Every time she’s badgered me about something over the last year—Are you eating? Can you get out of bed? Are you going to class?—she was saying, I care about you. I care. I care. And all I heard was: You’re not good enough.
I sit there in the silence, trying to process this. Trying to scrub off the shame that’s pouring thickly over me now, like honey, smothering me. I wish I could take back everything I said to her on Sunday. Every furious word.
“I don’t know what to say,” Dad says, looking ashen. His arched eyebrows draw tight together. “I didn’t realize . . . I didn’t know you felt like this. Either of you.”
“It’s okay,” Olivia says quickly. “I mean, I know it’s hard since Mom left. It’s just, sometimes I feel like we lost both of you. All I’m saying is, we need you back.” My sister glances at me. “Well, I need you back, at least.”
I don’t need you, says that hard voice in the back of my head.
Guilt surges up. I sit in our dingy kitchen, stifled in silence, watching two people I’ve held back with all my might. And a million memories flutter through my mind, a storm of ticker tape. They overflow with color, like photographs edited to death. I remember trading grins with Olivia, her eyes the sort of ultra-saturated blue you see in thick paint. I remember waiting at the top of the steps on Christmas morning, back when green and red twined around the banister, and seeing Dad appear at the bottom of the steps, arms open, smile on. I remember being eight years old and tearing down the sidewalks of our cul-de-sac, the sunset a rich burgundy. Me and Olivia. Together since birth.
“I need you, too,” I say. “Both of you.”
My sister meets my eyes, and it’s too much. Too personal, too loaded—too honest. I look down at my lap as Olivia glances toward the clock.
“Hang on,” she says. “It’s seven. Shouldn’t you be at dress rehearsal?”
“I dropped out.”
“You did what?”
“Yeah. On Monday. I had a sort of a freak-out.” I swallow. “By which I mean I yelled at everyone. And quit the show.”
Another long silence. I sneak a glance at Olivia, whose mouth is open. I guess she didn’t think even I could go that far.
A long minute passes. She’s clearly trying to think of something to say, but nothing comes out.
Then Dad says, “Stand up.”
“What?”
He stands, fishing his keys out of his pocket. “You’re going to your dress rehearsal,” he says, his voice growing stronger.
“Dad, I can’t go back there. I don’t think you understand what I—”
“You’re right,” he says. “I don’t understand, but I want to. I haven’t been there. But that’s changing now.”
I stare at him. There’s something familiar in his eyes. It’s the fervor he used to get when talking about his weird sports finals, Wiffle Ball International or Watermelon Bowling. It’s the sparkle he had when he would make a joke, wait for Mom to groan, and kiss her on the forehead triumphantly. It’s from a younger year, and I didn’t realize I’d missed it this whole time.
“Up,” he says, heading for the door. “Let’s go.”
I meet Olivia’s eyes. We stand and follow our father out the door.
I JOG UP TO THE GREENROOM DOOR, BUT AS I PULL it open, Emily smacks into me, about to exit. The rest of the cast stands behind her. The crew, too, all crowded into the greenroom. Did I interrupt some sort of preshow pep talk?
But nobody’s in costume, and it’s only a few minutes until the preshow music should start. Something in the air feels wrong. Too sober—none of the tense energy this place should have before a run-through.
I slip inside, letting the door close with a bang behind me.
“Kat?” Emily says. “What are you doing here?”
I swallow hard and look from cast to crew. Every pair of eyes stares at me with bald accusation, and I don’t flinch. “I’m sorry,” I blurt out. “I’m sorry for blowing up, and I’m sorry for walking out. I shouldn’t ha—”
“It doesn’t matter anymore,” Emily says. “Mr. García isn’t here.”
My stomach plummets. “What? What do you mean? Is he sick?”
“No, h-he was in class and everything, but he—” Emily chews on a lock of her hair. “He hasn’t shown up tonight. He said yesterday he was trying to find someone to replace you, and I guess he figured it was hopeless.”
“But he wouldn’t just not show,” I say, but then a horrible idea sneaks into my head. He wouldn’t miss dress rehearsal—unless he wasn’t allowed to be here.
I remember the rumors that flooded the school on Monday about Lucas and Dr. Norman. I remember how tense, even desperate, García seemed in rehearsal that afternoon.
Did someone turn him in?
Everyone’s attention presses in on me. I straighten up, filling my voice with resolve. “You know what?” I say. “It doesn’t matter. So what if he’s missing? We know the show.”
Emily half raises her hand. “Are—are we allowed to be in here unsupervised?”
“Is anyone stopping us?”