The Scoreboard

Chapter 13: I Am Not So Lucky

    "You look fancy today," I tell Nicole. She has on a navy-blue dress with black flats. Her hair is neatly combed to perfection, with a headband keeping it all back.

    Nicole smiles as she sets her backpack on the floor. "Thanks! I was almost late getting to school today, but I wanted to wear the perfect outfit." She takes a selfie and posts it to whatever social media platform she is on today.

    We are sitting in the office at the designated office aid students' table. There is hardly a day when we are not interrupted to deliver passes. Everyone thinks it is a stupid thing to take because it is a literal study hall with slight interruptions to roam around the school and hunt down students who the faculty need. Honestly, though, it is a study hall that gives you a half credit for doing nothing. Most of the time, I make sure to get my homework done at home so I do not have to waste my precious free time at school by completing some stupid busy work.

    "Have you seen Dean yet?" I inquire; I might as well get the details from her now. I doubt she will be able to whisper details to me at lunch when Dean sits beside her.

    Nicole shakes her head, "no, but I will see him next hour and at lunch now that we sit there. How about you and Travis? Oh my gosh, I feel so incredibly rude! I never asked you how your conversation went with Travis went." Nicole turns her phone face down. "You have to tell me all about it."

    I set my phone down as well, "I mean, there wasn't like anything interesting going on. I was cleaning scribbles off the playroom wall, and he was helping his sister move into her new apartment."

    We are both interrupted when the office doors burst open. Abigail tromps into the room, wearing an expensive blouse, capris, and a cute pair of sandals. Her rusty hair is thrown into a bun on top of her head, held together by a blue pen. I swear the whole office staff jumps when Abigail walks in. Great, she even has authority over the authority of the school. "Excuse me –" She butts her way between some kid checking in at the front desk. Even the receptionist is stunned by Abigail's appearance. "I need to see my counselor Mr. Jameson. It is about the school production that I am putting on." Abigail demands.

    Nicole and I both lock eyes. RUDE! Our eyes both seem to say.

    "He is actually busy right now. I could leave a note with him, though." The receptionist reaches for her pad of sticky notes.

    Abigail sighs. "Never mind, it is not worth waiting. This is something that needs to be done right away. He told me he had some names of students that could help me put some sets together in the auditorium?" Abigail taps her foot impatiently on the floor.

    "He did not leave me a note, but I bet Nicole and Caroline could help you since we do not have any passes for them to deliver." The receptionist lady gestures to Nicole and me.

    Abigail smiles, "perfect, thank you so much."

    Reluctantly, Nicole and I stand on the stage with Abigail, who taps her foot with indecision. Pondering how to build a particular set with the limited wooden slabs the school provided. The stage is almost ominous, without the sound of anyone else working on sets or around the auditorium. Maybe, it is just because we are alone with Abigail, someone who I do not ever want to be alone with anyway.

    Abigail snaps her fingers with a thought. "Nicole, come with me to the prop loft to collect more costumes. I think I have the perfect outfit in mind for the character Mr. Mason who plays the love interest." Abigail turns her attention to me. "Carol, if you could paint that platform green. The paint should be sitting on a table in the hall." Abigail struts towards the wood room, and Nicole trails behind like a lost puppy.

    I push open the side door that leads to the hallway. The green paint sits open with three paintbrushes that vary in size. I take the gallon of paint along with the large brush back through the door to paint the platform. When I enter the room, Abigail and Nicole have not returned yet, so I begin painting the giant rectangle board sitting on top of wheels. I dip the brush in the paint. The green is absolutely hideous, like the color of mashed-up peas. I do one large paint stroke across the platform, which comes out streaky. Abigail and Nicole come into the room with a bazillion costumes over their arms. Abigail drops the costumes in her arms the second she notices me painting the wood like I am supposed to be doing.

    "CAROLINE! What are you doing?" She shrieks. The whole auditorium echoes her voice.

    I drop the paintbrush. "I am painting the platform...."

    Abigail glares at me. "WITH THE WRONG SHADE OF GREEN!"

    Nicole is nervous because she bites at her thumbnail.

    My legs shake, "yes, but you said the green in the hallway!"

    Abigail plucks the gallon of paint from the stage; for a second, I am afraid she will throw its contents on me, but instead, she reads off the name of the color. "This is Clover Leaf Green. You were supposed to use Lucky Green."

    "You didn't tell me a specific color to use," I argue.

    Abigail rolls her eyes, then tromps to the side door. I follow behind her. She better take back her anger when she realizes this was the only green sitting next to the paintbrushes.

    The table in the hall has two brushes and a pint of green paint on the left side of the brushes. Hold it, the pint of paint was not there a minute ago! 

    Abigail plucks the pint off the shelf to show it off to everyone. "This is the paint you were supposed to use." She shows me the can by shoving it in my face.

    "I swear it was not there a few minutes ago!"

    "You have ruined my school play, Carol! This paint is never going to cover over that puke color you used on the platform!" Abigail stomps her foot indignantly like a child whose parents told them they could not get a candy bar from the store.

    Tears form, but I will not cry. "I told you, it was not there!"

    Abigail plants her left hand on her hip like a diva. "Maybe you should look harder next time. Now scram before I tell the receptionist, Mrs. Pratt, you ruined the platform on purpose." Her eyes are ice.

    The bell rings for the end of the hour as soon as I walk back to the office to collect my backpack. The hallways fill with students who look relieved to be one step closer to the weekend. At this rate, I will never make it to Mr. Robertson's class in enough time.