Misfit Theater Company (Wattys Winner 2018)

5. Everyone's Mad At Me

Gina meets me at the end of the last lunch table in the cafeteria, our usual spot. She drops her backpack on the ground and leans her hands on the table. "What happened to you this morning?" she interrogates me.

The people at the other end of the table turn and stare at us, which of course, makes me uncomfortable, but Gina is used to getting stared at. She is loud, foul-mouthed, and boldly different. She and I became best friends in the first grade, because our teacher thought we looked so much alike that she mixed up our names for the entire first half of the year. Now we look less alike, mostly because Gina dyed her hair a "mermaid" green as she calls it.

I squirm in my seat, and Gina turns to the people staring at her. "Excuse you, this is a private conversation."

One of the girls rolls her eyes, as they all turn away from us.

"The guidance counselor moved me out of sewing to be in theater," I whisper.

"Oh god, why?" Gina actually looks disgusted by this.

I shrug. "It wasn't too bad. The counselor says it will help with my confidence."

"We were supposed to take sewing together, though. Easy A, remember? I had no one to talk to in there. It was like me and a bunch of girls who are actually serious about sewing. C'mon, can't you just come back? Tell them you don't want to be in the class anymore, or that your mom doesn't want you to switch because, like, she has a business or something in sewing that you were the only heir to."

I laugh. "No, Gina. My mom signed the paper to allow the switch. She was here this morning for the meeting, and she saw my report card. She was so mad, I think she would have signed anything."

"Well, shit."

"Shh," I tell her, even though no one around us would actually care about her using that word.

"Why aren't you as upset about this as I am? We haven't had a class together since 8th grade."

"Let's get some food before all the good stuff's gone," I say, directing her toward the lunch line. She walks with me to the lunch line, but she won't give up on her question that easily.

"But, seriously, Janie," she starts, "why aren't you more pissed off about this?"

"Theater might actually help me. You know how bad I am at reading."

"So, you take a class where you have to read and act? That sounds like the opposite of what you need."

"It's different than that. You memorize it. Whatever, I am angry about it too, but what choice did I have? Mrs. Thomas called my mom in and put us on the spot about it."

"I would have thrown a fit to stay in sewing."

"I don't really care about sewing."

"Oh really? You have no reason to care about sewing?"

"Well, no, I care about you, obviously. I don't care about the class. Like you said, it was just going to be our easy blow off class."

"No, no, whatever you want Janie. If you want to dance around a stage like an idiot with those theater people, go for it. I can't stop you."

"Gina, it's not like that."

"Whatever." She turns her back to me in line and grabs some food for her tray silently.

I've never told her about the way words jumble and twist on the page for me. I was always too afraid she would judge me or laugh or something. All she knows is that I think I'm dumb, so she thinks I act dumb. Once again, I am to blame. My brain is to blame. All of the good feelings I left theater with leave me, and all I'm left with is guilt.