Leah on the Offbeat(8)

“To be you?”

“Assistant stage manager.”

“Oh.” I pause. “What does that mean?”

She starts walking, briskly, which is so unlike her. I have to hop to catch up. “Okay, well, I’m going to be on headset calling the cues,” she says. “So I need you to keep track of the actors and make sure everyone’s where they need to be, and help flip the sets, and just basically put out fires. You can do that, right? Just yell at people. You’ll be good at it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“But.” She stops short, appraising me. “Crap. Do you have anything black to wear? Or navy? Like a hoodie or something.”

“I . . . not with me.” I look down, taking in my outfit. Mint-green sundress, dark green cardigan, gray tights, and my gold combat boots. I mean, what else was I going to wear on Saint Patrick’s Day?

“Okay.” Nora rubs her cheek. “Okay, I’ll find something. Just head backstage for now, and somebody will set you up. Thank you so much for agreeing to do this.”

I’m not sure I did agree to do this. But Nora shoots off down the hallway again, and suddenly I’m standing outside the backstage door. So. Assistant stage manager. I guess this is happening.

I slip backstage, and it’s total chaos. I don’t know, maybe Cal’s secretly a hardcore strict mega bitch, because apparently shit falls apart when he’s off duty. There are freshmen battling with shepherds’ crooks from the prop table, which—I’m not going to lie—look exactly like the old-timey hooks from Simon’s nightmares. Two Hairy Ishmaelites are making out between the curtains, and Taylor’s sitting on the floor with her eyes closed. I think she might be meditating.

I peek through the curtains, and it’s a sea of bleary-eyed freshmen and seniors. Right away, I see my squad in the front row: Bram, Garrett, Morgan, and Anna. And an empty seat in the middle—clearly mine. I feel weirdly touched by that.

“Hey.” Nora appears, handing me an armload of fabric. “This is Garrett’s, so it should cover most of your dress. Sorry if it smells.”

I unbunch it slowly, holding it at arm’s length. It’s a navy hoodie with a tiny embroidered yellow jacket on the chest. A Georgia fucking Tech hoodie. But Garrett’s tall and bulky, so it actually fits me, and Nora’s right—it smells. But not badly. It just smells like Old Spice deodorant, which is how Garrett smells. And now I feel like some 1950s cheerleader wearing her boyfriend’s letter jacket. Like I’ve been claimed.

I try not to think about it. Instead, I weave through the backstage shitshow behind Nora, who has somehow become Badass Take-No-Prisoners Nora right before my eyes. This girl is normally such a little peanut, but wow. She’s throwing down the stink-eye and calling actors out, and people are actually starting to pull their shit together. Finally, Nora settles in at Cal’s usual desk in the wings, securing her headset and flipping through his binder. I watch her for a moment, and then I wander over to the prop table, where literally everything is out of place. There are sunglasses and handcuffs and all kinds of things on the floor, so I scoop them up and set them on the table.

“Five minutes, everyone,” Ms. Albright calls, poking her head around the curtain.

Simon appears beside me in the wings. “Leah, why are you wearing a Tech sweatshirt?”

“It’s Garrett’s.” His eyes get huge. “Yeah. Wow. Not what you’re thinking. Your sister’s making me wear it.”

“I’m so confused.”

“Don’t worry about it.” I smile at him. “Feeling any better?”

He shakes his head. “Nope.”

“Hey.”

He looks up.

“You’re going to be amazing, okay?”

For a minute, he just looks at me, like he doesn’t believe I just said that. God, am I that big of an asshole? He has to know I love him to pieces, right? But maybe I don’t say it enough. I don’t exactly walk around giving little earnest speeches about how deeply and sincerely I appreciate my friends. I’m not Abby. But I figured Simon knows how awesome I think he is. How could he not? I mean, I was half in love with that kid for most of middle school. True story. Those wolf Tshirts? Weirdly sexy.

He blinks and adjusts his glasses, and then he breaks into one of those face-lighting Simon grins. “I love you, Leah.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“I love you, too, Simon,” he adds in a high voice.

“I love you, too, Simon,” I echo, rolling my eyes.

“Simeon,” he corrects. And the overture starts to rise.

Cal Price can’t act for shit.

Thankfully, he has the whole play memorized, but he plays the part of Reuben like a soft-spoken elderly accountant. And he’s a terrible singer—just cringingly, comically bad. But he’s so sweet and self-conscious out there, you just want to poke him in the face. He’s the personification of a preschool dance recital. D-minus for talent, but A-plus for adorableness.

In any case, it’s not the cast’s best performance, but it’s not a total mess. Taylor sounds amazing, and Simon’s voice doesn’t crack, and I’m not going to lie: Nick is hot as fuck in that dreamcoat.

When it’s over, I catch Simon by the edge of his robe and surprise him with a hug. “You were perfect,” I say, and he actually blushes. Then he takes both my hands and claps them together. For a minute, he just looks at me, smiling.