In Harmony(78)

“Yeah, he is,” I said, and nudged Angie again. “Shut up”

Angie’s eyes widened over a mouthful of pizza. “I didn’t say a word.”

“He’s the one who brought you to our house the other morning?” Bonnie waved her hands. “I’m not circling back to the circumstances. This is pure girl talk.”

“Yeah, he was the one,” I said. “I told him. And it wasn’t pretty, as you saw. We’ve gotten kind of close. From the rehearsals,” I added quickly. I still hadn’t told Angie about our dance at the lookout point. I kept that memory for myself, like a little treasure.

“And now you have feelings for him?” Bonnie said, plucking a piece of pepperoni off her daughter’s pizza slice. “Sharing personal experiences will do that. It’s almost impossible not to feel closer to someone.”

“I guess. But we can’t get involved. He’s going to be leaving Harmony soon. Casting agents are coming to the opening night of Hamlet.”

“Oh. So you’ve talked about your feelings for each other?”

“Mom,” Angie said. Her eyes started to roll but then abruptly stopped. “Wait a sec, I actually want to know the answer to this one.”

“Yes, we talked about it.” I struggled to keep my smile and my tone casual. “And it’s for the best. To stay professional. Besides, he’s older and more experienced and I’m…not.” I smacked my hands to my face. “God, I can’t believe I’m talking about this now too.”

Bonnie smiled. “Sometimes talking is like pushing a heavy boulder downhill. It seems impossible at first, but once you get going, it’s easier and easier.”

“There’s not much more to say about the situation,” I said. “Except that it sucks.”

She tilted her head. “You like this boy?”

I nodded then shrugged. “But it’s not the end of the world.”

“Maybe it’s for the best,” Angie said. “If he’s leaving town. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“That makes two of us,” I said, feigning a lightness I didn’t feel.

Neither Angie nor Bonnie pushed the point; I guessed I was becoming a really good actress.





That night, wrapped in blankets on the floor, I read my Hamlet script by the light of my phone. I was struggling with the little songs at the end of Act Four, which Ophelia sings after she descends into madness.

“It’s hard to know what to do with these lines,” I’d said to Martin at rehearsal.

“At the root of all madness is an unbearable truth,” he said. “It is known only by the person suffering the delusion. Ophelia’s songs reveal the truth. Think about what it could be.”

In my nest of blankets, I pondered. Was the root of Ophelia’s madness grief for her father? Was it her broken love for Hamlet? Was it both?

“In order to keep her father’s love,” I murmured, “she gives up Hamlet. Then she loses her father’s love anyway. She’s left with nothing. And it’s unbearable.”

It was unbearable she hadn’t followed her heart.

I shut the script and pulled up “Imagination” by Shawn Mendes. The song Isaac and I danced to at the overlook.

I shut my eyes and sleep took me down along the current of the beautiful song. My blankets became Isaac’s arms. The hard floor was his chest. My last thought was something else Martin had said: when confronted with yes or no, always choose yes.

Choose yes, I thought, drifting.

Isaac looked down at me, a question in his eyes.

I smiled.

Yes.





Isaac



Sunday afternoon, I had lunch with Benny and Yolanda, then went over to the trailer to check on Pops and give him some money. He wasn’t there, and the mess was worse. The coffee table top was completely hidden by bottles, cans, stubbed-out cigarettes and fast food containers. I did a quick clean-up, washed some dishes and set them to dry in the sink. Then headed out to the edge of our grounds, toward the gas station. God, it looked so dilapidated and shabby. I could practically feel the gravity of the unpaid bills and royalties pulling it down into a bottomless sinkhole, swallowing my father with it.

Pops sat at the gas station window, staring at nothing and smoking a cigarette. I slid a thin envelope under the glass—most of my paycheck from the auto-shop in Braxton. Pops’ smoke danced and swirled against the glass.

“I’ll bring more next week,” I said.

He nodded and slid the envelope toward him, eased off the stool and disappeared in the back.

Conversation over.

He’d hardly spoken to me after the incident with the beer bottle. But I didn’t like this silence, or the look in his eyes. Whatever light he had was fading. Or drowning.

Being poor will do that to you, I thought with sudden anger as I strode back to my truck.

The constant heavy weight of want and need was a giant hand pressing you down. I know what people in Harmony thought: if my dad got his shit together, he’d be okay. He was the boxer in the ring, and they were the spectators who didn’t have to fight his fight. They lounged in seats, yelling, “Get back up!” As if it were easy after you’ve been kicked so many times.

I’ve got to get out, I thought again. I had to take care of my old man. He was blood. Family. That was all there was to it.