Lies You Never Told Me Page 2

  “Hey, everybody, welcome.” The room quiets down almost immediately. A young, dark-haired man has stepped out onto the stage. His face is smooth and chiseled, his frame lean. He’s wearing a button-down shirt and a pair of black-framed glasses, glinting in the spotlight.

  My heart speeds up a little. I twist a lock of hair around my finger; the blond looks almost dark against my Portland-pale skin.

  “I’m Mr. Hunter. I’m the new drama teacher.” He smiles, revealing a dimple in his left cheek. “I know a few of you already, but I’m looking forward to meeting the rest of you. Thanks so much for coming out. Now, some of you are theater veterans by now …” A few people laugh, including Brynn. “But even if this is your first-ever audition, don’t worry. I want to give everyone a fair chance. So when you come on stage, tell me your name and what part you’re trying out for. You’ll start off with the monologue you’ve memorized, and then I’ll have you read a little from the script so I can get a good sense of how you approach different characters.” He claps his hands a few times. “Okay? Let’s get going. Break a leg.”

  We sit down in the creaky old seats. Next to me, Brynn jogs her leg gently up and down. It’s her only sign of nerves. She’s used to this by now. She got the lead in Antigone last year and starred as Cecily in The Importance of Being Earnest the year before, the only time I know of that a freshman’s gotten such a big part. She’s almost certain to get Juliet.

  We watch the parade of would-be actors, some nervous and stuttering, some hamming up every line. A slouching girl with gum in her mouth starts giggling hysterically right in the middle of the “wherefore art thou” speech, and the goth I noticed before barely speaks above a whisper. But Frankie and Laura both nail their readings, and the basketball player does a surprisingly good Tybalt, pacing angrily back and forth across the stage. And when Brynn slides into the spotlight, I can feel the whole room catch its breath. She commands the entire stage, the warm glow picking up the gold in her skin. She somehow makes her Juliet both flirty and innocent, both lovesick and playful. When she comes back to her seat, I hug her with one arm, and she gives a sheepish grin.

  “Elyse McCormick?” Mr. Hunter says it like a question. For just a moment, I freeze, my limbs suddenly senseless.

  I hate going right after Brynn.

  I manage to get on stage without falling flat on my face, which feels like an accomplishment in and of itself. When I’m there, vertigo tugs at my body, turning my stomach over and over. Darkness billows all around me. It flutters in the wings, it wells up from the audience and threatens to overtake me. The spotlight lands on me and I feel, for just a moment, like I’ve erupted in flame.

  “Go ahead.” It’s Mr. Hunter. I can’t see him, but I know he’s a few rows back. His voice, coming so clear and so sure from the obscurity, feels like a tuning fork against my spine. I find myself imagining that he’s the only one there—the only eyes, the only voice, the only person in the audience. My focus sharpens to a razor’s edge.

  “Hi, I’m Elyse, and I’m reading for the part of the nurse,” I say. I take a deep breath, raise my chin, and begin. “Even or odd, of all days in the year, come Lammas Eve at night shall she be fourteen …”

  I can feel the change come over me as I recite the words. It always happens—or it happens when I’m focused, when I’ve found something in the role to love. My shoulders round forward, my mouth quirks upward into a wistful grin, and I slide into character with ease. People always play Juliet’s nurse like she’s silly, but to me there’s something so sad about her. The first thing she talks about is her own dead child, and then she’s hushed and dismissed for speaking so fondly of little Juliet. There’s a whole tale of loss and longing beneath the surface, and it’s treated like a joke. I feel a little anger creep into my words, and I let it come—I let it flavor the warm, loving language, ever so slightly.

  I’m not like Brynn. She’s been doing theater since she was seven, a tiny diva in the making. I only started going to drama club because I was looking for something to do, for a way to avoid going straight home after school. I hadn’t intended to fall so head over heels in love with it. Brynn was right—there was something in me that wanted to perform, to speak loud and clear at the center of the stage. To be seen. To be heard.

  My monologue comes to a close. The air on the stage is almost stifling in the heat of the lights. The nurse fades away, and I’m just me again, awkward and exposed. My hands come together at my heart, anxious and fidgety.

  His voice returns. Deep, but light, agile. He must be an actor himself. Our previous drama teacher, Ms. Harris, was an old kook, a free spirit in caftans and shawls who had us pretend to be a leaf on a tree as a theater warm-up. But Mr. Hunter exudes a kind of articulate calm; it’s easy to imagine him on stage, speaking poetry to the darkness beyond.

  “Thank you, Elyse. Can you go ahead and pick up that script there … yes, right by your left foot … and read from page forty-two?”

  I pick up the packet, leaf through. Then I frown.

  “This is Juliet’s line,” I say.

  “I want to hear how you read a few different characters, please. Juliet’s just found out that Romeo’s been banished for killing Tybalt. Go ahead when you’re ready.”

  I scan the monologue briefly, wishing I could wipe the sweat off my forehead but not wanting to smear my makeup. Juliet, caught between loyalties. Juliet, who’s just now realizing the full weight of her decisions. I start to read out loud. “But wherefore, villain, didst thou kill my cousin? That villain cousin would have killed my husband.”

  I take her on like a mask, and I turn into someone worthy of a spotlight.

  When my words finally fade, there’s a long silence from the auditorium.

  By now my eyes have adjusted a little, and I can just barely make him out, a faceless shape beyond the footlights. He shifts his weight; I hear papers rustling. But his voice betrays nothing.

  “Thank you, Elyse. Who’s next?”

  *

  • • •

  After everyone’s had a chance to audition, Mr. Hunter takes the stage one more time. Now that I can see him clearly again, the spell is broken—all the intensity of his voice replaced with mild-mannered cheerfulness.

  “There’s so much talent in this room! I’m going to be faced with a very difficult decision in the coming days. I plan to have the casting list up outside the ticket office by end of day Monday. Thanks so much.”

  The room breaks into scattered applause, and then the lights come up and we’re all rubbing our eyes and gathering our things. I pick up my backpack and turn to see Brynn, a slight frown creasing her forehead. She looks at me in mild surprise, as if she’s just now noticed something.

  “He asked me to read. What was I supposed to do?” I can’t quite keep a note of apology out of my voice, even though I know I shouldn’t feel bad. That’s how auditions work; everyone gets a chance. Even me.

  “I didn’t say anything.” She holds up her hands defensively. “I’m just annoyed because you were good. I didn’t realize I was about to get upstaged.”

  I’m spared having to answer by Mr. Hunter, coming down the aisle toward us. He’s smiling, eyes sparkling behind his glasses.

  “Elyse, can I talk to you privately for a moment?” he asks.

  Brynn’s eyes narrow slightly. I feel my cheeks grow warm again, my pulse a staccato beat against my temple. “Um … okay. Brynn, I’ll text you later, okay?”

  “Sure,” she says. She picks up her purse and slides it slowly over her shoulder, frowning a little. “Bye, Mr. Hunter.”

  “Good work today, Brynn. Thanks for coming out.” He watches Brynn make her way down the aisle.

  And then we’re alone. The theater suddenly feels cavernous, the two of us huddled close together against the echoing dark. His glasses catch the light just so, and for a moment I can’t see his eyes. My fingers twist anxiously around one another. Did I do something wrong? Am I in trouble already?

  But whe
n he turns to look at me again he’s smiling. My throat feels dry and tight, but I swallow hard and force a smile back.

  “I’m not supposed to do this,” he says softly. “But I can’t resist. I wanted to tell you that you’ve got the part.”

  His words don’t make sense at first. I stare at him.

  “What part?”

  “Juliet.” He grins. “Don’t tell anyone else yet—I’m posting the final decisions next week. But I wanted to see your face when you found out.”

  My mouth falls open. I shake my head mutely.

  “But … but I auditioned for the nurse.”

  “You’d be wasted on the nurse,” he says.

  I don’t know whether to laugh or to cry. A bright, warm feeling fills my chest. I don’t want to be this easy to flatter, but hearing that he thinks I’m talented makes me realize just how hungry I am for exactly that kind of praise.

  “I don’t know, Mr. Hunter. I’ve never … I’ve never carried a lead before. You probably want to pick Brynn. She’s good. And she’s already done some Shakespeare; at theater camp last year she played …”

  He’s shaking his head already. “Brynn is good. She’s quite good. But she’s not what I want in a Juliet. You, Elyse … you’re really quite remarkable.” Our eyes meet. This close I can see that his eyes are hazel, the kind that looks blue, green, and gold in equal measure. For a second I’m unable to move.

  “I … what if I can’t do it?” I whisper. “What if I’m not good enough?”

  “I’m not worried about that,” he says. He puts a hand on my shoulder and squeezes.

  It’s starting to sink in, starting to feel real. The lead. He’s giving me the lead. A smile spreads slowly across my face.

  “You’re actually serious?” I ask. “I’m going to be Juliet?”

  “Yes,” he says.

  I can’t help it. I throw my arms around his neck, squealing softly. He’s taller than me, so I have to stand on my tiptoes.

  “Thank you!” I say. “Mr. Hunter, thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me. You earned it. Congratulations, Elyse. I’m really excited to start working with you.” He gently disentangles himself from me.

  I look up at the stage, the scratches and markings on the wood intimately familiar by now. I can almost picture myself, limned by light, in Juliet’s dress. Standing on the balcony. Dancing at the masquerade. Dying in the crypt, heartbroken and beautiful.

  “I won’t let you down,” I say.

  He’s suddenly serious. He looks me in the eye again, appraising, intent. Then he smiles.

  “I know you won’t,” he says.

  THREE

  Gabe

  “Earth to Gabe.” Sasha snaps her fingers in front of my face. “Hey, Jiménez, look alive.”

  I blink slowly, coming back to the conversation. It’s a Sunday afternoon, and a bunch of us are sitting at a picnic table in a gravelly food-truck court in south Austin, sharing brisket and white bread from Reinhardt’s. Sasha’s holding court, surrounded by her friends. I’m doing my best to look like I’m paying attention, but I’ve heard this story before. Something about a girl who forgot to take the tags off her leggings for dance tryouts.

  “Of course,” I say, leaning over to give her a placating kiss. She cups the back of my head a little too hard. “Ow,” I say, breaking away. “Careful.”

  But Sasha just smiles. “Oh, I’m sorry. Did that hurt?”

  I give her a look. It’s been two weeks since the accident. I got off lucky, with a mild concussion and a dislocated shoulder. They never caught the driver who hit me. They also never found the girl who dialed 911. She’d disappeared by the time the ambulance arrived. So there’s no witness, no evidence, no way to find out what really happened that night.

  I’m mostly recovered, but my head is still a little foggy, and focusing is hard. And yes, it hurts when someone presses their fingers into my skull.

  Sasha turns back to her friends. “So we’re all out on the floor going through the group audition, and I look down and I see it.” She pauses for dramatic effect. “The tag is still there, stuck to her ass. Like a sticker on an apple.”

  I take a bite of brisket, my eyes glazing slightly. The girls at the table are all eager little Sasha clones: Julia Sherwood dyed her hair Sasha-blond over the summer; Marjorie Chin’s got the exact same handbag as Sasha, in a different print. Savannah Johnston and Natalie McAfee watch her closely, hungrily, and when Savannah laughs she throws back her head, just the way Sasha does. They’ve all heard this story. Most of them were there for it; they’re all on the Mustang Sallys, our high school drill team. But you don’t interrupt Sasha without becoming one of the people she likes to talk about.

  My phone rings. It’s my dad.

  “I’ll be right back,” I say, unfolding my legs out from under the table.

  Sasha watches me with narrowed eyes. “While you’re up, get me an iced skinny mocha, no whip.”

  I nod distractedly. I hope my relief doesn’t show as I walk away from them. I don’t know if I can listen to another round of recycled gossip.

  “Hey, Dad,” I say into the receiver, once I’m out of earshot. “What’s up?”

  But it’s not Dad. It’s my little sister’s voice that comes blaring out of the phone. “Gabe!” Vivi shouts. “Merry Christmas!”

  Okay, so it’s October—we’re nowhere close to Christmas. But who cares? Vivi’s almost six, and because she has Down syndrome, her development is a little delayed. But that doesn’t mean she’s stupid. Who can resist a kid who thinks it’s Christmas every time she gets to talk to someone she loves?

  “Merry Christmas!” I boom, in my best Santa Claus voice. “What’s up, kid?”

  The giggle that comes through the phone line is pure gold.

  “I wearing tutu!” she squeals.

  “Tutu? You mean, like, you’re too-too cute?” Not my best work, but she’s a pretty easy audience.

  She shrieks with laughter, and there’s the sound of the phone hitting something. A moment later, my dad picks up.

  “She wouldn’t wait until tonight to put it on. I’m doing my best to steer her away from messy snacks, but I don’t know how long this will last.” Dad’s tone is joking, but I can also hear the exhaustion in it. Turning Vivi away from something she wants to do is a serious undertaking.

  “Told you you should get two dance outfits for her,” I say. “One for eating peanut butter, one for performance.”

  “Thanks for the I-told-you-so. You’ll be home by three, right? We need to be at the theater by three thirty. Don’t be late.”

  I hang up the phone. A moment later I get a photo. Vivi grins toothily in her pale pink leotard, a stiff ridge of tulle around her waist. Next to her is her service dog, Rowdy; she’s been trying to teach him how to pirouette.

  Pink. Nice. That won’t show every single stain, I text to my dad.

  He texts me back a crying face. I roll my eyes. PhDs aren’t supposed to use emojis. Neither are dads, for that matter.

  I glance back at Sasha. She thinks I’m spending the whole day with her; I’d forgotten about the dance recital. I realize abruptly that my shoulders are tense, my jaw gritted, and I force myself to relax. She loves Vivi—so maybe it’ll be fine. But the truth is, I never know exactly how she’ll react to things.

  The food court is packed with people snacking on tilapia tacos, bánh mì sliders, chipotle cheese fries, Day-Glo snow cones. The coffee cart is at the other end of the lot, in the shade of a cluster of post oaks. I order the drink from the tattooed barista and stand to the side while she disappears into the truck to make it.

  I lean back against the trailer, idly thinking about how I can best break the news to avoid a shitfit. Hey, Dad reminded me of a thing I’ve gotta do. I don’t want to, but I’ll be in big trouble if I don’t. Or maybe: Come on, Sasha, do it for Vivi. She’s so totally obsessed with you, it’d mean the world. No one ever went wrong banking on Sasha’s vanity.

  Then I see
something that brings me up short.

  There, at a table just a few feet away, is the girl who saved my life.

  The sight of her rockets through my brain like a firecracker. A moment ago, I couldn’t have described her with any certainty; my memories of that night are murky and shapeless. But now it’s like some dark corner of my mind lights up with recognition.

  She’s alone, crouched over a heavy textbook. Her cheekbones are sharp, her skin wan next to a dark sheaf of hair. Her scuffed purple Keds are the only colorful part about her—otherwise she wears cheap jeans, a black tank top. For a moment I second-guess myself. It can’t actually be her. The night of the accident, it was too dark to make much out, and my brain had just been through a blender. For all I know, my savior was a seven-foot-tall dude in a bunny suit and I’m just remembering wrong.

  I watch for a moment, take in the way her toe taps slightly along with whatever she’s listening to on her headphones. Then she looks up from her book and meets my eyes, and all doubts are gone. Her eyes widen, and her whole body seems to recoil in a short, sharp gasp.

  She looks away again quickly, but I’m already sure of it. It’s her.

  Slowly, half-afraid I’ll startle her like some woodland creature, I step toward her table. “Uh … hi,” I say. Suddenly I’m not sure how to start. What’s the proper icebreaker for meeting a person who saved your life?

  She pulls one earbud out, but leaves the other in. I sit down across from her, giving a smile I hope is charming. “I think … I think you might be the girl who helped me after my accident a few weeks back. It was over on Briarcliff—a hit-and-run?”

  “Sorry. Wrong person.” She shoves the earbud back in, looks determinedly down at her book. But she’s lying. I can tell. Her mouth is a straight line, but her eyes are wide and almost frightened. I reach across the table and touch her hand to get her attention.

  She jerks her hand away like she’s been burned. Her pencil falls to the ground.