My Life After Now

35

Happiness




There was no time to stop and catch my breath. After my miraculous reconciliation with Max and Courtney, aka the two most supportive, awesome friends ever, I rushed to get into costume and at least give my makeup a cursory touchup before my big entrance in act 1, scene 4.

Between costume changes and scenery changes and everyone running around backstage working to keep up the pace, I couldn’t think about anything but the play. But that was good. I was glad to have something as permanent and timeless as Shakespeare to keep me grounded.

Evan caught up with me at intermission. “Max cornered me,” he confessed guiltily. “He demanded to know what’s going on. I didn’t know what to say—”

“Evan,” I said. “It’s okay. I told them.”

“You did?”

“Yeah.”

“And?”

“And it’s all fine.”

His face lit up. “See? I knew they’d be cool. And you were so worried. You don’t give people enough credit, Lucy.”

I gave him a look. “That might be true, but I still don’t want anyone else finding out.”

“Understood,” he said with a nod. “So have you given any more thought to what we talked about?”

Honestly, I hadn’t. I’d spent the entire night trying to come up with a way to dodge Max and Courtney. But it had only been a day since our conversation, and nothing had changed. “I meant what I said last night, Evan,” I said gently. “I need time.”

He nodded, a little dejectedly. “Okay. I’ll stop asking.”

I gave a tiny smile and patted him on the shoulder. “Patience, young grasshopper.”

Evan threw up his hands, laughing. “And she quotes Kung Fu! I really am in love with this girl.”

• • •

Evan and I were forced to replace our fancy swords with prop swords, but we couldn’t really object to that. We’d learned our lesson. The prop swords were lighter and easier to use, anyway. And now that we’d resolved our fight scene issues, the show was coming off without a hitch.

Or that was almost true.

No one knew what the hell was up with Elyse. Miss I’m-the-best-actress-in-the-world suddenly seemed to be battling a severe case of premature stage fright. She kept having to call out for lines—lines that she had known perfectly yesterday—and she missed her cue not once but four times.

I watched in delight from the wings as she fell flat on her face time and time again. Finally, someone other than me was messing everything up. It was just icing on the cake that it happened to be Elyse.

Andre decided at the last minute to turn the rehearsal into a double. He still refused to accept that the show was cursed and was on a fool’s quest to do whatever it took to get the production on its feet.

At six p.m., I called home.

“Dad?” I said. “I can’t go to the meeting tonight. Andre called a double rehearsal.”

“Forget it, Lucy. You haven’t been to a meeting in a week. Tell Andre you have a prior obligation.”

“You don’t understand—the show opens in three days! I have to be here.”

“Sorry, honey. No dice,” he said.

“But what am I going to tell Andre?” I protested.

“Tell him he doesn’t know how lucky he is that your parents are even still letting you be in the play after his negligence landed you in the hospital and with thirty stitches in your arm,” Dad retorted.

“Thirty-two,” I mumbled.

“Exactly.”

“There’s no way I’m telling him that.”

“I really don’t care what you tell him, Lucy. But you’re not missing the meeting.”

I sighed. “Fine. See you at home.”

I fed Andre some line about having a follow-up doctor’s appointment for my arm, and he let me go without protest. Dad must have been right about him feeling responsible for my injury, because when Chris Mendoza asked permission to go home early because he had to babysit his little sister, Andre told him to get back on stage and stop bothering him with his petty requests.

Thirty minutes later, I was in the car with my dads and Lisa, Manhattan-bound.

I hated having to share the backseat with Lisa. Every now and then I’d catch the reflection of her bratty pout in the window, and I had to stifle the urge to give her a swift roundhouse kick to the mouth.

“Is anyone going to explain to me where we’re going?” she whined.

“All you need to know is that Lucy has somewhere to be at eight, and we’re escorting her,” Papa replied serenely.

“But why do I have to come?”

Papa gave her a pitying look in the rearview mirror. “I’m just going to go ahead and let you figure that one out on your own, Lisa. Now, I know thinking is not your strong suit, but look on the bright side—at least you’ll have this little puzzler to keep you occupied for the next hour or so.”

I smiled. I was really enjoying this new take-no-crap attitude of his.

• • •

I was glad when we got to the meeting a little early, because I wanted to talk to Roxie. I found her arranging store-brand cookies on a platter, her emerald green fingernails twinkling under the church basement’s lights.

“Hey,” I said.

She looked up in surprise. “Lucy! You’re back!”

“Yeah, sorry. The snowstorm made traveling difficult.”

“Oh, that’s right. I always forget you come here from upstate.”

“Westchester is hardly upstate,” I said. “It’s only twenty-five miles away.”

Roxie laughed. “Sorry, didn’t mean to offend. But for real, I thought you were seriously pissed at me.”

I grimaced, remembering the last meeting. “I was. Actually, I still kind of am. Why did you do that, again?”

“I guess I thought it would help. My bad.” She looked up at me sheepishly.

“If I’m being honest…it might have.” I explained all about my fight with Lisa, and how we found out Lisa had been doing drugs this whole time.

“Whoa,” Roxie said, wide-eyed. “You’ve had a busy week.”

“Oh, that’s not even the half of it,” I said, and rolled up my sleeve to show her my battle wound. I told her about starting the meds, and what had happened with Evan and then with Max and Courtney. But I kept the Ty stuff to myself. I knew I shouldn’t have slept with him, for many reasons, and I was trying to convince myself that entire snowy Friday afternoon had never happened.

I didn’t know it then, but moving on from that mistake was going to be harder than I could have imagined.

I got home that night to a message waiting on the house line voicemail.

“Hello, this is Mr. Fisher, from Eleanor Senior High,” the voice said.

My principal? Why would he be calling?

“I’d like for Miss Moore to come meet with me in my office tomorrow morning before school. Say, seven a.m.? Thank you, see you then.” The message ended.

My dads and I stared at each other. What could that be all about?