Chapter 3 Stevie
Stevie
I pinch an index card between my fingers, the ink blurring as giggles crawl up my throat.
Don’t laugh. Stay professional.
Pinning my bottom lip between my teeth, I take a moment to allow the laughter to ebb. Then I clear my throat. “Oh, Harold…”
The words trail off.
I glance back up.
My sister stares back at me in Dad’s oversize suit, donning a handlebar mustache. The faux whiskers twitch with a bitten-back smile.
And I lose it.
Doubling over, I fall apart, uncontrolled laughter pouring out of me until tears sting my eyes and my legs wobble underneath me.
“Stevie, c’mon!” Joplin adjusts her bow tie, her slicked-back hair glimmering against the window light. “You’re unraveling. Keep it together, sis.”
“I… But you…” I’m dying. I absolutely cannot do this. “You look like—”
“A dude. I know. That’s the whole point.” Her brown hair is a shade lighter than mine, but it looks almost black caked with a bottle’s worth of hair spray. “I already suck at this.”
I swipe the moisture from my eyes as I straighten. Joplin can’t contain her grin as she shakes her head and peels the mustache off her upper lip.
“This was your idea, you know. ‘ It’s more authentic if we’re in character ,’” she parrots, echoing my words from earlier. “Blah, blah, blah. You were wrong.”
“I was so wrong.”
A pink rash stains her ivory skin, keeping the memory of that mustache alive and well. Another swell of laughter bubbles in my chest.
Joplin’s eyes widen. “Don’t. Don’t you dare—”
I collapse to my knees.
“Stevie!” She shouts my name through a sharp laugh, lowering to the floor across from me, both of our shoulders shaking. “I hate you so much.”
“Nope. You love me.” I force the words out through a mess of giggle tears, my cheeks stretched and achy.
Regrouping, Joplin slaps the mustache back on her face.
It’s crooked now. She jumps to her feet and waves her arms around with a flair of drama.
“You’re right. I do love you. And guess what?
” She lowers her voice to a raspy, masculine tone yet manages to maintain the enthusiasm. “All you need is love!”
My eyes are glittering with pure, teary joy. “That’s Christian’s line. You’re Zidler.”
“Just go with it.”
I pull to a stand and smooth down my red wig before spinning in a graceless circle.
We clasp hands and twirl together, singing our hearts out, bouncing between “All You Need Is Love” by the Beatles and “Pride (In the Name of Love)” by U2.
Joplin is wildly off-key, which only spurs more laughter, and we dance and dance until Mom calls us down to the kitchen for supper.
Out of breath, I tug the wig off my head and fluff my flattened mane as we race toward the staircase. The aroma of savory beef stew and homemade biscuits wafts through the quaint house.
Dad looks up from the book he’s reading. Something about the Civil War. “Tell me I have a theatrical daughter without telling me I have a theatrical daughter.”
I pulse my eyebrows and slap the wig back on my head before dipping forward with an exaggerated bow.
Joplin cuts in as she makes a beeline for the stove and sticks a wooden spoon in the pot for a taste test. “She lured me into wearing this mortifying costume. No judgments, please.”
“With bribes or threats?” Dad wonders, adjusting his reading glasses.
“Threats, obviously,” I provide.
“That’s my girl.”
I take a seat at the kitchen table and prop my chin in my hand, smiling as I watch Mom shoo Joplin’s hand away when she tries to take another bite. “I have a good feeling about this one,” I murmur, drumming my fingers along my cheek.
Dad glances up from his book. “The play?”
“Yeah. I’ve nailed the lines, and I think I can really bring the emotion.”
“When are auditions?”
My stomach twists with nerves. “Thursday.”
Mom floats from the counter to the small, cluttered island, carrying over a basket of warm biscuits. Hesitating, she tucks a strand of wispy hair behind her ear. “Is that boy trying out for the male lead?”
I blink at her, the nerves weaving into an anxious knot.
That boy.
Lexington Hall.
Residual hurt courses through me as I set my jaw. “He said he was thinking about it.” I shrug, my lips twisting to the side. “Considering he’s the new ‘it boy’ in town, I’m guessing he’s a shoo-in.”
“Surely there are other worthy candidates.”
Joplin interrupts. “Doesn’t matter, Mom. The moment the Hall family rode in on their high horses, they had the school wrapped around their little finger. It’s only been a few weeks, and even the teachers are fawning all over that kid.”
Dad grumbles. “Money talks.”
My fingertips press harder into my cheek, leaving red nail marks behind.
Dad’s right. Money does talk, and the Hall family seems to know how to make it sing.
Their name is synonymous with success—Lex having been in the business since elementary school, his mother a soap opera star, and his father a bigwig lawyer—proving yet again that in the world they dominate, money not only talks but also opens every door.
Mom says grudges are for simpleminded people, but my sister disagrees. She says grudges hold power when you have no other leverage.
I’m not sure yet whose side I’m on.
I flop back in the chair and blow a piece of hair out of my eyes. “Well, since I’m not competing against him, his money is irrelevant. Besides, it feels like it’s my time. I’ve worked really hard.”
Joplin glances at me as she pulls serving bowls from the cabinet. “I’ve never seen you this dedicated. All you do is practice.” Humming under her breath, she scoops stew into shallow bowls. “Is Natalie auditioning?”
“Yes. Everyone is saying it’s between her and me.”
“She can’t sing as well as you can.”
“She’s actually pretty good.”
Last year, my voice, talent, and dedication didn’t hold a candle to Natalie Marks and her esteemed reputation—honor roll, cheer captain, homecoming queen.
That high school rendition of Beauty and the Beast will forever be a crushing disappointment.
I figured if I lost the role, it would go to a senior, the ones who usually snag the lead parts.
So when it went to a fellow junior, I was only that much more determined to earn it this year.
I can still see the look in my sister’s eyes as she watched my reaction from afar when I raced over to the bulletin posting with a swiftly beating heart and raw hope blooming in my chest.
She witnessed my shell shock, my disbelief. The way the color drained from my cheeks and the sparkle dimmed in my eyes.
Belle: Natalie Marks
It was a debilitating blow. The director at the time had told me I was born for the stage, born for that fairy-tale role.
But Natalie was popular and wealthy.
And I was just the nobody choir girl with holes in her shoes.
Mom’s sugary-sweet voice punctures my black cloud as she transfers bowls over to the table and sets them down.
“Well, no matter what happens, keep that fire alive and stoked, Stevie. Politics are politics. Keep fighting the good fight until you come out on top.” She takes my hand and smiles.
Her light-chestnut hair falls into her eyes, doing nothing to hide the love in them.
“You’re still young. You have your whole life ahead of you to share your gift with the world. ”
I squeeze her hand. “Thanks. I know I get carried away with this stuff.”
“As long as you let it carry you to bigger and better things, there’s nothing wrong with that.”
Dad sets his book aside while Mom and Joplin take their seats. He nods in agreement, removing his reading glasses as he smooths back his dark, silver-sprinkled hair. “Sounds like it’s time for a plumbing joke.”
Everyone groans.
His modest beer belly jiggles when he laughs. “Why did the plumber break up with his girlfriend?”
“Because the girlfriend couldn’t handle any more plumbing jokes and it was illegal to ax him in his sleep with a pipe wrench,” Joplin deadpans, sliding two fingers under her chin.
“Because she was too draining.”
I reach for a biscuit and peel apart the buttery layers, shaking my head.
Dad has been in the union for twenty years, starting as an apprentice and then building his own plumbing business from the ground up when Joplin and I were toddlers.
Mom is a part-time librarian, and we all work on the farm in our spare time, tending to the chickens and keeping the vegetable gardens flourishing.
We’re a lower-income family, making my dreams of stardom feel even more urgent.
What I wouldn’t give to provide for the people who have spent their adult lives working long days just to put food on the table.
It’s more than a dream, really. It’s a mission.
An undertaking to repay the many sacrifices they’ve made for my sister and me along the way.
Mom sets her spoon on the table. “Are we ready?”
Taking a bite of my biscuit, I nod and place a napkin on my lap.
Joplin starts. “I received a fifty-dollar tip at the diner this morning. The couple said my smile was sweeter than the blueberry pancakes. Corny but effective.”
“It’s kind of lopsided,” I declare.
“Part of its charm.”
Dad goes next. “I got off work an hour early and mowed the lawn. Now it looks better than Fran’s next door.”
“I saw the prettiest bug,” Mom adds, glancing from face to face. “I thought it was a butterfly, but it was a hummingbird moth. I took a picture.” She shows us the image on her phone, and I smile.
At dinnertime, we go around the table and share a highlight of our day.
There’s always a standout moment. Something small, something buried, something hidden in the monotonous routine, eager to take center stage.
We share an achievement, a milestone, or a breakthrough every night, even on the bad days.
Especially on the bad days.
It keeps things in perspective.
I clear my throat and fiddle with the strap of my purple tank top.
“I saw a little boy today on the way home from school. He was twelve or thirteen. Dark-brown hair and a golden smile.” My gaze dips away from my mother’s when I note the way her eyes widen, spark.
“He was at the playground off Melbourne Street. The one Jop and I used to play at all the time.”
“Stevie…” Mom’s voice is barely audible.
“I know it wasn’t him,” I continue, clenching the cloth napkin until my knuckles go white.
“But I thought of him. I pretended that was what he’d be doing right then if things were different.
He’d be on the swing set at that park, the wind in his hair, his legs soaring to the sky as children played all around him, enjoying the sunny afternoon without a care in the world.
” Needles prick the back of my throat, poking cavities in my words.
I try to keep my voice steady. Whole. “I stopped and stared for a while. And…I felt him. Standing there beside me, watching the scene unfold, wishing for all the same things I was wishing for.”
Mom excuses herself from the table, her chair legs squeaking, a harsh backdrop to the resounding silence. Dad’s spoon clinks as he dives into his stew to cover the painful croak that wants to burst out, while Joplin glances down at her dinner as tears spill down her freckled cheeks.
It was my highlight.
But to them, it was just a gaping absence that no swing set or sunny afternoon could ever fill.
A reminder of everything we’ve lost.