Everyone's a Critic by Rachel Wise Page A

in the Voice office, making a checklist of what I was going to look for in evaluating the play:
    Overall singing quality
    Choreography
    Set design
    Costumes
    Lighting
    Lead actress’s performance
    Lead actor’s performance
    Main supporting role
    performances
    I tapped my pen, trying to think of anything I could be forgetting. Mr. Trigg walked in.
    â€œWhy, hello there, Ms. Martone,” he said. “How are we on the day of the big show?”
    â€œI’m okay,” I said. “Just making a list of things I want to look for when I see it.” I looked at my list again, and wrote down Sound engineering?
    â€œI did a few theater reviews back in the day,” he said, sitting down and unwinding the striped scarf he always wore around school, but for some reason never in the Voice office. “Nothing beats going to see a show in the West End in London. I highly recommend it if you ever get the chance.”
    â€œCan I ask you a question, Mr. Trigg?” I said while I put my notes away.
    â€œFire away,” he said.
    â€œWhat if the play’s not good and we have to write about that? I don’t want to hurt people’s feelings,” I said.
    â€œJust tell it like you see it,” he said, “and you’ll be brilliant.”
    I nodded and thanked him, but I wasn’t so sure about my brilliance.
    At home my mom and I ate a quick dinner that was actually kind of a breakfast—scrambled eggs, toast, and salad. Allie had gone over to the high school auditorium that afternoon to get ready, so we hadn’t seen her since the morning. I was kind of glad she hadn’t come home. She probably would have been bouncing off the walls, as my mom says. In about half an hour, we were going to pick Hailey up and drive her to the show. I was nervous. I wasn’t sure what we were going to say to each other. I had to tell my mom what was going on. I put my fork down.
    â€œHailey and I kind of got into a little argument,” I said, picking up my fork again and poking at my eggs.
    Mom held her fork frozen in the air between her mouth and her plate. “Uh-oh, how little?” she said, looking worried.
    â€œWell, not so little,” I said, and stabbed a cucumber from my salad.
    â€œOkay, how big?”
    â€œHailey was bugging me about something, so I told her it was bothering me. She got reallyupset and told me I was bugging her too, and then we decided that we needed some space, and now we haven’t talked in two days. She said I could be honest with her, and she always tells me what she thinks—a little too much sometimes. So why did she get so upset?” I said it all in one breath, then leaned back in my chair. It felt good to get it out.
    â€œHmm. Are you still upset with her?” Mom asked, taking our plates to the garbage pail and scraping the food off. Then she started putting them in the dishwasher.
    â€œI don’t know, not really. I just want to work it out. She was pretty mad. But she said I should tell her the truth. That’s what best friends are for, right?”
    â€œWell, sometimes. The truth is always good, but we have to decide what we can let go and what we can’t. Was she mad or hurt? Sometimes the truth hurts. There’s no way around it. But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t tell it. It just may take a while for the person to get past the hurt and see the truth.”
    I thought about all the times Hailey had told me something I didn’t want to hear, but after I had some distance I usually realized she was right. Hopefully, she’d feel the same way.
    Mom came over to me, smoothed my hair back, and squeezed my shoulders. “Let’s just see how it goes. Hailey’s not one to hold a grudge. She adores you. Sometimes friends bug each other. It’s part of the deal when you’re so close.”
    â€œOkay,” I said. “I guess so.”
    We got into the car and drove over to