You in Five Acts(70)

“I think what Dave and I both feel,” you said, a segue that spiked my heart rate on its own, “is that it would be more . . . powerful for it to happen during the performance.”

“Well, I’m the director and I disagree.”

“It just feels weird, since—” Dave started, but I cut him off.

“We’re not together,” I said. “I’m not an idiot, and it means nothing to me, so just kiss her!” Through my headset I could hear Faiqa and Chris breathing, but I didn’t care anymore. Let them watch, I thought.

You and Dave looked at each other for a long minute filled with tense hesitation before finally, awkwardly, leaning in to peck each other quickly on the lips. It was the kind of kiss two fifth graders might do on a dare. It was even more damning than your previous refusals.

“Once more, with feeling!” I yelled.

I saw you shake your head at Dave, and then hunch over a little bit. It was only once you looked back at me that I noticed the tears glistening in your eyes.

“What are you doing, man?” Dave asked, looking pained—probably because he couldn’t comfort you without blowing your carefully orchestrated cover of ambivalence.

“I’m just giving you both what you want,” I snapped.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, with a straight face. No wonder he didn’t win that Golden Globe. “Don’t punish her, OK? She didn’t do anything wrong.”

“You wouldn’t call messing around behind my back doing something wrong?” My voice, high and trembling, was magnified by the Janus Academy Theater’s truly cutting-edge acoustics. That was when the house lights came up, and I heard Faiqa whisper to Chris, “Let’s get out of here.”

“What was I supposed to do?” you cried, wiping your eyes and leaping to your feet. “I was drunk, and I made a mistake, and you acted like you owned me.” Dave stood up and put a hand on your back. You turned to him, folding into his arms, nestling your face in his neck. My brain buzzed with a furious static.

What was she supposed to DO? Just tell you, and not be such a manipulative bitch. For once, the Director was on my side.

“So it’s true,” I said, stating the obvious, just in case anyone had missed it.

“We didn’t mean for it to happen.” That was Dave, bravely playing the Good Guy.

“Now, that’s just bad dialogue,” I laughed. “Good thing you’re not a writer. Although I guess it’s actually kind of a shame, considering the state of your acting career.”

Dave looked like I’d hit him in the face. It was almost as good as actually hitting him in the face.

“Stop it!” you said angrily. “You can’t control this, and I know it kills you. But I’m sorry, you can’t just make someone love you, don’t you understand that by now?”

Surprise, surprise. Another defense straight from the soap opera cutting room floor. But that one hit me in the gut. Because what you were saying, without saying it, was that you weren’t just hooking up with Dave Roth. You were telling me you loved him, when I’d loved you, worshipped you, for years. All that time you’d barely acknowledged me . . . and all he’d had to do was show up. My grand plan to show you how I felt about you had pushed you right into Dave’s arms instead.

Despair started to dampen the anger, and I had the sudden, humiliating urge to cry. Luckily, that was when I remembered that I had the power to hurt you even more publicly than you’d hurt me. That was when I realized I could show you a thing or two about choices, and their consequences.

“Kill the lights,” I shouted into my headset. “Kill the set, kill the play, kill everything.”

Kill yourself, a familiar old voice suggested helpfully, as I stormed out of the auditorium.





Chapter Twenty-Six


    May 9

4 days left


UNFORTUNATELY, I’m not the one who died. I didn’t go jump off the Queensboro Bridge to complete some sad, artistic circle-jerk with myself. I could have—I’d be lying if I said the thought didn’t cross my mind, complete with a final, f*ck-you text to you and Dave. But I didn’t want to kill myself so much as I wanted to kill any evidence that I had ever made myself so vulnerable to you. Or that you had subsequently stomped all over my insides.

“I’m pulling the play,” I announced breathlessly to Ms. Hagen. I’d literally run from the theater and caught her just as she was closing up her office for the night. She already had a coat on and was tying a scarf around her neck.

“Ethan,” she sighed. She had a flapper-style bob of stark white hair and a fine-boned patrician face that perfectly matched her status as a cultural grande dame. At that moment it was frowning wearily. “We cannot pull the play.”

“But it’s my work,” I said, clutching the back of her leather guest chair. I could tell I was visibly sweating. “I already copyrighted it with Writer’s Guild East. So you need my permission to put it on.”

“That is technically true,” she said, fixing me with a cold stare. “However it’s also true that you currently need it to graduate. So we may be at an impasse.” She had no idea that she was playing right into my hand.

“Oh,” I said, trying to look deflated. It wasn’t too much of a stretch, based on the events of the last hour. “That does put me in a difficult situation, I guess.”