Seven Ways We Lie(68)

His eyebrows knit together. His eyes are reddened, as if he’s been rubbing them hard. He shakes his head. “Okay. If you’re going to play it like that, you’ve got to find different tactics. You’re just—watching this scene right now, it’s like watching you scold her. Not the characters, either. It’s like watching you, Kat, scold Emily. It’s too harsh, too . . .” He snaps his fingers. “You’ve got to dial back the anger. It reads as one-note, repetitive. Boring.”

I stare at him. That’s harsher criticism than he’s ever given the rest of the cast combined.

Maybe he’s saying that because he thinks I can take that sort of critique. I know I should say, All right, I’ll work on it, and find subtler notes next time through. But what comes out of my mouth is, “So, am I not allowed to be angry?”

“Excuse me?”

“She left.” I point at Emily. “She left me, and what, I’m not allowed to be angry about it? I think that’s realistic.” My voice rises beyond my control. Focus, whispers the voice in my head, but I’m no longer outside myself. Kat has forced her way back to center stage, and her voice keeps going. “I think if someone came back after years, having abandoned me like that, yeah, I think I’d be a little mad.”

“Kat,” García says, a warning. It incenses me. First Olivia, now this. After last Tuesday, I thought García got it—understood me, like nobody had before—but no. Is anybody on my side?

“Why don’t I get a reason?” I say, my heartbeat thudding in my palms. Emily looks at me, eyes wide and shining. “If someone can just tell me why I should stop being angry,” I say, “I’ll do it. But the way I see it, I have plenty of things to be angry about. You keep telling me to rethink this apology thing. You know what? I don’t buy it. She deserves an apology after getting stabbed in the back by someone she thought she could trust.”

Whispers from the side of the stage distract me. The rest of the cast has gathered to watch the new show.

García climbs onstage, striding toward me. The closer he gets, the taller I realize he is, and up close, he looks even worse. His hair is a mess. The red in his eyes makes thin veins visible along the edges of his eyelids.

“Stop it,” he says. His voice doesn’t shake. It’s solid ice. “This is a work space, and you leave everything else at the door, you hear? You drop your day there, and you don’t bring it onto this stage. If I carried every problem I have into this theater, you know how many times I would’ve lost it in this rehearsal process?”

“Oh, I know,” I say.

“What?” His voice falters.

I don’t stop to explain how much I know. “Besides, maybe you should lose it a little more. God knows they could use it.” I stab my finger at the side of the stage. The other actors stare at me, askance. “Yeah, that’s right,” I snap. “Jesus, this is the most attention you guys have paid in any rehearsal. You realize how infuriating that is?”

And García loses it. “Kat!” he yells. “Please. You’re here to act, not to bully the rest of the cast!”

His words resound off the back walls, and as they fade second by second, he deflates. The hard gleam fades from his eyes, leaving exhaustion behind.

There’s my answer. He’s not on my side—nobody’s on my side.

Am I on my side?

No. No, I’m not. In the ringing silence, I realize that I hate every tiny fragment of what I’ve turned into. I should have realized it before, realized that I spend every second trying to escape myself. I’m all I’ve got anymore, and I don’t even want me.

I close my eyes, looking inside myself. Staring at what’s in there for the first time, I realize how hideous it is, all this hate. For everyone. For myself. A glaring yellow rage, pulsing there between my ribs.

I let out a breath, and it goes cold and gray like cooling metal.

When I open my eyes, my whole body feels limp. Punctured. All the anger has poured out. I have nothing left, nothing to give anymore—not even to this stage.

“Let’s go back to work,” García says hoarsely.

“No,” I say, feeling detached. As if someone raised my anchor. I am drifting, rootless, in a stagnant sea. “I’m sorry,” I murmur. “I can’t do this.”

I walk to the front of the stage, lift my backpack, drape my coat over my shoulder, and slide off the lip of the stage. Standing at the door, I glance back. Mr. García looks as if I’ve punched him in the stomach.

“Kat,” Emily bursts out. “Please don’t. Please.”

I push the door open and step through. It shuts behind me with a final-sounding clank. The icy wind clutches at my bare arms, but I don’t feel it. I am a drive wiped blank, everything erased.





I’M NOT SURE IF I FEEL BETTER OR WORSE NOW THAT everybody knows Lucas is gay, because on one hand, I might’ve told Olivia, but at least I wasn’t the one who made up that bullshit about him and Dr. Norman. But on the other hand, now his life is going to be as stressful as I thought it might be, and holy shit, it’s setting in fast. The same afternoon the news leaks, as I’m walking through the swarm of people in the junior lot after school, I catch sight of Lucas. Angie Bedford, this hard-core, post-punk, dancer chick who’s leaning against her car smoking a cigarette, calls over to him, “Hey, homo, how’s Norman?” and the conversations in the sea of people flicker for a second, and a few people laugh, and others pretend not to have heard, and others give Lucas looks like, What a loser, and as for Lucas, he’s stopped smiling and waving to people. He’s motionless, looking lost and hurt.