Always Never Yours(77)

She hurriedly wipes her eyes. “Hi, honey,” she says softly. She forces a smile. “Is everyone having dessert?”

Searching for what to say, I watch her straighten her blouse and set down the book, clearly intending to just go back downstairs. “You— Are you okay?” I get out.

“Completely,” she reassures me. “There are . . . a lot of memories in this house. Nothing to worry about.”

I follow her out into the hallway. The picture from Dad and Rose’s wedding looks a little too big and a little too beautiful. I feel like I should say something more to Mom, but I decide not to press her further because I know what’s upsetting her. There’d be no point in talking about it when there’s nothing I can change, and she’s obviously struggling enough without me dredging it up one more time.

I knew this trip would be a mistake. The thought burns into my heart like a brand. I knew it would hurt my mom. I knew it would remind her of her old life with my dad and of his new one. It wasn’t enough for her to move out when they got divorced—she had to move from Oregon to the Southwest to escape everything that reminded her of the man she’s still pining for.

Including me.

It’s something she and I have in common. We’re always looking backward for the people who’ve moved on without us.





TWENTY-THREE




FRIAR LAWRENCE: Affliction is enamored of thy parts,





And thou art wedded to calamity.


III.iii.2–3


I FLOAT THROUGH THE SCHOOL DAY IN a black cloud.

When afternoon rehearsal ends at 5:30 and the bus for Ashland pulls up outside, I find Anthony in the parking lot. He’s drumming his fingers on his leg, and his lips twitch in the way I know means he’s dying to run lines. Undoubtedly noticing my expression, he thoughtfully restrains himself and gives me a hug before hunting down Tybalt and Benvolio.

Eager to sit down and close my eyes, I join the line filing onto the bus a couple of people behind Tyler, who’s wrapping Madeleine in his arms. Of course she came back to school to send him off. She’s not coming to Ashland because she has her alumni interview this weekend for her early action app to Princeton, which obviously she’s going to crush.

She and Tyler finally separate, and I glimpse tears in both of their eyes like the prospect of two days apart is nearly unbearable.

I shake my head, and then she turns and I see what she’s holding. It’s a tiny mountain of brownies on the same flower-shaped plate I remember her bringing to school for me during my parents’ divorce. She hasn’t brought it out in years—she hasn’t needed to.

Her eyes find mine between the heads of our classmates. Without a word, she leaves Tyler and walks down the line to me.

“You didn’t have to,” I say, taking the plate from her.

“Of course I did,” she replies matter-of-factly. “It sucks you’re going to Ashland right now, but call me whenever. Seriously.”

“I will,” I promise. I called her last night about how I found my mom, and before I knew it two hours had gone by. I would’ve stayed up later talking to her, but sleeping on the couch with adults coming downstairs for trips to the bathroom and drinks of water didn’t leave me much privacy.

We’ve shuffled forward in line, and it’s my turn to get on the bus. But on the first step, I hesitate. “Hey,” I call, halting her. “I feel like a sleepover’s in order when I get home.”

She smiles lightly. “Definitely.” Giving me a final wave, she walks back toward campus.

I trudge to an empty row near the back and take a seat next to the window. People are beginning to fill the bus, and I catch a couple pairs of eyes checking out the seat beside mine. I place the plate of brownies on the empty cushion, declaring it off-limits. When Owen boards, I watch him in my peripheral vision while pointedly staring out the window.

Finally the bus rumbles to life, and I close my eyes. Just for good measure, I put in my earbuds, the universal sign for don’t talk to me. For a while I listen to nothing, trying to go over my lines in my head. But I turn on an old playlist when I realize the only words ringing in my ears aren’t Juliet’s. They’re my mom’s—There are a lot of memories in this house. Nothing to worry about.

I don’t open my eyes for forty-five minutes, until we park outside a Burger King for dinner. Between thirty high-school students ordering burgers and freaking out over the premiere, it’s not hard for me to hide my nose in my script and avoid the conversation. In an hour, with night falling, we’re under way again.

We pass sporting goods stores and strip malls on the way into Ashland, and then the wide street I take to SOTI. I watch coffee shops, bookstores, clothing boutiques go by in the window. We round a corner, and a compound of low buildings in Elizabethan style emerges on the right. And despite my horrible mood, my heart lifts a little when I see it.

The Oregon Shakespeare Festival isn’t an event. It’s a place, a collection of smaller theaters grouped around a main stage built to resemble Shakespeare’s Globe. I don’t know why they call it a festival, because they have plays year-round, but I do know the production of Macbeth I went to in sophomore year is the best piece of theater I’ve ever seen.

I’ve dreamed of having a production on one of those stages. I just never thought I’d be acting in it.