Lies You Never Told Me(17)

My footfalls echo off the linoleum. There’s the sharp smell of the janitor’s chemical cleaners; underneath is the memory of body odor and graphite dust and greasy food. It’s always weird being in the halls when school’s out. There are no windows to let in the late autumn sun; the only illumination is from the emergency lights, dim and almost ambient. The place feels like I’d imagine a tomb does, the silence a rebuke to all the noise and chaos that used to be here.

Mr. Hunter is in the green room beneath the stage, sitting on a steamer trunk and paging through some notes. I linger in the doorway for a few seconds. He’s wearing a plain V-neck T-shirt today, no jacket, and it makes him look younger than usual.

“Hey, you made it,” he says, his dimple flashing.

“Yeah. Thanks for meeting me,” I say.

“Don’t mention it. The play is going up in six weeks. I sprung this part on you. I just want to make sure you’re ready.” I can see the back of his head in the vanity mirrors, his dark hair, his trim shoulders. I can see myself there too, standing awkwardly in front of him. My skin is pasty white in the glaring light. I suddenly hate the outfit I spent the morning picking out—skinny jeans and my favorite blue scarf. So basic.

“Should we head up to the stage?” I shift my weight, not sure if I should sit down or lead the way upstairs. He thinks about it for a moment.

“Let’s stay in here so we don’t have to mess with the stage lights. We’re just reading—we don’t need to worry about blocking yet.”

I glance around. The green room is the size of a small classroom, brightly lit and decorated with posters of productions past. A shelf of wig heads stands against one wall, the Styrofoam eyes peering cagily out from under wigs and hats; the accrued detritus of decades of theater kids rests on every surface. Coffee cups and makeup kits, good-luck stuffed animals, vases of long-dried roses. An enormous mason jar filled with multicolored bits of ribbon for reasons unknown. It’s a cluttered, comfortable place—but it feels suddenly, strangely intimate.

Mr. Hunter pats the spot next to him on the trunk. I sit down. There’s no space between us. He smells crisp and outdoorsy, like cedar chips and winter air. I feel the heat of his body radiating toward me.

“I’ve been trying really hard to memorize the lines,” I say. “I think I’m getting there.”

He sets down the clipboard.

“I’m not worried about the lines. You’re doing great. But you know, we do this play so often we take the characters for granted. Juliet’s often played like a generic ingénue. But there’s more to her than that. Otherwise it wouldn’t be a tragedy.”

I frown a little. “I thought it was a tragedy just because it was, you know . . . tragic.”

“Yes, but tragic things happen all the time,” he says. “Sad things, bad things, happen to people every day. Most of them aren’t worth writing a play about. So what is it that’s special about Juliet? What is it that makes it worth memorizing three thousand lines of poetry, just to tell this story?”

I look down, my mind spinning madly. I’ve never been asked a question like this before.

“Well . . . she’s beautiful,” I say.

He shakes his head. “You can do better than that. Come on—it doesn’t have to be in the text of the play. I’m asking you to imagine her internal life. What moves her. What she dreams about.” He looks at me seriously. “What does she have in common with you, Elyse?”

“Nothing,” I blurt. He raises an eyebrow, and I duck my head. “I mean . . . never mind.”

“No. Tell me,” he says. He doesn’t look mad. In fact, he looks curious. I take a deep breath.

“I just mean she’s . . . you know, rich. And pretty. And she has a family that works really hard—too hard, maybe—to protect her. Never mind half the boys in Verona are apparently into her.”

He looks thoughtfully out in space. “So Juliet’s sheltered. She doesn’t know how the world works. And you, Elyse . . . you take care of yourself?”

“I have to,” I say. I hesitate. I don’t want to say too much. In junior high I let slip that my mom hadn’t been home for a week and a half once, and before I knew it I was in foster care for half a year. Mom’s a mess, but I can say with certainty that living with her is better than living in a group home. “I mean . . . it’s not so bad. I’m not, like, abused or neglected or anything. But my mom works a lot, and my dad . . . he’s in prison.”

I watch for some sign of shock, or even disgust. I don’t talk about my dad very often because when I do, inevitably the other person I’m talking to starts treating me like I’m a daytime talk show guest or something. But Mr. Hunter just nods.

“I didn’t see him for a long time before that, so it’s not even like I miss him,” I say.

“That’s got to be hard,” Mr. Hunter says. “You know, my dad . . . my dad was not great, either. He was kind of a survivalist type. He thought we should live off the grid, be ready for some kind of armed insurrection or government meltdown or something. I don’t know. He was pretty unhinged. So I kind of raised myself too.”

“Wow,” I say. I try to imagine it. “Did you live out in the woods?”

“On and off,” he says. “At least until he died.”