The Glow of the Spotlight: My Journey with Rebecca

Rebecca protests that she and I were only acting, that she never meant to frighten Benny with the Baba Yaga tale. Mr. Rubin doesn’t argue that acting itself is wrong. He says acting is its own responsibility, and if you’re good at it, an audience believes the story is real. Benny is too young for something so frightening, and no performance should come before making sure he is safe.

Mr. Rubin’s voice stays even, but the words land hard. Rebecca’s face flushes. She admits she was trying to include Benny, not scare him, and I can tell she means it. Still, Rebecca’s parents aren’t done yet. Mrs. Rubin adds that being a big sister, or a big brother, means the people who look up to you come first.

That night, Rebecca and I pull the blanket over our heads so Sadie and Sophie won’t hear us whispering. Rebecca confesses how much it hurts when the twins won’t let her join their games, and how including Benny in the play felt like a kindness at first. She never expected he would take it as real. She never would have forgiven herself if something had actually happened to him. Rebecca falls asleep mid-thought, and I lie awake turning her words over.

I don’t include Megan in much of what I do, and she goes her own way, too. But thinking of Benny’s tears makes something shift in me. I realize I would be lost if anything ever happened to Megan. I miss my sister, oddly, fiercely, though she is not even here. I reach for the two small nesting dolls tucked in my purse, and hold them together in the dark.

In the morning, I say goodbye to the Rubins and head home to my own family, carrying a lesson I didn’t expect to learn. Once I’ve got my bearings back in the antique shop, I find Megan curled over her science book, reading a chapter on trees. She is collecting and identifying leaves for an assignment. I have always liked trees, how they hold a pose like dancers, far more interesting than any times table.

An idea sparks. I suggest a nature walk this weekend, promising we will find plenty of different trees together. Megan brightens, surprised and pleased, then offers her own idea: if I practice my recital steps until they are automatic, I will not panic onstage. It is how she mastered her times tables, she explains, drilling something over and over until it sticks.

I never guessed dancing and math had anything in common, but Megan might be onto something after all. I give her a high five, and we both grin. Maybe we are not such opposites after all.