“Sorry,” he whispered. The word landed light and warm on my forehead. I became acutely aware that I was crammed against his chest, knuckles against his heartbeat. I tried to move back, but my shoulder blade met the door with an audible creak, and I froze.
As we stood there for what felt like several weeks, embarrassed heat lit up all over my body, patching over my cheeks, flushing my chest. I took a slow breath to steady myself. It was a terrible idea. I could smell the hint of cologne that clung to the softness of his fleece: half bitter, half sweet, like resin or rum. It made me think of dark, rich colors, maroon and cobalt and amber. Of course Isaac had to smell good, with his well-cut clothes and his long hair and his whole guitar-boy rock-star shtick. Just one more piece of the costume.
The Minuets’ voices were still milling around. Get out, I wanted to scream. I needed space. I hadn’t been this close to anyone since June, and it reminded me too much of that afternoon. I’d tried repeatedly to forget it. But I remembered everything, down to the weather—those weird beige clouds had cast amniotic light over the whole city. In the darkness, I saw with pristine clarity the image of myself standing in my kitchen, leaning close to kiss Michael, and I heard him saying, “Wait.” I felt the grip of his big hands as he took my shoulders, moving me back a step. “We should talk.” I felt all of it, all over again.
He’d road-tripped down from Seattle to have the talk. Because even then, he’d needed to make it all a presentation. Drama queen Michael. Center stage Michael. Couldn’t he have taken it down a notch that one time? Let me feel like my feelings belonged to me and weren’t just some event in his life story?
I swallowed. I felt weak, and stupid, and like months of progress were slowly rewinding. I let a silent breath pour in over my tongue.
The sounds of voices outside faded, and the squeaking of sneakers stopped. I heard the distant whine of the window frame, a clunk as the plank fell back into place, and I grappled around for the doorknob. The door popped open. I practically tripped over my feet in my haste to get away.
“Hey,” Isaac said.
I glanced back at him as he shut the closet door.
He looked wary. “You all right, man?”
“Fine,” I said. My voice cracked—I’d forced it too deep. I turned away. “Claustrophobic, it’s fine. Let’s go.”
Calm, I thought, as we slipped through the crimson double doors. Calm. I felt around for a light switch, found one, and flicked it, making small bulbs bloom into light far overhead.
We’d emerged at the top of an aisle that led down to a long white screen. The wall behind the screen was painted a bold, dark red, like the dining hall walls in McKnight. Cobwebs clouded every corner like Spanish moss. Legions of thin wooden seats stretched to the left and right, some of them folded up, some hanging down like dangling tongues.
At the front, a dozen-odd crates had been gathered into a circle. Isaac and I padded down the aisle toward them. Once, this carpet had probably been carnelian red, too. It was dusky pink now, all grayed out.
“This place is actually pretty cool,” Isaac said with a touch of reluctance, looking up at the ceiling. Painted panels stretched overhead, showing faded pastel clouds and apple-cheeked angels, blocked off by wooden beams. One light bulb for each panel.
“Yeah,” I murmured. My heart had calmed. The air in here hung eerie and still. We stopped at the circle of crates. “Where do you think they keep the Bear?” I said.
A noise rang up the aisle. Isaac and I ducked, dropping like there’d been a gunshot. We crawled behind the front row of seats on opposite sides of the aisle.
“Hello?” came a voice. Shit. One of the Minuets had come back for something. We should have waited. I shouldn’t have panicked in that closet.
I pointed toward the emergency exit door and mouthed, Run?
Isaac gave his head a hard shake. Locked, he mouthed.
“I know you’re in here,” said the voice. “The lights are on.”
My thoughts of escape faltered. That voice . . .
“Wait, what the hell?” Isaac said, standing up. I stood too.
Trav stood at the top of the aisle, the red doors framing his square shoulders. His hands were balled up at his sides.
“Trav,” I choked out. “I. How did you find us?”
“I followed Isaac from Wingate.”
“But how—” I closed my eyes. “Nihal.” He’d heard after all. And instead of confronting us, he’d done this.
I bit back disappointment. I would have thought he could be honest enough to . . .
Honest? The sheer hypocrisy of the thought stopped me. When had I ever been honest with him? How could I expect him to owe me that?
Trav nodded to the door. “Come on.”
“Yup, nope, not happening,” Isaac said, moving back to the circle of crates. “We’re already here. We’re going to find this thing.”
“Find what?” Trav said.
“The Golden Bear,” I said.
“The Bear? You’re stealing the Bear?” Trav sounded unimpressed. “What are you planning to do with it, exactly? Hold it for ransom until the Minuets apologize? Threaten to smash it unless they throw the competition?”
“Hey, that’s not a bad idea, actually.” Isaac started flipping the crates over with his toe, carelessly disrupting the Minuets’ space. Under one sat a six-pack of wheat beer. Under another, a pair of black binders. He picked one up and started flipping through.
“Huh,” he said. “Rehearsal notes. Do you do this, Trav?”
“Let’s go,” Trav said. “It’s 1:00 a.m. I’m tired.”
Isaac stopped turning pages and frowned at the binder. “Wait,” he said. “What is this?”
“What’s what?” I said, leaning over to look at the binder. I caught only a flash of narrow handwriting before Isaac snapped the binder shut.
“You wrote those shitheads a peace letter?” Isaac said, staring at Trav with open disbelief. “After they landed you with hundreds of hours of unnecessary transcription?”
“Yes,” Trav said. “I did. Because someone has to be mature in this situation, and it clearly isn’t going to be you.”
I felt the venom in Trav’s voice. Isaac stiffened. Something kindled in his expression: pure belligerence.
“Now come on.” Trav turned and opened one of the double doors. “We’re going. You’re not taking their ridiculous statue.”
“Yeah? Or else what?” Isaac’s voice was as rough and unyielding as cement.
Trav closed his eyes. “What exactly do you want me to say, Isaac?” He spoke crisply, each word a needle going in. “Fine. Let’s see. I could tell the others at rehearsal tomorrow that I caught you. Would that be humiliating enough? Or I could report this to the emergency line and get you two suspended. Does that work for you?” His volume rose steadily. “I don’t want to have to dangle something over your head, Isaac; I want to know that you respect me enough to back off something when I ask you! So can you stop turning me into the villain here and be a little cooperative? Please! Just once!”