Inevitable and Only(51)

Dad was surprised when I came home that night and told him I was going to see the play a second time, and even more surprised when I still didn’t ask him to go with me. He mentioned that Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? was his favorite Edward Albee play, that he hadn’t seen it performed since college. I ignored him.

On Saturday, I slept late and then lolled around in bed, filling up the hours before going back to Center Stage by working on my Much Ado lines. I had them almost all down. What I wouldn’t give to run them with Dad … but he was out somewhere with Elizabeth. They were probably off exploring Baltimore, or going into raptures over dusty old books. Mom and Josh and I ordered takeout for dinner again, and just as we were finishing, the doorbell rang and Zephyr was there with his Beetle to pick me up.

At Center Stage, we sat on the opposite side of the theater this time, but otherwise we did a repeat of the previous night: me trying to figure out how these four actors were causing such a tornado of emotion on stage, and Zephyr drinking it all in next to me and whispering, nodding, chortling silently. We were both in a daze afterward as we stumbled out into the lobby.

“I think they did an even better job tonight,” I said.

“You just picked up more this time, probably. You knew what was coming.”

“No, I liked not knowing what was going to happen next last night, the freshness of all the surprises. But tonight—I don’t know, it seemed like they dug deeper—”

“Twisted the knife,” he said, miming it.

“Makes Much Ado seem a little boring.”

“Yeah, it’s not my favorite Shakespeare, to be honest. Hey, want to walk around the block a couple times? I don’t think I can focus on driving yet.”

He was right. He was giddy, stumbling, drunk on Albee.

So we walked around the block a couple times and then a couple more times, and then a couple more, talking about George and Martha and Nick and Honey, and which Shakespeare play we liked best, and I realized afterward I hadn’t thought about Elizabeth or Farhan or Mom or Dad once all night. I thought I heard Zephyr’s phone buzz in his pocket, twice, but he didn’t answer it.

“This was a great weekend,” he said, as we finally buckled ourselves into our seats in the Beetle. “Thanks again for inviting me.”

“Thanks for inviting me to see it again. I don’t know how I’ll ever settle for seeing a play just once after this.”

He grinned. “It’s a slippery slope.”

“So,” I said, trying to keep my voice casual, “does your girlfriend like theater, too?”

He shifted in his seat and didn’t look at me. Then again, he was driving, so it was good that he kept his gaze on the road. “Yeah. We met at theater camp this summer. She’s a killer actor, but she’s more into film, wants to direct. Move out to LA and all that.”

How sophisticated.

“What about you?” he said. “You dating anyone? Seems like the whole cast is already going out with each other.”

I was surprised he’d noticed. It didn’t seem like the sort of thing Zephyr paid attention to.

“No, I’m just”—I remembered one of Renata’s phrases, whenever Mom asked her whether she was seeing anyone—“I’m just doing me right now.”

He nodded.

That seemed to kill the conversation, to burst the bubble of excitement we’d both been glowing in after the play. We rode in silence, and soon we were back in Hampden.

“Well, thanks again,” he said, pulling up at my house. “See you on Monday.”

“See you,” I said, and wondered what Monday would be like. Would we act any differently around each other now that we’d spent time together outside of school, outside of Much Ado? Now that we’d exchanged more than pre-written words, and now that I’d witnessed the manic dynamo that was Zephyr at a play? What did it mean that he’d allowed me to see that side of him?

It just means you’re friends now, I told myself. Friends who can walk in circles around the same block for forty-five minutes talking about acting technique and authentic emotion and the merits of Hamlet versus Macbeth. As friends do.



I couldn’t sleep until the wee hours on Saturday night—too much energy still zooming around inside me. I crept downstairs and was surprised not to see Dad sleeping on the couch. Then I went into the kitchen for a glass of water and found him there instead, slumped over at the table with his cheek resting on an open book, as if he’d fallen asleep while reading. I poked his shoulder and he grunted, so at least I knew he was still breathing. I left him there, drank my water, and went back up to bed.

Sunday morning, what felt like only a few hours later, I walked Elizabeth to church, wearing my headphones and listening to Red Hot Chili Peppers so we wouldn’t have to talk. I knew it was rude, but I was too groggy from lack of sleep to care. While she was at Mass, I went to the BMA to hang out with Heron again. I told her about the Center Stage production, but I didn’t mention that I’d seen it twice. Or that I’d seen it with Zephyr. Both times.

I didn’t tell Raven, either. Somehow I worried the magic would drain out of the memory if I told it too many times. And I didn’t want her to jump all over it and analyze everything Zephyr had said. He had a girlfriend, I had a broken heart. I was probably rebounding. What I’d said to him was true: I needed to “just do me” for a while right now. Raven would agree. It felt strange not to tell her about it, though. All day Sunday, I kept taking out my phone to call her and then putting it away again.