“Well, no, but . . .” Emily says feebly, looking around at the cast. My stage husband trades a doubtful look with her.
“No,” I say. “No buts.” As I look around at these twenty uneasy faces, the empty space in my chest thickens, calcifying into a clot of determination. This is going to happen if I have to do the whole damn show myself.
I turn to the crew. “You guys sat through eight hours of tech on Sunday. Andrea, your set took so long to build. Crystal, you made all these sound effects from scratch. And, Lara, you’ve been in production meetings about this thing since the start of the year.” I look back at the cast. “And God, you guys have put up with me for eight weeks, and this is the thing that makes you want to call it quits? That’s bullshit.” I fold my arms. “We all know what to do. So what if we’re doing it for an empty theater tonight?”
There’s a long pause. Then Emily says, “I mean . . . as long as nobody’s stopping us, I guess . . .?”
I smile at her. She looks as if she might pass out. It occurs to me that probably none of these people has ever seen me smile.
Lara says, “All right. Everyone, get into costume. Crystal, go start the preshow music. Half an hour until curtain goes up.”
The cast doesn’t say a word to me as we head downstairs to the changing rooms, but I catch them giving me glances. And for once, I don’t wish they would stop. For once, I meet their eyes unafraid.
ON THURSDAY, I WAKE UP WITH MY THOUGHTS KNOTTED and tangled. I hardly slept an hour.
I roll out of bed and smack my hair into place, wishing the impact would dislodge some of the clutter from my mind. I eye myself in the mirror. Have you ever felt as if your face isn’t your own, but an elaborate forgery, a parody, maybe? The eyes staring out from the mirror don’t look like mine. I’ve been disconnected from my reflection, unhooked, unmoored.
I don’t line those eyes. I don’t glue anything or brush anything or draw anything onto that girl. I walk downstairs barefaced for the first time in God knows how long.
“Claire bear, you okay?” Grace asks, stirring her oatmeal. She doesn’t have class today, because apparently that’s a thing in college, having no class for a whole day. “You look tired.”
I tilt my head. My sister’s sea green eyes shine. “Have you ever messed something up?” I ask, my voice gravelly with morning raspiness. “Like, so badly, it feels like you’ll never fix it?”
“Of course.”
“What was it?”
“That time junior year.” Grace twines a lock of her sandy hair between her fingers. “I was driving home and hit Mr. Fausett’s dog.”
“But that was an accident.”
“Still,” she says, her voice shrinking by the word. “He had this look on his face . . . just, God, you know?”
“What did you do after?”
“Everything I could,” she says. “Just everything I could, you know?”
The drive to school is a stupor. Pressure clutches my shoulders.
I consider turning back. Hiding in my bed. Hiding in the dark. Unwilling to face myself.
IN FIRST PERIOD, PRINCIPAL TURNER’S VOICE RINGS over the intercom. “May I please have your attention for the morning announcements?”
I look up at the black speaker, imagining her talking to Dr. Norman. Imagining him going home, thinking about what he might do if he lost his job. Is he married? Does he have a family? Has he had to tell them about this? And Lucas . . . I imagine myself yelling, Lucas McCallum is now out of the closet over that intercom, which is essentially what I did.
“Students and staff,” Turner says, her voice heavy, “we have reached closure on the issue we spoke about during our assembly two weeks ago.”
I freeze in my chair. They couldn’t have found Dr. Norman guilty based on my twenty-second-long, cowardly impulse—that’s impossible. There’s no evidence.
Voices rise around me. Eager muttering. Norman. Lucas. Norman.
Turner goes on: “Our junior honors English teacher, Mr. David García, has come forward and confessed to having a romantic relationship with a student.”
Everything goes quiet. We all stare at the intercom, smacked into silence.
It’s a testament to how much everyone liked Mr. García that people hardly joked about the idea of it being him.
“Disciplinary action has been taken,” Turner says, “and Mr. García is under investigation by the police. We ask patience from all his classes while we locate a permanent substitute. A news station plans to arrive after school to ask questions of the student body. We ask that you remain respectful and truthful, and most importantly, that you disregard previous allegations, as they have no foundation in truth. Thank you for your attention.”
When she goes quiet, part of me wants to cry with relief—and with remorse. Dr. Norman’s job isn’t on the line anymore. Maybe people will leave Lucas alone. Maybe this has undone some of the damage I did.