In Harmony(38)

“No such thing. Sophia Coppola is a goddess.” She yawned. “What were we talking about again?”

“My imaginary prejudice against Isaac’s truck,” I said. “The real problem is my dad. He won’t let me see Isaac outside rehearsal. If I tell him we’re hanging out all day because the director told us to, he’d never believe me. He’ll yank me from the play.”

“Hmm, a legit dilemma. Very well, Cinderella. When do you need me?”

“I’m meeting Isaac at one o’clock.”

“Your carriage shall arrive at quarter ‘til, but girl, I got yearbook shit to do the rest of the day. I can’t be schlepping your booty back home when your non-date with Isaac Pearce is over.”

“I’ll figure something else out. Thanks, Angie.”

I sat on the windowsill in my room, overlooking the neighborhood. Green things were starting to grow again. The snow was gone and the sun was golden and bright in a clear sky I’d never seen in Manhattan. It splashed long stripes across my hardwood floors and the pile of blankets still there.

I’d had a rocky sleep last night, but no terrors. Instead, whenever I woke, my thoughts were filled with the rehearsal.

And Isaac.

He’d been cold and rude to me in rehearsal. No, correction, Hamlet was rude to Ophelia. But the scene called for it and I had to take it. That’s what I signed up for. I could be a professional and not take it personally. There was nothing between us—he was acting a part. And besides, the more realistic he was, the better the show.

The love was there first.

I pulled my script on my lap and wrote those words—just an actress taking notes from her director, that’s all—at the top of Act Three. Black X’s crawled along the side margin, looking like they were swarming up the page to overtake those defenseless words floating at the top.

I drew a protective bubble around The love was there first with arrows stabbing out to keep the X’s away… Then shut my script.

You’re going to be as crazy as Ophelia by the time this thing is over.

Angie honked from the driveway at quarter of one. I breezed past my parents in the living room. They were bickering about some work function in Indianapolis Dad wanted Mom to attend with him.

“Where are you going?” Dad said.

“Out with Angie.” I grabbed my white jacket from the hook in the mudroom. When I came back out, Dad was peering through the kitchen window to the front drive.

No, Dad, it’s not Isaac. Aloud I said, “Be back before dinner.”

Dad nodded. “Glad to see you’re making friends.”

I hurried down the drive to hop into Angie’s car. Her unruly curls were held back by a colorful headband. Her black sweatshirt read I’ll stop wearing black when they make a darker color.

“Don’t you look so pretty and fresh for your non-date with Mr. Pearce,” she said, taking in my light jeans and pink cashmere sweater. She leaned closer. “Nice perfume. And are you wearing lip gloss?”

“Shut up. My lips are chapped.”

She grinned. “His might be too. You should probably share.”

“Stop.” I rolled my eyes but that silly flutter was in my stomach again. I turned on the music to avoid having to talk about it.

It was just before one when Angie dropped me off in front of the HCT.

“Thanks so much, Ange,” I said, hopping out. “I appreciate it.”

“One last thing,” she said.

“What’s that?”

“Kiss him.”

A jolt shot through me. “What?”

“With tongue.”

“What the hell for?”

“Ophelia and Hamlet were lovers, right? So, for research or Method acting or whatever you call it.”

I rolled my eyes. “Isaac’s not into me. And judging by his pissy mood in rehearsal last night, babysitting the newbie actor all day is the last thing he wants to do.”

Angie shrugged. “We’ll see. I want a full report. Tonight. Not on Monday morning or I’ll be dead from curiosity.”

“Bye, Angie,” I said.

“With tongue,” she called just as I shut the door on her.

I turned and nearly tripped over my damn feet. Right in view of Isaac, who leaned against the brick wall next to the theater’s box office, smoking a cigarette. My heart crashed against my chest then dropped to my knees.

If there is a God, Isaac did not hear that.

“Hi,” I said, moving toward him slowly, like a lion tamer walking up to a big cat.

A panther.

He wore his usual jeans, boots, and black leather over a white shirt. His dark hair was wet from a shower and his gray-green eyes watched me with a bored detachment.

“Hey,” he said. Nothing more.

“I brought my script,” I said. “If you wanted to run lines or something.”

He exhaled a plume of smoke, dropped his cigarette butt and ground it out with his heel. “Whatever. Did we decide coffee or food?”

“Coffee’s good.”

“Okay.”

We walked the block and a half to Daisy’s Coffeehouse without talking. Isaac held the door for me.

“Thanks,” I said.

No reply.

Not into this. Got it. Message received.