Looking for meaning, looking for meanings. Hearing the same song twice in one day on the radio… Crossing paths with a collarless orange tabby, who pauses to sniff your shoes but dashes away when you reach to pet her… knocking my coffee mug over as I reach for my third cup, where it falls and shatters on the floor… Signs, omens, symbols? Always in literature, why not in life? Pick the song for the play, remember cats are fickle, quit drinking coffee. Or buy that album for your sister who's been asking for it, send money to the Animal Rescue League, get a new mug, didn't like that one anyway. Anything can have the meaning you choose to give it.
You think you're settled, you think you have a routine, you think you like the way your life is going, you know who you are, you know what to expect, and then the unexpected comes along, and you stumble, and you question. Writing life came, went. Teaching life came… stayed. Those extraordinary students every once in a while, students who have stayed friends, who send me copies of their articles, their books, of whom I am proud, and for whom I was a teacher, a mentor, which is as it should be. Purely a teacher.
Why did I grill Grace like that? Was that my role as her teacher? Forcing her to expose her jealousy toward her stepsister? I regretted now the feelings I had pried out of her. I tried to tell myself I was making her be honest with herself, but I wasn't really. Yes, she revealed envy, but it was in a false way, feigning concern when the real issue was the competition she was feeling against this conventionally pretty girl, who sang effortlessly, who attracted people without trying, who seemed to be genuinely and naturally sweet. Grace was strong-willed, outspoken. Not sweet, prickly. Like me. Reactive to my detriment. To her detriment. I was her teacher, not her therapist.
Yet when I was around Grace, I sometimes felt stubbornly challenging, taciturn, confrontational. There was too much of me I felt in her, beyond the obvious red hair. There was the precocious writing. She was a reader, expressing the same excitement I still feel at reading a particularly wonderful passage, at discovering a new enthralling author. There was the social awkwardness of being bright as well, being a part of the class, yet slightly outside the action.
And then there was soccer. She played soccer. I saw her one day in early October as I unlocked my bike near the field. I played soccer in high school at a time when few Americans were playing soccer. But a group of us were inspired by Europe, football was not our path, but soccer was an achievable sport. Our school didn't even want to allow a soccer team. Which of course made me all the more determined. We persevered, got a league going, played games in spite of the administration, though we had to play in a field across town studded with broken beer bottles and sharp rocks, lest we "damage" the football field. And there she was, playing on a team on a chilly autumn day, right by the school on a smooth grassy field. Did I resent that she had it easier than I did?
This was an aspect of myself I did not like seeing. Sure, I've always had students that weren't exactly favorites, but always did my best to treat them fairly. And it wasn't a matter of disliking Grace. Maybe it was an uncertainty, of how I could best be the teacher of someone with so much potential in so many areas… maybe wanting to see more of me in her than there actually was, feeling unwelcome disappointment at the differences.
***
I read her short stories that weekend; I hadn't before, with all the preparation for the play. There were five, some she had written at least a year ago, and they showed her youth. But two showed real promise, and she had a flair for story telling that reminded me of Guy de Maupassant and Chekhov, almost a nineteenth-century romanticism and remove.
"Voices"
Voices came when he was 16, but they were quiet then, whispered comforts in the dead of night when he should have been sleeping but couldn't. They helped him write the papers he couldn't finish when it was light still, got those essays done, math problems solved, all the things he said were fine when his father asked, when his mother worried.
He wondered if this was something everyone experienced when they were teenagers, but was afraid to ask his older brother Larry, Larry who excelled at everything and who was so certain and easy and so nice that even had he wanted to, he couldn't resent him.
His younger brother Joey, the kid brother, was only 10; he wouldn't know about these things. But Joey sometimes seemed to know Adam better than a fifth-grader should, appearing once in the middle of the night as Adam was listening to Nila tell him how to complete his lab report for chemistry. Adam didn't see him standing there until Joey spoke. Nila had been filling his head with images of chemical reactions and the periodic table, making the subject matter so much brighter and clearer than the teacher ever did, and he had just said, "Thank you, I get it now," when he felt a touch on his shoulder and heard a different, louder voice.
"You should be sleeping now, Adam." Joey put his small hand gently on Adam's shoulder, and Nila was silent, gone. The clock read 2:17.
Adam took Joey's hand. "Tuck me in," he whispered, and shuffled to his bed. Joey pulled the blanket over him, then crossed the room and lay down in the empty twin bed opposite.
I made notes, put the stories away, and resolved to play teacher only to Grace, to let her be when I felt unaccountably irritated. In her stories I saw her vulnerability, which made it easier for me to be a teacher, and I remembered the healthier kind of pushing I had done when I first gave the journal assignment. She was Rosalind, Jesse was Phoebe, that's how it was, and rehearsals were beginning Monday.
***
After two weeks of scripted rehearsals, I announced, "Players. I think we are now ready to minimize script use. Start putting some action with these words. Learn your lines"
"When're we getting the songs?" Tad called out.
Ah, yes, the songs. I had twelve in mind, but hadn't yet picked them all. "I'm still finalizing the list," I replied. "And making a tape so you all can learn the songs, rather than suffering through my singing. I should have tapes and lyrics for you later this week."
When we rehearsed a more romantic scene between Orlando and Rosalind, I saw a challenge Grace faced as an actress. Tad was all charisma that day, playing Orlando as if Orlando were Tad himself, ever the charmer, stroking Grace's cheek, looking into her eyes, and Grace responded on an almost chemical level, getting flustered, giggling uncharacteristically to the point where she couldn't recite her lines with a straight face.
"And then Rosalind begins to giggle uncontrollably," I commented to calm things down. But it was late, and I didn't think we'd get any better performances that day. Rehearsal was over. I noticed Grace watching Tad walk off stage, and it occurred to me she liked him, that she had responded to his flirtations on a nonacting level. I felt a pang for her, having come across too many Tads in my experience. Oddly, I found myself wishing to play Orlando. To protect Grace from Tad's Orlando? I dismissed the thought. "Huge leap today," I called out as the students left. They had been pretty good about memorizing lines. I looked for Alexa to go over prop procurement, but she must have been on one of her "locker" breaks.
I put my script in my valise and looked up. Grace was still in the auditorium. She apologized for laughing, then added, "I don't actually mind."
"Mind what?" I asked.
She looked down, and in the dim light of the auditorium she appeared to be blushing. "That he keeps, you know, flirting with me."
I started at her use of the word, of her acknowledgment, both of the flirtation, and of , well, her enjoyment of it, and I felt another pang. It must not have been one of my better poker-faced moments, because after a pause she said, "Now you look shocked or something." I did? I shouldn't. Of course she liked the flirtatious attention from one of the more popular boys in school, from her costar. That was normal. Was it her confiding tone that made me nervous?
I turned and saw my coffee thermos still on the table. I picked it up, stalling for time. Lamely I said, "Well, I wake up looking shocked or something. Ignore it."
"Oh, okay," she said.
As I stood to leave, I felt compelled to add, "I have heard of 'flirting.'" Like, I need to tell her I'm a person as well as a teacher?
In a rushed voice she said, " I just don't want you to think that I don't take this seriously."
Of course I knew how seriously she took this, and everything. I started up the aisle. "Giggling is permitted," I said, "In Shakespeare."
"It is?" she said, seriously.
"No flirting, though."
Still serious, she responded, "Well, tell Tad! He's the one who keeps – Oh." She got me.
If they could maintain that banter in the play, it could actually be good in spite of Tad's tendency to overact. When Grace reacted on an emotional level, her portrayal of Rosalind improved.
***
Unfortunately, at the next rehearsal, whatever chemistry had been going on between Grace and Tad had fizzled away. Grace's scenes with Tad were invariably wooden, and I got the sense she'd be happier playing her role against a cardboard cutout. It was an early scene, an important scene that establishes how Rosalind and Orlando feel about each other before they even got to know one another. When we rehearsed the scene the day before, Grace-as-Rosalind thoughtfully removed her necklace and shyly placed it around Tad-as-Orlando's neck. I told them to play the scene as they had yesterday. Tad kneeled before Grace, looking up at her. She looked down at him as if he were something unpleasant she had just stepped in.
I heard giggles behind me – Jessie and a few other girls found something amusing. Grace did not. Sounding as if she were dictating a letter, Grace removed the necklace and said, "Gentleman. Wear this for me, one out of suits with fortune, That could give more, but that her hand lacks means." Instead of placing the chain around his neck, as she did yesterday, Grace just held out the necklace as if the idea of touching Tad was utterly repugnant to her. Not exactly conveying the love at first sight warranted by this scene. Tad looked confused. Practiced flirters always do – they have no sense of their affect on their flirtees.
Not sure what to do, Tad, asked Grace if she was going to do it the way she had before. In response, Grace snapped. "I'll do it how I do it!" Obviously, it was time for a break, even though we had barely started. I told everyone to take five, and Grace disappeared from the stage and pushed through the doors at the back of the auditorium. I went after her. She quickly turned her back when she heard the doors open. She seemed, through her anger, to be sad, hurt, about something. As an actress, she couldn't let her moods dictate her performances. But I wanted to help, not force her, this time, to admit things she probably didn't want to admit, to me or to herself.
"Just use it," I said, and she looked up. "Whatever you're feeling, just use it in the scene. And do whatever you want with that necklace. Just try not to hurt him. Much." I thought I saw a ghost of a smile, but it could have been the poor lighting. I went back into the auditorium. A few minutes later Grace reentered. We ran through the scene again, and this time she was gracious and acting and responsive to Tad's Orlando, though I noticed a distance in her eyes, a reserve that had not been there yesterday. When Tad's scene was finished, he walked off stage and went and sat next to Jessie, and began whispering to her. Grace stumbled a moment on her next lines, but then continued.
I thought this incident had cleared the air for Grace, that she had put aside her personal hurts, and could lose herself in the role, but I was wrong.
Rehearsal was short the next day, since I wanted to get ready for the parent meeting, during which I would explain the details of lengthy rehearsal schedules, ask for parent volunteers for prop and set help, the cast party, all the minutiae of putting on a high-school play. I also needed to make the final song selections, and had brought stacks of records to listen to in the theatre. I had managed to find an old portable turntable in one of the supply rooms. Before rehearsal, I went to my car to bring in a few milk crate's worth. Alexa, fresh from a smoke, saw me by my car and came over to help.
"Look at all these records," she commented. "I didn't know anyone still had them." We each took a milk crate. "They're heavy!"
"Yeah, well," I said, "Some of these songs aren't on any CDs."
After two trips we had everything on the stage. Alexa began taking records out of the crates, spreading them out on a table to look through them. "Be careful with those," I cautioned. "They're not indestructible like CDs."
"Maybe we can grab a bite to eat after rehearsal and go over the song choices?" Alexa offered.
"I'll be needing to get ready for the parent meeting," I said. "I have a list we can go over before rehearsal on Monday."
Alexa left right after rehearsal with the rest of the cast. Grace had no scenes with Tad, though the few she had with Jessie were tense. Grace had learned all her lines already, and seemed frustrated by the fact that Jessie still needed to refer to the script.
After rehearsal, I had a couple hours before the parents came to listen to songs. I had most of them selected, and needed to assign a couple more. I considered the conclusion of Act I, where the banished Rosalind, who has just fallen in love with Orlando, decides to disguise herself as a boy, Ganymede. Because no love story can ever be easy. Then we would have a very short play. There have to be obstacles to overcome to make the achievement of mutual love a success. That has been the theme of romantic theatre since time immemorial, from Adam and Eve right through the 1950s musicals of boy meets girl, boy loses girl, boy sings song, boy gets girl. Linda Ronstadt's "Heart Like a Wheel," would make a melancholy, moving transition to Act II.
I looked around for the album. In the short time between taking the records from my car and the end of rehearsal, Alexa and the other tech people had managed to spread the records all over the stage, it seemed. "Where is 'Heart Like a Wheel'?" I asked out loud, as if the stage would answer.
From behind me I heard, "Mr. Dimitri?" It was Grace. What did she want now?
I kept looking through the records on a table. "I just saw it here, somewhere…"
"I'm thinking about quitting," Grace said in a rush. I froze. Grace, quit the play? The thought hadn't crossed my mind that she would want to do that. There was no one else who could play Rosalind as she could, I knew that. Just the shear number of lines to learn, if nothing else. "I mean, I think I may have to –" I turned around and looked at her as she walked toward the stage. "Quit. Well, because it's really a lot of time, you know, for something that isn't class work."
I turned back to the records again. I needed a moment to collect my thoughts, to respond unemotionally to what she was saying, because I had a gut response that surprised me of No! No! You can't quit! I need you to be in this play!
She started to elaborate. "And also, I wasn't – is that it?" She pointed to an area I thought I had looked through.
"Where?" I asked, and followed her finger. The album was right there on top. "Yeah." I took the record out of the sleeve and moved over to the record player. "You weren't what?" I prompted.
"I wasn't feeling anything." I turned to look at her. "You said 'Use what you're feeling.' I wasn't feeling anything."
"Oh, well…" Yeah, right. Confessing to liking the flirtation one day, angry about the lack of a flirtation the next. Not feeling anything my… but I had resolved not to poke at her again. I was not a therapist. And I could feel her sadness. "Okay," I said simply. I put the album on the record player.
Grace continued, "And it just seems like it's not working. I mean, Tad and I don't seem to have any chemistry… or anything."
"Chemistry?" I repeated dumbly. A continuation of the confidences of the other day? I turned the player on and lifted the needle.
"Yeah, where… you know…" she faltered. "Heart Like a Wheel" came on, Linda's voice, full and rich, despite the poor record player.
I interrupted Grace, "Just, just listen to this." Wanting her to get lost in the music instead of this silly notion about quitting.
But she continued, "Where it seems like you belong with someone, or something."
"But my love for you is like a sinking ship. And my heart is on that ship out in mid-ocean," Linda sang.
"To close Act I," I said, pointing to the record. "What do you think?"
"When harm is done, no love can be won."
"I think," Grace said in a high, thin voice, and I realized she was concentrating on not crying. "I think you should give the part to…"
Give the part to someone else? "To?" I said.
"To whoever you decide to give it to," she said softly, then turned to leave the auditorium.
"Hey!" I called after her, thoughts collected, knowing, for once, the right thing to say. "I've already done that! I think you are perfect for this!" Quite simply, she was, and this would be her song to sing. She looked up at me then, and smiled, a full, warm, grateful smile that even reached her eyes. I turned up the music.
And it's only love
And its only love
That can wreck a human being
And turn him inside out
She sat on the stage, still wearing her heavy backpack, and said, "Why do you like such weird music?"
Weird? Linda Ronstadt, one of the best female vocalists ever, weird? "Exactly what are you implying?" I asked. "Are you implying I'm weird?" And I smiled back at her. She laughed. Crisis averted. "Careful," I warned. "We wouldn't want to let that guard down." I walked over to some folding chairs. "Then where would we be?" Grace smiled again.
I unfolded the chair and sat down near the record player on the stage. Grace started to unshrug her backpack. "Do you mind if I just stay and listen to this for a while?" she asked.
"Please," I said, happy to share with her one of my favorite songs. I'd convert her to Linda yet. Grace settled onto the stage comfortably. I noticed she had a necklace with some delicate shells around her neck. Cowry, I wondered? Hard as bone, yet finely shaped, a miniature home, complete. "What's that around you neck?" I asked. "Is that a seashell?"
She fingered the shell. "Yeah."
"It's lovely." And I was rewarded with another smile, small, inner. I leaned my chair back. "I like this music," I commented, trying to explain its appeal to me. "It's, it's all broken in, you know, like an old chair. You can just curl up in it, rock."
We listened in amicable silence to the end of the song, and to the rest of the album side. When the scratching needle announced the end, Grace stood up slowly and said, "I better get home. But I like her, kind of. Sounds old-fashioned. I think that song will be good where you said."
"Then I've got all the songs picked." I handed her a copy of the list I had made. "These are the others I'm planning to use," I said. "Maybe you know them." There were twelve songs. "Three of them will be your solos."
She took the list, glanced at it, and put it in her pocket. She pulled her backpack over one shoulder, jumped off the stage, and headed up the aisle. I lifted the album from the player and slipped it back into the sleeve. I turned to watch her leave. At the door she turned back, paused. "Thanks," she said, as was gone.
***
The following Friday, along with her journal, there was a square padded envelope. I opened it that night, and inside was a CD. Folded in beside it was a song list with a note, "Some songs I like." I never pay much attention to current music, except for the female soloists – Sinead O'Connor, Celine Dion, Jewel. These were all groups, most of which I hadn't heard of. Goo Goo Dolls. Poe. Garbage. Though some I knew that had started when I was in college, like REM and Wings. I put it on as I read her journal.
I wondered what the message was, embedded in the lyrics. Then I realized. There were twelve songs, just like on the list I gave her. And each was a lyrical equivalent to the folk or female vocalist songs I had chosen. "Heart Is Like a Wheel." By Paul McCartney and Wings – Paul , who I paid no attention to since he left the Beatles, A group called Poe singing "Fly away, sweet bird of prey." I put the CD on as I read her journal.
You wouldn't think something as simple and plain as milky white watered down pearls would matter. Inside the shell, outside the shell, for some people a necklace is totally superfluous, when they have eyes that sparkle already, and skin that glows. I mean, what's the point? The point is, decorations are a sign of trust, of investment, of interest, of caring. Of trust. ie was not to be trusted. Couldn't see grace for the gracie. The parent always sees the younger child, the one who broke the wedding teapot, the one who lost the Chinese earrings, the one who muddied the rug. A new child, an older child, has no history, no record of faults, comes in with a clean slate. Who can compete with a clean slate? With a lack of history. Newborn at 14. We are who we are, we're trying to know who we are. We. The radiant one against a cup bearer. Moon goddess, Apollo's sister.
I had always thought the moon was my friend. To see the moon, sliver, silver, waxing, waning ,white, half with a blurry edge or full and round in all its glory, mysterious shadows within, craters that may well be a face, could see a goddess there, has a regular schedule, a pattern, a dependability of change, unlike the sun, which dazzles, overwhelms, brightness that blinds so I can only hear the music, if I could only hear the music.
And a necklace sits, rejected, on a dresser top.
Some things mean everything.