“Minus the left part of her body!” Kevin reminds him, slapping the carpet with his palms.
“See?” Raj says triumphantly. “It’sweird.Send her a box with all her stuff cut up like a normal heartbroken lover.”
It is crazy to associate the word “heartbroken” with Zach, with his impossibly bright smile, his dancing eyes. Only when he mentions Lindsay, when he speaks about her, can I see it. His eyes get a little dimmer, his shoulders less square, his smile less bright. Lindsay must be a bitch after all. Who the hell would do that to the world?
I notice that Zach is still staring at me, watching me, and I say evenly, “That’s just me, though. I’m not Lindsay.”
I don’t watch his face to see if he gets the dig. Instead, I hold out my elbow for Kevin, saying, “I’m ready for the chair.” And we go up the stairs to start makeup.
While he’s mixing face paint—lots of black and blues, since my character, Lindy, is barely hanging on at this point—I say, “Kevin, what’s Lindsay like?”
“Eh,” he says, concentrating hard as he dabs makeup on my forehead. “She has kind of a horse face.”
“Kevin!”
He plunges a sponge into a tray of paint and then applies it to my cheek. “I’m just sayin’,” he drawls, “her jaw doesn’t hold a candle to yours.”
I don’t know if it’s true or not. But Kevin beams his Zach-like smile while I try to hold still, and somehow I feel the tiniest bit better.
BEFORE
Mid-July
On Saturday, with no lesson and no filming—only the viewing party at Zach’s tonight—I decide to sleep in. It’s past eleven when I get up and pad down the hall to the bathroom. I see that Mom’s door is open, and it sounds like she’s talking to one of her friends on the phone, so I stick my head in to say good morning. But she doesn’t see me, and she’s still in bed, phone cradled between her head and neck. What catches me off guard is the tremor in her voice, like she’s been crying.
I quietly step out of view and listen for what she’s saying.
“It’s always hard around this time.” There’s a pause, and then she says, “I know. And sometimes I think we’re not being careful enough.”
I keep listening, but the conversation turns to some project she’s doing for work, and I keep wondering why she can’t get over reliving the divorce this time of year.
It’s weird because Mom is the one with the boyfriend; she’s moved on far better than Dad has, so why is she still so shaken about the divorce after so many years? Is it because he was the one who left?
I ride over to Zach’s around six, excited to see the finished product but sad that filming is over. I let myself in and take the stairs down to the basement. Zach meets me at the bottom of them.
My hair is wet from the shower, falling in damp curls over my dress. Zach blinks at me and then blushes as he realizes he’s staring. At which point I remember that he’s used to seeing me in a ketchup-drenched habit, my hair sticky and frizzy and awful. If hedoesn’tthink I look better, I should be worried. Plus, I might have put in a little more effort than usual, some mascara and my favorite watermelon lip gloss.
“Um, where is everybody?” I ask, looking around.
“Kevin’s working an extra hour, but Raj should be on his way. Raj shouldbehere.” He glances at his phone like he’s expecting his friend to spring out of it. “I called him an hour ago and he’d completely forgotten, but that was an hour ago.”
“Oh, okay,” I say. I glance at the couch, where Zach’s laptop is surrounded by a clutter of cords and CDs. “Did you get all the editing done?”
“I did,” Zach says proudly. “I wasn’t going to sleep until I did.”
“And?” I ask. “What’s the verdict?”
“Ilike it,” he says. “It’s no Ciano, but definitely an improvement over our other stuff.”
Zach walks to the couch and sets his laptop on the floor, then swipes the CDs and everything else off. “Wannasit?”
“Thanks.” I walk over to the couch and sit.
“Yeah, no problem. Do you want popcorn? Or something?” he offers, picking things up, moving as he’s speaking. He is strangely fidgety.
“Popcorn would be great,” I say. “Can I help?”
“No,” he says quickly. “Relax. I’ll be right back.”
