Maame(14)

“I’ll have to let Sophie know you’re a fan.”

I turn to my right where a white man in a suit and dress shoes is looking at me. My pulse quickens because there’s no mistaking he’s talking to me. He’s handsome, with a long face, dark hair, and dimples that stretch down to his jaw when he smiles.

“I’m sorry?”

“My friend Sophie helped design this collection,” he says.

“Really?” I look back at the bright dresses and glittering crystals. My mind blanks briefly. “That’s impressive.”

“That’s what we tell her,” he replies. “Did you manage to see this show when it was on?”

“No, I missed it”—my night to help Dad to bed—“but I heard it was highly theatrical, you know, top hats and jazz hands. The literal definition of a show.” Are you talking too much? I feel like you’re talking too much!

He rubs his chin with a hand and his silver watch hits the light as much as the yellow dress’s headpiece does. “It really was, if not too ostentatious. I’m Ben, by the way.” He holds out his hand.

Oh fuck. I’ve been keeping my hands locked so I wouldn’t default to wild, nerve-fueled gestures. I unclasp and take his gently. “Maddie,” I say.

“Short for Madeleine?”

“Yes.”

“A beautiful classic.”

Oh fuck. Is that … a line? I think it is. Just be cool and say something interesting.

“I used to hate it.”

“Why?”

Yes, Maddie—why indeed? Why did I say that, to this stranger called Ben? Especially since I don’t fully understand why I used to hate my name; something vague about how I don’t quite match it. I am simply not the person you’d expect if you’d only heard the name Madeleine Wright.

“I’d look in the mirror and never felt like it fit,” I answer.

“I get that,” he says. “I used to hate being called Benjamin, still do. I grew up with friends named Jared, Brick, and Colson. I felt incredibly ordinary.”

I smile and say, “Oh, the trials and tribulations of Benjamin…?”

“Featherstone.” I raise an eyebrow and he laughs. “Fair enough,” he says. “Do you have a less pretentious surname?”

“Wright,” I answer. “Madeleine Wright.” I press my lips together and nod. “Circumspect parents,” I add. The bell rings for the play’s second half. “Oh, I have to get back.”

“You’re here for the show? I came last night—that’s a shame.”

“It is? Is the second half not very good?”

“I meant, with my luck I would have been sitting right beside you and now I’ve missed out.”

Marry me?

I nod and smile. “Yes, that is a shame.”

He considers me. “Or maybe not,” he finally says. “Perhaps I could take your number?”



* * *



I miss so much of the play’s second act because all I can think about is Ben. He asked for my number and I gave it to him. He said he looked forward to talking to me again. WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN? I’d google it, but phones out during a theater performance are prohibited.

“How do you plead?” an actor onstage asks.

“Not guilty!” the witch proclaims.

“Burn the truth from her!” a jury member screams.

I think he’s in his late twenties. Ben Featherstone. What if he does ask me out on a date? I can’t go. What if it’s my day with Dad? What happens if it’s not and the date goes well? Eventually Ben would want to see where I lived. He’d expect me to live alone or with flatmates, like most people in their twenties. Maybe I shouldn’t have given him my number, but it just slipped out. Did I shout them at him or relay the numbers in a nonchalant fashion? Why am I so bad at this?

Lack of practice.

My first and last boyfriend (unless you count being married to Jeremiah Stephens for the duration of lunch break in year three, which I don’t, because he promptly divorced me and was married to Kerry Jennings by Friday recess) was a boy in my year when I was seventeen. Eight years I’ve been out of the game, and it was hardly what you’d call a relationship anyway. We only held hands and kissed (no tongue) near the bus stop after school for nearly three months. He grabbed my boob a grand total of four times—and it was always the left one. We broke up weeks before our last day of high school because he wanted to be single for freshers week of university. I haven’t had another boyfriend since.

“How long must I proclaim my innocence?” the witch cries. “Drown me and I sink, then I’m innocent but dead. Drown me and I survive, you burn me at the stake!”

What if Ben calls and expects an actual conversation? I hate talking on the phone. My eloquence only reveals itself when I can take the time to think about what I want to say, write it down, and edit it a few times before hitting Send.

Even at the obnoxious, egotistical age of seventeen, my “boyfriend” and I didn’t have much to say to each other. Our phone calls were so awkward, just gaps of silence and, intermittently, breathing. I shudder at the memory.

Members of the audience gasp.

“How can that be?” an actor declares, and I realize I’ve missed something crucial in the play.