THE EXILE OF GIGI LANE by Adrienne Maria Vrettos

Author:Adrienne Maria Vrettos
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: MARGARET K. MCELDERRY BOOKS
Published: 2010-07-15T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Think the First Floor Bathroom Stinks?

Then don’t use it!

(Honestly, you would think with the way Swans parade around here like they’re the smartest thing since sliced bread, this solution would be obvious.)

I lie on the wooden stage floor, curled into a tight ball, my eyes closed.

“You’re an … atom?” This first suggestion comes from Lauren, the leader of the Mr. T,’s, who is in charge of my tryouts.

I don’t move.

“Um, you’re a rolled-up armadillo?” someone else says.

I curl tighter. To be honest with you, I probably should have thought of what I was going to be before I volunteered and curled up on the floor, but in the heat of the moment I had to hope something would just come to me. Would you believe they’re not even building a set for this play? It’s “minimalist,” which means there will be no starry sky or mountaintops for me to act my heart out in front of. I hear the pen click, and Lauren scribbles something down on her clipboard.

“Don’t imitate, Gigi,” comes Mr. T.’s soft drama-teacher voice, “ be.”

Right. Be. What am I being? Beeeeeee. I am a bee. I am a dead bumblebee, swatted down by a picnic goer, and I am now a dead little bee ball.

“Remember, you must be something alive.”

I open one eye and glare at him. He smiles and nods encouragingly. I close my eyes again. Who am I? I’m Gigi Lane and you wish you were me. I sigh, my affirmation doing nothing to help.

Okay, Gigi. Concentrate. Who are you? Who are you? Whooooo are yooooooou? I am an owl. I am a living owl, a beautiful owl knocked from the nest she had so carefully built and tended to, kicked to the ground by an evil, dog-faced owl who …

Oh, God.

Tell me they did not just hear that.

Why, oh why, oh why, did I let my dad make me huevos rancheros for breakfast? And why, oh why, did I ask for extra beans?

My stomach rumbles again. I curl more tightly.

“Good,” Mr. T. purrs, “I can see you’re onto something. Go with it, Gigi, see where it takes you.”

There is a long silence before another suggestion from the class. “You’re one of those bugs that curls up into a ball?”

“You’re an atom?”

“Do we really have to guess? I mean, she’s been down there for ten minutes.”

“Yes, you have to guess,” Mr. T. says. “Gigi, remember to be, that will make it easier for us.”

Oh, for the love of all things holy. The rumble is moving south. Please no. Please, no, no, no, no. I order myself not to fart. Do. Not. Pass. Gas. I imagine my butt cheeks are an impenetrable vise that not even a squeak of air can escape.

“You’re an apple?”

“A pear?”

A pear! As in pear-shaped? I may have put on a few pounds, but I am certainly not pear-shaped! A thin whip of a girl! The accidental fruity insult distracts me so much that by the time I remember what I’m doing, the rumble is dangerously close to blowing my cover.

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