“Maybe they’ll let me wear my Juliet costume and I can wander around the dance running lines from the masquerade scene,” I say. “I can multitask.”
“You can at least help me find a dress,” Brynn says. “Come on, you haven’t gone with me in forever.”
“Because vintage shopping with you sucks. All I find are moth-eaten housedresses covered in, like, bloodstains and cat hair and black mold. Meanwhile you always manage to find some amazing dress in perfect condition and magically in your size.” I shake my head. “It’s like you have a superpower. A very limited but very useful superpower.”
“Remember that Pierre Cardin I found last summer? Oh man, they didn’t even know what they had.” She gets a faraway look in her eyes.
I purse my lips. “It’s so unfair.”
I look away from the TV, the lines echoing in my head. Then move not, while my prayer’s effect I take. Thus from my lips, by thine, my sin is purged. The scene is layered now, memories overlapping across it. I think of rehearsal, of the chaste peck Frankie gives me, of the feeling of intense focus I get when I’m diving into the role; I think of Mr. Hunter, his lips on mine. I think of the row of wig heads in the green room, watching like an audience, wondering how it will end.
“You girls doing okay?” Mrs. Catambay appears in the doorway. She’s a tiny, plump woman with warm sepia skin, and as usual, she’s holding a tray laden with food—paciencia cookies and dried bananas and the coconut crackers she knows I love. She comes in and sets it down on the coffee table.
“Mom. We’re fine,” Brynn says, rolling her eyes. “We don’t need to eat every snack in the house.”
“Ooh. I love this movie.” Mrs. Catambay pauses in front of the TV and gives a little sigh. “Your dad and I used to make out to the soundtrack.”
“Ew!” Brynn clamps her hands over her ears.
“You should be grateful we did,” Mrs. Catambay goes on, a wicked glint in her eyes. “You wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for that Des’ree song.”
“Oh my God, you have to stop,” Brynn groans.
They joust like this all the time. It’s partly a bit, partly not. They get on each other’s nerves and crack each other up at the same time. I can’t even imagine talking this way with my own mom.
“How have you been, Elyse?” Mrs. Catambay turns her attention to me, her eyes twinkling warmly. “I feel like I haven’t seen you in a while. School going okay?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Mrs. Catambay’s always been warm and welcoming toward me. She never says anything about my mom, but she knows things aren’t great at home; she takes pains to feed me and fuss over me. But even though the Catambays are playful and casual with each other, I can’t quite get the hang of the “normal family” patter. I’m always a little too formal. Luckily Brynn’s mom thinks it’s hilarious.
“You hear that? Ma’am. I am a ma’am, Brynn.” She points triumphantly at me. “This is what a respectful child looks like.”
“She just doesn’t know any better,” returns Brynn. Then she throws a pillow at her mom. “Go away. We’re trying to learn our lines.”
Mrs. Catambay just laughs.
“I’ll be in the kitchen Skyping with your lola,” she says. “Elyse, help yourself to anything else you want, since my ingrate daughter will probably forget to offer you anything.” She kisses the top of Brynn’s head and whisks out of the room.
“Sorry,” Brynn says. Her bun is askew from the mauling, but she doesn’t bother to fix it. At home she is completely without a care about her image.
“You know I love your mom,” I say. “She always reminds me of Lorelei Gilmore.”
“Jesus, don’t tell her that, she’ll never shut up.” She gives me a sidelong look. “How’s your mom doing?”
“It’s been bad lately.” Mom’s been particularly out of it. She hasn’t been to work in a few weeks—I’m assuming she’s lost her job. I had to take on extra shifts at the movie theater to make sure we could pay our bills.
I don’t have to tell Brynn all this. She knows what “bad” means.
“That sucks.” She exhales loudly. And while Mrs. Catambay is out of the room, ostensibly not listening, and while she would insist that Brynn’s a terrible hostess who doesn’t pay attention to her guests, I know that when I leave here I’ll have a bag full of food. Tons of snacks; a bunch of perfectly good fruit they’ll claim is “about to go bad;” a Tupperware container full of leftover adobo because “Mom made too much.” And I know it’ll be impossible to tell who’s responsible—Brynn or Mrs. Catambay—because no matter what they say about each other, they’re peas in a pod.
I rest my head against Brynn’s. The rhythm of her breath against my shoulder soothes me. On the screen, Leo and Claire dodge into an elevator and kiss, narrowly evading Lady Capulet. I think about my own kiss again—the feel of Mr. Hunter’s five-o’clock shadow against my face, the woodsy smell of him. I imagine telling Brynn about it. What would she say? It’d almost be worth it just to be less in my own head about the whole thing, just to hear it out loud. It’d make it feel more real.
But what if she thinks it’s gross? What if she can tell I liked it anyway?
I press my lips together tightly, as if I might tell her in spite of myself. She glances at me and her brow furrows.
“You know you can crash here any time things get too crappy,” she says softly. It takes me a minute to realize she’s talking about my mom.
“Thanks,” I say. Then I smile. “You really are the best.”
She throws a piece of popcorn into her mouth, catching it neatly.
“Yeah,” she says. “I know.”
ELEVEN
Gabe
“All students will make their way to the B gym for this afternoon’s pep rally. Again, all students must make their way to the B gym quickly and quietly . . .”
Principal Degroot’s voice is nearly drowned out over the intercom by the noise in the halls. It’s the Friday before homecoming, and the last two hours of the school day are devoted to the manic religious experience that is Texas football. Everyone’s wearing blue and red, Mustang colors; a few people even have painted faces and bright-colored wigs. The tide moves relentlessly toward the gym.
“Ready?” Caleb says, straightening up from the vending machine with his arms full of Doritos and Hostess cakes. Irene snags a bag off the top and opens it.
“Ready,” I agree.
We make our way upstream, against the crowd.
The three of us don’t exactly have an abundance of school spirit. The game itself is fun enough—who doesn’t like watching two-hundred-pound dudes brutalize each other?—but the other parts of it, the tribalism and theatrics and rah-rah-rah, are lame. Of course, dating Sasha, I had to go to every single event so I could watch her dance. But now I am free to blow off any and all pep-related activities.
I imagine the crush in the gym, the mass of kids piled into the bleachers while cheerleaders tumble below. The football team will come running out through a big paper banner and everyone will chant, “Wat-er-LOO! Wat-er-LOO!” And then the Mustang Sallys will come out in formation, kicking and strutting to the marching band’s rendition of some cheesy pop song. I can picture Sasha there in the center in her cowboy hat and sequined vest, her smile painted on, her skin glowing in all that luminous attention.
I’ve been trying to avoid her since the breakup. It’s not easy. Every time I turn a corner she’s there, her pale eyes sending a freeze ray right in my direction. She knows my schedule by heart, so I have to assume she’s going out of her way to bump into me. I’ve started ducking into the bathroom every time I see a hint of blond curly hair. I don’t want anything to do with her.
Because while I can’t prove she sent that Snapchat message, I don’t know who else it could be.