Lies You Never Told Me(46)

My heart trips a beat or two, but I try to keep my cool. “Yeah. You want to see it?”

She nods shyly. I take her hand.

My desk light casts a warm glow across the smooth denim bedspread, the dresser appliquéd with skate stickers, the Justice League action figures posed on my desk. I shut the door gently behind us, then wonder if I should have left it open—if she’ll think I’m being a creeper or something. But she’s already looking around the room, smiling.

“It’s so neat,” she says.

“Yeah, so?” I feign a scowl. “What, you think just because I’m a dude I don’t like hospital corners?”

She runs her hand along the back of my desk chair. “It’s just that I don’t know a lot of people under thirty with a labeling machine.” She picks up my label maker and types something into it. Then she hits “Print.” ANAL RETENTIVE, it says.

“Fine. You know my dark secret. I’m the world’s only OCD skate punk.” I put the label on my forehead and stick my tongue out. “Fight the man. But maybe do it with color-coded Post-it notes.”

She laughs.

Then she reaches up and peels the sticker off my forehead. I take the label maker from her and set it on the desk, using it as an excuse to step closer to her. My hands slide around to the small of her back. Her breath is thin, shallow; her arms wrap around my neck.

We kiss. It starts slow but builds quickly, chemical reactions setting each other off in a cascade, energy and heat releasing from every touch. She grips my shirt in her fingers. I feel drunk and desperate and dizzy. I clutch her hips and pull her close.

CRASH.

We’ve bumped into the desk. My Green Lantern clatters against Wonder Woman, and they both tumble to the ground. I give a start, but then we both laugh, and we’re leaning toward each other again, about to kiss, about to touch, when I see something that stops me cold.

She pauses and opens her eyes, looking confused. “What’s the matter?”

I don’t answer. My hands drop away from her sides. Suddenly my whole body feels like it’s made of stone, heavy and numb.

I reach across my desk and pick up the thing that was sitting behind my action figures. A black box. On the front, a small reflective circle, a single dilated eye. The whole thing no bigger than a matchbook.

Catherine blinks. “Is that . . .”

“Yeah,” I say.

A camera.





TWENTY-FOUR


    Elyse




“Don’t squirm.”

I stand on a block in front of the green room’s full-length mirror while Oksana Ivchenko, the girl heading up the costume department, sticks a pin into the heavy brocade dress. It’s gold and white—it looks like it’s made from some kind of upholstery fabric, but Oksana’s made it look elegant. The French neckline dips low, and the trumpet sleeves drape beautifully around my wrists. I tuck my hair experimentally into an updo, and suddenly, there she is.

Juliet.

We’re one week out from opening night, and the costume crew is here in full force. A few feet away, a skinny boy with elaborately gelled hair is taking Laura’s measurements. Brynn sits at one of the vanities, rotating the chair slowly left and right as she waits her turn. Kendall and the other girls, the extras and bit players, are digging through a box of accessories, looking for things that might work for them.

There’s a general buzz of excitement in the room. This is when it all starts to feel real. Doing final fittings, working on hair and makeup design, going through the last few rehearsals. This is when the pieces come together.

“Ow!” One of Oksana’s pins jabs my hip. I give a little jump.

“I told you, stop squirming.” Oksana frowns at the spot where she stuck me. “Don’t bleed on my fabric.”

“Sorry.” I stand motionless, but I’m still smiling in the mirror. I can’t help it. Up until now I couldn’t have pictured this.

Brynn looks up at me with eyes narrowed. “You really do look amazing,” she says grudgingly. “God, you know it kills me to say that.”

As always, she’s both kidding and not. Her own costume is a bland gray dress and a wimple. It covers her whole body. It’s weird to see her like that, out of her usual peacock colors. She somehow looks shorter, diminished.

The door swings open, and Aiden steps in. Brynn gives a little shriek.

“Mr. Hunter, we’re changing in here,” she says.

Quickly he covers his eyes. “Sorry! Sorry! I just wanted to see how the costumes are coming.”

My cheeks get warm at the sight of him. He’s been in the shop, taking a look at the sets and props this afternoon, and his sleeve are rolled up to his elbows. The smell of wood shavings clings to him.

“Is everyone decent?” he asks.

“As decent as we get around here,” quips Laura. He takes his hand from his eyes.

“Sorry,” he says again, chastened. “I wasn’t thinking.”

Brynn’s eyes go hard and narrow. She’s never been particularly shy, and she’s not remotely naked, so I’m not sure what her problem is.

“What do you think?” Oksana asks. I turn my attention back to Mr. Hunter, meeting his eyes in the mirror. My face is lurid pink; it clashes with my dress. I’m sure everyone in the room has to notice.