Mistakes Happen

The theatre kid smirked down at the seventeen middle schoolers. After the teacher walked up to and ordered him to quit harassing these poor preteens, he just flicked his eyebrows up and down and shrugged as some of the kids pointed out that it wasn’t fair for him to act with such arrogance—he was here to tell them about speechwriting.

The teacher had thought of inviting him to do so. Now he was blowing it. 

But was it haughtiness?                                                     

“Okay—everyone. Lights on? I mean, let’s get this show on the road!”     

The theatre kid was speaking to the stage manager, looking diagonally up at the man on the ladder trying to fix some of the stage lights hanging from their metal box. Yeah, the man with dirty grey overalls and an ugly red shirt underneath. That paint job of an attire. He’s busy up there while the theatre kid’s about to present the best talk of the town—                  

“Watch out!” Some kid warned him. 

The theatre kid stepped neatly aside as a light bulb came hurtling down onto the black stage and smashed into pieces, a huge chunk bouncing right in front of him. He curled his lip, looking down at it with half-closed eyes while the manager ordered him to clean it immediately, lest other performers cut themselves. “I’m the theatre kid. I shouldn’t have to do your job. Besides,” he flicked a bang out of the way, “I have a speech to present—”           

“Get the broom—”                 

The theatre kid whirled around, walked backstage and returned with a broom and handle. He held it out to the stage manager, and looked up. “You can clean it up, Mr. Roscoe. Maybe if your motto is Always be clean, you can prove it!”

The stage manager had widened his eyes in disbelief, marched down that ladder and stormed over to the theatre kid who was walking down the side steps. He jerked back a bit in fear as the stage manager jabbed a pudgy finger in his scrawny, pale face and barked, “I asked you to clean it up. Now do it!” 

The theatre kid bobbed his head voraciously, stuttering, “Yes, sir!” 

“Good.” The stage manager grumbled, though he was surprised at the way the theatre kid cleaned up so quickly and nicely. The floor looked cleaner than before. “Besides, what are you teaching?” He asked when he returned over to the stage manager.

The theatre kid sulked.

“You know what, whatever. I don’t need to talk to people like you. You only get mad!” But the theatre kid had already walked back onto stage, shook out his paper and took a deep breath.

“Ouch!” He was gasping. After he ripped the tomato off his face, he hurled it right back at a kid. Other preteens joined, chucking red tomatoes (presumably from the cafeteria) right at this older student. But he backfired, chucking them straight at their shirts and knees and hair.

“All right! All right!” The stage manager grabbed the theatre kid by the wrists, yanked his tomato juice-stained arms and hands back and handcuffed him with his big hands. Whining that these ten and eleven-year-olds needed to be taught a lesson, the theatre kid tried wrestling himself free of this “tyrant who thinks he can tell me what to do!”

“These kids are stained, some of whose stringy hair is dripping with tomato juice!”     

“They started it.”                          

“Don’t care.” The stage manager’s face was two inches from that of the theatre kid’s own. “You can talk to the principal about how a theatre kid can’t even teach a class of middle schoolers! You’re the oldest, Mr. Fourteen Year Old. How do you expect fifth graders to be taught when you’re violating the school policy of no food in the theatre room?” The stage manager ordered everyone out of the building (they scampered out of their seats and up the ramp towards the double doors) while he struggled to hold the theatre kid’s hands together, the teenager spitting threats of escaping to pulling nasty pranks.

“You pull this tomfoolery again, and I’m having you expelled!”

“Good!”     

The stage manager’s eyes bugged out of his head. “You better stop disrespecting me, young man. I don’t need to babysit you. You can do just fine without me telling you every step of the way. Those kids,” he jerked a finger back at the seats, “are counting on you to teach them Speechwriting for an hour. It’s September. The teacher gave you a whole hour to teach those fifth graders. I’m sorry we’re in middle school, but I guess you’re the one who is just going to have to grow up.”       

After the stage manager pulled away, he nodded contently. Worry shone brightly on the theatre kid’s face.  

“I’m not Mr. or ‘theatre kid’ or anything! I have a name.” Then the theatre kid whimpered, “I just…” He winced as he pulled his hands out from behind his back. “I just don’t have nobody at home. My stepdad’s an alcoholic, and,” the theatre kid swallowed hard. “My mom’s never home. Always at those stupid conferences. I don’t have nobody—”

“Save the sob story, son!” The stage manager grabbed the scared kid’s arm and hauled him out of the theatre room towards the principal’s office. He knocked on her door, and pulled the theatre kid in when she had welcomed them. When all three were seated, the theatre kid, lips thin as paper and white face pinched, looked out the window.

“This arrogant boy thinks he can disrespect everyone. He’s let this attitude control the middle schoolers, me and probably his other teachers in the classroom! However, I brought ‘im here to get ‘im some discipline shot into ‘im!”

The principal just nodded with pursed lips and then looked at the theatre kid. “Sir, we must have a talk. You and me alone. Please come by this Saturday—”

The theatre kid’s eyes bugged, and he shot up straight as a pole, maneuvering his hands. “No—you can’t just take my—”

“Magic show away?” The principal stood up, looking hard at the theatre kid. “Sir, we just want what is best for our students.”                 

“Please.” The theatre kid stuttered. “It’s my night. Everyone’s going to be—”

“Applauding the star. Not you.”

The theatre kid, his eyes glowering daggers at the woman, backed away quietly and then tore from the room. He pushed past someone on their way into the office, going right for the two main doors. He charged down the sidewalk, bursting through his front yard. Coming to a stop, the theatre kid took a few deep breaths and then yelled that his stepdad better be home, or he’d go looking for him. Suddenly, the theatre kid’s right foot was right above his face as he felt himself in the air for a second, and then his head smacked the pavement. His eyes squeezed shut, a yell of pain emitted from the teen’s mouth. He lay there, calm and still. Then he slowly opened them, looked over and picked up a hand. It was dripping with alcohol. He smelled it and almost gagged from the stale smell.      

 He groaned, picking himself up. He entered the unlocked house. The originally black and white kitchen tiles were an ugly reddish-brown. The theatre kid lay back down and envisioned himself on stage, wrapped in a Dracula-like costume of pitch-black and tinges of scarlet. The audience roared his praises, and there, in the middle of the aisle, was his mother, all smiles. She looked ready to grab him into a hug. Then he found himself upon the other cast members’ hands.     

When he looked in front of him, the theatre kid’s eyes bulged in terror, and he scampered to regain his balance when he saw a tight hand grasp his left ankle. His stepdad’s ugly face reared right into his own pale one—paler than the cookie cake his mother made for her new husband’s birthday yesterday.    

“What’re you doin’ in my house?!” The stepfather grabbed the theatre kid by his hair and threw him into the garage after grabbing the door and swinging it open. “Aren’t you ‘posed to be in school, kid?” After cackling, he slammed the door. “Oh,” his voice slurred through the door, “you’re goin’ to clean this stuff up when you get home, got that? Besides, you’re the only child. It’s not like you’ve got anyone else to do it for you.”

“It’s not like you’ve got anyone, either—Dad!”

The door whipped right open, and the man, teeth bared, loomed over his stepson. But the theatre kid scoffed that his stepfather needed to suck it. Roaring, the stepfather grabbed something metallic and hurtled it right at him. But the theatre kid caught it right in midair.

“Maybe if I wasn’t such a nuisance to you, you’d listen to me!”

But his stepdad had lunged for the axe. The theatre kid threw out a leg, tripping him and snatching the axe simultaneously. He fell exactly like the theatre kid had on the alcohol, smacking his partially bald head on the cement floor. His eyes closed. The stepfather didn’t move. The theatre kid stood above him, axe in hand.  

He turned it so that the sharp point faced forward, and raised it high above his head.

Then he stopped, lowering his arms, letting it down slowly. He dropped the ax and grabbed as many alcohol bottles in the refrigerator as possible. The theatre kid went outside to the woodpile, lay them all on the tree’s massive stump, returned outside with the ax and destroyed his stepfather’s precious stuff to pieces, glass flying everywhere. Rage seemed to shatter along with the bottles, the theatre kid never missing a beat. Soon, when the garage and house refrigerators had been cleaned completely of alcohol, the theatre kid returned to the garage. He stood over his silent stepfather.

“Hey, Dad. Oh, wait.” He smirked. “Why do I even call you that?”                 

He returned the axe to the garage’s pile of tools and headed inside to clean up the mess. After he put everything away, that floor shone brighter than his yearly straight-A report card. He smiled.

The theatre kid soon returned to school, but the last bell had rung, letting classes out for the day. The principal walked up to the kid, ordering him to return to school on Saturday for a make-up day. He looked at her, wondering how she could display such calmness, and walked away.    

 “Young man.” The principal marched up to him, stopping him, and crossed her arms, looking at him dead in the eye. “Come on, theatre kid.” She slapped a hand on his bony shoulder. “You can show us big time!”

“Yes, ma’am.”              

“Right. Thank you.”     

That Saturday, the theatre kid stood in front of the audience of middle schoolers, that piece of paper in his hand. Some of them had their arms crossed while others sniffed rudely. “Come on—we’re not wasting our morning waiting for you! Say it already.”

“Just hold on.” The principal had her finger up, and the kid blew a sigh. She moved her head so she got the theatre kid’s attention, and they looked right at her. “He’ll apologize. When he’s ready. The paper’s already been edited. It’s an apology note—not a speech.”      

The principal smiled cheerily and nodded, looking directly at the theatre kid. He nodded quietly at her. Then he began. “I want to apologize for my attitude. But I shouldn’t. My stepfather should be doing all the apologizing! You see, he—”

 “Oh, come on. We’re not therapists! Just get on with it.”

The principal jumped up and looked at all of them, hands on hips. “We’re not here to criticize. We’re here to help!” She looked over at the stage manager. He looked at her a minute, mouth open, and then he shuffled in his seat.

“I don’t know what he’s written!” The stage manager rolled his eyes. “Besides, I’ve been trying to help! And all I get is disrespect.” He jerked a finger. “From him.”

“Maybe he’s going to tell us something.”

“I don’t need some backstory. There’s no reason he can’t write—and give— an apologetic speech!”    

The principal didn’t respond but simply walked out the aisle and up the ramp towards the double doors. “Yeah, see,” the stage manager roared to the theatre kid, “you started the tomato fight! And now you’re going to get it!” Then he smirked. “Now you’re going to get the disrespect you deserve.”

I would just like to be heard, you know? Going home to a drunk stepfather who’s married to a negligent woman isn’t exactly easy. I would just like to be…” The theatre kid clutched his sheet of paper and looked right at it. “Heard! You hear me?”   

The stage manager crossed his arms. “I’ll have heard you. When you’re done.”           

The next day, the theatre kid called the authorities and had his stepfather be put in prison. He spent the next night after school that week cleaning the middle schoolers’ seats. Then he stood right up. “I had missed it!” Tears formed, and he let them stream down his face. Then the pounding of shoes startled him.     

The theatre kid left the bucket there, evading the stage manager. He missed the next few weeks of school. But he returned every weekend to make up the days he had missed. He bought a German Shepherd puppy, but then gave it away when it peed in his room. The theatre kid sulked around town, scowling at passersby.

Finally, he was running on a sidewalk. A honk blared at him and then—

“Tyler! Tyler.”

The theatre kid woke up groggily. “Where am I?”

“In the hospital. You got hit by a school bus.”

The theatre kid jerked up, but nurses ran to calm him, helping him lay back down on the bed. He ripped sheets off, yelling for the women to leave! Commanding him to stop, the nurses forced him to lay down. The theatre kid let them, crashing onto the bed. Breathing hard, he stared up at the ceiling.

“All I’ve wanted is to perform for my family. Dad’s in the grave. My vain mother can’t even pull herself away from work long enough to see me put my own makeup on. Stepdad’s just a bag of poop. No one cares. No one ever did!” Then he looked over. The stage manager had his hands hooked onto his belt. He had a warm glow on his face, and his lips were pursed.

“I rescued you, son. I need your cooperation.” 

The theatre kid struggled as he took a breath.

The theatre kid stayed in the hospital for the next two and a half months. The middle schoolers, stage manager and principal all visited him every weekend. They even gave him little pats on the head to replace hugs. The theatre kid smiled. The principal said she swore she saw a gleam of happiness sparkle for once in those wintery-cold eyes.

When he was all healed three months later, his mother greeted him while he lay on the couch, doing homework. But the theatre kid looked over, drove his eyes right into his mother’s grey ones and said, “I’m performing my magic show this Saturday. Hope you’ll be there—Mom.”

“Oh! I…” She pawed at her briefcase, pulled out a calendar and licked a finger, checking it. “I hope I can make it. I do have a conference this weekend—”

“You’ll be there.” The theatre kid stretched a thin smile. “You’ll be wowed. I just sent Rick to jail. No more fearful abandonment. No more negligence. You can be the parent I never had. Neglectful Dad isn't here anymore. Besides, Rick might escape jail to pound it in my face that a nuisance like me just threw away all his alcohol!”       

Her mascara-laden eyes dimmed and a heavy lipstick-smeared mouth started to speak. “I…I do want to be that mother you never had. I just…the conferences and my friends—”

“You’re my mother. Hope you’ll be there tonight, Mom. Because I’ll perform the best magic tricks yet!”

Then he walked away, tears in his eyes. Audience, here I come. Then he shook his head sarcastically and entered his room, slamming the door. If I can.

Late that night, the theatre kid saw that the stage manager was on Facebook.

Hey son. I’m sorry for my rudeness. I didn’t know.

Didn’t know about what?

It doesn’t matter. We all make mistakes, son.

The theatre kid blinked. Son. He calls me son all the time.

The next night, while all the cast members was being congratulated by parents and friends, the stage manager pulled the theatre kid aside. He said he had always expected all older students to demonstrate respect to everyone—no matter the reason for their attitude. He shoved his hands in his big paint pants.

“You taught me. All this time, I didn’t know a kid could be so angry. So upset. But,” he wiped his nose with a hand, “wow, you’re out of the hospital. You’re done with Rick. You’re done with double school on Saturdays. There needs to be a soft spot. I guess I needed that.” He nodded firmly. “I needed—”

The theatre kid shook his head. “My mom wasn’t even here! She wasn’t. She won’t.”

“You’re right. But when others don’t care, will you?” He clapped a hand on the theatre kid’s shoulder, and walked slowly away.    

The theatre kid returned to the dressing room and stood before the mirror. “Bye. Bye, Rick.” And, jamming his hands in his pockets, he left. I’m getting myself a German Shepherd. One who’ll be my stage assistant as I perform my magic!

He bought a talking companion. They enjoy each other.

Every day.