Chapter 11

The Interview

Tuesday's rehearsal had been going well, or so Fern thought. Abrupt silence cut through the middle of her duet with Ladonna, indicating Maria had halted the number because she had major critiques. It was probably Ladonna's ghastly attempt at an Irish brogue. She wondered why Coach Sorrell and Maria indulged her and did not ask her to drop it for the benefit of everyone's ears. Ladonna, who was playing Marian's mother, had just sung out:

"When a woman has a husband and you've got none, why should she take advice from you? Even if you can quote Balzac and Shakespeare and all them other highfalutin Greeks."

Arthur stopped playing the piano before Fern could sing in defense of Marian.

"Marian, lose the scowl," Maria said to Fern. "Th-that's your mother you're debating. You're annoyed with her, b-but you don't hate her…and I'm not sure I agree with your choice to clench your fist like th-that."

Now that Maria mentioned it, Fern realized she was clenching her fist, and clenching it hard. Her hand hurt. Surely she was better than this, more professional.

Before rehearsal began, Buster had swiped a couple of chocolate chip cookies from the snack table, one for Ladonna and one for himself. Buster tossed pieces into the air in uncharacteristically graceful arcs, and Ladonna tried to catch them in her mouth. Ladonna took turns after him, lobbing pieces at Buster. There had been cheers at their successes, mirthful laughter at their failures. Fern caught herself staring at Luster, even though she had sworn she never would. It had been a hard battle to unsee it, to forget the happiness on display.

You're supposed to be able to set your emotions aside and play the part.

She surreptitiously massaged the deep purple indentations her fingernails had left in her palm with the thumb of her opposite hand. It was a battle she was losing.

"You're right," Fern called back to Maria. "Sorry."

Get it together. Be in the moment.

A lot was riding on her ability to play the part, and that did not strictly apply to her role in the school musical. Saturday would be here soon enough, and she needed to keep a cool head as well as keep up a flawless act. If she allowed herself to crack, her plan could fall apart yet.

It had taken forever for break to come. Thankful for the respite, Fern loitered in the hall outside the auditorium, wishing not to join the others until it was absolutely necessary. Where the cast announcement had been, an advertisement for the Autumn Ball was now pinned to the corkboard, right next to a copy of Sue Ellen's hand-drawn poster for The Music Man. Similar adverts for the ball had been plastered in several locations around the school, in various sizes, all promising fun, refreshments, and a live DJ.

Meaningless.

Fern stared vacantly at it as she reviewed her escape plan list. Unless she was mistaken, all she needed was a spare jacket, preferably a thinner one to allow for maximum mobility, and her hiking boots, but she would need to double-check the physical list in her locker to be sure. She prided herself on being more careful by not keeping the list at home where her mother could potentially find it. That was one thing her mess-up at the Baxter cottage had taught her. She would be sure to think of everything this time.

A loud and confused voice said, "Yo, Fern?"

She turned to see Francine, leaning halfway out between the auditorium's double doors, looking impatient, as if she did not have the time to step out into the hallway.

"Did you forget?"

Fern winced. It was time for her Frensky Star interview. She had forgotten.

"Sorry," Fern said, but Francine had already slipped behind the doors again, in too big a hurry for an answer. Her apology died in the empty hall. "Be right there…"

"Interview with Fern Walters, playing…Marian Paroo," Francine said into her voice recorder.

Francine had once again set up her interview station in the back row of the auditorium. Her open backpack was in the fold-down seat between them as Fern sat, turned to face her with a rigid spine, hands folded in her lap. Francine faced Fern, only she was curled up, feet in her chair, her question-filled notebook propped against her knees as she extended the hand holding the recorder across her armrest in Fern's direction. Fern ran her thumb over the fingernail dents, still present though not as deep, noting how much more comfortable and at ease Francine looked than she, Fern, felt, and she hoped this would not be a long interview.

"Thank you, Fern. Now, as some might be aware, you're no stranger to the stage. You've been in countless productions. How would you say this one differs from others you've taken part in?"

To Fern's understanding, the piece Francine was attempting for her blog was an in-depth look at what goes into putting on a production like The Music Man. Since she had the most acting experience among her peers and could offer a unique take on the subject, this was a very good question to ask. Not a bad start. Now all that was left was to feign interest.

"Well…" Fern said thoughtfully, "it's a school production, and those aren't nearly as well staffed. Fewer adults are involved. The budget is smaller, too, though Elwood City as a whole has benefited from Mr. Crosswire's affinity for the arts, so I won't complain too much."

She forced a small chuckle that Francine did not reciprocate.

"That being said, I think everyone is doing a stellar job."

Ladonna's fake accent notwithstanding.

"The cast is great, the crew has gone above and beyond, and any production, school or otherwise, would be lucky to have a choreographer as talented as Binky Barnes."

"Uh-huh," said Francine. "And being in multiple productions means you've been through many auditions. What set the auditioning process for The Music Man apart from the others you've gone through."

Fern supposed this was a valid question and potentially something in which an uninitiated reader might be interested. It was unfortunate that her answer was a boring one.

"Honestly, not a lot. I'll refer back to my previous answer and say fewer adults?"

Fern gave another, more apologetic laugh. Francine remained nonplussed.

"Take us back to that day. What was going through your mind that Friday afternoon, when you went on stage in front of Coach Sorrell and everyone else? Were you nervous? What were you hoping to achieve?"

There was something off about Francine's tone now. It had grown different from when they had begun the interview, flatter…

Accusatory, maybe?

Whatever it was, it made Fern uneasy.

"I suppose I was a little nervous. It had been quite a few months since I had performed on stage, and acting really hadn't been on my mind during that time—"

"Would you say you lost your passion for it?"

"No, I wouldn't say that. I have other passions. I'm also a writer, which can be demanding. I took a hiatus to pursue a project. Once I finished, I decided to dip my toe back into acting, hoping to get a small role in the fall production. I felt rusty and really wasn't expecting much, but I like musicals and thought it could be fun."

I thought it might help shut my mother up.

"But you didn't get a small role, did you?" Francine said. "No chump-change part for Fern Walters. What's it like to land the lead in a musical after an audition that was—how did you put it—a disaster?"

There it is…

Perhaps she should have expected this from Francine Frensky. Of course she had not been able to let it go, not even after she had grown quiet during rehearsals.

"I see what's going on here," Fern said calmly.

She stood. Francine looked up, following her movements with a curious gaze, though the recorder remained outstretched. Fern snatched it away from her, so quickly that it caused Francine to jump in her seat. She hugged her knees as she stared up at her, nervous, perhaps anticipating an outburst akin to the one Fern had treated Buster to in the Sugar Bowl not long ago. It had, after all, been legendary. But that was not going to happened today. Fern had to keep her wits about her and complete her missions. Francine was insignificant when stacked against the other challenges Fern faced and therefore not worth threatening in front of Coach Sorrell and the rest of The Not Ready for High School Players. Still, that did not mean she would not give her what for. Fern held the recorder close as she spoke in a quiet voice that wavered as she fought to keep it even, enunciating every word.

"You want an answer? Here you go: I know my audition was awful. I know yours was much better. And I'm sorry. I'm sorry Coach Sorrell chose me over you. I'm sorry I got a role I neither deserved nor wanted. And I'm sorry this one thing has derailed your life, Francine. I mean, it's not as if you aren't already a popular, outgoing, multitalented star athlete or anything. You really could've used a shot in the arm to boost your self-esteem and enrich your life, and I'm just the worst for taking it away from you. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so damned sorry. Quote me."

Fern clicked the recorder off and dropped it into the open mouth of Francine's backpack. She did not need this; she would go to her locker and check her escape plan list instead. Breezing past Francine, Fern caught the girl's hissed curse as she retreated, an admonishment to herself for making such a boneheaded move. She was almost to her destination when Francine caught up with her.

"Fern!" Her voice grew louder, bouncing off the lockers as she exited the auditorium's branch hallway, the very same hallway Fern would sneak into Saturday afternoon, if everything went according to plan. "Wait up!"

Fern turned and waited. She was not in the mood for Francine's excuses.

"Sorry about that back there. I'm an A-hole, but hey—at least I'm a self-aware A-hole. Blah, blah, blah…"

Or something to that effect. Regret was evident in Francine's plea, however, and Fern decided to give her a minute and gain at least a tiny amount of satisfaction from watching her squirm.

"I— That was a douchey thing to do," Francine said, catching her breath.

She was becoming predictable. Fern eyed her up and down, noting her desperate eyes, creased brow, and sagging mouth.

"Agreed," she said flatly.

Francine stared at her, taken aback.

"No one wishes I had found a way to drop out of this thing more than I do, Francine."

"I know. Your new book… I'm sorry, okay? Sometimes I get butthurt and I can't help myself. I rot. And I don't wish you had dropped out. If you want to know the truth…you're killing it. Even though your audition sucked, you've been a great Marian. You're going to—"

"Break a leg?"

That's what everyone keeps telling me.

"You're going to kick ass. That's what I was going to say. What you said in the interview, about everyone bringing it? You're right. This production is going to be amazeballs."

"Thanks. I think."

"Are you okay?"

Francine looked genuinely concerned.

"Peachy," said Fern.

She did not look fully convinced.

"Oh-kay... We have time to finish the interview. There's only a couple of questions left. No more bullcrap, I swear."

Fern walked past her, heading back toward the auditorium, resisting the urge to massage the tension building in her neck.

"I'm really not in the mood. I'd rather save it for another day and focus on getting this one over with, if it's all the same to you… George!"

Fern nearly ran into him as she rounded the corner.

"I've been hoping to talk to you," he said with a smile, braces gleaming under the hallway fluorescents.

George was looking better after his run-in with the Wells Fargo Wagon. He suffered two black eyes post injury, and Fern had been impressed with his rapid recovery.

"I keep applying this arnica gel stuff my mom gave me," he had told her a couple of days ago, when his black bruises were mottled with purple, "and I've been icing it as much as I can. Hopefully I'll look a lot better in time for the Autumn Ball. Maybe. Can't hurt, right?"

Today, all that remained were fading purple bruises near the creases of his eyes, which made his smile look happier than it had in days. Fern could not care less how George looked for the Autumn Ball, but she was glad he had not been severely injured. As a plus, that meant he was still up for being her date, about which he still seemed enthusiastic. She stopped in the middle of the hall to listen to him as Francine carried on toward the auditorium, looking dispirited over the interview she had blown for herself.

"I've got a question," said George.

Fern had no desire to answer another question.

"Okay."

"What are you wearing to the Autumn Ball?"

"A dress," she said after a long pause.

"Yeah, but describe it. That way, I'll know if what I'm wearing is good enough."

"It's long, it's magenta, and it's hideous. That about sums it up."

"So…black trousers and shoes?"

"Or a lime-green tracksuit. It really doesn't matter."

George looked stunned by her response, but his voice was sympathetic. "Are you all right? What is it—are you still mad at your mom?"

"You could say that. I'm sorry, George. I've got a lot going on, and I really don't feel like discussing the ball right now. We'll do it later, okay?"

"Um, sure. I know you've been working hard, but at least we get a break tomorrow, right? I mean, I don't. I've got committee stuff for the ball and work to do on Alan's chessboard, but I could push that back if you want to talk about it at the Sugar Bowl."

"Can't. I'm going for a run with Jenna."

More accurately, she would get in one final training session before she made her way up Raccoon Hill, one last go before she conquered her Everest. And after dinner tomorrow night, she would spend some quality time with Danger Girl and her word processor. With little free time and energy to spare, she had fallen by the wayside in her newest endeavor. Kelly was still in the warehouse, still staring down at the boot print, while the rest of Fern's manuscript remained in her trusty notebook. She could not wait for tomorrow.

"Oh," said George. "Then how about—"

"I'll text you… Better yet, don't listen to me. Go with whatever you like. It's all good."

"You're sure?"

"Positive. I'm not my mother. I'm not going to dictate what other people wear…" And she left George in the hall.

Break was over. As Fern hurried down the aisle to get to the stage, she saw that Buster and Ladonna were still horsing around, having resumed their absurd little cookie game. She turned her head away from them and tried to focus on the goals ahead of her as she climbed the stage's stairs, unaware she was clenching her fist again.

To be continued…