Chapter 1 #3
I wave with one hand, tucking the other into my trousers to hide the nervous energy that’s bubbled up without my consent. “Thanks for doing this for the kids,” I say.
“Of course,” she says. “I had to.”
One of our most outspoken performers—a very tall, very loud boy named Billy Larsen who got too hurt to continue playing basketball his sophomore year and realized he could flirt with girls all day if he did drama instead, thus cementing him as our de facto straight theater boy—yells out, “Marlowe, you actually know her?”
“Ms. Jenkins,” I correct. The students love to try to call me “Marlowe” because Dallas prefers to be known by his first name, and that’s another tradition the kids want me to carry on when he retires.
I want to do it, too. I really do. “Ms. Jenkins” sounds wrong.
Bland and unimaginative. Nowhere near as interesting as my first name.
There’s nothing about me that’s a Ms., even if I’m still using she/her pronouns.
But I continue to correct students whenever they use “Marlowe,” too afraid of potential consequences from the administration.
Cilla uses her laughter to slide right back into her manufactured ease. “Marlowe and I graduated the same year. We did every WRHS show together.”
Billy’s jaw falls open. “Are you serious? Ms. Jenkins, why didn’t you tell us you were friends with a famous person?”
Because we weren’t friends, I want to say, but Cilla chimes in first. “The last show we did together was RENT.” She has mastered the art of the redirect. “Marlowe was Mark. I was Roger.”
“The picture of us from that show is right outside,” I remind him, oddly insulted he hasn’t noticed it before.
“No way,” he says to me. “Are you wearing one of your vests?”
This gets the other kids laughing. I wear a rotating collection of sleeveless sweater-vests over T-shirts because it takes the fuss out of deciding my clothing for the day, and yeah, I also find the look to be aesthetically pleasing. Sue me.
Lately, though, my students have started to comment on them in a way that veers toward mean-spirited. I’ve yet to figure out the real reason behind their obsessive interest in the vests. The best defense I have is not only to continue wearing them, but to double down on my commitment to the look.
“Yes,” I deadpan. “I had on a sweater-vest underneath every costume I ever wore.”
“No way?” Billy says again, only this time it’s a question. He’s unsure of how much sarcasm I’m using, which means I win today’s battle of the vests.
Dallas turns the laptop to himself. “You know, Cilla decided to chop off all her hair for RENT, dying it a truly hideous shade of yellow-blond, even though she knew good and well I’d get her a nice wig for the part.”
“I was committed!” Cilla protests in good nature.
“And it sure paid off, didn’t it?” Dallas asks. When Cilla blushes, batting her hand at the screen, Dallas waves his own impatiently. “Go on,” he says. “Tell them your news.”
With zero hesitation—not even a single breath of aw shucks bashfulness—Cilla blurts out, “I was nominated for my first Golden Globe this morning.”
First. As if more are sure to follow. Knowing her luck, they probably are.
Our students lose it again.
“Oh stop,” Cilla says. “It’s not a big deal.”
Dallas is beaming. “Of course it is.”
“You’re gonna win an Oscar!” Billy yells.
Cilla laughs. “God, no. They don’t do Oscars for TV.”
“They should!” Billy says.
“All right, Billy, that’s enough,” I tell him. “This moment isn’t about Cilla. It’s about you guys.”
I don’t mean for it to come out as a dig. Or at least, I don’t anticipate the teeth it has until Cilla’s eyes shift to whatever lives beyond her laptop as she nibbles on the edge of her lip.
Maybe there’s a world where my teenage rivalry with her has morphed into adult pride. Someone who grew up in Garden Meadows, Iowa, is now a successful actress with a big-time award show nomination under her belt. It’s huge, especially for the WRHS drama department that raised us both.
I really believed I lived in that world. Two minutes in Cilla’s digital presence and I’m forced to acknowledge that I might actually live in the world where she hurt me for the sport of it, more than once. It’s an old wound, sure, but it’s the kind that still aches, like arthritis when it rains.
“Marlowe’s right,” Cilla says. A familiar redness creeps up her neck, something all the training in the world can’t seem to school out of her. “This is totally about you guys, not me. Spring Awakening is going to be incredible! I can’t wait to come see it!”
In trying to fix things, she’s managed to make it worse—the Priscilla Covington-French special. Our kids are no longer excited about Spring Awakening at all. They’re thrilled that the famous Cilla Cove has promised to come back to Iowa and watch them perform.
“I’m so sorry I can’t stick around and chat any longer,” she says. “But I’m so excited for you all, and so, so proud of Dallas.” She blows kisses to the screen.
“Love you, darling,” Dallas says, blowing kisses in return.
“It was nice to see you, Marlowe,” she tells me.
“Always a pleasure,” I respond.