Blog

“Mrs. Franklin?” 

“Yes?”

“This is Mrs. O.  As you know we’re having pageant practice today after school with both the elementary and middle school students.  I’m calling because I need some help.”

“Some help?”

“I had another parent who volunteered to be the backstage manager.  But I just found out that she’s been called out of town to care for her ailing father.  I’m truly in a bind.  The pageant is in eleven days.  Is there any way you could take over the position?  Could you be our backstage manager?”

I swallow.  Wow.  One more massive assignment to add to my list of things to accomplish before Christmas.  But how can I say no?  

Both Everett and my bitty twins are in this pageant.  I’ll be disappointed myself if it doesn’t run smoothly.  I’m laughing because now I’m going to have the same job as my daughter.  She’s still gearing up for the high school musical, running the backstage.  Making sure everyone is where they’re supposed to be with the correct sets and props.  Their performances will be the last Thursday and Friday evenings before Christmas.  My little guys’ pageant is the Friday before theirs.  We are going to have more than two extremely busy weeks at the rate we’re moving.

Sighing, I respond reluctantly, “Okay.”

I can hear Mrs. O heaving an entirely different kind of sigh.  “Thank you!” she reacts emphatically.  “So, can you be here at three today?”

“I’ll be there.  The auditorium at the elementary school?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll see you then.”  

Thankfully, I don’t have to pick Janna and Kookie up until seven o’clock.  It’s going to be a late dinner for all of us tonight.  I’m thinking pizza.

—

At three o’clock on the button I walk into the auditorium.  Expecting to meet absolute chaos.  But I run into only Mrs. O, a very cheerful woman in her early seventies who has the endurance and verve of the Energizer bunny.  She puts to shame most of the thirty-year-olds I know.  She’s a whirlwind of activity and good humor.  She spends the next half hour acquainting me with the stage, the props, the costumes, and the pageant script.  By the time the children begin to show up, I am well-versed in what they need.

In the midst of helping children find their proper spot on the stage and their correct lines on the page, I observe an adorable middle school girl staring at my son, Everett.  She has her light blonde hair pulled away from her face into two French braids.  They trail halfway down her slender back.  She’s got the most gorgeous, green eyes.  Like sparkling emeralds.  Wide open to the world with a compelling innocence.  Those eyes seem full of stars as they drink in my son’s golden glory.  

This little girl has a very sweet face.  It’s even shaped like a heart.  And I’m pretty sure I know what’s hidden in her heart.  For it is written all over that beautiful face.  An adoring love of my second son.

“Who’s that?” I ask Everett when I get a chance.  I gesture towards her while she’s on the stage saying her lines.  This is the first moment I’ve caught her not looking at my handsome son.

He shrugs his shoulders.  “Allie.”

“Is she a friend of yours?”

Again, those shoulders bounce up and down.  “She’s in my class,” he sighs.  “She follows me around sometimes.  But, Mommy, she stares at me all the time.  I constantly catch her looking at me.  It’s so annoying!”

I smile at him.  His father could have accused me of the same thing in college.  I’m pretty sure I made him feel self-conscious too.

“Everett, she likes you.”

He turns his head to stare up at me.  “What?  She likes me?”  He glances at her.  She’s only about fifteen feet away from him.  He stares in consternation at her.  “You don’t mean that she has a crush on me, do you?”

I lean over and whisper into his ear, “Actually, that’s exactly what I mean.”

“Noooo!” He slaps his fingers against his forehead, covering his nose with his palm.

“What’s the matter?  She’s pretty cute, and she seems very sweet.”

He groans, “She is.  But No has a crush on her.”

Uh-oh.  Trouble in paradise.

“I see,” I murmur, not quite ready to deal with this new development.

And I don’t have to.  For right at that moment, I’m called away to help another student.  Which is how I discover another little girl irritating one of my younger sons.  Alastair is sitting on the front row with Abner.  They’re both watching the stage.  But Alastair keeps sending annoyed glances at a little girl sitting on the other side of him.  My eyes follow his gaze.

I see a cute girl with wavy, chestnut hair and matching glasses.  Dark brown, I mean.  Not wavy.  She’s staring at Alastair with an odd expression cloaking her features.  Suddenly, I see her index finger pop up and poke him on the shoulder.  His head swings her way.  Her eyes are now trained on the stage.  She appears innocent.  But we both know that she just poked him.  A few more moments and that finger flicks him again.  I watch this same scenario play itself out four more times.  The last time my long-suffering son can take no more.

“Savannah!  Stop it!” he yells in her face.

She appears stunned.  Then her brow furrows releasing two deep ridges between her eyebrows.  A scowl darkens the bottom half of her face.

“Mrs. O!” she instantly howls.  “Alastair just yelled at me.”

I’m not letting this go down.  Not at all.  I walk across the stage, coming to stand right in front of the little twerp.  

“That’s because you just poked him in the shoulder more than five times.”

As she opens her mouth to argue, I beat her to the chase.  “Don’t bother denying it.  I saw you do it.  Every time.  Alastair was pretty patient with you.  He gave you several chances to stop before he said anything.”

Mrs. O cocks an auburn eyebrow.  “Savannah, why are you bothering Alastair?”

I see the girl eyeing me.  She’s trying to figure out if she can get away with a lie.  I can feel her concocting one.  Her eyes leave mine to find the teacher.

“He’s supposed to be helping me practice my lines.  But he’s ignoring me,” she whines.

“What makes you think Alastair is supposed to help you with your lines?” Mrs. O asks. 

“Because Mrs. Earhart told us to work with a partner.”

“But she never said you were my partner,” Alastair responds.  “Abner is my partner.”

Alastair looks mighty relieved to be able to cling to his little brother right now.

Mrs. O eyeballs the girl.  “Savannah, it is never nice to bug someone.  Alastair is not ever going to want to work with you if you keep pestering him.  Keep your hands – and feet – to yourself.”  Then the busy pageant director turns back to her current actors.  But I continue to keep an eye on a certain little twerp.

Now I watch while a tremor crosses her face as she stares at my son.  

Ahhh.  Just as I suspected.  She has a crush on Alastair.  And apparently has no idea what to do with her feelings.  So she’s been doing anything to get his attention.  Even resorting to making herself repellent to him.

I shake my head.  They’re eight years old!  I thought I’d have a few more years before I had to deal with any of this.  I mean, come on!  I’m already dealing with teenage angst with Kookie and Janna.  Do I really need preteen drama and elementary conflicts too?

I sigh.  You know what they say.  The show must go on. 

So I turn back to my duties as the backstage manager.  Leaving Alastair to fend for himself.