Portia noticed my bleak stare and mistook it for boredom.
“He’s really off his game,” she commented as we left class on the day of the dress rehearsal. “It’s the curse. It’s catching up with him.”
I glanced back to see Peter staring sadly out the window. “You know what, Porsche? You’re probably right.”
We sat together in physics, neither of us bothering to take notes. Portia doodled a series of drunk cows on her notebook—her witty nod to her parents’ customers at the liquor store. I looked at my own blank notebook page for half an hour, wondering stupid things like why they punched three holes in it and not four, what Peter’s kid would be like, and if they’d still use notebooks by the time he or she went to school.
Every time Peter looked at this kid, he was going to see a prison, the thing that had made him give up any chance of happiness with me. God, was this how people were made? Was the whole planet full of cheaters and assholes running around making new cheaters and assholes? I had been one of them, too, the worst one of all. Mom warned me that I had a lot to learn about the world. I wished she would’ve mentioned how much the learning was going to hurt.
“I hope you’re going to have some respect for the curse tonight,” Portia said as we walked into the cafeteria for lunch. “This is our last run before opening night. We can’t have any slip-ups.”
“Whatever.” I headed for the football players’ table, not even bothering to get food. Some of the guys on the far end were telling a story that involved milk cartons for props, but Tommy let his attention lapse long enough to pat me on the leg and smile when I sat down next to him. I’d stopped seeing him outside of school, trying to gradually distance myself until it would feel natural to break up. I didn’t want to hurt him more than I had to.
I watched Portia get her lunch and pause at a table to talk to one of the guys from the lighting crew. For the last few weeks Peter had been completely phoning it in at rehearsals. He didn’t act openly miserable, but the depression was just under the surface and everyone noticed it. Portia started taking over for him on stuff like costumes and the set construction. She’d become the unofficial director at this point and we all knew it, even Peter, because he’d started asking her opinion on certain scenes in our last few rehearsals.
When she finally sat down at the table, she started right in on famous female directors—which ones she liked and how underrepresented women were in the profession.
“It’s not like a complete boy’s club,” she said between bites of bread stick. “There’re plenty of female role models. Penny Marshall is the box office queen, but I think Sofia Coppola really sets the style for the next generation of filmmakers.”
Even though I wanted to roll my eyes about her sudden career obsession, it was actually a good fit for her. Portia’d successfully directed the rumor mill for years. Maybe that’s why we’d been such good friends: she’d been my director and I’d been her actor.
“You gonna make movies, Portia?” Tommy asked.
“Yeah. The U doesn’t have a great film program, but it’s not a bad place to start.” Portia talked to the table near Tommy’s hands. She never looked directly at him.
“You should put Hattie in your movies. She can be your star.” He flung an arm around my waist and drew me closer on the bench.
Portia smirked at me. “She’s welcome to audition.”
“Hey, let’s get together tonight, since you’re going to be busy this weekend with the play.” Tommy’s fingers clung to my ribs, like he was scared to lose his grip on me. He’d definitely noticed my avoidance of him outside school and was in denial.
“I’m busy tonight with the play, too.”
“It’s the dress rehearsal,” Portia added.
“That’s not going to take all night, is it? I’ll pick you up afterwards. Some of the guys are getting together at Derek’s. We’re going to figure out plans for the cabin this summer.”
He’d been bringing this up a lot lately—some annual trip to a cabin up north where kegs, bonfires, drunken streaking, and loose girlfriends were the norm.
“I told you I don’t know if I can get off work for that.”
I tried to put some space between us, automatically glancing toward the corner table where Peter sat with Mr. Jacobs. He had a book open where his lunch should have been and his head in his hand, but he wasn’t reading the book. He was staring at me. As soon as our eyes met, he dropped his gaze and turned a page.