My whole body went numb so fast I felt light-headed. “What?” I said, like I hadn’t heard her.
“Oh, Oliver, I’m so sorry.” Tears had spilled out of her eyes and were making dark spots on the tablecloth, like dripping candle wax. “We’ve agonized over this, but the truth is, right now we need to help your sister. She’s not well.”
“What about her tuition? You just said she’s dropped out—what about that?”
“It’s not enough,” my father said, shortly.
I looked from him to her, openmouthed, disbelief turning my blood to sludge. It pounded and oozed slowly from my heart to my brain. “I have one semester left,” I said. “What am I supposed to do?”
“Well, you’ll have to talk to the school,” my father said. “Think about taking out a last-minute loan if you really want to graduate.”
“If I want— Why wouldn’t I want to graduate?”
He shrugged. “I can’t imagine a diploma really makes a difference to an actor.”
“I— What?”
“Ken,” my mother said, despairingly. “Please, let’s just—”
“Let me get this straight.” Anger kindled deep in the pit of my stomach, quickly devoured the little twigs of incredulity. “You’re telling me I have to drop out of Dellecher because Caroline needs some celebrity doctor to spoon-feed her?”
My father banged his open hand down on the table. “I’m telling you you need to start considering monetary alternatives because your sister’s health is more important than us paying twenty thousand dollars for you to play pretend!”
I glared at him for a moment in stupefied outrage, then thrust my chair back and left the table.
SCENE 9
I spent four hours the following day locked in my father’s office, on the phone with Dellecher’s administrative staff. They patched me through to Frederick, to Gwendolyn, and even, eventually, to Dean Holinshed. They all sounded exhausted, but they each assured me that we’d work something out. Loans were suggested, along with work-study and late scholarship applications. When I finally hung up, I retreated to my room, lay on my bed, and stared at the ceiling.
Inevitably my eyes wandered down to the desk (cluttered with old production photos and programs), to the bookshelf (stuffed with tattered paperbacks, purchased for single dollars and quarters from used bookstores and library sales), and from poster to poster tacked on the wall, a gallery revue of my high school theatre endeavors. Most of them were Shakespeare: Twelfth Night, Measure for Measure, even a leftover handbill from a wildly misguided production of Cymbeline, which was set in the antebellum South for no reason the director could ever satisfactorily explain. I exhaled with a strange fond sadness, wondering what on earth had occupied my thoughts before Shakespeare. My first fumbling encounter with him at the age of eleven had quickly blossomed into full-blown Bardolatry. I bought a copy of the complete works with my precious pocket money and carried it everywhere, all too happy to ignore the less poetic reality of the outside world. Never before in my life had I experienced something so undeniably stirring and important. Without him, without Dellecher, without my company of lyric-mad classmates, what would become of me?
I decided—soberly, without hesitation—that I’d rob a bank or sell a kidney before I’d let such a thing happen. Reluctant to dwell on the possibility of such dire straits, I dug Theatre of Envy out of my bag and continued to read.
A little after seven, my mother knocked and told me dinner was ready. I ignored her and stayed where I was, but regretted the decision two hours later when my stomach began to growl. On her way to bed, Leah brought me a sandwich crammed with Thanksgiving leftovers. She perched on the edge of my mattress and said, “I guess they told you.”
“Yeah,” I said—through a mouthful of turkey, bread, and cranberry sauce.
“Sorry.”
“I’ll find the money somewhere. I can’t not go back to Dellecher.”
“Why?” She watched me with curious china blue eyes.
“I don’t know. It’s just—I don’t want to be anywhere else. James and Filippa and Alexander and Wren and Meredith, they’re like family.” I’d omitted Richard without even meaning to. The bread was a sticky paste in my mouth. “Better than family, really,” I added, when I managed to swallow. “We all just fit together. Not like here.”
She tugged at the edge of my comforter and said, “We used to fit. You and Caroline used to like each other.”
“No, we didn’t. You were just too young to figure it out.” She frowned at me, so I elaborated. “Don’t worry. I love her, just like I’m supposed to. I just don’t like her very much.”
She chewed her bottom lip, lost in thought. She’d never reminded me so much of Wren; grief and affection welled up unexpectedly, both at once. I wanted to hug her, squeeze her hand, something—but as a family, we’d never been so physically demonstrative, and I was afraid she’d find it strange.
“Do you like me?” she asked.
“Of course I like you,” I said, surprised by the question. “You’re the only one in this house worth a damn.”
“Good. Don’t you forget it.” She smiled grudgingly and slid off the bed. “Promise you’ll come out of your room tomorrow.”
“Only if Dad’s not around.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’ll let you know when the coast is clear. Go to sleep, nerd.”
I pointed at her, then at myself. “Pot. Kettle.”