The Fat Lady Sings by Charlie Lovett Page B

asked you here?"
    I figured you just wanted to get to know my sparkling personality. "Yes, sir."
    "I've had a phone call from Mrs. Estella Parsons. I believe you know her daughter Melissa."
    Know her -- I'm playing opposite her in a brilliant and witty musical penned by yours truly. "Yes, sir."
    "Mrs. Parsons informed me that her daughter has been sneaking out of the house to rehearse some sort of -- play in what I gather is a condemned factory building." He says the word "play" like it's some disgusting, slimy, primeval creature he found on his desk. "Mrs. Parsons was very upset. As I understand it, Melissa has been grounded for the rest of the semester."
    I can't believe Melissa didn't tell her parents. It's not like we're doing anything wrong -- we're showing initiative. Now we're going to have to find a new Suzy halfway through rehearsals. And another thing, why would Squatty Watty even waste his time talking to the mother of a drama geek like Melissa?
    And then I remember. Oh crap. Melissa Parsons's brother plays football. Melissa was bragging on him the other day. Apparently he got a scholarship to be a wide something-or-other at Carolina. Just my luck -- because if Tyler Parsons doesn't play football, then Watkins doesn't take the call from his mother, he doesn't care what Melissa is up to, and I'm not sitting here.
    "Yes, sir."
    "I'm sure I don't need to tell you, Miss Stockdale, that the school cannot condone this sort of activity -- an unauthorized club trespassing in a dangerous building and drawing resources and attention away from our theatre department."
    What is he talking about? We're not a club. And our show has nothing to do with the school. He can't tell me what I can and can't do on my own time and off school property. And what does he mean "drawing resources" from the theatre department? They cast their show first, we're just the rejects. Elliot's the only person on our team who's in Dolly, and he hasn't missed a single rehearsal. And Suzanne hasn't actually "borrowed" any lighting equipment -- yet.
    "But, sir -- "
    "This is not a discussion, Miss Stockdale. I merely asked you here to inform you that your little group will no longer be meeting. In the absence of any other sponsor, the community will assume that Piedmont Day is behind this -- production. I cannot have that -- it would reflect poorly on both the school and on me personally. Your play will not take place. If it does, you and your friends will be expelled from Piedmont Day, your records will be frozen, and your educational future will be reduced to community college."
    There are so many things I could say right now: "It's not a play, it's a musical, you uncultured cretin," "How do you know it will reflect poorly! How do you know the whole town won't be saying 'wow, those Piedmont Day kids sure are talented,'" "Is everyone on your home planet evil, or is that why you got exiled to Earth?"
    But I just sink into my chair, crushed, and mumble, "Yes, sir."
    "That is all," he says, and a moment later I'm out in the harsh light of day, blinking back tears and wondering how in the world I'm going to tell everyone else that "the man" not only exists but has just destroyed us.
    I'm late for rehearsal. I mean, wouldn't you be? I have to walk in and tell everybody it's over. We'll have to give Mrs. Baxter her money back -- at least what Suzanne hasn't spent. We'll have to take this amazing self-motivated activity off our college applications. We'll look like complete failures to everyone who knew what we were doing.
    But I don't even care about all that. The fat kid fails again, so what. I've been there plenty of times before. I didn't want this so we could get into college or make friends -- I wanted this because it was the best thing that's ever happened to me.
    I mean, sure, we had some rocky spots and a few arguments, but putting on a show with your best friends -- well, I used to think there was nothing better than that. Turns out there is -- putting