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“I know,” he said in a low voice.
“This play is how I keep you…keep hanging out with you,” I said, louder. “Before you leave, we have this. Hamlet. My father will ruin it if we…”
He shook his head as if to cut off my words and nodded brusquely. “Yeah, I know. That’s why we should go.”
Without another word we walked out of the maze side-by-side. Isaac knew exactly which way to turn. We didn’t hit a dead end until we came out.
Nowhere left to go.
“Are you going to be okay getting home?”
“I’ll call Angie.”
He nodded. “See you at rehearsal?”
“Yeah, I’ll see you then.”
He nodded again, then turned and walked away, while I turned and headed in the opposite direction.
I walked into town and got a ride home with Angie, and hardly spoke. I told her I wasn’t feeling well in order to stave off her barrage of questions. It was the truth, anyway.
My house was empty. I went into the kitchen for a glass of orange juice and found today’s mail on the counter. On the top of the pile was a thick invitation envelope. The name on the return address read Wilkinson.
With a trembling hand, I turned the envelope over. It had already been opened. I pulled out the card inside. Fancy calligraphy swam before my eyes, focusing into words:
You are cordially invited to celebrate Wexx’s highest fourth-quarter earnings in the history of the company. Grand ballroom, Renaissance Hotel 8 PM April 30, Braxton, Indiana
Below that, in handwritten black ink:
Xavier has the time off from Amherst. If he knew Willow was coming I could persuade him to come join us. I’m sure he’d love to see her again. Hope to see you all there!
Ross Wilkinson
Xavier. In Indiana.
The words on the invite swam again, until all I could see were little black X’s.
Isaac
You’re doing it, I thought. You’re walking away from Willow, just like you promised yourself you would. How’s it feel?
“It fucking sucks,” I muttered.
It was a twenty-minute walk from the maze to the Fords’ house. Twenty minutes under a sun that was getting warmer with every passing day. It shone so brightly over Willow when she emerged from the hedge maze. The cold pallor of her skin the other night was gone and she looked fucking radiant with the sun in her hair and a smile for me. All for me.
How did I let this happen?
I hefted my backpack higher on my shoulder and reaffirmed my vow: I would give her Hamlet and nothing else. She’d give her Ophelia to me and that’s how I was going to get out of Harmony.
And I had to go.
The other night I hadn’t been able to sleep, as usual. I’d gone downstairs for a snack, but froze halfway through the living room. Brenda and Marty were in the kitchen, talking in low voices. I was about to backtrack when I heard Martin say my father’s name. I froze then, listening.
“…showed up at Nicky’s Tavern… Made one hell of a scene… Cursing Isaac out… Telling everyone he has a faggot for a son…”
Dad was arrested and spent the night in the drunk tank. The humiliation of it cut me to the bone. Not because of the gay slur—I was used to that. Pops wasn’t only the town drunk now, but the town’s ranting bigot as well. Our names back in circulation among the town gossips. I prayed Sam Caswell hadn’t been at Nicky’s that night. He and I did Angels in America two summers ago and he’d had felt so empowered by the experience, he came out to his friends and family. Now my dad was ruining that too.
