Finally, I nod. “Yes, sir. I understand.”
“All right. Head on to class now. Mrs. Murray will give you a pass so you won’t be marked tardy.” DeGroot stands up from his desk. “I hope I don’t have a reason to see you again, Gabe.”
I don’t trust myself to answer. I grab my backpack by one strap and step out of the office. My fury mutes the sounds of the hallway. I barely notice as a sophomore slams into me, eyes on her phone. She looks up to apologize, but the words die on her lips; I have no doubt my rage is plain for anyone to see.
I slow only when I get to my locker, my steps faltering. The lock is missing and the door is slightly open. The noise of the hallway comes back with one sharp blast, the loud shouts of kids returning from lunch, the clang of lockers, and the distant strains of a Sia song from someone’s headphones. I hold my breath as I open the door fully. Everything is exactly as I left it—my textbooks piled haphazardly, my jacket on the hook, the peace sign carved on the side wall. Everything except for a crisp white envelope tucked neatly in the back corner.
After a moment’s hesitation, I rip the envelope open, the paper thick and pulpy in my trembling hands. The pain comes swift and sharp as a small metallic object tumbles out, embedding itself in my palm before clattering to the floor with a hollow ping. It’s a razor blade, the edge now stained with my blood.
I whirl around, pressing the cuff of my jacket to my palm to stanch the bleeding. And then I see her, at the very end of the corridor. She leans against the bulletin board as students stream around her, rushing to fourth period.
Sasha’s eyes lock on mine, a smile playing on her lips. She blows me a kiss and then disappears into the crowd.
TWENTY-TWO
Elyse
“The thing is, Trajan’s smarter than most jocks.” Brynn leans on her palm, elbow on the table next to a towering stack of books. “Did you know he’s going to Stanford next year? He wants to study chemistry, which, like, yuck. But he’s also super into literature and stuff.”
It’s Wednesday night, and we’re at Central Library after rehearsal, trying to study. I love the old sandstone-and-marble building; it gives off a studious, serious air that the boxy modern branch down the street from my apartment lacks. We’re on the third floor, surrounded by heavy wooden book stands and globes and glass displays of early editions.
My phone vibrates softly on the table. I glance down at the screen.
I can’t stop thinking about you.
And even though there’s no name associated with the number, a smile touches my lips.
We haven’t been able to see each other outside rehearsal since Cannon Beach last weekend, but Aiden and I have been texting all week. We have to be careful. I can’t put any identifying information in my phone; I can’t list his name, can’t have a photo of the two of us—though I do have a perfectly innocent picture of him on stage, going over the notes of the last few rehearsals. He texts only from a burner. That way, if someone gets suspicious, we won’t get in trouble.
Brynn hasn’t even noticed. “Like, we’ve been talking about Shakespeare a lot. You know he’s in AP English? But he also reads plays for fun. The other night we read the seduction scene from Richard III together, and it was so freaking hot.”
“That’s the nerdiest date I’ve ever heard of,” I say.
“I know. Isn’t it great?” She grins. “Maybe we can talk Mr. Hunter into doing that one next year. I mean, Romeo and Juliet’s okay, but it’s definitely not the most sophisticated play Shakespeare ever wrote.”
“I like Romeo and Juliet!” I protest.
“It’s about dumb people making dumb decisions.” She shrugs. “I’d much rather do Midsummer. Or Much Ado about Nothing. Oh man, I’d kill to play Beatrice.”
I don’t know why, but it irritates me. “A Midsummer Night’s Dream is about someone falling in love with a donkey. I’m not sure that counts as sophisticated.”
She laughs lightly. “Well, that’s not what it’s about. It’s a little more complicated than that.”
The faint note of condescension rankles my nerves. “I’ve read the play, Brynn. I know what it’s about.”
“Okay, okay, don’t get huffy.” She smirks a little. “Juliet is a very important role, too. No one’s disparaging your part.”
“You literally just said she’s a dumb person making dumb decisions,” I point out.
A crease forms in the middle of her forehead. “Look, can you stop making this about you for half a second? I’m trying to tell you that Trajan and I are, like, official. So can you maybe be happy for me?”
What I want to say? Why does hearing about you and Trajan require an elaborate sidebar about how the play I’m starring in is trash? And why do I have to drop everything to care about your latest conquest?
But what I do say, after a long pause?
“Sorry. I am happy for you . . . he’s really cute. And he sounds awesome.”
She looks mostly placated, but the remnants of a frown linger on her brow.
“What’s been up with you lately? You’ve been distracted nonstop.”
“I’m just feeling anxious since we’re so close to opening night, I guess.” I grab my ponytail and take it out of its elastic, then redo it, my fingers fidgety. “That, plus Mom, plus homework, plus my life in general.”
She seems satisfied with the answer. She reaches across the table and pats my forearm. “It’s a lot. But you’re going to be great. You’re perfect for this role.”
I purse my lips and restrain myself from pointing out, once again, that she just told me Juliet was an idiot.
But at least my secret is still safe.
* * *
? ? ?
When I get home a few hours later, Mom is in the kitchen, smoking into the exhaust fan. When she sees me she puts out the cigarette and straightens up.
“Hi,” she says. “How was your day?”
“Fine,” I say. Then I look around and see that the island is set with plates and cutlery and serving ware. My eyes widen. “What’s . . . all this?”
“I thought we could eat dinner together.” She smiles shyly. “If you wanted to, I mean.”
I stare at the spread. She hasn’t cooked in about five years. I’m sort of impressed she still remembers how. It’s a simple meal—baked chicken breasts, steamed broccoli, Pillsbury biscuits—but it smells good. My stomach rumbles.
“Sure,” I say, putting down my backpack and swinging myself up into one of the barstools at the island. “It looks great. Thanks.”
She sits down across from me, and silently we start to load our plates. She still looks a little sickly; her skin is pasty-pale, her hands a little shaky. But she looks worlds better than she did last week.
“So. Uh, when is opening night for that play?” she asks, spreading butter over a biscuit.
I blink. “What play?”
She gives a nervous laugh. “Your play, dummy. You know, the one you’re in?”
Somehow I never imagined Mom coming to the performance. She hasn’t set foot in my school at all since freshman year, much less come to any plays or concerts. It’s hard to picture her in the auditorium, surrounded by the other parents. What will she wear? Will she fidget through the whole thing, all her nervous tics out on display?
Will she want to meet Aiden?
I’m taking too long to answer. Mom’s face falls. She sets down the biscuit and looks away. “I mean . . . if you want me to come.”
“Of course I want you to come,” I blurt out. “I just . . . I didn’t know you’d want to. It’s the Thursday before Thanksgiving.”
She gives me a slightly surprised look. “You’re the lead, Elyse. Of course I want to see it.”
It’s no use pointing out that until last week, she didn’t even know I was in a play. It’d just hurt her feelings. And while there are moments I want to yell at her, moments I want to hold her accountable for all the ways she’s hurt me, I also know from experience that there’s no faster way to send her spiraling back into despair.
And at least she’s trying.