Underwater(57)

But I can’t.

Because the reality is that I’m about to do the thing I’ve been worried about ever since Ben told me he was in a play. I’m about to sit down with a bunch of strangers and pretend like it doesn’t bother me.

“Pull over,” I say only three blocks past Paradise Manor.

I scramble out of the car and sit down on the curb. I take deep breaths while the evening traffic rush comes and goes through several cycles of red, yellow, and green traffic lights in front of us. East and west. North and south. Evan sits, too, quietly watching the cars with me. He doesn’t talk. He doesn’t tell me to get over it. He just lets me work through my moment. I appreciate that.

It’s why I get back in the car.

He holds my hand for the rest of the drive, squeezing it every once in a while to remind me I’ve got this. And then he holds my hand through the lobby, past the door, and down the aisle of the auditorium. He finds me an end seat in case I need to make a quick escape, then sits down to the left of me. He tosses his jacket on the seat next to him to save it for my mom, who had to come earlier to help Ben get ready backstage.

And then we sit. And wait. And watch.

I visualized every single second of this with Brenda, but it’s still different when I’m actually living it.

Everyone except us has some form of recording device. Before anything has even started, parents are taping the audience filing in or snapping pictures of themselves holding up the program. I try to record a memory of the scene. I snap a visual of the chocolate-brown velvet curtain skirting the sides of the stage. It’s open wide enough to see the cute kid-painted forest scene that will be used as the backdrop for the play. There are white fluffy clouds and trees hanging low and dotted with lush green leaves and bluebirds. The sounds of flowing river water and forest animals echo through the sound system.

As we sit, the auditorium gets more packed with people. Lightweight jackets are shed and hung over the backs of seats, and cell phones are whipped out for last-minute checks of e-mail and other pressing things. I take inventory of every face and emergency exit.

“It’s nice to be out with you,” Evan says, squeezing my hand and distracting my brain. “In the world, I mean.”

I squeeze back. “Thanks for bringing me.”

“Come on, you know there’s nobody else I’d rather spend opening night of Pacific Primary’s kindergarten musical with than you.”

I lean over to kiss him discreetly on the cheek. My kiss is innocent enough that someone might just think we’re friends who haven’t seen each other for a while. But then Evan pulls me closer and presses his mouth to mine with a little more passion. I squelch a laugh.

“We’re at a play being put on by six-year-olds. Stop.”

“Okay. Sorry.” He pulls my hand back to his lips and kisses each of my knuckles. One, two, three, four, five.

I recognize the principal when she walks down the aisle and up the steps at the side of the stage to stand in front of the microphone to thank us for coming. She’s wearing a sweater set similar to the one she wore on the day my dad showed up at Ben’s school. I wonder if she owns anything other than sweater sets. I try to picture her at the beach, and it’s impossible to imagine her in a bathing suit or eating ice cream or diving through a wave. Tonight’s cardigan has some gold zing on it, so it must be extra dressy for school plays or something. I only notice the zing because the spotlight is on her and it’s making the gold spray sparkles across the auditorium.

She talks about the play and how impressive it is that kindergartners memorized all these lines and songs. She thanks Ben’s teacher and the parents who helped make costumes and are selling cookies in the lobby. She talks about a fund-raiser and a box tops contest. Everyone applauds because they’re supposed to.

My mom scoots past my legs to take her seat. “Ben is so nervous. I hope he doesn’t barf onstage,” she says.

“I hope I don’t barf right here.”

She squeezes my shoulder, then sits down on the other side of Evan.

The curtain closes and the lights dim until the curtain reopens. And then the overhead lights tint the stage with green and gold to make it look like a forest flecked with sunlight. Out comes Ben, alone, hop, hop, hopping. He’s so cute that it makes everyone in the audience titter with laughter. The green hood of his sweatshirt hangs low over his face, and his googly eyes roll all over the place.

“One, two, three, four! Come explore the forest floor,” Ben calls, and a few more kids dressed as various forest animals skitter onto the stage.

My grin is as wide as our row of seats. I could watch this forever.

Until, behind me, there’s the sound of heavy footsteps. There’s a whispered “Excuse me” as a guy who looks close to my age settles into a seat across the aisle from me. He’s wearing a heavy coat even though it’s kind of hot in here, and he’s carrying a backpack even though it’s way past school hours. I’m almost positive I hear a metal clanging sound coming from his bag as he slowly slides it between his legs, settling it gently on the floor between his feet. It’s all a little too familiar. The rational part of me knows he’s doing things this way to be polite. To be quiet. To not interrupt the frog and the squirrel talking on the stage. But the part of me that gave Aaron Tiratore a ride to school bolts up from my chair, heart pounding and stomach churning, to race up the aisle of the auditorium. I know I’m loud and clunky because everyone in the audience turns to look at me as I go. I crash through the door to the lobby with a boom. The last thing I see before the door shuts behind me is Ben.