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“I miss the beach,” says Vann. “I loved the beach. The beach was my safe haven in California, the one place that brought me real peace, my only peace.”
I flinch, meeting his eyes, for a moment forgetting to copy his hands. Or is it him copying mine? “I used to go to this beach town as a kid, down by the Gulf. It’s my only happy memory I have with my family, stepbrother and stepdad included.”
“I miss the taste of salt on my face.” He chuckles. “It’s a weird way to say it, but it’s how it feels like.”
“The taste … of salt … on your face,” I murmur thoughtfully.
“Don’t break the chain,” Vann half-scolds me.
“Sorry.” I clear my throat and resume moving my hands. Ah, he’s copying mine. “I do like to swim, though. I love swimming. But the Spruce pool is only open during the summer, and it’s always overrun by children who probably pee in it. I don’t get to go out to the Strong Ranch to swim, unless Jimmy’s home.”
“I wish my mom would stop looking at me like I’m a monster.”
“I …” His words catch me off-guard, my hands slowing again. I try to stay focused. “I … wish my stepdad would respect me more.”
“I’m thinking of stealing a motorcycle.”
My face wrinkles up. “You want to steal a motorcycle?”
“It belongs to me. My mom has the keys. I want it back. Don’t break the chain, Toby,” he growls again.
“Sorry, sorry,” I hiss, then snap back to it. “I wish I … had more f-friends.” Ugh, that was humiliating, coming out.
Now it’s Vann’s turn to hesitate. After a moment, his voice softens when he says, “I’m thankful I took a chance on this play, because I get to spend more time around you, and you make this town suck less. A lot less,” he adds, his eyes flicking to mine.
I feel my cheeks warm. “I’m really glad you got kicked out of your old school and came here, because I was dying a slow, painful death in this town until you arrived.”
“I wasn’t actually kicked out. All my friends were rich pricks with trust funds. Cash to burn. Drugs. Alcohol. Connections.”
My eyes flash. “I … I think I’m the reason my dad left.”
Vann stops mirroring my hands. “I feel like I always bring out the worst in people, no matter where I live.”
“I think I was an accident,” I murmur, losing steam, “and the stress of having a kid split my parents apart.”
Both of my hands drop to my lap. His do, too. I don’t know if he’s mirroring me, or if we both just gave up.
“Art is the only constant in my life,” he tells me.
“I don’t know where my dad lives,” I admit. “Or if he lives.”
He stares at me awhile, something curious flitting across his eyes, like a troubling thought.
“Don’t break the chain,” I taunt him halfheartedly.
He draws breath. “I can’t remember the last time I—”
“Good!” announces Ms. Joy, clapping her hands, and at once, our exercise is yanked to a halt. And while she explains all of the merits and uses of the exercise to build our character chemistry, Vann and I continue to stare at each other in wonder. Why does it feel like I’ve known Vann for years already yet have so much left to learn?
When rehearsal comes to an end an hour or so later, I put my script away into my backpack slowly, still lost in a swirling cloud of thoughts and feelings. I spot Vann a few rows away where he’d tossed his bag, and he seems to be in a similar state of mind, all his movements slow, his face, pensive. As if sensing me, he glances my way, and I quickly snap my gaze back to my things. I pull out my phone and pretend to check something, feeling anxious.
“Hey,” comes his voice at my side suddenly.
Vann sure rushed up to me fast. When I face him, I’m met with his dark, searching eyes. He’s wearing a black short-sleeve button shirt open over a plain gray t-shirt and dark jeans. “Hey,” I greet him back, putting on a smile. “So I’ll see you at—?”
“Does Biggie’s really have the best burgers in town?”
My open mouth, prepared with the remainder of my question, collapses into a mock gasp of surprise. “Only the best!” I exclaim with put-on excitement.
Vann snorts, amused. “I think I’m gonna come with you and eat there. I need a good place to draw. Somewhere with light.”
“It gets loud during the Friday night rush,” I warn him.
“Good. That’s one thing I miss about New York City.” His eyes narrow. “Noise.”
And that’s how it happens that Vann and I leave Spruce High together and make the brief trip across the street and down a few blocks to Biggie’s Bites, right on the corner of Wicker and Main. After Vann claims an available booth in the corner, I introduce him to the menu before even donning my apron, make my usual recommendations, then take his order to the back.
