Lies You Never Told Me Page 6

I glance around. The green room is the size of a small classroom, brightly lit and decorated with posters of productions past. A shelf of wig heads stands against one wall, the Styrofoam eyes peering cagily out from under wigs and hats; the accrued detritus of decades of theater kids rests on every surface. Coffee cups and makeup kits, good-luck stuffed animals, vases of long-dried roses. An enormous mason jar filled with multicolored bits of ribbon for reasons unknown. It’s a cluttered, comfortable place—but it feels suddenly, strangely intimate.

  Mr. Hunter pats the spot next to him on the trunk. I sit down. There’s no space between us. He smells crisp and outdoorsy, like cedar chips and winter air. I feel the heat of his body radiating toward me.

  “I’ve been trying really hard to memorize the lines,” I say. “I think I’m getting there.”

  He sets down the clipboard.

  “I’m not worried about the lines. You’re doing great. But you know, we do this play so often we take the characters for granted. Juliet’s often played like a generic ingénue. But there’s more to her than that. Otherwise it wouldn’t be a tragedy.”

  I frown a little. “I thought it was a tragedy just because it was, you know … tragic.”

  “Yes, but tragic things happen all the time,” he says. “Sad things, bad things, happen to people every day. Most of them aren’t worth writing a play about. So what is it that’s special about Juliet? What is it that makes it worth memorizing three thousand lines of poetry, just to tell this story?”

  I look down, my mind spinning madly. I’ve never been asked a question like this before.

  “Well … she’s beautiful,” I say.

  He shakes his head. “You can do better than that. Come on—it doesn’t have to be in the text of the play. I’m asking you to imagine her internal life. What moves her. What she dreams about.” He looks at me seriously. “What does she have in common with you, Elyse?”

  “Nothing,” I blurt. He raises an eyebrow, and I duck my head. “I mean … never mind.”

  “No. Tell me,” he says. He doesn’t look mad. In fact, he looks curious. I take a deep breath.

  “I just mean she’s … you know, rich. And pretty. And she has a family that works really hard—too hard, maybe—to protect her. Never mind half the boys in Verona are apparently into her.”

  He looks thoughtfully out in space. “So Juliet’s sheltered. She doesn’t know how the world works. And you, Elyse … you take care of yourself?”

  “I have to,” I say. I hesitate. I don’t want to say too much. In junior high I let slip that my mom hadn’t been home for a week and a half once, and before I knew it I was in foster care for half a year. Mom’s a mess, but I can say with certainty that living with her is better than living in a group home. “I mean … it’s not so bad. I’m not, like, abused or neglected or anything. But my mom works a lot, and my dad … he’s in prison.”

  I watch for some sign of shock, or even disgust. I don’t talk about my dad very often because when I do, inevitably the other person I’m talking to starts treating me like I’m a daytime talk show guest or something. But Mr. Hunter just nods.

  “I didn’t see him for a long time before that, so it’s not even like I miss him,” I say.

  “That’s got to be hard,” Mr. Hunter says. “You know, my dad … my dad was not great, either. He was kind of a survivalist type. He thought we should live off the grid, be ready for some kind of armed insurrection or government meltdown or something. I don’t know. He was pretty unhinged. So I kind of raised myself too.”

  “Wow,” I say. I try to imagine it. “Did you live out in the woods?”

  “On and off,” he says. “At least until he died.”

  His expression is calm and measured, but I see something in his eyes. A quick flash. I’m not sure if it’s anger, or sadness.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “Don’t be. It’s part of what made me who I am.” He leans forward, bracing his forearms against his knees. “I learned a lot from my dad, even if I hated him sometimes. You know, now I know how to start a fire without matches. I know I can survive without central heating or running water. I also know I don’t want to,” he says with a chuckle. “But I know I’m a survivor. I think someday you’ll look back and see the same thing about yourself.”

  I look down at my hands in my lap. Will I ever be far enough from this life to be able to look back and see anything with clarity? It’s hard to picture. I realize suddenly that when I imagine my future, it looks exactly the same as my present. I won’t be in high school, of course; but I’ll still be here, on the outskirts of Portland, mopping up spilled Coke in the movie theater every night, going home to see a mother in various states of unconsciousness.

  “I think Juliet’s lonely, though,” I say, wanting to get the spotlight off me and my life. “Like, the nurse can barely even remember how old she is. Her mom doesn’t really care if she likes Paris or not. So when Romeo shows up at the party, ready to talk to her directly, she finally feels like someone wants to know who she really is.”

  “That’s a great observation.” Mr. Hunter’s voice is gentle. “Can I assume you might know something about that feeling?”

  I just laugh.

  No, it’s not the same. Juliet is treated like precious property. I take care of a mom too strung out to even notice me. But still—we’re both invisible. We’re both hungry to be seen.

  He sets down the script. “Okay. Let’s try this. Let’s do the masquerade scene, between Romeo and Juliet, and I want you to think about that while we go through it. Think about her loneliness—and the idea that someone finally sees her. How’s she feeling? What does she want? No, don’t answer—just channel that. Ready?”

  “Don’t you need the script?” I don’t know why, but for some reason I’m nervous. My heart is going too fast, and my cheeks are so warm they feel almost scraped raw.

  He grins. “I played Romeo in a college production. I still have it all memorized.”

  Of course he did.

  “Ready?” He stands up, and I jump up behind him.

  “Yeah. Okay.”

  He closes his eyes for a few seconds. When he opens them again, his affect has changed. His eyes are soft, his mouth in the slightest pout. He takes my hand, just by the very tips of the fingers. The touch is so light it makes me shiver a little.

  “If I profane with my unworthiest hand this holy shrine, the gentle sin is this …” he starts. I feel my heart catch, snagged on something in my chest. My breath is short and shallow. “My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand to smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.”

  The words spring to my mouth without effort. It surprises me.

  “Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, which mannerly devotion shows in this,” I whisper. “For saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch, and palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss.”

  “Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?” His voice is so tender it’s like a feather on the skin. It sends a shiver across my body.

  “Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer,” I say, teasingly.

  We’re speaking softly. The silence of the school all around us seems to pull us closer together.

  “O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do. They pray; grant thou, lest faith turn to despair,” he whispers.

  “Saints do not move, though grant for prayers’ sake.” My hand drifts up, almost on its own, to lay a single finger on his mouth.

  “Then move not, while my prayer’s effect I take. Thus from my lips, by thine, my sin is purged.”

  His lips brush mine.

  I feel both syrupy slow and electric. My mind struggles to catch up, but my head is tilting back, my mouth parting breathlessly, and the kiss lingers, his breath warm against my skin, and I think distantly that he tastes sweet and sharp, like ginger, like something you have to have in small amounts …

  … and then the sensation fades. The warmth of his body pulls away like a tide. I’m tu
gged irresistibly toward it, leaning forward for one split second before I come back to myself. When I open my eyes he’s on his feet, striding away from me.

  “Shit,” he says. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.” He pulls his hands roughly across his face, his cheeks pink.

  My mind’s trapped on a loop-de-loop, dizzy and recursive. I kissed a teacher. Or … he kissed me. But it was a scene from a play. But he really kissed me. But was he my teacher then, or was he Romeo? From the other side of the room the wig heads look suddenly sly, like they’ve just spied something illicit.

  “I’m so sorry,” he says again. “That was over the line.” He wrings his hands together, brow furrowed. “You’re a remarkable actress. I forget, sometimes, how young you are. I forget this is a high school production.”

  A flutter of pleasure stirs in my chest. It feels like high praise.

  “Then have my lips the sin that they have took,” I say softly.

  “What?” He shakes his head a little, like he’s getting cobwebs out of his face.

  “That’s my line.” I clasp my hands on my knees and give him a small smile. “It’s okay, Mr. Hunter. Let’s just get back to the reading.”

  He studies my face, a crease down the middle of his forehead. “Elyse …”

  “Don’t worry about it. I won’t tell anyone.” I pick up my script again. “It’s no big deal. Frankie and I have kissed about fifty times now, running this scene.”

  It’s not the same and we both know it. But the tension is already dissipating. The wig heads are back to being wig heads. The heater kicks on overhead, and just that little bit of ambient noise seems to calm him.

  “Well. Let’s shift gears, then. Maybe move on to act three.” He moves back to where he dropped his clipboard, picks it up and rifles through the script. “I was curious what you think about her relationship with the nurse.”

  We work for another hour or so, talking about motivations, practicing the cadence of the lines. He’s careful to keep his distance this time, moving to the vanity chair. I stay on the steamer trunk. We both make notes in the margins of our scripts. It’s all very professional.

  But my lips still feel the kiss, its fading pressure, its hunger. And I’m not sure I want to forget it.

  NINE

  Gabe

  “Gabe! Merry Christmas! Pancakes!”

  Monday morning I come into the kitchen to see Vivi smeared with maple syrup. Rowdy licks the floor at the base of her special high chair, searching for scraps of fallen pancake. His thick yellow fur looks distinctly sticky.

  My mom looks up from the stove, spatula in hand. She gives a distracted smile, a strand of graying hair falling into her eyes, and I’m struck by how tired she looks.

  “Morning, Gabe. Sit down, have some breakfast.”

  “Morning.” I lean in and kiss her on the cheek. She’s wearing one of her long floral hippie skirts, and there’s a smear of pancake batter on her forehead. “I can’t, I’ve got to run. Caleb and Irene are waiting.”

  She looks a little hurt. I feel a pang of guilt; she must have made the pancakes special for me. She thinks I’m torn up about the breakup and that I’m just trying to be stoic. The truth is, I feel better than I have in weeks.

  “Maybe I’ll grab a little one for the road,” I amend, picking up a silver-dollar-sized pancake and taking a bite. It’s perfect, buttery and soft.

  “Can you still take Vivi to therapy after school? I hate to ask, but I’ve got a deadline, and Dad’s got a faculty meeting today.”

  “Yeah, no problem,” I say. Mom’s worked as a freelance web designer since Vivi was born; it’s great, because it’s flexible, but it also means she’s always either hustling for work, working, or taking care of us. She’s spread pretty thin.

  “Thanks, kiddo.” She’s already got the thousand-yard stare, the far-off look that means she’s thinking about what she has to do with the rest of her day. “I really appreciate it.”

  Caleb’s Jeep is at the curb, Irene in the front passenger seat. She passes me a bag of breakfast tacos over the console as I climb in the back.

  “There’s bacon, egg, and cheese, and an avocado and migas,” she says. “Extra sustenance for the trials ahead.”

  “Thanks,” I say, rummaging gratefully in the bag. The smell of peppers and eggs fills the car. Caleb’s motor coughs and then roars to life, and we jerk away from the curb.

  “You hear anything from Sasha yesterday?” Caleb meets my eyes in the rearview. I shake my head.

  “No. But apparently the story is that she dumped me at the party. She’s all over Facebook going on about how great it feels to be free, about how nothing’s dragging her down anymore.” I take a bite of my taco and close my eyes in pleasure. “Mmm. Migas.”

  Irene hoots. “Oh yeah. Feels so great to lose the old ball and chain. So great you break into his house and throw yourself at him like a thirsty bitch.”

  “I still can’t believe she did that, man,” Caleb says, shaking his head.

  “It’s not that unexpected,” Irene says. “I’m surprised she didn’t put your dog in a stewpot.”

  “Come on, she’s dramatic, but she’s not crazy crazy,” I say. I watch out the window at the Greenbelt whipping past, the treetops tinged with autumn rust. I know I should be at least a little on guard—Sasha can make life really nasty if she’s mad. But I’m just relieved to be done with her. Here in the light of day, with Run the Jewels thrumming low on the stereo and my friends ribbing me from the front seat, it’s easy to feel like the whole thing was kind of ridiculous. Almost funny, even.

  “You ought to tell your parents she broke in so they can get the locks changed,” Irene says.

  “They’ve got enough on their plate right now,” I say. “I don’t want to freak them out.”

  “Better that than more nighttime visits from your friendly neighborhood succubus,” Irene says.

  “Nah … she’s done. It was her last-ditch effort.” I finish the first taco and crumple the foil into a little ball just as we pull into the junior parking lot.

  The instant I get out of the car I feel exposed. I catch a glimpse of Marjorie and Emily Chin getting out of their Lexus a few rows over, their heads huddled together in whispered conversation as they stare. A group of band kids, buried under their shiny black instrument cases, goes silent as I walk past. Ben Bloom, who dated Sasha for a few months before me, snickers audibly when he sees me.

  So that’s the kind of day this is going to be.

  Irene and Caleb walk on either side of me, apparently by some kind of unspoken agreement. I force myself to look nonchalant and stuff the last of my taco in my mouth. I wonder what everyone knows—or what they think they know. I don’t mind people thinking I’ve been dumped, but there will be half a dozen embellishments by now.

  We’re almost to the doors when I see Catherine.

  She’s alone, as usual. I think she must have some kind of invisibility power that I’m somehow immune to, because no one else seems to notice her. She walks slowly, her thin shoulders slightly stooped under the weight of her backpack. Her long hair coils over her shoulder, a dark question mark against the plain white of her T-shirt.

  I peel away from my friends. “Hey, I’ll catch up with you guys at lunch, okay?”

  “What? Why?” Irene asks, startled. But I don’t answer. I’m already cutting across the parking lot toward Catherine. I can feel their eyes on me as I go—their eyes, and everyone else’s—but I ignore them all.

  “Hi!” I step in beside her. She looks up sharply.

  “Uh … hi,” she says. Her lashes are long and thick, even without makeup; she’s got a slight underbite that makes her look pensive. She’d be pretty if there weren’t something so brittle in the angles of her face.

  “Hey, I’ve been carrying these around for a week now—I keep meaning to find you and give them to you.” I fumble clumsily in my backpack and pull out a small stack of comics in their polypropylene sleeves. “It’s tha
t comic I was telling you about.”

  I hold them out toward her, but she doesn’t move to take them.

  “Um, thanks. But I can’t,” she says. “I’m not allowed.” She quickens her pace ever so slightly. I match her speed.

  “To read comics?” I cock my head. “Are your parents, like, religious or something?”

  She doesn’t answer.

  “Hey, it’s no big deal. You can keep them at school, read them at lunch or something. You can even keep them in my locker if you want.” I’m still holding the comics out at her. “I don’t mind.”

  She makes no motion to take them. I finally let them fall back to my side.

  “Well … let me know if you change your mind. I think you’d like them.”

  She gives me a sidelong look. “You don’t even know me.”

  I stop in my tracks. The words crack over me, hostile, jagged. She walks a few steps ahead, then stops too. I see her shoulders lift and fall with a deep breath.

  “I’m sorry.” She half turns to look at me, her brow furrowed. “That was … rude. But what exactly is it that you want from me?”

  I step a little closer and watch as her body tenses. I step back again, holding both my hands up in front of me.

  “Look, I don’t want to harass you or whatever. I’ll keep my distance from now on. I just … kind of wanted to get to know you.”

  She mumbles something. I can’t quite make it out.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” She loops her fingers under the straps of her backpack. “Your girlfriend seems pretty possessive. Does she know you’re talking to me?”

  “Sasha and I are through. We broke up this weekend,” I say.

  “You did?” I struggle to read her face. “Oh. I mean … I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It wasn’t working out.” I adjust the straps of my backpack on my shoulders. “Anyway, it’s no big deal. It’s over. She doesn’t care who I talk to.”

  For a moment she stands there, in the middle of the sidewalk. People give us strange looks as they stream around us toward the school. Then her eyes dart up to my face.