I’m quiet for a while. If I tell you I don’t like the rule, you’ll think I want to hit on a bunch of guys all the time. But if I agree to the rule, then I get peace of mind knowing you’re not having study dates with hot college girls.
“Okay,” I say, “let’s try it and see.”
You’re building a wall around us, keeping out everyone I know and love. Soon, that wall will be too hard to climb back over.
TWENTY-ONE
I’m sitting in the theater, orchestra third row, watching Peter screw up again. Miss B is sick so I’m running rehearsals today.
“Line!” he calls, shading his eyes against the stage lights as he looks for me out in the house.
“Peter, we open next week,” I say. “What are you going to do when there’s an actual audience out here?”
He’s the lead in The Crucible. It’s not my favorite play, but Miss B had to choose it because it goes with the English curriculum.
“Just give me the line, Grace,” he says.
I sigh and look down at my script. “Can you speak one minute without we land in Hell again? I am sick of Hell!”
He repeats the line and I make a note that he’s got to deliver it with more passion. He killed it at the audition, but his Proctor is pretty rough around the edges.
A few minutes later, he’s calling for his line again. I imagine I’m Miss B as I stand and move toward the stage.
“I’m not giving you your line this time,” I say.
“What the fuck?” he says.
“Don’t talk to me like that,” I say, channeling Beth. Firm, calm, in control. I am a badass director, I chant to myself. “You need to figure out how to move through the scene if you go up on a line.”
“Dammmmnn,” Lys says, nodding approvingly. Every time I look at her, I have to try not to laugh: Lys in a Puritan bonnet is priceless.
Peter throws a murderous glare my way, then continues with the scene, ad-libbing or getting prompts from the other actors as needed. I think about the personal statement I have to write for my NYU application, which is due in a few weeks. Maybe I should talk about how overcoming adversity in my personal life is helping me to be a better director. Life with my mom and The Giant has allowed me to hone my conflict management skills and prepare for catastrophe. I already know I’m going to have to be backstage feeding this fool his lines.
I give notes at the end of rehearsal, my notebook paper filled with suggestions for improvement. Everyone takes me seriously—even Peter, jackass that he is—and it’s probably one of the proudest moments of my life.
You pick me up after and I’m walking on cloud nine. Things have been a little weird between us since my sister’s visit, but we’re generally working through it all. It’s October, and we’re getting more used to you being in college.
“… And then Lys was all dammmmmnn and basically I’m a badass,” I say.
You laugh. “Of course you are—I already knew that.”
We stop at Denny’s for some food before you take me home.
“I wonder if they have a class in college about having to deal with actors like Peter,” I say, sliding into a booth. “Dealing With Divas 101.”
“If they do, you’ll ace it.”
The waitress comes to take our order and pour our coffee. I add cream and three packets of sugar to mine, but you drink yours black.
I lean forward. “So. When were you going to tell me that you emailed my sister?”
You take a sip of coffee. “I figured you’d find out eventually.”
I rest a hand on your arm. “Well, you scored some major boyfriend points. Thank you.”
“I was a dick to her. And since she’s probably going to be a family member someday, I figured it’d be good if she didn’t hate me.” I blush and you grin. “Don’t look so surprised. There’s no way we’re not spending the rest of our lives together.”
“Stop being perfect,” I say and then I take a big swig of coffee to burn away the lump in my throat.
I could have ended up like my mom, with someone like my dad or The Giant, but the universe gave me you.
“How’d you even get her email address?” I ask, going back to the topic of you being a top-notch brother-in-law.
“Your phone.”
“That’s pretty sneaky.”
You smile. “It is. Did it work?”
“Yeah, I think so. She’s willing to give you another chance, anyway.”
“That’s all I was hoping for.”
Our food comes and I pour copious amounts of syrup over my pancakes. You grab a bite and I bat your hand away.
“So … who’s Dan?” you say.
“Hmm?”
“Dan. I saw a couple emails from him in your inbox.”
“You read my emails?”
“Not on purpose. It was just, you know, there. When I was looking for Beth’s address.”
I frown. “He’s a guy in my Brit Lit class. We’re partners for an assignment.”
“Okay.” You take a bite of your burger and I grab one of your fries, chewing thoughtfully.
“Have you read my emails before?” I ask.
I try to keep my voice casual but I can hear the anxiety in it. The What the fuck in it. You have the security code for my phone, just like I have yours. It never occurred to me to go snooping through your emails or texts.
I try to tell myself it’s fine, we have no secrets. But it’s no use—this feels wrong. Really wrong. See, Gav, I should have listened to my intuition right here. I should have remembered that the women in my family know stuff before it happens, like how my great-gram would know who was calling her before the phone even rang. I should have known that you doing this means you’re a snake in the grass.
“No.” You hold up your hands when I glare at you. “I swear! My curiosity just got the better of me.”
“Because you don’t trust me.”
“I do.” I shake my head and angrily stab at my pancakes. “Grace, I swear I do. I just … couldn’t resist. I was only in there to look for Beth’s address. Promise.” You raise your eyebrows. “It’s not like you have anything to hide, right?”
“What the hell, Gav?”
“I’m kidding!”
“I don’t believe you.”
You lean forward and kiss the tip of my nose. “I love you to the moon and back. Okay? Now eat your pancakes.”
I love you to the moon and back—you read that in one of the picture books you brought to my house when I was sick. It’s become this thing with us. I melt. And you knew I would. You’ve got all these aces up your sleeve—a real card sharp.
“You owe me a song,” I say, pointing my fork at you. “Something romantic about how much you trust me.”
You grin. “I’ll start working on it tonight.”
When you’re a stupid girl in love, it’s almost impossible to see the red flags. It’s so easy to pretend they’re not there, to pretend that everything is perfect.
Beautiful rock gods who can kiss you until you’re dizzy always get away with murder.
* * *
IT’S CLOSING NIGHT of The Crucible and we get a standing ovation. The cast makes Miss B and me come onstage and they present both of us with huge bouquets of roses. We take a little bow and I catch your eye in the front row. You yell the loudest and raise your hands over your head when you clap.
Tomorrow I’ll be back to help strike the set and get everything out of the theater the school is renting, but tonight my mom is letting me stay out until midnight because we have our cast party. I’m wearing a cute little black dress from the sixties with red tights and my Doc Martens. Since it’s Halloween, I’ve added cat ears and used thick black eyeliner to give myself cat eyes. I’ve been too busy to think of a costume, and, besides, you think dressing up is dumb. It’s been getting pretty chilly at night, so I go backstage and throw on a leather jacket I found at Goodwill for five bucks, then grab my purse to meet you out front.
“We’re gonna head over to Pet
er’s place now—you want to drive with us?” Nat asks.
She and Lys are both in the cast. Nat’s dressed as Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s, and she sticks the long cigarette holder Audrey rocked between her teeth. Lys is dressed as an existential dilemma, wearing a black unitard with questions like Is there a God? and What’s the point of life? stuck all over her. Of course, she’s also wearing knee-high sequined boots and a blond wig because she’s Lys.
I shake my head. “I’ll see you there. Gav’s here, so he’ll take me.” Nat frowns and I roll my eyes. “I told you guys, he feels really bad about what happened with Beth.”
It’s been over a month since that night we all went bowling, but Nat and Lys still haven’t gotten over it.
Lys mimes locking her lips and throwing away the key. I stick out my tongue and they both blow me a kiss, then head out with the rest of the cast.
I meet you in the lobby and when you see me you grab me in a bear hug and spin me around.
“I missed you so much,” you say, keeping an arm around my shoulders as we head out to the parking lot.
“I missed you, too.”
We haven’t seen each other in over a week. My senior year and your freshman year are kicking our asses. It seems like every time I’m free, you’re not. And when you’re free it’s past my curfew.
Your eyes travel upward as you take in my outfit. “Do you always dress like this when I’m not around?”
“What do you mean?”
You run your hand down the length of the dress. “This is pretty … short.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Yeah…”
You pull me closer. “Only wear this for me, okay? I don’t want the guys at your school getting any ideas.”
“What? Baby. Are you serious?” When you don’t say anything I just laugh because you’re being silly, but you frown. “Anyway. What did you think of the show?”
“It was cool,” you say.
I deflate a little.
“Just cool? I was hoping for something more along the lines of brilliant, life-changing, phenomenal…”
You laugh. “Well, you are all those things. But, you know, it’s just a high school show, right? It is what it is. I mean, Peter as Proctor? Come on.”
I stop walking and your arm falls off my shoulder. We’re outside the theater, standing on the wide steps leading to its entrance. You’re a few steps below me. I stare at you and you look back, confused.
“What?” you say.
“Just a high school show?” I repeat. “That’s kind of a dick thing to say.”
Now you get it.
“Oh, hey, I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just, you know, not really my thing anymore.”
“You’ve been in college for, like, two months, Gav. Suddenly theatre isn’t your thing?”
You’ve pretty much given up acting to focus on the band, which is fine, but I didn’t know that meant you didn’t care about theatre at all. Or at least about my theatre stuff.
“I love you,” you say with a sigh. “And I’m sorry. That came out all wrong. I’m really proud of you.” You kneel down and clasp your hands together, extra dramatic. “Forgive me?”
My lip twitches. “Get up, you idiot.”
“I’m taking that as a yes.” You stand and adjust my cat ears. “How about we go somewhere, and you take everything off but these?”
“Alas, we have a cast party to get to.” I smile. “But I’ll give you a rain check.”
We get into the car and you tap your key against the steering wheel. I can tell there’s something you want to say and that it’s maybe serious. My stomach turns. The past few times we’ve hung out we’ve been on the verge of a fight, but at the last minute one of us caves and it’s okay. I wonder if that will happen tonight. If we can keep pretending nothing’s changed.
“I don’t want to go to the cast party,” you say.
“Why?”
You sigh. “Because I’m in college, Grace. Because I don’t want to go to some lame-ass party with a bunch of drama nerds who don’t know how to party.”
“You mean you don’t like that it’s not a kegger.”
You never really drank much before college—just a beer or whatever at a party—but suddenly you’re drunk-dialing me in the middle of the night or hungover on our dates. You grab a cigarette from a pack lying on top of the dashboard, another new habit of yours.
“What, you expect me to get excited about fucking pizza and Spin the Bottle? Or wait, a dance party where Peter grinds against you?”
“Seriously? You’re bringing that up?” I shake my head. “Just drop me off, then, if we’re all suddenly too lame for the great Gavin Davis to hang out with.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
I grind my teeth. “Nothing. Whatever. It’s too late to get a ride from someone else. If you can take me, I’ll go home with Nat and Lys.”
You lower the cigarette. “Wait, you’re seriously gonna go to this party when I haven’t seen you in a week?”
“Gav, it’s our cast party. Come on, you know how important this is. I’ve worked my ass off on this show and I want to celebrate. Remember how my mom made me miss the last one?” I roll down the window as your cigarette smoke wafts toward me. “And, seriously, put that shit out.”
You growl something inaudible and throw the cigarette out the window, then peel out of the parking lot, going way too fast.
“Gavin!”
You don’t say anything, just turn up the music and drive. We stay silent as you navigate out of downtown and head toward Peter’s house, which is in the country, ten miles outside of town. I was so high on adrenaline during the show, watching the final performance, the culmination of all my hard work, but now I’m just tired.
I watch you out of the corner of my eye. The lights on the dashboard play across your face and your headlights cut through the night, which is darker now that we’re in the country. I check my phone. I have two and a half hours before I have to be home.
“This is so stupid,” I say. “What are we even fighting about?”
“I don’t know,” you say.
I unbuckle and lean across the console, my lips against your cheek, your ear, your neck. You smile and put a hand on my hair, your fingers running down the length of it.
You pull off to the side of the road near a stand of birch trees.
“What are you doing?” I say as you cut the engine.
You smile. “What are you doing?”
I lean toward you and kiss the tip of your nose.
“The party…,” I whisper.
You lift your chin so my lips land on yours.
“Screw the party,” you say.
I let you kiss me some more and I’m tempted, I am, but I pull away.
“Gav. I’m the assistant director. I have to go to this party. I want to go.”
I should have gone with Nat and Lys. I feel trapped in this car with you and for the first time since we’ve gotten together, I want to be somewhere you’re not.
“Please just take me to the party,” I say. “I’ll get a ride home from Nat if you don’t want to stay.”
“I haven’t seen you for a week.”
“That’s not fair—”
“You know what’s not fair? What’s not fair is that I have a girlfriend whose parents won’t let me see her. It’s not fair that she has a ridiculous curfew and that she doesn’t come to any of the shows I play. It’s not fair that I see the fucking baristas at Starbucks more than her.”
“I can’t control any of that,” I snap. “And I’ve snuck out of the house for three shows since school started.”
You turn your head away from me and stare out the window. I grab your hand and gently turn your face so you’re looking at me.
“Hey. I want to be with you all the time. But I have to be at this party. Not going would be like a slap in the face to the whole cast and crew. You know that.”
My phone buzzes, but before I can read t
he text from Lys, it’s out of my hands and in your pocket.
“Please, can it just be us?” you say quietly.
“Gav, give me my phone.”
“The party or me—which one is it?”
A plane flies overhead, its red taillights blinking. I watch it arc across the sky before I answer. I wish I were on it.
“Can’t we do both?” I say, my voice small. “Compromise?”
You check your phone. “You have to be home in, like, two hours. If we go all the way out to Peter’s, that’s a half hour of driving. So what, you’ll stay at the party for forty-five minutes, then save fifteen for me? That’s all I get with my girlfriend this week?”
“But if you came with me, then we’d be together.”
You explode. “I stayed in this shitty town for you and you won’t even skip one party!” You hit your hand against the steering wheel. “What the fuck, Grace?”
“Wait. What?”
You get out and slam the door. I sit in the car by myself for a minute, fuming. I think about Nat and Lys and the rest of the cast and crew hanging out. I can’t believe I’m stuck here on the side of the road, arguing with you, and I can’t even text anyone about it because you still have my phone. I take a breath and slide out of the car, then walk around to where you’re leaning against the driver’s side.
“Gav. What do you mean you stayed here for me?”
You glance at me, then shake your head. “Nothing. Never mind.”
“I never asked you to stay here. Why would you say—”
“I turned down LA schools so you and I could be together. Okay?”
I stare at you. “Are you being serious right now?”
You sigh. “I didn’t want to tell you. Ever. I knew it would only make you feel bad.…”
“You didn’t…” I swallow. “You didn’t get into UCLA … right?”
Your dream school.
“Gavin. Right?”
You don’t say anything.
I wait, staring at you, my breath suddenly coming out in labored clumps.
“I got in,” you say quietly.
Something in me sinks, falls down the length of my spine like a stone.
“But we’d just gotten together,” I say, almost to myself.
You shrug. “I’d already fallen in love with you by the time I got my acceptance letter. It wasn’t even a question, not really. You’re the most important thing. Always.”