Page 39 of A Whim and a Prayer

Mrs. C’s lips quivered into a teary smile. “Thank you, sweetheart. And if you ask me—I’d say your mother is too.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

“So, Poppy … are ya nervous?” Waiting for the dress rehearsal to begin, Winnie closed in a box during a game of dots with Poppy, marking a “W” before glancing up at the little girl with whom she’d become fast friends.

“Naw.” Poppy marked a line on the sheet, the tip of her little tongue peeking past her snaggletooth. She peered up with a wink. “I was born for this.”

Winnie grinned ear to ear, sometimes wishing she could just take the little tyke home. But at least Poppy had a nice couple interested in fostering her, according to her administrator, so hopefully they’d fall in love with the little dickens just like Winnie had.

“Yes, you were, you little pistol”—Winnie wagged a stern finger at her—“so you better not steal the show.”

Poppy chuckled as she closed in a box, christening it with her flamboyant “P.” “Aw, shoot, Fred,” she said, using the name Winnie told her she’d originally wanted to be called when she was an orphan because she thought she was too ugly to be a girl, “with someone as pretty as you up thar on that stage, they’re only gonna be laughin’ at me.”

“Because you’re funny, young lady,” Winnie said with a lift of her brow, absently adjusting the pinafore on Poppy’s yellow gingham dress, then straightening the matching bow atop her carrot-colored curls, “and fun to watch. Besides, as soon as that crooked baby tooth falls out and your permanent teeth come in?”—Winnie did an eyebrow dance—“you’re going to be so gorgeous, you’ll be fighting the boys off with a stick.”

“Ha! Do that now when they make fun of me, so I’ll have lots of practice.” She paused with the pencil in hand, head in a tilt as she peered up with a trace of doubt in her eyes. “Did you really have crossed eyes when you were my age?”

Face solemn, Winnie drew a cross over her heart. “Cross my heart and hope to die, this is how I looked at five.” Her eyes suddenly crossed, making Poppy giggle.

“Well, I’ll be dipped because that’s shore hard ta believe, Fred, so I guess there’s hope for the likes of me.”

“You’re darn tootin’, Poppy Doe,” Winnie said with a quick hug, “and don’t you forget it, you hear?”

Shreeeeeeet!! Mrs. C blew her whistle, and the room suddenly skittered like a school of minnows in a mirror lake. Chairs squeaked, chatter grew, and squeals sounded as circles of duck-duck-goose came to a stop and older boys tossed their final footballs.

“Okay, all children will remain seated in the first two rows until you are called,” Mrs. C said into the microphone, unleashing pandemonium when children shrieked and whooped while they dashed to their seats. “Then, I need Buffalo Bill, Frank Butler, Charlie Davenport, and Dolly Tate upstage, please, pronto.”

The cast hurried up the stairs while the crew huddled around the stage manager, Mr. Davis, for final instructions before taking their positions. Winnie grinned as she watched Beck trudge behind the rest of the ensemble in his rolled-up flannel shirt with suspenders and bandana, boots, and a cowboy hat, remembering how he had bucked when she’d first asked him.

“You know how much I hate being on the stage,” he’d said with arms in a tight fold, “so can’t you get somebody else?”

“I would if I could, Beck, but the flu has wreaked havoc with the drama club, you know that, so I need cowboys bad.”

He’d given her a slitted stare that had made her giggle. “Come on, Campbell, this is child’s play for you, like falling off a log, and you don’t even have any lines,” she’d insisted, until he finally gave in.

And thank God! Because the truth was, she always felt better when Beck was around.

“Just one more pass, Mrs. Cullen, I promise,” one of the crew members shouted as he spiraled a football over everyone’s head, straight to Thomas Haddock up on the stage.

Crash!

Everybody froze.

Thomas had gone airborne after reaching too far for the ball, tumbling right off the stage into the orchestra section Mrs. C had hired, scattering musicians and instruments alike while everything else whooshed to a hush.

“Sweet mother of mercy,” Mrs. C whispered, stooping along with the stage manager, Mr. Davis, to touch a gentle hand to Thomas’s shoulder while Winnie and Abby looked on. Poor Thomas lay on the floor like a crumpled scarecrow without a frame. “Oh, sweetheart, are you okay?”

“I think so …” He slowly exercised his jaw, and then his arms before attempting to get up. “Yowww!” he cried when he tried to stand, dropping back down with a groan. “I think I hurt my leg, Mrs. Cullen.”

“Oh dear!” Mrs. C rose and glanced around. “I think we need an ambulance, but in the meantime, are there any medical personnel here today?”

One of the administrators hurried forward. “I’m the school nurse here, Mrs. Cullen, Mrs. Dunne, so I’ll be happy to take a look.” She squatted to talk to Thomas, introducing herself and asking questions while she gently felt along his legs.

“Ouch! That hurts!” Thomas closed his eyes, grimacing in pain.

Mr. Davis winced along with him, signaling for Mrs. Cullen to step away with him. “That doesn’t sound good, Joan,” he said quietly, the two of them studying Thomas as he groaned on the floor. “Hate to say this, but I think we need the understudy.”

Mrs. Cullen bit her lip, a sure sign she was worried. “That is our understudy, Art. Our lead is home with laryngitis.”