“God, no.”
“Good. I hated the thought of you being here alone, feeling sad . . .” He glances at his watch. “Shoot—it’s almost curfew.”
“You’d better go.”
“Yeah.” He looks up at me, a sideways glance full of hope and uncertainty. It’s a killer look. “Franny, if you need anything . . . a friend, a shoulder to cry on, a bodyguard, a physical trainer, an oral surgeon . . . I’m here for you.”
“All of those things sound nice,” I say with a little laugh.
“Anything,” he repeats. He studies my face. “Man, you’re pretty,” he says. And then he comes up onto the step and presses his mouth against mine.
It’s a real kiss—I can feel his lips hard against mine—and my knees almost buckle with the unexpected thrill. I want it to last a long time, but he breaks away too quickly and steps back down. “This conversation isn’t over,” he says, his eyes intent on mine.
“Good,” I manage to say. I’m shaking all over.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I nod. He kind of salutes me and then he walks away. From across the street, he glances back and sees I’m still watching him. We hold up our hands briefly in a sort of motionless wave. And then he heads down the sidewalk and I watch him disappear around the corner. But that’s okay.
Because this conversation isn’t over.
I go back to the apartment, keyed up, excited and anxious and a little desperate for something else to happen. Another text. A spray of pebbles on my window. A phone call. A plague of locusts.
Nothing.
I put on my pajamas and brush my teeth.
Nothing.
I toss and turn in bed, still waiting.
But I know nothing more is going to happen tonight.
It doesn’t matter: I can’t sleep. I’m thinking about how I made a choice tonight. I didn’t make it on purpose; it just kind of happened, and I’m still a little confused how. But it was the right choice: Alex over Harry. Substance over style. Kindness over selfishness. Steadiness over unreliability.
I choose you, Pikachu.
The nonsense words—from some stupid old animated show William used to watch—pop into my head for no good reason and keep repeating themselves. The more I try to ignore them, the more they bug me. I choose you, Pikachu.
I keep flipping over, from one side to the other, trying to find a cool spot on my pillow, wishing I could block the noise in my head, fairly certain I flicked the switch to start something new and glad of it—but slightly unsettled by the way I had to end something to do it.
Alex over Harry. The right choice.
And the weird little sore spot I’m feeling somewhere in the back of my throat or my stomach or my head—I don’t know where; it keeps moving—that’s probably just because Harry and I fought and I don’t like to fight with anyone. He was angry at me—I didn’t expect all that anger. Other people’s anger sucks.
Also . . . he grabbed Marie so quickly that it was like he was relieved to have an excuse to leave me and go to her. He’s like the worst of my old boyfriends combined—he doesn’t take anything seriously and especially not me. I’m at the bottom of the list of things he cares deeply about, and Harry doesn’t even have a list.
My ego is hurt, I think. That’s the problem. I want to be with Alex, but it was flattering having Harry—who everyone’s got a crush on—act like my boyfriend. If I just take my ego out of the equation, then I’ll see that the best thing for me is having Harry happily off pursuing Marie.
I spend some time trying to take my ego out of the equation.
But the sore feeling doesn’t go away.
I fall asleep at some point after sunrise, and the next thing I know Amelia is shaking me awake. “Throw some clothes on quickly,” she says when I crack open my eyes. “I want to leave here in five minutes and you’d better be with me.”
I don’t have time to shower, so I pull my hair into a ratty ponytail. I know I’ll feel grungy and sticky for the entire day, but at least I don’t have to face people at breakfast—as eager as I am to see Alex and to continue the conversation, I’m equally dreading seeing Harry. It just feels easier to postpone both for the moment.
I choose you, Pikachu.
Rats, it’s still in my head.
When we reach the Sweatshop, I can hear a rehearsal going on in the theater. The casts rotate in and out: every day one gets the stage for the morning, two have shifts in the afternoon, and one rehearses there after dinner. The rest of the time, the casts rehearse in practice rooms on the second floor. The schedule changes daily, but it gives them all an equal opportunity to get used to the space before performing in it.
Amelia and I don’t actually go through the auditorium, so I can’t tell which cast is in there right now.
But Amelia checks the rehearsal schedule once we’re in her office. “Twelfth Night,” she says. “Your cast, but Charles didn’t ask for you until this afternoon, which is good, because you can help with the fitting I want to do now—the costumes are almost done. Charles can send the kids back here when they’re not needed onstage.”
I hide the groan that rises to my lips. Of all the casts . . .
It hadn’t even occurred to me until now that I’ve got to go rehearse with them later today. That I’ll have to see Harry and Marie together. I can still see him taking her arm last night and her laughing and clutching at him . . .
But it’s good, I remind myself. By running off with Marie, Harry made it okay for me to obsess about Alex. I was on the verge of feeling guilty, and he freed me from that. There’s still Isabella to consider, I guess, but if Alex likes me better than her, then he’ll just have to make that clear to her. Maybe he already has.
That thought momentarily cheers me up.
Still, rehearsal is going to be awkward. At least it’s not until later, and most of my scenes aren’t with Harry or Marie, and sometimes Charles pulls me out to rehearse with—
“Franny,” Amelia says sharply, interrupting my train of thought. “How many times do I have to ask you to go?”
“Go where?” I ask, genuinely confused. She talks at me so much when we’re alone that sometimes I don’t bother listening.
“To the theater to tell Charles to send the kids back here to try on their costumes. Hurry up.”
I enter the auditorium through one of the side doors. Charles is standing just below the stage, tilting his head back so he can talk up to the kids who are on it. The ones who aren’t performing right now are down in the audience.
Harry and Marie are sitting side by side. She sees me before he does and whispers audibly, “What’s she doing here? Charles said she wasn’t coming until later.”
Harry turns, and our eyes meet. He nods at me coldly, then turns back to Marie with an indifferent shrug. She snuggles in as close to him as their separate seats will allow, and he curves his arm around her.
How cozy.
I have to walk by them to get to Charles, and when I do, Harry doesn’t release Marie, just stays like that and says calmly, “Hey, Franny.”
“Hey,” I say stiffly. “I’m just here to talk to Charles.”
“He’s over there.” Harry nods in his direction, even though I’m already headed that way.
“Right.” I scuttle past them, bile burning suddenly in my throat.
Julia is onstage, listening to Charles’s direction. She notices me waiting there and gives a little wave, and Charles looks my way. “Franny?” he says, and glances at his watch. “I wasn’t expecting you this morning.”
I explain to him why Amelia sent me, and he nods. “Okay, we can do that.” He glances around and spots Harry and Marie. “You two—go back with Franny. Try on your costumes quickly and come right back.”
Oh, great. He had to pick them.
“I know you, Harry,” he adds. “You’ll take any opportunity to loiter. So get your butt back here as soon as possible.”
“Sir, yes, sir,” Harry says with a comically e
xaggerated salute. He stands up, and pulls Marie to her feet. “Lead on, Franny.”
I head back out the door. They follow behind me, arms entwined. She’s whispering, loud enough for me to know she’s whispering in his ear but not loud enough for me to hear what she’s saying. Not that I want to.
I stop outside the Sweatshop entrance and gesture inside. Marie releases Harry and sweeps by me.
Harry hesitates halfway through the doorway, but as soon as I look at him, he evades my glance and moves on.
Amelia’s rising to her feet. “Remind me who you are,” she says.
“I’m Marie—”
“Not your names,” Amelia says irritably. “Your roles.” She only ever calls the actors by their stage names. It simplifies things for her.
Normally, this exchange would have amused me, but now, stumbling in behind the two of them, I feel too miserable to laugh at anything.
I hate myself for caring that Marie keeps shooting little glances at Harry and he keeps smiling at her the way he was smiling at me a day ago.
Alex, I think. It’ll be okay if things work out with Alex.
And then I think, I hate girls who can only be happy if they have a boyfriend.
So then I think, I hate myself.
And that sounds about right at this particular moment.
Amelia is rustling through a rack on wheels that has a sign saying Twelfth Night taped to one end. “Here,” she says, pulling out a costume and handing it to Marie. “This is for you. And this one”—she rifles through some more hangers and finds it—“is for the duke. We only have one changing room—”
“I’m up for sharing if you are,” Marie says, giggling to Harry, who raises his eyebrows and says, “Sounds like fun to me.”
Amelia continues, her voice tighter: “—but one of you can change in the bathroom. Hurry now. None of us wants this to take forever.”
They disappear into the two separate rooms.
I sit down, grateful for the break.
Amelia is shaking her head. “Honestly. Sometimes . . .” It’s clearly a complaint, but not a very specific one.
Harry is out first. He’s now wearing a tuxedo that’s designed to look like it’s from the 1920s, which is when Charles is setting the production.
Harry looks incredible in it, like the hero in an old black-and-white movie, his shoulders exaggerated and broad, his legs slim and long. The only thing that’s missing is a cigarette between his fingers—but, knowing him, he’ll probably have one there before too long, in character or out of it.
He hasn’t buttoned the top of the tuxedo shirt, and the bow tie is undone and dangling. His neck is bare. I’ve kissed him on the hollow right at the base there.
I look away. No point reminiscing—it’s not going to happen again.
Amelia studies him and gives a satisfied nod. “Not bad. We’ll find shoes with a bit of height, so we don’t have to hem. Open the jacket for me.” He does, and she circles around, then grabs the pants at the waistband. “We’ll need to take these in. The vest is huge, too, but there we can get away with just adjusting the tabs. Franny, hand me the—”
She’s interrupted by Marie, who calls out from the changing room, “I can’t figure out the buttons on this thing.”
Amelia spins around. “For God’s sake, don’t pull at anything!” she shouts toward the door. She grabs her wrist pincushion off her desk. “I’ll help her in there. Pin the duke’s waist, Franny. Looks like he needs to lose about an inch.” She knocks briskly on the changing-room door and enters without waiting for a response, shutting the door behind her.
Talk about awkward. Neither of us says anything for a moment.
Then: “Alone at last,” Harry says, which is a typical Harry thing to say, but there’s a flatness to his tone that’s never been there before—at least not with me.
“You’ll need to take off the jacket and vest,” I say.
He silently complies, while I find a box of pins. I come over to him. He’s holding the jacket and vest in his arms. I take them and put them over the back of a chair and then turn back to him. His shirt is hanging out. “We have to tuck this in first,” I say, and together we stuff the shirttails into the waistband.
“If you’re going to put your hand down my pants, you could at least pretend to enjoy it,” he says. Again, Harry’s words, but in an unfamiliar voice.
I don’t respond, just circle around behind him and gather some of the fabric at the waist to see how much I need to take in. I’m honestly not trying to give him the silent treatment or anything like that—it’s just hard for me to talk right now. My eyes are stinging and my throat is swelling.
I know that feeling: I’m close to tears. What I don’t know is why. Everything’s fine. Harry has proven he’s the inconstant flirt I always thought he was. That should be comforting. All’s right with the world.
Except I hate Marie. Have I mentioned that? She’s a repulsive pig.
“You look good in the tux,” I manage to croak out, because the silence is going on too long. The worse I feel, the more I don’t want him to know how bad I feel. My voice sounds really weird, so I swallow hard and force myself to speak more clearly. “You’re lucky. The Winter’s Tale cast has to wear these ugly ski pants and down jackets. They’ll boil onstage.”
“Franny . . .” He twists around, like he’s trying to look at me.
“Don’t do that, or I’ll stick a pin in you.” I give a shaky little laugh. “It might even be by accident.”
“Franny,” he says again, and then the door to the changing room bangs open.
“—can’t even breathe in there!” Marie bursts out, followed closely by Amelia. “How do I look, Harry?” She’s wearing a man’s suit: it’s a little boxy, but she looks cute in it.
“Fabulous.” Since when does Harry use words like fabulous?
She accepts the compliment with a broad smile. “Oh, my God, you’re gorgeous!” she says. “You should wear that every day!” She comes closer to him and strokes her hand down the front of his tuxedo shirt. I can see Amelia’s face darken behind her. Probably because Marie didn’t wash her hands first.
“You should see it with the jacket on,” Harry says.
“I like you half-dressed.” She rubs her cheek against his arm and makes a purring sound.
I want to say to him, Really? You like this? This is the kind of thing you like? Really? But of course I don’t. Anyway, he looks like he likes it. He has a half smile on his face, and his bedroom eyes look even bedroomier than usual.
“She’ll have to bind her chest when she’s wearing this,” Amelia says brusquely. “Turn around. Let me see the jacket buttoned.”
“It’s too big on me,” Marie says, looking down at herself, pulling the jacket tight behind her to show off her little waist. “That always happens to me with costumes. I’m very narrow.”
“It’s made for a man,” Amelia says, jerking the fabric out of Marie’s grip and smoothing the jacket back into place. “Of course it’s too big—it’s not supposed to fit perfectly. Your director wants it to look like you bought it off a rack in a hurry to disguise yourself as a man.”
“So much for looking good onstage,” Marie says with a dramatic sigh.
“Are you kidding me?” Harry says. “You look fantastic, babe.”
“Babe”? Who is this guy?
I stick another pin in his waistband, and I guess his shirt still isn’t tucked in correctly because my fingers brush briefly against his warm back. I feel him stiffen under my touch, like he wants to move away. I quickly ram in the last pin and stand up straight.
“I’m done,” I tell Amelia.
She glances over. She’s still fiddling with Marie’s jacket.
“Okay, Duke,” she says to Harry. “Get changed and go back to rehearsal. Watch out for the pins as you take the pants off.”
“You bet I will,” he says, and disappears into the bathroom.
“Let me know if you need any help in there,” Ma
rie calls after him gaily.
Amelia says, “Franny, are you responsible for the way that jacket is just tossed over the back of the chair?”
“I guess so.” I hastily pick it up and smooth it out.
She shakes her head, tsking. “I expect you to take better care of the costumes than that. You’ll have to press it now.”
“Oh, poor Franny,” Marie says with barely repressed mirth. “As if it’s not hot enough in here already. Now you have to iron! I feel so bad for you.”
I want to kill her.
Harry comes out of the bathroom, once again in jeans and a T-shirt and holding the rest of his costume. “Who do I give this to?”
“Franny will take it,” Amelia says, adding to me, “and please be more careful than you were the last time.”
Harry hands the costume to me. I accept it silently.
“Oh, Harry, I almost forgot to tell you,” Marie says. “Someone’s organizing a trip to a bar—” She stops, and glances at Amelia, then giggles again and says, “I mean, to a restaurant tonight for anyone who’s not rehearsing. I said we’d go. You don’t mind, do you, babe?”
We? They’re a we? That happened awfully fast.
I suddenly find myself very involved with folding the pants. I have to smooth every inch out just right. Staring fixedly down at them the entire time.
“Sounds good to me,” Harry says. “You know how much I love going to ‘bars, uh, restaurants.’”
“Oh, sorry, Franny!” She spins around, her hand to her mouth, like she just remembered I’m there. “I didn’t mean to leave you out. I’m sure you can go too, if you want to.”
“I probably have to work tonight,” I say.
“Too bad.” She paints a sympathetic look onto her face.
Amelia tells her to go change into the dress she’ll be wearing in her first scene. Marie touches Harry on the hand. “See you soon,” she says, and tickles his wrist before going back into the changing room.
“You need me for anything else?” Harry asks Amelia. “I can try on other people’s costumes too, you know. I’m able to alter my height and weight at will. It’s my superpower.”
“We’re done with you for now,” my aunt says, not amused. “Send one of the other actors in.”