Anthony still believe in Santa Claus? Doesn’t that prove that Anthony doesn’t know much?”
Mr. Brolin walks by and stops beside us. “Seniors’ lunch area is on the roof.”
“Can I just finish speaking to my brother?”
He gets me on an answering-back call and I get another afternoon of detention. I can’t even open my mouth to plead my case. Any attempt is construed as answering back.
Luca looks at me helplessly and I can sense he’s close to tears.
“I’ll ring you,” I say, “and then maybe we can talk to Zia Teresa about Pinocchio staying over.”
“Promise.”
“Cross my heart, hope to die.” My voice cracks as I say that. And he hears that crack, and I know it kills him a bit inside.
The day gets worse. We have drama, and for me, drama class is a four-times-a-week nightmare. Every lesson Mr. Ortley puts on a piece of music and asks us to dance, and every lesson we stare back at him, some of us with disinterest, others with horror. Nobody ever dances. Nobody but him. He dances like a maniac, which is a bit embarrassing because he’s about fifty, and seeing a fifty-year-old dancing to Limp Bizkit is pretty nauseating.
“If you can’t lose your inhibitions, you’ll never be able to convince a crowd of people that you’re someone else. That’s what you have to do as an actor,” he says between breaths.
As usual, no one moves.
“Mr. Mackee? Are you going to grace the dance floor with your moves?”
Thomas Mackee gives a snort, which is kind of like a no.
“And you did drama for what reason?”
“Because I thought it would be an easy pass, sir. And you went to the National Institute of Dramatic Art for what reason?”
Ortley doesn’t care. He seems to like what he does. He tells us that he’s waiting for one of those perfect teaching moments when he can say it’s all worth it and then he’ll quit.
“Miss Spinelli?”
I’d love to do the snort thing, but it would give Thomas Mackee too much satisfaction.
“I’d rather not.”
“Why?”
“Because it’ll make me feel self-conscious,” I lie.
“Why?”
I shrug and look down.
I’ve perfected the art of shyness. I had three years of practice at Stella’s, and it’s brought me great comfort over the years. When I was being my un-shy self, I got a different sort of spotlight. Not the one I wanted. I got detentions, was tested for hyperactivity, ridiculed, hassled, ostracized. By the time my Stella friends came to save me, I was ripe for it. Ready to go into some kind of retirement. Because it gets pretty exhausting being on the perimeter.
Here in drama, I don’t actually care what people think of me, and deep down I’m not really self-conscious. I just don’t have the passion for this or the drive. I would like to go onto autopilot for the whole of Year Eleven drama. It’s not as if we’re going to be able to perform this year.
“Are you scared people will make fun of you?”
This man does not give up. He looks me straight in the eye when he speaks to me. No one in this school has done that all year except William Trombal, and that was to intimidate me.
“Maybe,” I mumble.
“You want to dance.”
“You want me to dance?”
“No. You want to dance. Every time the music comes on, you sway.”
Everyone’s looking at me.
“It’s instinct.”
“Then act on instinct rather than on what other people think,” he says in a flat, hard voice.
He turns away from me dismissively. It’s as if he couldn’t be bothered.
My mother forced me to take drama. “You’ll be in your element,” she said.
“She’s shy,” my dad tried to explain.
“Yes, in her left toe she’s shy. She’s just lazy. That’s her problem. She’s too busy worrying about what her friends—”
“I don’t care what my friends think.”
“You care what they’ll do when they remember that you’re the one with personality.”
“Is it okay if I have a say over what I want?” I asked.
“That’s the problem, Frankie.
Mr. Brolin walks by and stops beside us. “Seniors’ lunch area is on the roof.”
“Can I just finish speaking to my brother?”
He gets me on an answering-back call and I get another afternoon of detention. I can’t even open my mouth to plead my case. Any attempt is construed as answering back.
Luca looks at me helplessly and I can sense he’s close to tears.
“I’ll ring you,” I say, “and then maybe we can talk to Zia Teresa about Pinocchio staying over.”
“Promise.”
“Cross my heart, hope to die.” My voice cracks as I say that. And he hears that crack, and I know it kills him a bit inside.
The day gets worse. We have drama, and for me, drama class is a four-times-a-week nightmare. Every lesson Mr. Ortley puts on a piece of music and asks us to dance, and every lesson we stare back at him, some of us with disinterest, others with horror. Nobody ever dances. Nobody but him. He dances like a maniac, which is a bit embarrassing because he’s about fifty, and seeing a fifty-year-old dancing to Limp Bizkit is pretty nauseating.
“If you can’t lose your inhibitions, you’ll never be able to convince a crowd of people that you’re someone else. That’s what you have to do as an actor,” he says between breaths.
As usual, no one moves.
“Mr. Mackee? Are you going to grace the dance floor with your moves?”
Thomas Mackee gives a snort, which is kind of like a no.
“And you did drama for what reason?”
“Because I thought it would be an easy pass, sir. And you went to the National Institute of Dramatic Art for what reason?”
Ortley doesn’t care. He seems to like what he does. He tells us that he’s waiting for one of those perfect teaching moments when he can say it’s all worth it and then he’ll quit.
“Miss Spinelli?”
I’d love to do the snort thing, but it would give Thomas Mackee too much satisfaction.
“I’d rather not.”
“Why?”
“Because it’ll make me feel self-conscious,” I lie.
“Why?”
I shrug and look down.
I’ve perfected the art of shyness. I had three years of practice at Stella’s, and it’s brought me great comfort over the years. When I was being my un-shy self, I got a different sort of spotlight. Not the one I wanted. I got detentions, was tested for hyperactivity, ridiculed, hassled, ostracized. By the time my Stella friends came to save me, I was ripe for it. Ready to go into some kind of retirement. Because it gets pretty exhausting being on the perimeter.
Here in drama, I don’t actually care what people think of me, and deep down I’m not really self-conscious. I just don’t have the passion for this or the drive. I would like to go onto autopilot for the whole of Year Eleven drama. It’s not as if we’re going to be able to perform this year.
“Are you scared people will make fun of you?”
This man does not give up. He looks me straight in the eye when he speaks to me. No one in this school has done that all year except William Trombal, and that was to intimidate me.
“Maybe,” I mumble.
“You want to dance.”
“You want me to dance?”
“No. You want to dance. Every time the music comes on, you sway.”
Everyone’s looking at me.
“It’s instinct.”
“Then act on instinct rather than on what other people think,” he says in a flat, hard voice.
He turns away from me dismissively. It’s as if he couldn’t be bothered.
My mother forced me to take drama. “You’ll be in your element,” she said.
“She’s shy,” my dad tried to explain.
“Yes, in her left toe she’s shy. She’s just lazy. That’s her problem. She’s too busy worrying about what her friends—”
“I don’t care what my friends think.”
“You care what they’ll do when they remember that you’re the one with personality.”
“Is it okay if I have a say over what I want?” I asked.
“That’s the problem, Frankie.
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