You in Five Acts(20)

“I asked her why she called Dante,” you said. “But she was so far gone, she kept swearing that her friend from middle school brought him and she had no idea he was coming.”

“Right.” The only person from middle school I’d seen at the party was Chitra Nagaraj, who had shown up at least an hour before Dante and had spent most of her time hand in hand with her girlfriend. Besides, he’d flat-out told us that someone had “called in an order.” You’d been there. You knew. “She’s lying,” I said.

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t gonna call her on it. Not in the middle of everything.”

“Come on,” I sighed. “Can you at least tell Dante not to sell to her?”

“We’re not exactly close,” you said, shifting uncomfortably.

“He’s always at your house.” I crossed my arms, trying to ignore Coach, who was off the phone and shooting me an enthusiastic thumbs-up. He was always trying to play matchmaker, asking us when we were going to get married.

“Yeah, well.” You squinted and tensed your jaw. “He shows up a lot of places uninvited.”

“Whatever.” I rolled my eyes. I thought you didn’t care. I didn’t know you already blamed yourself—that you would always blame yourself.

“See this patch?” you asked, pulling your backpack off your shoulder and pointing to a big, rectangular swath of fabric. “It’s there because at the end of eighth grade, someone wrote ‘faggot’ on it in permanent marker, and then hung it from the basketball hoop down the street from my house.” You laughed bitterly. “Guess who it was.”

“Dante.” I didn’t realize he could fall even further down in my estimation, but now he was scraping rock bottom.

“He thinks I’m a joke,” you said. “And even if he didn’t, he wouldn’t listen to me. He doesn’t care who’s buying, he just cares about making money.”

I thought back to what Dante had said at the party—“I told you I’d get your fancy-ass school, with or without your help.” He must have asked you to hook him up with business, and you’d said no . . . I wondered bleakly what other punishments you’d had to endure for standing your ground.

“OK,” I said, forcing a smile. “We can deal with it later. Right now I need to go be depressed by a piece of paper. You coming?”

“You underestimate yourself,” you said, falling into step as I headed for the door.

“No, I accurately estimate other people’s ability to underestimate me,” I said.

You grinned. “Fair enough.”

? ? ?


The cast lists weren’t posted yet, even though it was only five minutes before the sixth-period bell. Since drama, dance, and music were all due to appear at the same time, there was a big group already gathered when we rolled up. Some people were talking excitedly, others silently stared at their phones, or at the empty space on the wall, as if they could somehow force the lists to manifest if they concentrated hard enough.

I spotted Theo and Dominic hanging with some dancers on the other side of the crowd, but when they waved you over you just leaned back against the wall by the yearbook office and stripped off your coat, letting it fall at your feet. Under your thin T-shirt, the muscles in your arms stood out, reminding me of one of those relief maps we used to study in elementary school; your whole body was tensed. You raised yourself up and down on your toes, bouncing like a boxer before a fight.

“Wait, you’re nervous now?” I asked incredulously.

“You were so good—you are so good,” you said. “If you don’t get a solo, then this whole thing is rigged.”

“Thanks,” I said. “But I don’t need you feeling sorry for me. Besides, if I don’t get it I’ll just live vicariously through you.”

“What if I don’t get one, either?” you asked. I gave you a hard side-eye but you just kept bouncing. “I’ve been lucky this far, but it’s bound to run out someday. Maybe today is it.” You swallowed nervously, and I reached out instinctively to hold your hand. We didn’t touch that much back then; I wasn’t tactile like that, and you always kept a little bit of distance from me, even though you were quick to wrap your arms around other girls you hardly knew, hugging them as you walked down the hallways between classes. It never felt like rejection, though, the way you gave me space. It felt more like respect.

“You and me—” I started to say but was interrupted by some manic clapping as Ms. Hagen rounded the corner with the drama list in her hands. I looked around for Liv, but couldn’t find her. Ethan or Dave, either. They must have still been at the fountain, or slowly making their way back, too cool to rub shoulders with the overeager masses practically trampling each other just to put an end to the misery of not knowing. And while I wasn’t proud, I was so desperate to know something that I ran up alongside all the drama majors just to see who got what.

Just like dance, the Drama Showcase was divided into half a dozen short performances (mostly scenes from longer plays) with just a few featured roles. My eyes scrolled down past Waiting for Godot, The Zoo Story, and The Women, to the bottom of the page, where “Boroughed Trouble, an original play by Ethan Entsky,” was typed in bold caps. Liv got cast as Viola, which was no great shock. What I wasn’t expecting was the name listed right above hers, next to the role of Rodolpho.