Page 26 of The Big Easy & Other Lies
I dared to watch the audience at the edge of the stage. Smiles. Laughs. One seething look from Kaci, the resident diva who, if I read her face correctly, would probably knife me to play Rhett’s princess puppet. That bothered me. I didn’t ask to be on the stage. I thought for a minute about throwing in “and then.” That’s what Mr. Gervis called one of his “rules of improv.” It happened when one of the actors in the scene added some new element. It could be spoken or unspoken. I could throw in my own “and then.” Rhett said, “I’ve made a puppet.” And then I could come to life, cut my strings, dance and laugh. And then everyone would stare and wonder what got into quiet Cam Landry.
No.
I ignored Kaci and her jealousy, and I didn’t cut my strings. When Rhett said, “Well done, princess,” and dropped his hands, I let mine fall to my sides too. “Scene,” he said, and the class burst into applause.
I hurried to the wings, anxious to escape the limelight. Rhett sat down, and Mr. Gervis nodded at me. I exited and breathed a sigh of relief in the design room. Several of the design students followed me back.
“Good job, Cam.” It was Chloe, a girl almost as quiet as me. I wondered if it was because she was the only Black girl in the class. I liked her. She had mad sewing skills. We often worked together when Mrs. Broussard ordered us into pairs.
“Thanks.”
“Were you nervous?” she asked.
The eight other people in the room were trying to act like they weren’t eavesdropping, so I shrugged and nodded.
“You did good,” she said and smiled before turning back to her sewing machine.
I studied Livvie’s skirt and tried to project fierce concentration to discourage anyone else from approaching me, especially Tara, who would most likely be deputized by her dark overlord Angelique to say something snotty if I gave her a chance.
When everyone else reverted back to normal chatter, I gathered up the two panels of the skirt and headed toward the sewing machines.
Winding the bobbin and threading the needle soothed me, the way good routines do. When I pressed the foot pedal to send the corduroy through and stitch the side seam, my stress evaporated. As soon as the whir of the machine sounded, my mind blanked and I focused on nothing but the movement of the fabric under the needle, mesmerized as stitches materialized in a perfect row.
No one bothered me for the next forty minutes, and when the bell rang, I had the whole skirt assembled with only the hem left to do. Every time I had thought about Rhett, I’d shoved him right back out of my head, and now I had a skirt to show for it. The mini was cute and proportioned well for Livvie’s petite frame. I’d sewn so many clothes for her over the last three years that I knew it would fit. She never minded acting as my model for design projects because she got to keep the clothes. She loved them, and I loved not having to model them myself.
The bell rang and small knots of seminar students filtered in from outside. When the stage entrance opened, I knew who to expect without looking up.
“Hey,” I said to the shadow that fell across my machine a moment later.
“Hi,” Rhett said. “You’re a good puppet.” I looked up then, and he winced. “That sounded creepy. Sorry.”
“And I’m sorry I got us called out.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
I snipped the threads holding the skirt to the sewing machine and shook it out. Livvie would love it. I hoped. I laid it back in my lap and stared up at him. “Have a seat,” I said. “Otherwise, I’m going to get a neckache.”
He pulled a chair from a nearby table and straddled it, folding his arms across the back. “Aren’t you worried everybody is going to point and stare at us again?”
I shrugged and accepted reality. “They’re going to do it anyway after all that. I can’t make them stop.”
He smiled. “I’m supposed to meet Angelique here. I was going to ask what you’re doing, but I guess I’ve figured it out. What’s your capstone project?”
I held up the skirt. “I’m re-imagining the kilt for modern culture and examining the anthropological implications of manning up inherently feminine clothing.”
“That’s … ambitious,” he said, trying to sound diplomatic.
“It’s also garbage,” I said. “This is just a gift for Livvie.”
He grinned. “So what’s your real project?”
“How did you hear about the capstone already? The headmaster didn’t even give you a day to settle in before dropping that on you?”
“I had to agree to it for them to accept me as a transfer. You guys started working on this stuff last year, right?”
I nodded. “I think that’s why everyone is so shocked they let you in as a senior. You’re going to have to play catch up. The capstone is kinda what makes LaSalle a big deal.” I thought about it. “That, and our basketball team.”
His smile dimmed. “My uncle is persuasive.”
