Inevitable and Only(30)

Heron Lang, the other costumer and set designer, came with us.

“Mind if I drop off Heron, too?” asked Micayla. “She’s just around the corner from you, in Remington.”

“Not at all. Want shotgun?” I said to Heron.

“Nah,” she said, “I’ll snuggle with the artwork in the back.” She winked at me.

I didn’t know Heron very well, but I really liked her. She spoke up in Meeting a lot, usually about current events or something political. She was the president of the Social Justice Club, which I’d joined for a few months last year. Her hair had been purple then, but this year it was back to its natural black and cut super short, pixie style. She had industrial bars through her ears, a pierced eyebrow, a nose ring, and a stud just below her bottom lip. It wasn’t overwhelming, though. Her face looked right that way. She was wearing a plaid flannel shirt and cargo pants tucked into work boots spattered with paint and, oddly, what looked like dried egg yolk. I loved that Micayla and her friends seemed to be constantly covered in art supplies, as if they could never stop making art long enough to clean up properly.

Just as we were about to pull out of the parking lot, someone came running toward the car.

“Cadie, wait up!” It was Elizabeth. I rolled down my window. “I’m sorry,” she panted (I thought, Smoker!). “I had debate team and then I had to talk to the guidance counselor—about having my records sent over from my old school—some paperwork got lost in the shuffle somewhere—and Melissa said I could get a ride with you after rehearsal—hi, I’m Elizabeth”—this to Micayla—“would you mind taking me home?”

“Hop in, honey,” said Micayla.

“Micayla, Heron, this is my—this is Elizabeth,” I said. “She’s new here. She’s, um, my sister.”

Micayla already knew the story, of course, but Elizabeth didn’t know that, and I didn’t want her to think I’d been talking about her. Heron looked confused, but she didn’t ask any questions, thank the gods. She only said, “Welcome to Fern Grove,” and scooted over to make room for Elizabeth on the seat next to her. “Sorry,” she added, “there’s not much room back here.”

“So,” Micayla said, pulling out of the parking lot, “I saw Zephyr got the lead. He’s really talented—he’s been in the school play every year. Bit of a loner, though. Odd duck.”

“He is really good,” I said, and then for some reason, I wanted to change the subject. “You’ve done sets and costumes before, right?”

She nodded. “Past two years. And what about you, Liz?” she called into the back seat. “You into any extracurriculars besides, what was it, debate team?”

“She doesn’t like being called Liz,” I whispered, but Elizabeth heard me and said, “Oh, that’s fine, whatever. And no, so far, I’m just on debate. I did that plus math club and track at my old school, though.”

Heron whistled. “Underachiever, huh?”

Elizabeth laughed a little, sounding embarrassed.

“Anyway,” I said, “are you guys going to the Fall Ball? Raven and I just bought our dresses this weekend.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” said Micayla. “Troy asked if I wanted to go as friends. He’s kind of meh, but it’s fine with me as long as he doesn’t expect me to dance with him the whole time.”

“Micayla!” I said.

“Well, it’s the truth,” she said. “I was planning to ask Davis, but he’s already going with Rina.”

“Are you serious?” I asked. “Is everyone in drama dating each other?”

“Oh, totally,” said Heron. “It’s incestuous. Wait and see.”

I thought about Sam Shotwell, his grin when he caught me watching him during the reading. What was wrong with me, anyway? You’re going out with Farhan! I scolded myself in my head, and then immediately: Am I going out with Farhan? Was a date to a dance the same as “going out” with someone?

“Boys. Don’t pay ’em much attention,” Micayla was saying, as we pulled up at my house, “and they’ll come after you in flocks. Guarantee it.”

“Thanks for the wisdom,” I said, and Elizabeth added, “And thanks for the ride!”

I’d almost forgotten she was still in the back seat, she’d been so quiet.

Mom had saved leftovers for us—it was after 8:00, and they’d already eaten dinner.

“Uh. What is this, exactly?” Elizabeth asked, looking at the bowls of food.

“Quinoa casserole,” I said. “It’s a Greenfield special. Try it. It’s better than it looks.”

I took my dinner up to my room—our room—and worked on highlighting my lines in the script while I ate.

Elizabeth joined me a few minutes later, curling up beneath the covers with a book. Probably the Bible.

Or maybe not. Maybe Elizabeth was really into, like, nerdy sci-fi. Or trashy romance novels. What did I actually even know about her?

Part of me wanted to ask what she was reading, but another part of me was wary. It had been easier to resent her for taking over my room, my dad, my life, when I thought of her as Little Miss Perfect Catholic Schoolgirl. Now I wasn’t sure if that’s who she was, or if the real Elizabeth was Pulls-Out-a-Pack-of-Smokes-after-Mass Girl. Or some weird combination of those personas that I totally did not understand.