Tristan turns the page. “And here are his New Year’s resolutions: ‘Stop thinking about Cassie. Stop dreaming about Cassie. Stop fantasizing about Cassie when I masturbate. Be kinder to my mom and sister. Try not to imagine smashing my father in the face every time he says something annoying. Run more. Drink less. Be a better person. For Cassie.’”
He puts the book down and looks at me. “You have to admit, despite his issues, the boy was totally crazy about you.”
“It doesn’t excuse what he did.”
“I don’t think he wants you to excuse him. I think he wants you to understand that he was confused.”
“And stupid.”
“Well, yeah, obviously stupid. I mean, you turn me on and I’m a bona-fide cock lover. I have no idea why that hot-blooded straight boy thought he could be anything but totally obsessed with you.”
He keeps flicking through the pages. I lie there and listen to his steady heartbeat as I try to sort through my feelings about Ethan.
“Tris?”
“Hmm?”
“Do you think it’s possible that soul mates who love each other aren’t actually supposed to be together?”
He pauses, and then puts the book down. “I think a better question would be, do you think it’s possible?”
I don’t answer him, because if I admit that it’s crossed my mind, the small spark of hope inside me will sputter and die.
FOURTEEN
PASSION
Five Years Earlier
Westchester County, New York
The Diary of Cassandra Taylor
Dear Diary,
Humans are strange creatures. We lie every day, in a thousand different ways. The most common lie is, ‘I have read the terms and conditions.’ The second most common lie is, ‘I’m fine.’
Some people believe that actors are just professional liars, paid to manufacture personalities that aren’t our own. We create characters from our imaginations, interpret someone else’s words, dress in someone else’s clothes, become a different person for hours, days, months. We’re good at fooling people. We’re less adept at fooling ourselves.
The best actors keep all the parts of themselves in little boxes and bring them out in an unending parade of various combinations.
I used to be pretty good at doing that, on stage and in life, but ever since Ethan and I broke up, my compartments have been confused. In the filing cabinet where I keep my feelings for him, the drawer labeled ‘lover’ is now firmly locked. So is ‘boyfriend.’ The ‘friend’ drawer rattles and tries to squeeze open, but it’s so squashed beneath ‘hurt’ and ‘resentment,’ it’s practically buried.
I don’t talk about him anymore. Not to Ruby. Not to Mom. Not even to Elissa, who I confided in the longest because she always sought me out. Talking about him maintained tiny cracks in my resolve, and always made me bristle and want.
It’s better now.
I’ve locked my passion away. Put it in a strongbox and covered it in concrete.
Ethan and I go to class, do our work, avoid each other when possible and snark at each other when we can’t. We have no patience for these platonic versions of ourselves. Even now, more than a year after our breakup, our hearts and bodies fight against the distance and suppression, but we’ve gotten good at ignoring them.
We’re second-years now, and so far, we haven’t been cast in anything together. I think Erika has given up trying to mediate.
And so Ethan and I orbit each other. Get on with things. Learn the art of pretending. Hone our craft to lie to others as skillfully as we lie to ourselves.
And every morning, the first thing that goes through my brain when I see him is, “I’m fine.”
Erika leans on her desk.
“This term’s acting assignment focuses on passion. Romantic, sexual, suppressed, violent, artistic. I’ll be assigning each of you excerpts designed to confront and challenge you. Some of the material will make you uncomfortable. Turn those feelings into something you can use. A lot of the plays are controversial and contain issues of a sensitive nature. I expect you to handle it with maturity. Mr. Avery, please note, I’m looking at you.”
Jack gives his best “Who, me?” expression, and everyone laughs.
“You’ll have four weeks to rehearse and will present your pieces the week before Presidents’ Day weekend. Questions?”
Jack puts up his hand.
“Mr. Avery?”
“Please say you’ve given me something from Equus. I’ve always had a thing for horses.”
People laugh.
“As a matter of fact, no. You’ll be performing with Aiyah in a little piece called Soft Targets. It’s quite controversial, sexually.”
Jack rubs his hands together. “Ooh, tell me more.”
Erika suppress her grin. “It’s about men who enjoy having their female lovers sodomize them with monster strap-ons.”
Jack’s face drops. “What?”
Erika hands out the group lists as Jack turns to Lucas and says in a whiny voice, “She’s joking, right? That was a joke?”
I take the list and skim it to find my name.
The Killing of Sister George
Cassie—Sister George. Chain-smoking alcoholic lesbian. Ex-soap opera actor. Psychologically sadistic.
Miranda—George’s lover, Childie. Passive. Simple.