Lies You Never Told Me(11)

Her eyes dart up from her book and widen when she sees me. I take off my hat again, squeeze the brim. “Hey,” I say. “Sorry.”

She takes out her earbuds. “What?”

“I said . . . I mean . . .” I take a breath. “I just wanted to say thanks. I didn’t mean to freak you out the other day. At the food-truck park. I really just wanted to say thanks.”

She puts her feet back on the ground, sits up straight. On guard. But she doesn’t close her book or get up to go. She bites the corner of her chapped lower lip.

“I wasn’t supposed to be out that night,” she whispers finally. “I’m sorry I didn’t stick around for the ambulance, but my dad’s really strict. If he found out . . .”

“Yeah, no . . . don’t worry,” I say quickly. “I’m just glad you called them. I was really out of it. I could have been there all night. You saved my life.”

She shrugs uncomfortably. The silence stretches out between us for a moment.

“Yeah. I mean, they never caught the guy who ran me down,” I say, trying to keep the conversation going. “You didn’t happen to see who it was, did you?”

She shakes her head. “I was around the corner when I heard the tires squeal. I didn’t even see the car.”

“Man. Oh well, I guess I’m just happy to be alive.” I sit down on the chair adjacent to her. “What’re you reading?”

She holds up the book. I recognize it right away; there are about ten copies of it around my house.

“One Hundred Years of Solitude? Cool,” I say. “You should read it in Spanish. So much gets lost in the translation.”

She raises an eyebrow. I feel my cheeks get warm, and give a sheepish grin. “Or so I’ve been told,” I say. “I’ve never read it. My father teaches Latin American lit at UT. He named me after García Márquez.”

“Gabriel?” she asks. Something about the way she says my name gives me a shiver of pleasure, like a breath on my skin. She catches the music in the syllables.

“Gabe,” I say. “Yeah. I can’t even read it in English, much less espa?ol. It just kills my dad. I’m more of a comic book guy, myself.”

“I like comics, too,” she says with a small smile. “The Sandman is one of my favorite series.”

“Oh yeah?” I lean forward. “Have you read The Wicked and the Divine? It’s kind of like Sandman. But with, like, magic rock stars.” She shakes her head. “I’ll bring you the first issue. You’ll love it.”

Her eyes light up for a split second, but then they fade again. “No—no, I can’t. Thanks. I’ll . . . I’ll see if they have it at the city library, or something.”

The warning bell rings. Two more minutes to get to class. I stand up and linger for a second, waiting to see if I can walk with her toward her next class. She doesn’t move.

Almost as if reading my mind, she gives a faint smile. “I have a free period. I spend it in the library getting caught up on homework.”

“Getting caught up? I’ve only ever seen you do homework. Do you ever do anything else?” I shift my weight. “You know, besides rescuing strangers by night.”

Her face falls back to her hands on her lap. A lock of hair slips past her ear and hangs down in front of her, like a curtain.

“I really have to get back to work,” she says softly.

Conversation over. It stings, but I give a careless shrug. “Cool. Well . . . thanks again, Cat. I’ll see you around.”

I force myself not to look behind me as I walk back to the entrance. But I can’t get the image of her out of my mind: the fragile way her shoulders curl around her book, the slate blue of her eyes. That lock of hair, slipping free. I don’t know what her deal is, but if she’s trying to be invisible, she’s failing—at least with me.





SIX


    Elyse




“Juliet? Juliet. This is your entrance.” Mr. Hunter looks up from his clipboard. “Elyse?”

“Oh!” I dart forward, hurrying to join Laura and Brynn at center stage. “Sorry. Here.”

Out in the audience, I hear a low giggle. My cheeks burn.

We’re only halfway through the first week of rehearsal, but no one else seems to be struggling quite as much as I am. We’re still on book, after all. Still reading through all the scenes. It’s the easiest it’ll ever be. But even with the script in hand I keep losing my place. This is the fifth time I’ve missed my cue.

“. . . where’s this girl? What, Juliet!” Brynn says again in an exaggerated tone. Her eyes bore into me like she’s trying to telepathically transmit the lines straight into my head. This must be making her crazy, watching me butcher the role she wanted.

It takes me a moment to find my place on the page. “How now, who . . . um, who calls?” The words come out awkward and stilted. My tongue keeps tripping over itself.

We plow on. Laura, playing Lady Capulet, reads her words with stately grace. And Brynn is actually already off book, her lines memorized. I’m more and more aware of the glare of the lights, the eyes in the darkness beyond the edge of the stage. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’ve done cold reads plenty of times and done all right, but now that I’ve got the biggest role of my life I’m a mess.