“I’m sorry, okay?” he said. He turned toward me. “I really am. I’m sorry to fourth-grade you.”
I laughed then. It was silly, after all. I’d been holding this against him all this time, a mental photograph of me splayed across the elementary school hallway rising in my mind like a barrier between us. “It was a long time ago.”
He turned back toward the brightening sky, satisfied. The sun’s rays hadn’t broken the horizon yet, but you could tell the sun was sitting just beyond the curvature of the earth because it was already turning the fluffy clouds a Hello Kitty pink.
“Whoa. Look at that,” Mason said. We huddled together, watching. I was not used to him being so serious, so quiet. “Well, we’re not half enemies now, right?”
“No.”
“Okay, good.”
“We’re one hundred percent friends now.” It felt corny as soon as it came out of my mouth.
“Let’s not get carried away,” he said, predictably. I knew hewouldn’t let me get away with that much earnestness. I smiled and shook my head. He had apologized to me, pretty sincerely, so that was something. I would hold on to that.
That trip was only a month before Mason died, but it feels so long ago now that it might as well have been someone else’s life altogether. I have to stand up and shake out my limbs to stop feeling like I’m caving in. At the time I had thought,Wow, maybe this is the beginning of something different, but now I know that it was really the end. And it was such a missed opportunity. I could have told him my secrets then. What was so hard about that? I could have told him that I couldn’t see in the dark, that I wasn’t sure what was wrong with me but I had some ideas, that I was afraid of ending up like my dad, defective and trapped, utterly dependent on other people, ultimately alone. Then it wouldn’t be a secret. Someone else would know.
Maybe it would have changed everything. Changed things enough so that maybe I would have been with him that night on the dock. And he would be alive now.
I’m used to feeling regret about stupid things I say, impulsive things. But this regret for all I didn’t say is new, and it stings.
Forty-eight hours have passed since the funeral, but I still feel like a wet dog who needs a full-body shake to get off all the unsettling residue. I arrive at play rehearsal twenty minutes late. It doesn’t matter because this is one of my “observing” nights. When castingCamelot, our drama teacher, like a big baby, had been unable to decide whether to cast me or Amanda Drinan as Guenevere. So he cast us both. We’re going to alternate performances, Mr. Price explained to us after he posted the bonkers cast list on the stage door. He said it like that was something totally normal that happened all the time, even though it totally isn’t. Even worse, there are only going to be three performances: Friday night, Saturday night, and the Sunday matinee.
Apparently, Mr. Price chose drama because he’s shitbad at math, since it didn’t occur to him that two people cannot split three performances evenly. Instead, he pretended he planned it that way on purpose, because Saturday was the “big” performance, so the person doing Saturday, which turned out to be me, would be satisfied by the sexy Saturday glamour of it all, while the other person (Amanda) would get two doses of slightly less “big” fun on Friday and Sunday. In reality, I think Amanda feels shafted because I get the high-profile night, and I feel shafted because she gets to perform twice as many times as me, and all the other girls in the show feelshafted because they didn’t get the lead at all. An epic fail any way you look at it. I’m not really surprised, though. Mr. Price’s backbone is made out of cafeteria pudding.
I realize he’s waving at me from the stage even as I’m thinking rude thoughts about him. I give him a nod. In response, he flourishes an elaborate bow like he’s at his own third curtain call. He might as well wear a T-shirt that reads,I WANTED TO STAR ON BROADWAY BUT ALL I GOT WAS THIS LOUSY TEACHING JOB.
I’m resisting openly cringing when I see Richard chatting with the accompanist at the piano. Tiny jolts of electricity explode in my rib cage. I’m suddenly aware of every element of my face—what my eyebrows are doing, the shape my mouth is making, even the creases in my forehead. I will it all to be still and passive, to obey my strict orders to not have a care in the world as I try to figure out where a person with zero cares would let their gaze rest. Richard is the Arthur to my Guenevere. Sounds like the most romantic love story ever, except today he is the Arthur to Amanda’s Guenevere.
Am I actually blushing now? I dig in my backpack for my pen and notebook that I use to keep track of all the blocking. Tomorrow I’ll need to move wherever Amanda moves today and I won’t have any muscle memory to help me, so notes are key. When I come up from the bottom of my bag with my supplies, I almost yelp. Richard is sitting next to me. How did he even get over here so fast? Must be his swing dancer training.
Yep, that’s right. He’s a swing dancer. And a drama geek. He is tall and skinny and his retro hipster clothes look as loose asthey would draped around an empty hanger. He even plays the French horn. All these things combined could easily make for enough total dorkage to repel any reasonable girl. But the poles of that magnet are flipped somehow, and I’m pulled toward him in a way that feels like fate.
I have no idea if he feels the pull of the magnet, though. He’s fun and flirty with me, but he’s sort of like that with everyone. I’m not complaining. I’ll take what I can get.
What I’m getting right now is a big inhale of his laundry detergent/Old Spice deodorant/boy sweat. I want to let my eyelids droop to half-mast so I can really focus on its deliciousness, but that would look dopey. Instead, I whip myself to attention and raise one eyebrow at him.
“Your Majesty,” he says, nodding his perfect cleft chin to me. Even though his hair is a deep brown, his eyes are steely blue, which makes them somehow harder to read, more mysterious.
“M’lord,” I reply, feeling my pulse surge.
“I trust you will be critiquing my every move up there tonight. I expect a thorough evaluation afterward. Don’t hold anything back.”
“My notes will leave you vulnerable and exposed,” I say. Going for simultaneously businesslike and sensual, I click my pen a couple times.
“Promises, promises,” he murmurs, shaking his head. He reaches over and clicks my pen once, slowly. Weirdly sexy. Although he could probably pick a zit and I would think it was weirdly sexy. Could he be the one? I think he might be the one.
“Arthur! Your kingdom awaits!” Mr. Price calls from the pit and sweeps his hand from our seats up to center stage, where Amanda is waiting. Thanks a lot, Price.
“Remember. Exposed. Don’t hold back,” he calls over his shoulder as he heads up the aisle. I bite the tip of my pen in a kittenish way, but he doesn’t see it.
Part of what is hard about this role sharing is that half the time I am peripheral, bored. I don’t get to be up there, lost in the imaginary world of knights and royalty. Singing and dancing and moving and feeling in a space that is safe precisely because it is pretend, and none of the words are my own.
But the other part that’s hard is sharing Richard.
Either Amanda is the best actress in the world (which she’s not), or she has her own chemistry brewing with Richard. They block out their cozy little dance routine to “What Do the Simple Folk Do?” with obvious enjoyment, each misstep highlighted by Amanda’s giggles. I can’t really fault her. I would be doing the same thing. But I still want to gag.
I’m supposed to be taking notes, but this is killing me. I need a break from all the nothing I’m doing. I scoot down a side aisle and slip out of the auditorium. Even though it’s almost seven, I can see Mr. Leary in the band room across the hall, stacking sheet music. Officially, he’s head of the music department, but in reality, he just runs the jazz choir, because the teachers who run band and orchestra are both like dictators of tiny countries and don’t take orders from anyone, especially Mr. Leary. He’s too sweet, too soft. There’s no reason he would need to be herenow. He must be afraid to go home and see Mason’s room, Mason’s chair, Mason’s toothbrush in a cup by the sink. My jaw clenches.
