Anthropology of an American Girl: A Novel - By Hilary Thayer Hamann Page 0,86

been correct to seek.

“I’ll be back,” he said, and I felt myself list. I felt him tend as well, then stop, then straighten. Him whispering, “That okay with you?”

I emptied my knapsack, and tubes of paint spilled onto the floor. While waiting for Denny, I paced the stage. Walking onstage is the same as walking in life, only the lights make you feel like a star, and when you reach the edge, you have to turn back to center. Maybe that’s why the English excel in theater, because Britain is insular. People there can venture only so far before hitting an end, before having to fold in. America is a wasteland; here we ramble without modesty or restraint, leaving things behind, just picking up and going when things get complicated. Actually, America was a wasteland; now it’s all built up.

It was almost eleven, and still no Denny. I stretched out on the floor, lying there, and I drifted, going in and out. I wondered if I’d chosen the wrong talent, if in fact talent can ever be a matter of choice. The theater was the first place I’d ever felt happy.

Within several minutes, I felt light pressure on my chest, like a cat’s paw. I raised my head and found a lily. “A peace offering,” Denny’s voice said. “Sorry I’m late.” He was standing over me, wearing the purple velvet newsboy hat Alicia had made for him. He looked like a dyed mushroom. “Don’t ask me what took so long.” He tossed his coat near mine and launched into a rambling explanation anyway.

The lily was exquisite. Six petals burst from a tubular casing, proud and electrifying like fireworks inscribing the sky. I touched one. It was bumpy, with a lone blaze of yellow crimping it down the center. The fragrance was combative: a gluish, maudlin aroma. I would have liked to draw the smell. It reminded me of Maman’s funeral.

“Then,” Denny concluded, “we couldn’t find green tape for the Village Green.” He plucked three softening coffee cups from a paper bag, handing one to me. “I tried Vetault’s Florist. Jen Miller was working and I bummed the tape from her. The flower too.”

I sat up and popped the lid off my cup.

“The ham sandwich is yours, the chips are for Dave, and the soda’s for me. I’m back on Tab. I need to lose ten pounds by Wednesday.”

“What’s Wednesday?” Dave Meese asked as he hopped up onstage.

“Day after Tuesday, Dave,” Denny said. He took off his hat and set free a mop of black hair. Denny had gorgeous hair. His cheekbones were high under his eyes and his teeth were perfect. Everyone said he looked like Elvis, which really upset him. “They don’t mean Memphis Elvis or Elvis at Sun Records,” he’d complain. “They mean Elvis in Hawaii. ‘Caught in a Trap’ Elvis. Fat sweaty Elvis. Elvis on dope.”

“What’s up, Evie,” Dave greeted me as he set down his tool kit and dropped his maroon snorkel jacket on the pile Denny and I’d started. Dave was a good artist, but his gift was rigging. He’d been making booby traps since first grade. By sophomore year he’d figured out how to get from one part of the high school to another without touching ground, just by going through ceiling ducts and roof accesses. Dave was the only one allowed to touch Jack’s guitars besides Dan and me. “When the shit hits the fan, you’re gonna need a guy like that,” Jack would say. “Rigging is a practical art, like growing crops or skinning deer.”

From the figureless murk of the theater came the springy gong of a seat bottom folding up and smacking its frame. I squinted to see Rourke heading up the aisle to the lobby. I wondered how long he’d been there. It occurred to me that he hadn’t left at all, that he’d been there the entire time.

While waiting for the glue to dry, Denny, Dave, and I watched rehearsal from the audience. We sat about ten rows back, across the aisle from Mr. McGintee and Toby Parker, the music teacher, who were observing, though they had not removed their coats.

“Oh, gee, look who’s pretending to earn their paychecks,” Denny said. “This is the first time I’ve seen them in weeks. And the show opens in five days.”

Rourke dictated cues to Richie, who was backstage at the lighting board, and to Paul Z., who was operating the spot from the top of the auditorium. First the lights would blacken,