“Uh . . . hi,” she says. Her lashes are long and thick, even without makeup; she’s got a slight underbite that makes her look pensive. She’d be pretty if there weren’t something so brittle in the angles of her face.
“Hey, I’ve been carrying these around for a week now—I keep meaning to find you and give them to you.” I fumble clumsily in my backpack and pull out a small stack of comics in their polypropylene sleeves. “It’s that comic I was telling you about.”
I hold them out toward her, but she doesn’t move to take them.
“Um, thanks. But I can’t,” she says. “I’m not allowed.” She quickens her pace ever so slightly. I match her speed.
“To read comics?” I cock my head. “Are your parents, like, religious or something?”
She doesn’t answer.
“Hey, it’s no big deal. You can keep them at school, read them at lunch or something. You can even keep them in my locker if you want.” I’m still holding the comics out at her. “I don’t mind.”
She makes no motion to take them. I finally let them fall back to my side.
“Well . . . let me know if you change your mind. I think you’d like them.”
She gives me a sidelong look. “You don’t even know me.”
I stop in my tracks. The words crack over me, hostile, jagged. She walks a few steps ahead, then stops too. I see her shoulders lift and fall with a deep breath.
“I’m sorry.” She half turns to look at me, her brow furrowed. “That was . . . rude. But what exactly is it that you want from me?”
I step a little closer and watch as her body tenses. I step back again, holding both my hands up in front of me.
“Look, I don’t want to harass you or whatever. I’ll keep my distance from now on. I just . . . kind of wanted to get to know you.”
She mumbles something. I can’t quite make it out.
“What?”
“Nothing.” She loops her fingers under the straps of her backpack. “Your girlfriend seems pretty possessive. Does she know you’re talking to me?”
“Sasha and I are through. We broke up this weekend,” I say.
“You did?” I struggle to read her face. “Oh. I mean . . . I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It wasn’t working out.” I adjust the straps of my backpack on my shoulders. “Anyway, it’s no big deal. It’s over. She doesn’t care who I talk to.”
For a moment she stands there, in the middle of the sidewalk. People give us strange looks as they stream around us toward the school. Then her eyes dart up to my face.
“Do you know Sekrit? The app, I mean?”
“Yeah. I’ve never used it.” I shift my weight. “I usually just text people.”
She shakes her head. “It’s more private. Secure.” She hesitates again. “I’m dollorous00.” She spells it out for me.
Then, before I can say anything, she steps close. I get a whiff of her shampoo. It smells like some kind of fruit—pomegranate or cherries, maybe. I close my eyes, and before I can move she’s taken the comics from my hand and disappeared into the crowd.
For a moment I stand there in the glaring morning sun. Then I pull out my phone, ready to download the app and find her there. I’m already writing the first message in my head. It has to be casual—I don’t want to freak her out—and maybe funny. But not too funny. Not like I’m saying, hey, look at me, I’m so funny. I don’t want her to think I’m trying too hard.
But before I can even go to the app store, I see I’ve got a new Snapchat. It’s from a number I don’t know. I wonder if it’s hers—if she found me already. I open it.
It’s a video. At first I can’t make anything out—whoever’s taking it is behind a chain-link fence, with a large bush obscuring the view. But then the camera refocuses, and I see a playground. A bunch of little kids run laughing across the wood chips, playing tag. They’re maybe five—kindergarteners, first graders.
Suddenly I feel cold. I know, somehow, what I will see.
The camera zooms in on one little girl, her curly black hair in pigtails. She looks impossibly tiny against the playground equipment, and she toddles along with a clumsy, stomping gait. The camera is close enough to pick up her laughter.
It’s Vivi.
TEN
Elyse
“Leo was so cute when he was younger,” Brynn says, taking a handful of popcorn from the large bowl between us.
It’s Monday evening, and we’re in her living room, taking a break from homework to watch the old Romeo + Juliet from the nineties. We’re ostensibly watching for “research.” It’s the party scene—the part where their eyes meet through the fish tank, Claire Danes in her angel wings, Leonardo in his armor.
“He’s still pretty cute,” I say. “Did you see Gatsby? He looks good in a suit.”
Brynn sticks her tongue out. “Too old.”
“He’s not that old,” I mumble. My cheeks burn, but she’s not looking.
I spent the rest of the day yesterday trying to decide if the kiss had really happened, or if it’d been a dream. Outside of the close air of the green room it seemed so unlikely. But I could still feel it—could still close my eyes and feel the pressure of our mouths touching. He was right—it was crossing the line. It shouldn’t have happened. But I’ve gone over the memory again and again, my heart tripping in my chest every time.
I haven’t mentioned it to Brynn. I’m not sure why—I don’t think she’d tell anyone. But it feels safer to cradle the secret close, to keep it protected.
“Your one-on-one session must have done you some good,” Brynn says suddenly, almost as if reading my mind.
My hand freezes halfway to the popcorn bowl. “What do you mean?” This afternoon I worked as hard as I could to keep things normal, even though the sight of Mr. Hunter filled my chest with bubbles. I barely talked to him, and only when he had something to say about the play. But Brynn knew me better than anyone else. Maybe she’d seen through it.
She doesn’t even glance at me. “I mean, you’re off book for act one now. And you sound really good.”
“Oh. Oh, thanks.” I catch my breath again. “Yeah, we just ran lines. It was helpful.”
Brynn is wearing a pair of pajama bottoms printed all over with fluffy cartoon sheep. Her hair is pinned up in a sloppy bun, her face is makeup free, and her glasses are crooked on her nose. It’s 7:45. It took her less than five minutes to get out of her vintage swing dress and wipe her lipstick off when we got in the door from rehearsal. As far as I know I’m the only person she lets see her like this besides her family.
She glances at me now, raising an eyebrow. “What’s up with you? You’re all twitchy.”
“Just tired,” I say. “My brain is full.”
“Girl, please, you’ve got four acts to go.” She sits up, folding her legs under her. “Anyway, we need a break. Not a watching-old-movies break. Like, a find-a-Sadie-Hawkins-dress break. Want to hit the vintage shops this weekend?”
I slump back against the overstuffed sofa. “Oh God, that’s coming up? We just got done with homecoming. What’s the student council’s crepe paper budget, anyway?”
She chews the edge of her thumbnail. “I’m thinking about asking Trajan.”
“Trajan? Like, the star basketball player currently playing Tybalt?” I laugh. “You’re going to have to find six-inch heels, or else you’ll be slow-dancing with his bellybutton.” Trajan’s got to be at least six foot five.
She smirks. “There’s something about a guy who could throw you over his shoulder, though. You know? I mean, not like in a caveman way. More in a sexy fireman way. Anyway, what about you?”
“I’m not so into sexy firemen. I’m more of a hot-cop kind of girl,” I say.
“No, I mean . . . who do you want to go after?”
The image of Mr. Hunter floats up before my eyes. Which is ridiculous. Because even if we would go together, we couldn’t.
I pull a pillow down over my face. “I’m too tired to go to a dance. I’m too tired for anything except rehearsal. I am a line-memorizing robot.”
She rolls her eyes. “Oh, come on. It’s not even a lot of work. Find a dress, then come over and let me do your hair and makeup. Boom. Dance-ready.”