Inevitable and Only(58)
I frowned. “How do you get there?”
“Well, on the one hand, if we’re really that tiny and insignificant, what does anything matter?”
“Do you really believe that?”
“Nah, it’s just the easy answer.” He smiled. “On the other hand, when I think about the universe—it gives me this colossal sense of wonder that life exists at all, that all the things that matter to us really do matter to us, somehow. That we can think and create and destroy and feel emotional about art, even though we’re smaller than specks of specks of specks. And it seems incredibly unfair that we only get to do it once. Once.” He took a deep breath. “So, that’s why I love the stage. That’s why I act—to experience something outside myself. To get to be someone besides myself.”
We sat there for a moment without speaking, letting those words hang between us.
“Why do you act?” he asked, finally.
I wasn’t sure what to say after that speech. “To escape myself, I think.” The words came out before I had time to think about them. Almost as if I were saying a line I’d memorized—as if it were my inevitable and only response to his question.
He raised an eyebrow.
“You know, to get out of my own head. To pretend I’m someone else, someone without all my problems.” Was it true? Sure, I’d originally signed up for drama because of Dad. But the rush I felt on stage, when I was speaking someone else’s words instead of my own, diving into the authentic reactions of my character—it was a relief to press pause on my own thoughts for a while, to “consciously forget” and block out everything else and focus all my energy on being Beatrice, or Elizabeth Proctor, or whoever.
“Really? You’d rather be someone else? You, Acadia Greenfield?” He was teasing, but something about the way he said it made my face warm up. As if he thought Acadia Greenfield was a pretty okay person to be. Or maybe it was just the wasabi.
While Zephyr went to the bathroom, I thought more about what he’d said. About how it wasn’t fair that we only got this one chance at life, and how acting can give you the chance to try being all kinds of other people. I loved that. And then I remembered something Robin had said to me, back at the beginning of the year: You’re interested in people, Acadia, and that’s a wonderful thing for an actor. You’re an observer of human nature; you’re thirsty for it.
Maybe that was the real reason I loved the stage. Or maybe it was okay for both reasons to be true.
Zephyr came back just as the waitress brought our check, and we pulled out our wallets to figure out who owed what.
“Oh, I never tried the eel!” I said, looking at his empty plates.
Zephyr grinned. “Part of my master plan. Now we have to come back.”
We rode home in contented quiet, our stomachs full, the car warm.
“Thanks,” I said, when he dropped me off at my door. “I’m glad you owed me a rain check. That was a lot of fun.”
All he said was, “Yeah,” but he smiled and waved as I closed the car door.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The next few weeks flew by, what with play rehearsals, mid-terms, and the occasional driving lesson. And then, just to make things worse, Elizabeth passed her driving test. On her first try. I still had six months until I’d be old enough to take the test, but now I had that to live up to. I’d never pass on my first try.
Dad took Elizabeth out for ice cream to celebrate. I declined his invitation to join them. Instead, I stayed home with Josh and pulled out all our old favorite board games, Clue and Battleship and this weird communists-vs.-capitalists game from the 1970s Grandma Ruth had given us called Class Struggle. For a little while, I forgot about everything else going on. Until I made the mistake of asking Josh how his competition piece was going. Then he shrugged and said he was tired of playing games, and went downstairs for a snack, leaving me to clean everything up.
Elizabeth and Farhan went on a few more dates: to the movies, the ice-skating rink in the Inner Harbor, the Charmery. I tried to pretend they were just characters in a TV show I didn’t really care about watching. I still walked Elizabeth to church every Sunday, as per Mom’s orders, but we each listened to our own music instead of talking on the way, and I hung out with Heron at the BMA instead of going to Mass. More than once, I lost track of time, and we ended up walking home separately. She didn’t say anything about it.
That was the thing about Elizabeth. I could tell she was unhappy about the tension between us, but she never said a word. And I didn’t have the energy to figure out what to do about it. I had enough to worry about, between school and Much Ado.
Besides, I told myself, she’s Dad’s problem. He should help fix things. But Dad was spending more and more time at Fine Print. He and Mom were still feuding, obviously, and he’d even started avoiding dinner at home—in the olden days, B.E., a total no-no in Mom’s book. (Messenger: “I see, lady, the gentleman is not in your books.” Beatrice: “No; an’ he were, I would burn my study.”)
I’d started quoting lines in my head all the time. Robin was right; once I had the lines memorized, the character of Beatrice felt like my second skin. When I put myself into the “given circumstances” of the play on stage, her words came out of my mouth as easily as my own.
If only it were that easy in real life to morph into someone else, to know the right words to say in every situation, to—