But when Max is nice to you, that’s the time you can least trust him. He’s going to make me say meow now—I know it.
I refuse to give him the satisfaction.
I turn, full of breezy determination, holding up a finger, smiling like I have a wonderful secret. I breathe in all of the magic that I can possibly breathe in. I am the queen of the cats, pursued and loved.
I straighten my spine against Max, against everybody who ever doubted me. I press my hands on my hips and let loose. “Meeeeow.”
He tilts his head. “Oh, I was just going to say, I’ll only need two mustards going forward.”
My pulse races. My cheeks heat.
But I don’t lose my aplomb. “We’ll see,” I say. Like I may or may not comply. With that, I leave.
This is what I’ve been reduced to, I think, heading down his faux-heaven hall. Max has everything, and my only recourse is maybe giving him the wrong number of mustards. And then he’ll just make me correct the mistake in the most demeaning way possible, so what is the point?
I’m dimly aware that I ride the elevator with other people. Some people get in. Some people get out. I barely see them. I’m too focused on myself. Or more, the naive girl I once was, trying so hard to be sophisticated. The world’s greatest fraud.
I di-int think.
I spent so many hours with that voice coach, trying to polish myself up in order to be worthy of the glittering, glamorous Broadway scene.
I thought maybe I was, finally. But then Max had to come back into my life to remind me of my station. Because it’s not enough to be king of the world—not for Max.
I burst outside onto the busy sidewalk, into the chaos of honking cars and hurried pedestrians. I pull my jacket from the cart pocket and wrap myself against the cold, wet wind and set out to the meeting point.
Didn’t didn’t didn’t didn’t.
A lot of really prominent teachers cycled through the Shiz. Famed director Strom Windmeyer. Choreographer Fanny Forlio. Actors like Jean Stern and Marcel Rhodes. Many of them had encouraging words for me. Some of them even singled me out for praise.
But it’s Max’s biting words I remember. Obvious. Without nuance. Not there. Not her best. He never said them directly to me—we didn’t speak except for that one summer. But other students took glee in passing our insults along to each other.
I’d always laugh dismissively at them. Max was just some sullen rich boy who hated me. What did I care what he had to say?
But I remembered each and every word he spoke with the precision of a near-death experience. Sometimes I’d lie in bed staring up at my autographed Mamma Mia! poster and dissect his words, turning them over and over, painful artifacts.
I pull out my phone. Rollins is five minutes away. I punch in my location, hit send, then sit in the shadowy doorway, feeling small and cold. I need to compose myself.
Didn’t didn’t didn’t didn’t didn’t. I enunciate the word with the tip of my tongue at the just-right spot behind my teeth.
How can I let him do that to me still? Why did I ever think this would work?
I rip the blinged-out cat-ears headband from my head and scrape off the sequins, ripping them off with my fingernails. This whole thing was a mistake! The threads break and sequins go all over the sidewalk.
Didn’t didn’t didn’t, I say. But it’s not enough. It’ll never be enough.
I’ll never be enough.
I hate how tuned into him I still am. I always was. Though really, everybody back at the Shiz was fascinated with Max.
It wasn’t just that he came from old money and famous parents. He had this quiet, brooding awkwardness. And then there was his legendary talent. He knew music theory inside out, and he could sight-read wildly difficult piano scores. He’d had lessons practically from birth, but still, it was impressive.
All the cool kids wanted to be his friend. The teachers deferred to him.
Max and I were polar opposites in every way—he was in the classical music track and the rich kid group; I was dirt poor and in theater, and on a full housing scholarship. And I’d never even ridden on a plane or slept overnight in a hotel, and he’d lived in every glamorous international capital you could name with his fabulous parents.
And beyond that, the musician kids didn’t like the theater kids and vice versa.
Unfortunately for the musician kids, they were musician kids, a socially awkward if not downright nerdy bunch, and we were theater kids, all outgoing and fabulous and way better prepared to make fun of the musicians. We had nicknames for a lot of them, and we did impressions of the way they walked and talked. I actually did a great Max-the-robot impression where I mimicked his way of playing piano. We put it up on YouTube, and it got a ton of views.
Sophomore year, he composed a song making fun of my laugh. It had a dance move that went with it—the Donkey Honk. Even the name was catchy, and it spread through the Shiz like wildfire. Performing arts kids are hungry for that kind of thing.
I acted like I didn’t care, and I even sometimes laughed and danced along, but I hated it—I’d changed my laugh to sound prettier and more bell-like. I’d worked on it really hard, and Max’s song made it so nobody could forget.
If you would’ve told me then that years later I’d be delivering sandwiches to Max as he sat behind a desk in a grand office tower that he personally owned, I would’ve asked you to put a bullet through my head.
I wait for Rollins, keeping the breath going though the words. Didn’t. Wouldn’t. Shouldn’t. Couldn’t. Mightn’t.
Why do I still care? Why do I care if I’m not good enough for him? He’s a cynical robot with no heart.
Then I remember my friends. That’s why I care.
I get on my hands and knees to pick up the sequins now. It would be easier to sew on new ones, but I’m imagining pigeons trying to eat them and getting sick.