit and watch, if that’s what you need.”

  I think about getting up there again, and I don’t know. I did a good job once. I probably can’t do it again. It’s like the time I went on Space Mountain at Disneyland—I was glad I did it afterward, but I definitely did not want another turn. “I’ll watch.”

  “Okay.” Miss Gwen drops her arm and opens the bathroom door. I follow her inside. I consider dropping into a seat in the very back. My normal safe spot.

  I decide to sit a little closer to the front. Just in case I change my mind.

  I don’t participate in the rest of the class, but nobody seems to care. Miss Gwen invites me back up but I shake my head and she doesn’t push it. I watch them perform, my stomach swirling. Somehow watching it is worse than being in it.

  After, I come out to find Dad chatting with the other parents. “I really ought to send Ryan to Cotillion,” a tall woman with reddish hair like Ryan’s, only long, is telling him.

  “It’s not too late. We’d love to have him,” Dad answers. Then he sees me and puts his arm around me in a side hug. “How’d it go?”

  I shrug. “It was okay.”

  “That probably means it was fantastic,” Dad notes, and he and Ryan’s mom laugh. He introduces me. “Ava, this is Mrs. Brighton.”

  I shake hands with her, trying to be firm but probably not being all that great, and turn back to Dad.

  “Hey, Ryan.” Cecily gives him a high five. “Good job today.”

  “Thank you very much.” He turns to me and holds his hand. I hesitate, then slap it. “Hey, new girl. You were fantastic!” His voice echoes through the courtyard. “You must have done improv before.”

  I shake my head. His eyes, the color of Mom’s lattes, widen. “Theater?” I shake it again.

  Ryan goes very still. “Are you a movie star?”

  Chad gasps and clutches his hand to his chest. “You know most movie stars can’t improv.” He starts running in circles around Ryan.

  “Oh yeah? What about Amy Poehler? Steve Carell? Tina Fey?” Ryan names a bunch of other famous people.

  Jonathan adjusts his glasses. “Indeed, many successful actors were improvisers first.”

  Ryan claps his hands like a teacher does for attention. “Folks, we have a ringer here. Cecily brought in a professional. How did you think of all that stuff to say for the character?”

  My face gets so hot that I’m afraid I’ll actually melt. Ryan is so . . . big. Not physically. I mean his personality. He seems like his volume is constantly turned up all the way, like a stereo that booms bass so loud you feel it in your stomach. I’m more like the mute button.

  Ryan looks at me, waiting for a response. Chad is now doing some kind of robot dance behind him, his elbows bent. I shake my head instead of talking. My voice is all stopped up in the usual way, somewhere below my collarbone.

  “It’s her first time,” Cecily says for me, to my relief. “But she’s a really good writer, and she always came with Zelia.” She beams. “And her name’s Ava, not New Girl.”

  It’s interesting that Cecily said I’m a good writer, like Zelia did. Does that have anything to do with improv? I mean, I write with my fingers. But if I think about how I felt onstage and how I feel while I’m writing—they’re kind of similar.

  Except, of course, writing doesn’t fill me with horrible fear or make me feel like I’m about to vomit when I’m just thinking about doing it. And I can rewrite all I like and I don’t even have to share it with anyone if I don’t want to.

  Ryan grabs his chest and twir
ls around, gasping for air. Then he falls straight to the ground. “I am dead,” he says. “You have killed me.” He points at me. “It’s not fair that you should be that good so fast.”

  Now I really need him to stop. My head burns like a coal and I turn around, hunching my shoulders. Luckily, Dad asks, “Ready, Ava?”

  “Ready.” I scurry over next to him, giving the kids an awkward wave I’m not sure they even notice.

  “Let me know if you hear of a space that the theater can rent,” Ryan’s mom says to Dad. “I’ll pass it along right away.”

  “Will do.” Dad nods at Ryan’s mom.

  Dad and I walk away. “Rent a space for what?” I ask.

  “Improv. Navegando Point raised their rent, so they have to move.” Dad shakes his head. “The Port of San Diego wants to remodel this whole place.”

  I remember what happened with Dad’s old warehouse. “Are they going to tear it all down like they did with your building?”

  Dad nods. “Yes. In that case, the city council—or just one member of the city council, actually—called our businesses blighted. They said the buildings were eyesores.”

  “And blighted means it’s all old and run-down?” I guess.

  “Right.” Dad sighs. “But you know, I don’t think everything has to be brand-new to be worthwhile. It makes it unaffordable for small businesses, especially industrial ones. Of all those businesses that used to be by Cotillion, I’m the only one still open. Nobody else could find a place they could afford.”

  A pang hits my chest as I remember the woodworker and the other shops that used to be by Cotillion. I was little when all that happened, so I didn’t really care that much.

  What if the theater goes under, too? Or what if they have to move somewhere far away, and Dad can’t take me? “Do you know of any spaces the theater can rent?”

  “No. Theater spaces are hard to find. I’m always booked a year in advance, so it’s pretty easy for me to plan ahead. Plus, they need rehearsal and class space.” Dad looks at his watch. “Anyway, that’s not for you to worry about. Want some ice cream?”

  “Um, is that even a question?” Forgetting about the theater for now, I run ahead of him toward the sound of the carousel music playing “In the Good Old Summertime.” It sounds like a giant windup music box. The ice-cream shop is right next to it. It’s more of a stand, really—you walk up to the window and order, then sit at one of the tables outdoors.

  I round the corner into the big courtyard and skid to a halt. The shutters are pulled tight across the opening of the ice-cream stand. Closed.

  “Why’s it closed?” I don’t understand. It’s a Saturday. “Did they run out?”

  Dad walks around the stand, as if it will tell him a different answer. “I guess their rent got raised, too.” He shakes his head and gestures around. “I walked around and counted ten stores that are out of business, including the Greek place with the good gyros.”

  I look at the little kids on the carousel and feel sorry for them because they won’t get ice cream afterward, like I used to. “What about the cupcake shop?” It’s in another area over by the duck pond.

  Dad and I go investigate, passing store after dark store with their doors tightly shut. My pulse speeds. Please be open, I pray for the cupcakes. “But what are they going to do when all the stores close? There will be nothing here at all.”

  All these people with no jobs, no new place to open. What are they all going to do?

  Dad frowns. “I think they’re putting in a hotel or something.”

  “Ew.” I think about the hotels I’ve seen. If you’re not staying there you can’t exactly hang out by them.

  We walk by the duck pond, which has a wooden bridge going over it. There are just two ducks in there, quacking sadly. The water’s kind of green, even for a pond. It’s like they’re just letting everything go.

  I head to the building where the cupcake shop is, turning into the corridor lined with shops. I breathe a sigh of relief when I smell the sugary chocolate wafting out of the area and see their lights on, covering the hallway in a warm glow. “Thank goodness.”

  A woman stands behind the counter in a white blouse and hairnet, frosting cupcakes with gloved hands. “May I help you?” She smiles. She’s younger than Mom by maybe ten years and has red hair.

  I practically press my nose against the glass case. Chocolate. Vanilla. Even pineapple. How can I choose? I give Dad a pleading look. “I think we should get some for Luke and Hudson, too.”

  Dad arches a brow. “Why not?”

  “Oh boy.” I almost do a little jump, except that I’m in front of a stranger.

  The woman’s smile gets bigger, which makes mine get bigger, too. “I’ve got a son about your age,” she says. “Are you twelve?”

  “In February.” I stand taller. It always makes me happy when people think I’m older than I am. Dad says that’ll change later.

  “Tell her what kinds you want, Ava,” Dad says, and I start pointing. I keep waiting for him to say enough, but he doesn’t—he must feel bad about the shops closing, too. And that’s how we walk out of Navegando Point with a half-dozen cupcakes.

  Chapter 9

  “Check this out!” Zelia chirps. It’s Sunday morning and we’re FaceTiming. She holds up her dark hair. It’s got bright pink and blue streaks.

  “Wow! That looks like cotton candy.” I admire the colors. “Amazing.”

  “Thanks.” She holds up a handful. “Lottie had to bleach it and then dye it. Took forever.”

  A small surge of jealousy punches me in the gut. “Who’s Lottie? Your hairdresser?”

  “My friend Tristan’s older sister.” Zelia holds the hair over her lip like a mustache. “You’d like Tristan. He’s in my theater club. He’s the youngest, but he’s such a good actor.”

  Is Tristan taking my place? But I want her to be happy. Zelia’s making new friends. “That’s cool.” I have something to tell her, too. I swallow. “Oh, by the way, I’m doing improv now.”

  I wait for her to be amazed.

  “I know. Your mom told my mom.” Zelia pushes her hair over her face.

  My happiness pops like a balloon. I want her to acknowledge me. To say, Hey, I know that must have been really hard for you. I’m proud. Or at least say something.

  It’s hard to tell on FaceTime, but I think maybe she’s a little sad. Her eyes seem to turn down at the corners like sideways commas. “Do the improv kids miss me?”

  “Yeah!” I say, though truthfully nobody mentioned her except the one time at the beginning. I don’t think Jonathan or Babel were in the class with her at all. It makes me feel a little guilty. “Are you going to start an improv group in your new town?”

  Zelia sniffles as if she’s getting over a cold. “No. I think I’ve moved past it.”

  My stomach feels like an ice cube. “What do you mean, you’ve moved past it?”

  “Theater people don’t really think of improv as real acting.”

  She’s using her know-it-all voice. I remember another time when Zelia acted like this. We were in fourth grade and I brought Barbies over to her house to play. She looked at them, sniffed, and said, “I’m kind of over dolls, Ava. They’re a little immature, don’t you think?” But then I found out she said that because her older cousin told her that.

  I make a guess. “So your new theater club doesn’t like improv?”

  She shakes her head. “Nope. They said it doesn’t count.”

  “They kind of sound like jerks,” I say, surprising myself at how definite I sound. “You loved improv.”

  She moves her hair out of her face and rubs her eyes. “Now that I’ve done real acting, I can see what they mean.”

  Improv isn’t real acting? I think it’s real. It’s just different. And it seems like it would help regular acting, wouldn’t it? Ryan and Jonathan pointed out all the famous actors who started in improv. I can’t help feeling insulted, but I don’t know what to say without sounding mad. I touch the sc
ar on my chest, my fingertips running over the smooth-rough surface under my collarbone, feeling the wires that come out of the artery bumping up against my skin.

  I wait for Zelia to notice the look on my face and me doing my little anxious thing. But she looks right at me and I see something flicker over her face. Like someone who’s just understood a math problem, she knows what I’m feeling.

  Yet she says nothing about it. Instead, Zelia pulls her hair back and changes the subject. “Is it warm there?” She puts her hoodie over her head. “It’s starting to be really cold. My nose is running so much I can’t stand it.” She takes a tissue out of a box, blows. It sounds like a car horn.

  I glance out the window at the sun beating down on the tree, remembering that Dad asked me to water it today. “It’s nice and warm today. I’m wearing shorts.”

  We sink into silence, both of us looking at something random off our screens.

  “You know, you don’t have to do improv just because I did,” Zelia says at last.

  I frown. Does she not want me to do it? “I know that. But you always said it helped you in other ways. Remember? Like in talking with people.”

  She shrugs. “That’s probably more me than improv. You know I’m an extrovert.”

  My heart speeds up. So she doesn’t think it’ll help me? I’m not sure what’s going on with this conversation, but I know one thing. Time to change the subject. I blow out a breath. “So what does a Maine accent sound like?”

  Zelia leans forward. “They’re like, It’s not summah time anymoah.” She launches into a monologue about the weather as I listen. We spend the rest of the time talking about that, and how people either think Zelia must be totally cool or entirely awful because she’s from California. Nothing we talk about is bad. But nothing is super great, either. It’s like talking to a stranger at Cotillion. Polite. Calm. Boring.

  She’s too far away. Things are changing between us, and I have to think of a way to stop it.

  Chapter 10

  The next morning, I’m standing on the basketball court, wishing I could still be in bed instead of out here, waiting for directions. It’s only second period and I already forgot my lunch and dropped my science assignment in the hallway—I had to turn it in covered in footprints. I could use a Monday do-over.