Mira, Mira, Off the Wall

I hate mirrors.

Let me correct that. They’re a necessary evil.

I mean, they do let me know if there’s a curl of kale stuck between two teeth. Or if my acne’s flaring up. Again. Though I can feel that.

But I don’t need a mirror to tell me I’m bloated at that time of the month. By the way, periods rank a close second to mirrors in the necessary evil department. I’m not planning to have kids for years, if at all. So why do I have to bleed now?

But at least that’s only once a month. Mirrors are constant.

And compelling. How can you pass one and not look? Just in case I’ve grown another zit or my pants are unzipped. I even look at my reflection in stores since they’ve got so much glass. After I pull myself up straighter—I tend to slouch—I can practically hear it taunting me. Ugly. Ugly. Ugly.

Ugh.

Who needs to be reminded?

Especially when there are plenty of boys on the bus who seem to get off on doing just that, botching my last name, which happens to be Ughams. But they call me Uglams. Or Ugly Hams. Or sometimes Ugh-ly. Which they repeat at least three times when I get on the bus, and again when I get off.

Ugh-ly. Ugh-ly. Ugh-ly.

What’s wrong with Miranda? Or Mira?

Bad enough they do it, but heck, glass isn’t even alive.

Or is it?

I didn’t think so. Until I hit my unlucky thirteenth birthday,

School wasn’t all that bad. After the usual bus taunts, those boys left me pretty much alone. Mr. Larkin, my homeroom teacher, wished me happy birthday on my way out the door. That was sweet.

When I walked in the front door at home, the mingling scent of yams and cocoa tickled my nostrils. That could only mean one thing–sweet potato brownies. Not nearly as rich as the fudgy kind, but since even looking at those breaks me out, this was the next best thing.

Each one had a candle poking out of it—a baker’s dozen—thirteen in all. Mom must have stayed up late last night, out doing herself. When my brother Earl started to reach for one, I had to slap his hand. “If I can wait till after dinner, Kiddo, so can you.”

After homework, I made a broccoli kale salad to have with my favorite, coconut shrimp. All highly packaged, of course, but when both parents work, it’s a special enough meal.

“So,” Dad asked, “Are you doing anything with your friends?”

“Yeah. We’re going to see Hamilton on the Big Screen.”

Earl gave me a funny look. “Haven’t you seen it on Disney like a bazillion times?”

“Actually, a gazillion,” I reminded him. “But they’ve got a special feature for the tenth anniversary. Reuniting the Revolution. I can’t miss that.”

“No,” Dad said, popping another shrimp. “You can’t.”

Mom patted my hand. “Give that sexy Lin-Manuel a kiss for me.”

Ugh. It’s kinda cringy when both you and your mom have a crush on the same star. But at least she wasn’t pushing to come with us. So I just smiled. “Sure will.”

“Can I light the candles?” My baby brother was a bit of a pyro.

But Mom let him, and they sang while I made a wish. As much hot air as I had in me, it took two breaths to extinguish all thirteen. They clapped anyway, and we pigged out on brownies with mint chocolate chip ice cream. Didn’t quite match, but no one cared.

Like I said, the day went okay.

It didn’t happen till later that night. While I was brushing my teeth.

It was like the mirror could talk. But only knew one word. Ugly.

Said it three times, like those boys on the bus. But unlike those boys, who at least tried to mask the word in some semblance of my last name, it came right out and said it. Ugly. Ugly. Ugly.

I leaned in over the sink and squinted–my glasses were back in my bedroom–at it. The mirror shimmered, and there it was.

A huge, monster-beast. All hunched over. Wild mane of red hair, frizzing in all directions. Puffy face clogged with zits. Oozing slimy green stuff.

Narrow beady eyes. Squinting at me. Staring. At me.

Ugly. Ugly. Ugly.

Then its giant paw-hand swiped at me. Ug-ly.

I screamed.

At least, I must have because Earl came running.

When he saw my foamy mouth, he cracked up. But Dad was right on his heels. “You okay?”

“Look!” I pointed at the mirror. “Just look!”

He put an arm around my shoulder and peered, long and hard. Then he turned to me. “I see my beautiful number one daughter with a mouth full of Crest. What do you see, Honey?”

The monster leered and said it again. Ugly. Ugly. Ugly.

“Did you hear that?” I asked them.

“Hear what?” Dad said.

Should I tell him, or just go on to bed? “Can cocoa give you hallucinations?”

“No,” Earl said. “You’re just crazy.”

Dad sent him back to bed. “What did you hear?”

I shook my head. “It’s nothing.”

“You sure?”

I shrugged. Heck, if I knew.

After a quick hug, he tucked me in with his best deadpan imitation of Lin-Manuel. “I’m not throwing away my shot! I’m not throwing away my shot!”

I laughed so he’d think I was okay. But I left my lamp on all night. Just in case.

The next morning, I brushed my teeth and hair by feel, with eyes shut tight. It didn’t help my looks one bit, but at least I didn’t have to see that creature or hear that word again.

Maybe I needed more sleep. Or it really was a carb overdose.

After last night, the boys on the bus didn’t bother nearly as much as usual. They, at least, were predictable.

But when I caught my reflection in the bus window, there it was again. Same with the double glass doors going into school. I told myself to just keep moving, and I avoided looking out the windows. Fortunately, we had a pop quiz in algebra that took all my mental energy.

After school, I hurried to the gym for Drama Club. This year’s first production would be MacBeth, staged the weekend before Halloween. Since this was one leading lady who didn’t have to be pretty, I’d tried out for Lady Macbeth. She of out, out damn spot fame. Figured I had at least half a chance.

When I saw the cast list, my heart thudded against the floor. The coveted role went to Nadine Prescott. Of course. Last year she played star-crossed Juliette, and the year before, not-so-star-crossed Audrey in Little Shop.

I got to be her nurse in the former, and Audrey II, the man-eating–Feed me, Seymour!--plant in the latter. A fun role, but fellow cast members teased me mercilessly during rehearsal when I stumbled through. A little nooky gonna clean up those zits.

I had to scan down the list a ways to find my part. Witch #2. Of double, double toil and trouble fame. It figured. I grabbed a script and my seat, waiting for someone to whisper in my ear how I won’t need much makeup. Or was I the only one who thought that?

All conversation hushed when Mr. McCollum, our drama coach, sauntered in with his hand-carved walking stick and thick Scottish brogue.

“Ladies and gentlemen, listen up.” He tapped his stick even though we were already hanging on every word.

“As you know, the Scottish play, as we call it, is near and dear to m’heart. For those of ya who didn’t get the part you tried out for, let me remind you, there are no small roles.”

Eyes rolled. We’d all heard it a bazillion times.

“As far as I’m concerned, every single player is a vital part of this story. You can’t play football with a team of quarterbacks, now can ya? Ya need halfbacks and full-backs, as well.”

We nodded.

“So our team needs its soldiers and its witches just as much as it needs its murderous Lord and Lady.”

McCollum leaned on his stick and looked at each of us in turn.

“So I’m inviting and imploring you to treat your character the same way ya would if you were indeed playing that ill-fated couple. Remember, the world of theater has far more supportin’ roles than leads.”

Sigh. How could we forget?

“Billy Crystal did not shy away from playing the Gravedigger in Branagh’s Hamlet, now did he?

“No, Sir.” Easy for Benny to say. He got the male lead.

“Exactly. He poured his heart and soul into setting Branaugh up to alas poor Yorick, even imitating Robert DeNiro in the process.”

He pounded his stick into the boards three times. “In that spirit, I invite you all to pour your hearts and souls into yer roles here. If I can count on all of ya to do that, we can mount a production showin’ the world just how compelling evil is—a message just as vital for our times as it was back in Shakespeare’s day.”

He implored us each with penetrating brown eyes. “Can I get an aye from ya’s?”

“Aye!” we hollered, eager to get started, and I dare say, most of our hearts beat a little faster. At least mine did.

And I, for one, poured my heart and soul into my role. And did everything I could to hear him say, “Atta girl. Doon hold back. Make our necks prickle and our hair stand straight up.”

Of all the witches, number two had the best lines. They were fun to say, and they rhymed, which made memorization easier. The closer it got to Halloween, the more witchy I felt.

But I didn’t practice in the mirror. Embodying a witch was one thing. Being taunted by a monster, quite another.

Instead, I danced around the trash can in my bedroom with index cards referred to less and less often as I shared the secret recipe for spell-casting:

…Eye of newt and toe of frog,

Wool of bat and tongue of dog,

Adder’s fork and blindworm’s sting,

Lizard’s leg and howlet’s wing,

For a charm of powerful trouble,

Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.

Unfortunately, being a witch, even a Shakespearean one, did not vanquish the thing in the mirror, as I’d hoped. If anything, it dogged me every chance it got with its banshee cry, ugly, ugly, ugly.

When it came time to think about costumes, Mrs. McCollum showed up to one of our rehearsals. Yes, our adorable coach had a Mrs, banishing any and all fantasies I had about what might happen between us when I got old enough.

But I had to hand it to her. She was talented. I could tell by the hand-tailored suits and swirly skirts she wore, and how she carefully measured our every move. She even shot videos of us, so she could work out ideas at home.

Then came the day Nadine AKA Lady M, waltzed in wearing a shimmery silver bodice and a flowing skirt that morphed from silver to crimson by the time it reached her feet,

No one moved. No one even breathed as she minced around the stage in that dazzling gown. Her long sleeves followed the same pattern, with fabric flowing almost to her hem.

Would we witches dazzle as well?

When we showed up for our fitting, Mrs. McCollum opened a box and took out one dress. Just one. And here it was, two weeks til opening night. And it was a dull gun metal gray to boot. Nothing shimmering or show-stopping about it. Unless you count the cobwebs hanging off it.

When she unfurled it, we saw that it was indeed one dress. One wide dress with three neck holes and six sleeves. We witches would be bound together in one garment. “What the heck?” I blurted out before catching myself.

“I got the idea from an old SNL sketch spoofing the Supremes. They were stuffed into tightly connected dresses.” She laughed. “In this case, nothing’s tight. You’ll be in more of a tent together.” She handed it over. “Go ahead. Try it out.”

She had to put it on us the first few times. Moving was slow and awkward at first. More like Zombies than witches. And then when we donned our clunky boots, things got even more precarious.

Between the dress, the boots, and the caldron, I could barely move. We had to slow the circling way down and yet keep our chants flowing. Like patting my head and rubbing my belly at the same time. Something I never mastered.

It was so bad that during dress rehearsal, Mr. McCollum whispered in my ear. “Doff the boots, Missy, Put your tennies back on.”

I could have kissed him.

Now I wouldn’t break my neck. But my two weird sisters glared at me. “We won’t match anymore,” they fussed.

Our director said, “Then put your own tennies on an’ ya will.”

“But that spoils the effect,” one of them said.

“Not fer me, it don’t,” he assured them. “It just creates a new one.”

But they weren’t having it. Which meant I had to dress for comfort and endure their wrath. Or boot up and pray like mad.

I prayed like mad anyway.

Then came opening night. I wore my tennies right up until our first cue. But what if they laugh? I couldn't bear it. So, at the very last second, I tugged on those boots.

All went well for the first two times around that steaming caldron. During the third round, just as I said, “wool of bat and tongue of dog,” My right foot slipped and I went into the caldron headfirst, yelling, “Shit!” as I fell to thunderous laughter and even a spattering of applause.

The other witches had to stop while I clambered to my feet. My green face turned beet red while I continued as if nothing happened. Or tried to. But when it came time to say, For a charm of powerful trouble, it came out, “For a harm of powerful rubble.”

Not that the audience noticed, but my fellow witches sure did. Eyes rolled and darted glares at me along with frowns and hisses. Which fit with their characters and took the heat off me.

The rest of the night went without incident. Thank God. Still, I quacked in my boots during curtain call and couldn’t wait to disappear.

Only I couldn't. The backstage and dressing rooms flooded with congratulatory friends and family members bearing flowers for the likes of Nadine and her ilk.

I wanted out of that threesome dress so bad, but everybody and their brothers–including mine–wanted to take pictures of us in it. Dad found me and pressed a bouquet of sunflowers into my hands.

Sunflowers so elegant, my breath caught. I handed them back. “Maybe you can trade these in for dandelions.”

“Nothing doing,” he said. “You worked hard and deserve the best.”

Yeah, right. A for effort. ‘Thanks, Dad.” My eyes teared up. “Thank you so much. Can we go now?”

“Now?” he said. “They’re pouring sparkling cider.” He put his arm around all three of us. “Come on, girls, let’s get some.”

I had to stay in that dress since my fellow witches weren’t ready to change. And if I somehow slunk out from under it, I’d be standing there in my undies for all to see. Not a pretty picture.

Mr. McColum was pouring. Of course.

I hung my head as I reached for a glass.

“Whatcha lookin’ so glum for, Maranda, m’lass?”

I sighed. “You know…I blew it.”

He looked at me, head cocked, brows raised. “Correction. You took a tumble.” He filed my glass. “Ya didna blow it.”

“But they laughed…”

“Of course they did. It was funny.” He raised a glass of his own.

“We needed to laugh long about then. It broke the tension.”

I shook my head. “It’s not in the script.”

“So?”

I stared at him.

“Did Robin Williams stick to the script? Hardy, Mira. Hardly. Take a lesson from him. Comedy trumps tragedy every time. One pratfall’s worth three stabbings in my book.”

“Yeah, but…”

He set his drink down. “Maybe comedy’s your calling. You did great in Little Shop. Had us rolling.”

“But no one could tell it was me in there.” A fact I loved at the time.

“Okay then, next time, we’ll correct that.”

“How so?”

“What would you say to the lead in Comedy of Errors?” He pressed his hands together like he was saying please.

My heart skipped a beat. Here I screwed up, and now I was being promoted. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Think about it, then. Take yer time as long as your answer is yes.”

That did it. I threw my arms around him, not caring what spilled. “I’d be honored.”

That night, I didn’t hide in the dark. I turned the bathroom light on as I combed my hair until it shone, and brushed my gums till they bled. Then I shimmied my shoulders in the mirror. Go ahead. Say it. I dare you. Say it.

The mirror shimmered like it did each time. And there she was, the monster-beast, looking just like me. Only this time, I didn’t flinch. After all, I was looking at a leading lady. A funny one, yes, but one nevertheless.

And then she spoke. But what had the rhythm and cadence for Ug-ly came out different. Clear and distinct, my reflection said, Love me! Love me! Love me!

If hugging your reflection were possible. I would have. Instead, I wrapped my arms around my own self and said, ‘I do.” And I meant it. Every word of it.