Seven Ways We Lie(81)

“I need you, too,” I say. “Both of you.”

My sister meets my eyes, and it’s too much. Too personal, too loaded—too honest. I look down at my lap as Olivia glances toward the clock.

“Hang on,” she says. “It’s seven. Shouldn’t you be at dress rehearsal?”

“I dropped out.”

“You did what?”

“Yeah. On Monday. I had a sort of a freak-out.” I swallow. “By which I mean I yelled at everyone. And quit the show.”

Another long silence. I sneak a glance at Olivia, whose mouth is open. I guess she didn’t think even I could go that far.

A long minute passes. She’s clearly trying to think of something to say, but nothing comes out.

Then Dad says, “Stand up.”

“What?”

He stands, fishing his keys out of his pocket. “You’re going to your dress rehearsal,” he says, his voice growing stronger.

“Dad, I can’t go back there. I don’t think you understand what I—”

“You’re right,” he says. “I don’t understand, but I want to. I haven’t been there. But that’s changing now.”

I stare at him. There’s something familiar in his eyes. It’s the fervor he used to get when talking about his weird sports finals, Wiffle Ball International or Watermelon Bowling. It’s the sparkle he had when he would make a joke, wait for Mom to groan, and kiss her on the forehead triumphantly. It’s from a younger year, and I didn’t realize I’d missed it this whole time.

“Up,” he says, heading for the door. “Let’s go.”

I meet Olivia’s eyes. We stand and follow our father out the door.


I JOG UP TO THE GREENROOM DOOR, BUT AS I PULL it open, Emily smacks into me, about to exit. The rest of the cast stands behind her. The crew, too, all crowded into the greenroom. Did I interrupt some sort of preshow pep talk?

But nobody’s in costume, and it’s only a few minutes until the preshow music should start. Something in the air feels wrong. Too sober—none of the tense energy this place should have before a run-through.

I slip inside, letting the door close with a bang behind me.

“Kat?” Emily says. “What are you doing here?”

I swallow hard and look from cast to crew. Every pair of eyes stares at me with bald accusation, and I don’t flinch. “I’m sorry,” I blurt out. “I’m sorry for blowing up, and I’m sorry for walking out. I shouldn’t ha—”

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” Emily says. “Mr. García isn’t here.”

My stomach plummets. “What? What do you mean? Is he sick?”

“No, h-he was in class and everything, but he—” Emily chews on a lock of her hair. “He hasn’t shown up tonight. He said yesterday he was trying to find someone to replace you, and I guess he figured it was hopeless.”

“But he wouldn’t just not show,” I say, but then a horrible idea sneaks into my head. He wouldn’t miss dress rehearsal—unless he wasn’t allowed to be here.

I remember the rumors that flooded the school on Monday about Lucas and Dr. Norman. I remember how tense, even desperate, García seemed in rehearsal that afternoon.

Did someone turn him in?

Everyone’s attention presses in on me. I straighten up, filling my voice with resolve. “You know what?” I say. “It doesn’t matter. So what if he’s missing? We know the show.”

Emily half raises her hand. “Are—are we allowed to be in here unsupervised?”

“Is anyone stopping us?”

“Well, no, but . . .” Emily says feebly, looking around at the cast. My stage husband trades a doubtful look with her.

“No,” I say. “No buts.” As I look around at these twenty uneasy faces, the empty space in my chest thickens, calcifying into a clot of determination. This is going to happen if I have to do the whole damn show myself.

I turn to the crew. “You guys sat through eight hours of tech on Sunday. Andrea, your set took so long to build. Crystal, you made all these sound effects from scratch. And, Lara, you’ve been in production meetings about this thing since the start of the year.” I look back at the cast. “And God, you guys have put up with me for eight weeks, and this is the thing that makes you want to call it quits? That’s bullshit.” I fold my arms. “We all know what to do. So what if we’re doing it for an empty theater tonight?”

There’s a long pause. Then Emily says, “I mean . . . as long as nobody’s stopping us, I guess . . .?”

I smile at her. She looks as if she might pass out. It occurs to me that probably none of these people has ever seen me smile.

Lara says, “All right. Everyone, get into costume. Crystal, go start the preshow music. Half an hour until curtain goes up.”

The cast doesn’t say a word to me as we head downstairs to the changing rooms, but I catch them giving me glances. And for once, I don’t wish they would stop. For once, I meet their eyes unafraid.





ON THURSDAY, I WAKE UP WITH MY THOUGHTS KNOTTED and tangled. I hardly slept an hour.

I roll out of bed and smack my hair into place, wishing the impact would dislodge some of the clutter from my mind. I eye myself in the mirror. Have you ever felt as if your face isn’t your own, but an elaborate forgery, a parody, maybe? The eyes staring out from the mirror don’t look like mine. I’ve been disconnected from my reflection, unhooked, unmoored.