Tell Me a Secret Read Online Free PDF Page B
Author: Holly Cupala
it kind of sad that Essence showed up with “I wanna be Brenda” written all over her face. Even sadder, she deserved it.
Essence’s bedroom had always been lined with show posters where she had played a chorus bird or a maid or, more recently, the lead’s best friend or mother. Delaney was right. She wasn’t lead material. She was chunky, whiny, on the underside of pretty. Just right for comic relief. Someone who’s holding you back, Delaney had said.
Essence stayed after church to help set up for auditions, and I realized I was part of this bizarre love triangle: Essence wanting my mother’s attention and my mother wanting mine. If only Essence was my mother’s daughter, then everybody might be happy.
“How was your summer?” I asked.
“Fine.”
We were in the same spot where we’d met in second grade, the day Xanda showed up at the Mother’s Day fashion show in a dress identical to mine and Mom’s, only hers was shredded and paired with biker boots. We landed on the front page of the Seattle Times’ “Arts and Living” section under the headline PRETEEN PUNK FASHIONISTA CRASHES CHURCH FUNDRAISER —the succubus, the church lady, and me. A new girl stood by in awe—about my age, with freckles and a tan from someplacefar removed from the Northwest. She and her mom wore long, crinkled skirts and peasant blouses with strands of clay beads. Definitely not from Seattle.
The girl came up to me after the show, bubbling over with smiles and excitement. “That was your sister?” I nodded. I could hardly believe it myself.
Before long, we were inseparable, even if my sister found her annoying and my mom found her undesirable—Essence’s family fell in easily with Seattleites militant about fair trade, growing their own organic food, and recycling everything from plastics to clothing—exactly what my mom found distasteful about the Northwest. When her mom joined the prayer chain, mine made sure she was on the opposite end. Still, Essence tried out for every one of my mom’s plays without fail.
Apparently some things hadn’t changed.
“Honey,” my mom called from upstage, “could you read some of this script? I’m trying to see if it will be a good section for the tryouts.” Which was weird, because clearly she had already put painstaking thought into every detail. My reading would be of no consequence.
Essence jumped to my mother’s side. “I could read, Mrs. Mathison,” she gushed. “I think your work is amazing. In fact—”
My mom barely gave her a glance. “All right, Essence. How about you read for the father.”
“The father?” Essence’s smile faltered. “Um, okay, Mrs.Mathison. But I’d really like to try out for the part of—”
“Mandy, you read for the part of Brenda.” Essence looked like she wanted to take my mother right up to the baptismal waters and introduce her to some redemption. But she took the script.
The two of us got up on the stage, towering over the pews. I tried not to think about performance night, when they would be filled and each line I spoke would be a nail pounding into my throat. I never wanted to be on this stage again.
So the two of us read while my mother blocked out the scene with masking tape. Essence made a better father than I made a Brenda. I would have told her if she hadn’t been giving me the nastiest look she could muster—prim, exaggerated, almost cartoonish. At that moment I could see her exactly the way Delaney did. Part of me hated myself for it.
When others started showing up, my mother waved us down. “Don’t want to let any cats out of the bag,” she sang. If any cats were going to escape, I was hoping to be the first.
“All right,” Mom said in a loud, competent voice, “I want to keep this fairly simple. We’ll do leads first, then the supporting cast so I can get an idea of whose talent is suited for what.” This was the control-freak dream—everyone looking to her to tell them what to do. Everyone but me. She
Essence’s bedroom had always been lined with show posters where she had played a chorus bird or a maid or, more recently, the lead’s best friend or mother. Delaney was right. She wasn’t lead material. She was chunky, whiny, on the underside of pretty. Just right for comic relief. Someone who’s holding you back, Delaney had said.
Essence stayed after church to help set up for auditions, and I realized I was part of this bizarre love triangle: Essence wanting my mother’s attention and my mother wanting mine. If only Essence was my mother’s daughter, then everybody might be happy.
“How was your summer?” I asked.
“Fine.”
We were in the same spot where we’d met in second grade, the day Xanda showed up at the Mother’s Day fashion show in a dress identical to mine and Mom’s, only hers was shredded and paired with biker boots. We landed on the front page of the Seattle Times’ “Arts and Living” section under the headline PRETEEN PUNK FASHIONISTA CRASHES CHURCH FUNDRAISER —the succubus, the church lady, and me. A new girl stood by in awe—about my age, with freckles and a tan from someplacefar removed from the Northwest. She and her mom wore long, crinkled skirts and peasant blouses with strands of clay beads. Definitely not from Seattle.
The girl came up to me after the show, bubbling over with smiles and excitement. “That was your sister?” I nodded. I could hardly believe it myself.
Before long, we were inseparable, even if my sister found her annoying and my mom found her undesirable—Essence’s family fell in easily with Seattleites militant about fair trade, growing their own organic food, and recycling everything from plastics to clothing—exactly what my mom found distasteful about the Northwest. When her mom joined the prayer chain, mine made sure she was on the opposite end. Still, Essence tried out for every one of my mom’s plays without fail.
Apparently some things hadn’t changed.
“Honey,” my mom called from upstage, “could you read some of this script? I’m trying to see if it will be a good section for the tryouts.” Which was weird, because clearly she had already put painstaking thought into every detail. My reading would be of no consequence.
Essence jumped to my mother’s side. “I could read, Mrs. Mathison,” she gushed. “I think your work is amazing. In fact—”
My mom barely gave her a glance. “All right, Essence. How about you read for the father.”
“The father?” Essence’s smile faltered. “Um, okay, Mrs.Mathison. But I’d really like to try out for the part of—”
“Mandy, you read for the part of Brenda.” Essence looked like she wanted to take my mother right up to the baptismal waters and introduce her to some redemption. But she took the script.
The two of us got up on the stage, towering over the pews. I tried not to think about performance night, when they would be filled and each line I spoke would be a nail pounding into my throat. I never wanted to be on this stage again.
So the two of us read while my mother blocked out the scene with masking tape. Essence made a better father than I made a Brenda. I would have told her if she hadn’t been giving me the nastiest look she could muster—prim, exaggerated, almost cartoonish. At that moment I could see her exactly the way Delaney did. Part of me hated myself for it.
When others started showing up, my mother waved us down. “Don’t want to let any cats out of the bag,” she sang. If any cats were going to escape, I was hoping to be the first.
“All right,” Mom said in a loud, competent voice, “I want to keep this fairly simple. We’ll do leads first, then the supporting cast so I can get an idea of whose talent is suited for what.” This was the control-freak dream—everyone looking to her to tell them what to do. Everyone but me. She