Shy Page 5

  Davy, Davy Crocket, king of the wild frontier.

  My parents hadn’t yet replaced our black-and-white TV since it had broken the year before, and would be thrilled if I brought home a colour set. The blender would be great, too; Renata’s mom had one and made smoothies for her all the time.

  We longed to gamble our lemonade fortunes in hopes of winning one of the prizes, but the cigarette smoke from the Bingo players inside formed a forbidding cloud.

  We let down the tent flap and were walking across the grass to the popcorn cart when a deep voice boomed over the microphone: “Well, lookie over there! If it isn’t the lemonade girls.”

  We turned around. Though we were outside the tent, the Bingo Master had a clear view and recognized us from behind. “Turn around for a moment girls and give us a wave,” his voice coaxed into the microphone.

  My bare legs started to shake and my heart pounded so hard the silkscreened kitten on my red T-shirt crawled. It was him. He was the Bingo Master.

  “How many of you folks bought lemonade from these girls today? Raise your cups if you did.”

  A few familiar faces raised their hands.

  “How about you girls join us in the Big Top for a game? There are plenty of seats.”

  I was trapped by the insistence in his words. He had bought our lemonade, so I felt I owed him something in return.

  “Over there are two spots between Joyce and Marie.” He pointed at two grey-haired women. Renata and I wove our way to the blue picnic bench in the middle and squeezed in. Ashtrays overflowed on tabletops zigzagged with cracks.

  A teenage boy in a red-and-white-striped apron brought our cards, and collected the three-dollar playing fee.

  “In honour of my very special guests, the ‘lemonade girls,’ we are going to play Coverall. You need to fill up one entire card.” He held up a card and covered it with his gloved hand.

  The metal mesh of the bench dug into the backs of my thighs. I felt nauseous and gauged the distance to the porta-potties near the entrance.

  “Good luck and let the game begin!” he announced into the microphone.

  He turned the handle of the Bingo cage, and the coloured balls popped around inside. The machine reminded me of the hot-air popcorn popper displayed amongst the prizes.

  “First square, B-14. B-14, ladies and gentlemen. Do we have a B-14?” Renata and I both had B-14.

  “Next square N-32. N-3-2. Does anyone have N-32?” I had N-32. Renata didn’t.

  “I-29, G-47, O-62,” he announced in rapid succession. My heart raced. I quickly filled up my squares. If I won, that would mean actually standing up and shouting “BINGO” in front of all these strangers. But, I wasn’t a winner; I never won at anything.

  “N-45, B-3, I-20, O-70. Only two more squares to fill and…

  “N-40, B-12.”

  My card looked like a cardboard quilt. No empty squares. My vision blurred and time slowed down. Renata and the elderly woman on my left urged me on. My thighs were itchy and had a red criss-cross pattern on them.

  “Um, Bingo?” I cried.

  Bingo Master noticed right away. He’d kept his dark glasses on during the entire game, but I felt his eyes were on me.

  “We’ve got a winner over here! I knew when I first saw her that she was born under a lucky star. Come on up, young lady. Show me what you’ve got.”

  On rubber legs I wove between the tables to the front. I felt all eyes upon me, and kept my head bent low. He took off his glasses, the way he’d done that morning, and re-read the numbers out loud. I felt the weight of his hands on my shoulders and he turned me toward the wall of prizes. I was to pick anything I wanted.

  The tent was silent. In front of all these people, what I chose would define me. I was frozen with fear and wondered what Renata would have picked. I looked at the TV, the blender, the turntable, but I didn’t want to appear greedy. I pointed to the first and most easily accessible prize on the lower shelf. A pink, synthetic blanket folded into a clear plastic cover.

  “What? That? asked the Bingo Master in an unbelieving tone. “Come on, you must be kidding? He swept his arms across the wall. “Look at the goldmine of winnings! Are you sure you want this blanket?”

  I nodded.

  “What about the bicycle or the barbeque set?”

  I wanted him to leave me alone. I wanted to disappear. Bingo Master’s eyes squinted in confusion. He bent down to retrieve the synthetic blanket slowly, as if allowing me time to change my mind.

  “You’re sure?” he asked.

  I wanted to scream at him, “Of course I’m not sure. Of course I don’t want this ugly blanket. You’re an adult, aren’t you supposed to help me? Can’t you just pick the bicycle or that great barbeque set for me?”

  Instead, I nodded and held out both hands. There was the rush of applause. I averted my eyes as I returned to my seat.

  “It’s a nice blanket,” Renata said with a limp smile, and put her hand on my shoulder. I hung my head and wondered how we’d share it.

  The Bingo Master continued calling the letters and numbers, but with seemingly less enthusiasm.

  I lived in the shadow of this shyness until well into my adult life.

  The night it began to shift was Christmas Eve, a decade ago. I was returning home by train to Osaka where my then-husband and my three-year-old waited. I’d worked a one-night job as a well-paid “Bunny Girl” at a Lions Club convention in Kyoto on what was the holiest night of the year for me. When I got home there was a gift for me from my husband, under our little white Christmas tree. A tube of red lipstick—a shade I’d never wear. I tried it on, and though it was far too bold a colour, it was excellent for writing on the bathroom mirror. “Find my voice,” I scrawled at the top, so as not to interfere with daily grooming rituals, but bold enough for me to take notice.

  It didn’t happen overnight, and a decade later, across an ocean, remarried, raising a teen and a toddler, I still struggle with bouts of insecurity and guilt. But if I won at a Bingo game today, I’d be sure to pick the biggest, baddest prize on the wall.

  High School Shyku

  LORI D. ROADHOUSE

  No, I can’t go out.

  I’m babysitting that night.

  Sorry.

  Young Expressions

  EVE S. KRAKOW

  IT HAPPENS TO EVERYONE at some point: a blast from the past. You run into someone you haven’t seen for years, maybe ten, maybe twenty, and you are jolted back to another time, another life.

  Hi Eve, it’s Sean!

  Which Sean? From Young Expressions, of course! I’ve been trying to find you for ages! I have a stack of your old letters next to me on my computer desk. I see by your profile photo that you have two lovely children. I would love to hear what you’re up to these days.

  Best wishes,

  Sean

  P.S. Have you seen the YEP Facebook page? Check it out!

  My insides jumped a mile high when I saw that email. Sean. Young Expressions.

  Young Expressions, or YEP as we called it back then, was a performing arts group I joined as a teen. The group gave me the chance to act, to sing, and even to write. But it did so much more than that. It was a magical place far, far away from the dinginess of high school. YEP gave me a chance to rid myself of the awkwardness that followed and clung to me like the stench of skunk. YEP was a refuge, a fresh start. Sitting on the carpeted floor that first day at the rehearsal space in an old warehouse, listening to the director as she sat on the floor in front of us talking to us as equals—I sensed this day marked a new beginning.

  I met people I never would have come into contact with otherwise: poor kids, rich kids, kids from troubled backgrounds. We put together shows about racism, the nuclear arms race, domestic violence, teen suicide. I spent all my weekends with Young Expressions and then my entire summer. Our rehearsal space felt more like home than my real home. In my last year of high school, I was even chosen to be part of the group’s European Tour.

  Then
I started college, made new friends, and started seeing a guy. Eventually I left YEP behind, like something I’d outgrown.

  And now, twenty years later, a message.

  I visit the YEP Facebook page. I scan the group member names, recognizing about half. I read through some of the posts. People have been listing their “Top 10” memories, mostly funny incidents, the material of inside jokes.

  I want to say hello, to reach out to them, to let them know I’m here. But I hesitate. Twenty years.

  I hover, observe, unobserved, invisible. Just like back then. But it’s different this time—I just want to find the right words. Because once you click “share” your words are there forever. These people don’t know me anymore, and I want to leave the right impression. It’s so easy to come across as stupid in these posts. I’ll post a comment soon. I just need to think about what to say.

  In that quiet hour when the kids are finally in bed and the dishes washed, I open my closet, push the clothing aside, and pull out my box of YEP paraphernalia.

  I carry the box to the dining room and spread the contents out on the table. There are old programs, pages from show scripts, newspaper clippings. All in black and white, like an old movie. With each item I turn over, memories race back. Here’s the program from the first summer festival, glossy pages bursting with expectation. A schedule of the shows, with dates, times, and theatre numbers listed. Part of a play script I’d completely forgotten about. Brittle newspaper clippings about the summer festival. An interview with the director. More scripts, in courier font, held together by staples and paperclips, my notes scribbled in the margins.

  I dig further into the box. At the bottom are my two photo albums from the European Tour. I lift them out. They’re the old kind; the pages have a sticky background covered by a clear plastic sheet. You peel back the sheet, place your photos, then press the plastic back down, trying to smooth out the wrinkles. I turn the pages slowly. They have yellowed; in one album, the glue has dried and the photos are sliding around. I haven’t looked at these albums in a long, long time. The photos are smaller than I remembered. And they’re all so blurry. I thought I was a better photographer than that. Or was it the camera? Finally I realize the fuzziness comes from fading. The colours have become washed out; the contrast is gone.

  Here’s Lulu, posing with puckered red lips in front of the Bulldog bar. Here’s Sean, in that faded jean-jacket I loved so much, standing at a bus stop with Brendan and Étienne making “mouth music,” as I had titled it (my first encounter with beat-box). Here’s Brendan dancing with Solange on the empty stage in Amsterdam. Here’s a group shot, taken in front of a chartered bus.

  Everyone else in the photos looks so hip, so cool. I look awful. Awkward, ugly. Bulky clothing, long unshaped hair that makes my face long and somehow draws attention to my nose. Huge glasses. Ugh. And funny how I have all these pictures of other people in action, being silly, doing things. That was me: always the observer, the outsider, the anti-participant.

  The house is devoid of human sound. The refrigerator hums.

  Looking through the clippings, the faded, photocopied pages of typewritten scripts, the photos, I remember. I begin to make a mental list of my own “Top 10” moments. But I’m not ready to post it on Facebook. I don’t want to put it out there just yet. I wait. I hover. I hesitate. Just a few keystrokes separating thought from action. Fantasy from reality.

  And then I find the diary.

  Montreal, October—, 1986

  Dear Diary,

  We leave tomorrow. We had our final rehearsal this morning. Celia said she was proud of us and gave the usual rah-rah pep talk—not that we needed it, everyone is so excited. Europe, here we come!

  I’m excited but anxious. Everyone in the play seems to have bonded but me. I suppose it’s my own fault but I have no idea how to change the situation. It’s almost as if it’s too late. I’ve built this barrier and the more I think about it, the higher and stronger it gets.

  Day One: Amsterdam

  What a day. Dad brought me to the airport. Everyone came with their parents, but I was still embarrassed. I don’t want to share this world with Dad; he doesn’t understand. Once my bags were checked and he saw that I was in good hands, he gave me a hug. “Have a good time, cookie!”

  I sat with Étienne on the plane. Étienne has the definition of tousled blond hair that you just want to run your fingers through. He is one of the kindest and gentlest people in the group. A good actor, too. Well, pretty much everyone on the tour can act better than me. I’m still not sure why Celia chose me, but I’m ecstatic and thankful that she did.

  When dinner came around in the self-contained packages that are so much fun to open, there was Gouda cheese. Étienne turned to me holding up the packet and said, “Now that’s a good-a cheese!” It was a silly pun but it made me happy.

  Hisako was terrified of flying and drank tons. We had a choice of red or white wine with our meal, but somehow she snuck into the area where the wine was kept and pocketed several bottles. I’ve never seen someone so truly terrified of flying. Or so drunk. She threw up in the bathroom as soon as we landed. Lulu got sick on the plane too. I don’t know if it was nerves or alcohol. Actually, by the time we arrived at the youth hostel, half the cast was sick.

  The hostel is pretty basic. All the girls are in one room and all the guys in another, including the adults with us. But there are twice as many girls, so that’s eleven of us in one big room. The room has bunk beds and a big bathroom with common showers and sinks. Everyone keeps complaining about the lack of privacy, but I don’t mind. I’m happy to be in the same room as everyone else.

  Day Two

  Today we put on our first show. It was amazing! Adrenaline was sky high. Sean and Hisako outdid themselves. I was nervous at first, but once we got on stage I was fine. We’ve rehearsed it so many times I don’t think I could go wrong if I tried.

  We’re staying one week in Amsterdam and one week in Brussels. There’s this guy arranging for schools and youth groups to come see us. After each show we go and sit on the front of the stage, our legs dangling down, and the audience asks us questions about the play. Last night Sean fielded a lot of the questions, as did Hisako, Lulu, and Celia, of course. I listened, fascinated at the ease with which they expressed themselves.

  A child’s cry jolts me back to the present. Like a startled rabbit, I straighten and freeze, straining to hear if one of the kids has woken up. Silence. Maybe Alex was having a bad dream again. I relax but skip ahead in the diary, scanning the entries. Then, a word clutches hold of my stomach.

  …this pain in my gut, boring a hole, and it’s getting deeper and deeper. I saw Étienne give Lulu a hug this morning and I wanted to cry. Every little incident reminds me that I don’t belong, pushes me further into my hole. Now I’m so far down the hole that it seems impossible to climb out. I can’t just come down to breakfast one morning and give everybody hugs like Lulu does, and ask brightly, “So what are we doing today?” The relationships and attitudes have been set.

  I know I have to talk to somebody. I have even decided who: Sean. He has such an easy time communicating with people, and he always seems to know what to say. His ambition is to be a writer. He’s already written a few plays.

  But I have no idea how to approach him.

  Day Seven

  Argh.

  Earlier this afternoon I was sitting here on the top bunk writing in this diary. Everyone else was out. There was a knock on the door, and Sean poked his head in. My heart leapt.

  “Is Sherri here?” he asked.

  “Uh, no. I think she might be downstairs.”

  “I didn’t see her there. I thought she might be up here.”

  “Oh. Well, I don’t know then.”

  There must be something else I can say, I thought, but didn’t know what. He waited a minute at the doorway, almost expectantly, or maybe also trying to think of something else to say.

  “Well, see you later, I guess,” he said
finally.

  “Sure.”

  The moment he shut the door I started kicking myself. Story of my life.

  Day Ten: Brussels

  Our days are a blur of rehearsals, reworking scenes, making changes. We also seem to spend a lot of time waiting: waiting for people to arrive, or for something technical to be fixed. This morning I wandered through the empty theatre to find Solange and Brendan dancing on stage. They seemed to be having so much fun. There was an obvious sexual tension, too. I asked if I could take a picture of them. They posed for the camera.

  Day Eleven

  Something really surprising happened yesterday. I was alone in my room, sitting on my bed reading, when Hisako came in. Hisako and I hardly ever speak to each other. She asked me what was wrong.

  “Nothing,” I said.

  She sat down on my bed, picked up my book from my hands and turned it over to see the cover. “You know, sometimes guys are easier to talk to,” she said. “You might want to talk to Étienne, or Sean. They’re very easygoing.”

  The book was Life is Elsewhere, by Milan Kundera. One of my favourite authors.

  “We’re all here together,” she said. “Sometimes it’s good to just walk up to someone and ask for a hug. Anyone here would understand that.”

  A hug was what I wanted more than anything.

  Hisako handed my book back and left the room.

  Then this morning, as everyone was filtering into the rehearsal space as usual, Étienne came over and said hi. My insides jumped. I’m surprised anytime anyone starts talking to me. I have no idea what to say or what to do with myself. But then he gave me a hug! Hisako must have said something to him.

  Day Twelve