Free Enchantments by Linda Ferri Page B

parts by age, it's all over for me. And in fact I hearAnna saying to me, “You're a year younger than me, so you'll be Jo, the second—”
    “No, that's impossible, that's out!” I suddenly explode, stamping my feet because I want, I want no matter what, the part of sweet, tender, beloved Beth, who plays the piano and then comes down with scarlet fever and dies, breaking everybody's heart.
    “Well, who do you want to be then if you won't be Jo?” Anna asks.
    “Beth” comes out in a hoarse whisper, but when they all ask why, I can't say—I'm in the grip of a shameful dark wish, and the more ashamed I am, the more I insist. “I want to be Beth.” I'm so unreasonable and obstinate, even threatening to go home, that Anna is forced to give in. “All right,” she says, “but that means that Gabriella will have to be Jo.”
    It's only now, now that I'm worn out and guilty, that I can think of plausible arguments. “Yes—Gabriella is perfect for the part. She's independent and lively, just like Jo. And she likes books, just like Jo. Isn't that right, Gabriella? Whereas I prefer music … “
    So Clara will be Amy. They're both the youngest, and they both have turned-up noses.
    My sister protests, “But I'm not vain likeAmy.” She says this in a whiny voice, on the brink of a tantrum, and I'm so afraid that something will happen to unsettle the casting that I sweetly reassure her, “Of course you're not. When you act you have to pretend to be a certain way, and you're not vain at all, so if you can make us all
believe
you are, you'll be a really good actress. See?”
    Yes, she seems to have gotten the idea, because she's rummaging through the basket of barrettes, ribbons, and brooches, reconciled to adorning her hair as elaborately as the script calls for. “And don't forget this,” I say, handing her a clothespin. “You have to put it on your nose the way Amy does to keep it from growing too wide.”
    “But it'll hurt.”
    “If you want to be a good actress, you have to be prepared to make sacrifices,” I say sharply, I the good Beth. Anna comes to the rescue. “You don't have to wear it the whole time. I'll give you a signal during the scene when it's time to put it on.” And each of us finishes gathering up the bits and pieces of her costume in silence.
    I consider my booty on a corner of the bed: a long satin dress with a purple skirt and a lilac top, a snood, a bowl of flour, and gray eye shadow.
    I get dressed in front of the mirror and gather my hair up in the snood. With a cotton ball I cover my face with flour, a nice thick layer. With the eye shadow I turn my eyes into two ghostly sockets. I'm very happy with the effect, and I ignore Clara when she says that I look as if I'm already dead. Anna and Gabriella don't seem particularly keen either, but because of my earlier outburst they avoid saying anything. At last we're ready, and Anna says, “I'll begin with the scene where the sisters get the letter from their father after he's gone to war.”
    I object, “But that's practically at the beginning. If we do all the chapters we'll never get to the end.”
    “Well, I'm sorry, but what's the big hurry?” Anna asks, beginning to lose patience.
    “It's not that we have to hurry,” I try to explain. “It's just that the story gets more beautiful toward the middle.” But this time she has no intention of giving up. The play will go on according to the novel. So we do the scene with the letter, the scene where they meet the kind Laurie (played by an eight-inch wooden Pinoc-chio), who's the nephew of the grumpy and very rich Mister Lawrence, who gives a piano to Beth (we also play that scene), et cetera et cetera. Then—finally—we get to my big moment.
    So far I've played my part wearing a mask of flour; now I dump the whole bowl onto my face. With the eye shadow I transform my eyes into even more livid slits, and as a final touch I put some gray eye shadow on my lips. And I'm ready to die, body