Always Never Yours(33)

II.iii.101


I’M UPSTAIRS IN MY ROOM A WEEK later, thrilled to be working on a script that’s not Romeo and Juliet, when Dad comes in without knocking.

He sits down on the bed. “What’s that you’re reading?” He sounds like he’s uncomfortable, which would make two of us.

I could give him the long answer. I’d tell him I’m planning the blocking for Act I Scene xi of Death of a Salesman for the drama department’s Senior Showcase in November. I’m in charge of the whole event this year after three years of directing scenes for it despite not being a senior—I won the esteem of the upperclassmen when I directed the freshmen drama production of The Crucible, and I’ve been invited into the Showcase ever since. This year, I couldn’t co-direct the winter production with Jody—because I’m the lead—so I’m especially eager to work on the Showcase.

But I know Dad’s not here because he’s genuinely interested. I give him the short answer. “Death of a Salesman.”

“I hope Tyler Dunning’s not playing Willy Loman,” Dad grumbles sarcastically.

“What, you’re not a fan of Tyler’s work?”

“I had enough of Tyler’s acting when he promised to bring you home by ten on Halloween,” he replies with the hint of a smile. I can’t suppress one of my own. Sometimes Dad’s funny even when I don’t want him to be.

“That was one of his finer performances.”

Maybe he did come in here just to talk. I look up from the book, waiting for his reply. But his eyes have shifted to somewhere near the bottom of my coat rack, and the humor of a couple seconds ago dissipates.

“There’s something I wanted to talk to you about,” he says.

Great. The line that begins every unpleasant conversation with a parent.

“Rose and I have continued to make some inquiries into homes outside New York City,” he goes on, “and we’ve narrowed it down to a few.”

“Cool,” I reply flatly.

“We have to fly out and look at the houses with a realtor.” He sounds unfazed by what I thought was a pretty obvious display of disinterest. “This weekend.”

“What?” I hear my voice go up. “This weekend? I thought the move wasn’t happening until I went to college. Or is there something else you haven’t told me?”

“It’s not happening until then.” Dad puts a hand on my knee, as if that’ll make everything better. “But we have to visit soon because I don’t want Rose to travel too close to her due date.”

“Of course,” I mutter.

“While we’re gone, you and Erin will stay at Aunt Charlotte’s.”

I sit up in surprise, letting my book fall shut. “Why do I have to stay with Charlotte? It’s far from school, and I’m seventeen years old, Dad. I’m not going to burn the house down.”

“Megan . . .” He rubs a crease in his forehead.

“What?” I snap. “Next year you’ll be in New York, and I’ll be here on my own anyway. We should just get used to it now.”

He glances up at me. He’s silent for a moment, and I think I see a shadow of hurt in his eyes. Or maybe he’s just tired of arguing with me. It’s hard to tell.

When he does speak, I’m glad he’s not using his patronizing middle-school-principal voice. “You’re calling me every night,” he says softly.

“Text. I’ll text you.”

He gets up and walks to the door, and I think he’s going to leave without saying anything else. But he stops and turns back, smiling slightly. “Please try to text like a fully functioning adult. If I suspect you’ve been drinking, Charlotte’s coming over.”

“Whatever you say,” I mumble, in no mood to joke. I pick up my copy of Death of a Salesman and wait for him to leave.



* * *





    Today, I decide when I get to school the next morning, is the day I force Anthony to talk to me.

I don’t want to think about the conversation with my dad or the upcoming trip, and I’m hoping to distract myself. I send Anthony one more text from the parking lot, which he doesn’t answer, and when I go to find him in the library at lunch, he’s nowhere to be found, like he knew I’d look for him here. In rehearsal, I’m too busy sucking at Juliet’s death scene to keep an eye on him, and he slips out before I stab myself on stage for the hundredth time today.

I have no choice but to drive over to Verona after rehearsal. I park in the gravel lot under the marquee, which today declares, A pizza by any other name would taste as gr8.

The jukebox is playing Dire Straits’s “Romeo and Juliet.” This is too much. But before I can dig out a nickel to change it to something non-Shakespearean, a clamor from the corner booth distracts me. I glance over to see Anthony pouring orange soda for ten eight-year-olds in soccer uniforms, half of whom are standing on the booth.

“Anthony,” I say from the jukebox. His eyes find mine, and he blinks. Without a word, he sets down the last drink and darts directly toward the kitchen.

But he’s too slow. I intercept him by the soda machine and block his path. “Why’re you hiding from me?”

“I’m busy, Megan. I’m on my shift.” He steps past me with some impressive footwork.