Lies You Never Told Me(21)

Suddenly I feel cold. I know, somehow, what I will see.

The camera zooms in on one little girl, her curly black hair in pigtails. She looks impossibly tiny against the playground equipment, and she toddles along with a clumsy, stomping gait. The camera is close enough to pick up her laughter.

It’s Vivi.





TEN


    Elyse




“Leo was so cute when he was younger,” Brynn says, taking a handful of popcorn from the large bowl between us.

It’s Monday evening, and we’re in her living room, taking a break from homework to watch the old Romeo + Juliet from the nineties. We’re ostensibly watching for “research.” It’s the party scene—the part where their eyes meet through the fish tank, Claire Danes in her angel wings, Leonardo in his armor.

“He’s still pretty cute,” I say. “Did you see Gatsby? He looks good in a suit.”

Brynn sticks her tongue out. “Too old.”

“He’s not that old,” I mumble. My cheeks burn, but she’s not looking.

I spent the rest of the day yesterday trying to decide if the kiss had really happened, or if it’d been a dream. Outside of the close air of the green room it seemed so unlikely. But I could still feel it—could still close my eyes and feel the pressure of our mouths touching. He was right—it was crossing the line. It shouldn’t have happened. But I’ve gone over the memory again and again, my heart tripping in my chest every time.

I haven’t mentioned it to Brynn. I’m not sure why—I don’t think she’d tell anyone. But it feels safer to cradle the secret close, to keep it protected.

“Your one-on-one session must have done you some good,” Brynn says suddenly, almost as if reading my mind.

My hand freezes halfway to the popcorn bowl. “What do you mean?” This afternoon I worked as hard as I could to keep things normal, even though the sight of Mr. Hunter filled my chest with bubbles. I barely talked to him, and only when he had something to say about the play. But Brynn knew me better than anyone else. Maybe she’d seen through it.

She doesn’t even glance at me. “I mean, you’re off book for act one now. And you sound really good.”

“Oh. Oh, thanks.” I catch my breath again. “Yeah, we just ran lines. It was helpful.”

Brynn is wearing a pair of pajama bottoms printed all over with fluffy cartoon sheep. Her hair is pinned up in a sloppy bun, her face is makeup free, and her glasses are crooked on her nose. It’s 7:45. It took her less than five minutes to get out of her vintage swing dress and wipe her lipstick off when we got in the door from rehearsal. As far as I know I’m the only person she lets see her like this besides her family.

She glances at me now, raising an eyebrow. “What’s up with you? You’re all twitchy.”

“Just tired,” I say. “My brain is full.”

“Girl, please, you’ve got four acts to go.” She sits up, folding her legs under her. “Anyway, we need a break. Not a watching-old-movies break. Like, a find-a-Sadie-Hawkins-dress break. Want to hit the vintage shops this weekend?”

I slump back against the overstuffed sofa. “Oh God, that’s coming up? We just got done with homecoming. What’s the student council’s crepe paper budget, anyway?”

She chews the edge of her thumbnail. “I’m thinking about asking Trajan.”

“Trajan? Like, the star basketball player currently playing Tybalt?” I laugh. “You’re going to have to find six-inch heels, or else you’ll be slow-dancing with his bellybutton.” Trajan’s got to be at least six foot five.

She smirks. “There’s something about a guy who could throw you over his shoulder, though. You know? I mean, not like in a caveman way. More in a sexy fireman way. Anyway, what about you?”

“I’m not so into sexy firemen. I’m more of a hot-cop kind of girl,” I say.

“No, I mean . . . who do you want to go after?”

The image of Mr. Hunter floats up before my eyes. Which is ridiculous. Because even if we would go together, we couldn’t.

I pull a pillow down over my face. “I’m too tired to go to a dance. I’m too tired for anything except rehearsal. I am a line-memorizing robot.”

She rolls her eyes. “Oh, come on. It’s not even a lot of work. Find a dress, then come over and let me do your hair and makeup. Boom. Dance-ready.”

“Maybe they’ll let me wear my Juliet costume and I can wander around the dance running lines from the masquerade scene,” I say. “I can multitask.”

“You can at least help me find a dress,” Brynn says. “Come on, you haven’t gone with me in forever.”

“Because vintage shopping with you sucks. All I find are moth-eaten housedresses covered in, like, bloodstains and cat hair and black mold. Meanwhile you always manage to find some amazing dress in perfect condition and magically in your size.” I shake my head. “It’s like you have a superpower. A very limited but very useful superpower.”

“Remember that Pierre Cardin I found last summer? Oh man, they didn’t even know what they had.” She gets a faraway look in her eyes.

I purse my lips. “It’s so unfair.”

I look away from the TV, the lines echoing in my head. Then move not, while my prayer’s effect I take. Thus from my lips, by thine, my sin is purged. The scene is layered now, memories overlapping across it. I think of rehearsal, of the chaste peck Frankie gives me, of the feeling of intense focus I get when I’m diving into the role; I think of Mr. Hunter, his lips on mine. I think of the row of wig heads in the green room, watching like an audience, wondering how it will end.