Lies You Never Told Me(5)

“Sure,” she says. She picks up her purse and slides it slowly over her shoulder, frowning a little. “Bye, Mr. Hunter.”

“Good work today, Brynn. Thanks for coming out.” He watches Brynn make her way down the aisle.

And then we’re alone. The theater suddenly feels cavernous, the two of us huddled close together against the echoing dark. His glasses catch the light just so, and for a moment I can’t see his eyes. My fingers twist anxiously around one another. Did I do something wrong? Am I in trouble already?

But when he turns to look at me again he’s smiling. My throat feels dry and tight, but I swallow hard and force a smile back.

“I’m not supposed to do this,” he says softly. “But I can’t resist. I wanted to tell you that you’ve got the part.”

His words don’t make sense at first. I stare at him.

“What part?”

“Juliet.” He grins. “Don’t tell anyone else yet—I’m posting the final decisions next week. But I wanted to see your face when you found out.”

My mouth falls open. I shake my head mutely.

“But . . . but I auditioned for the nurse.”

“You’d be wasted on the nurse,” he says.

I don’t know whether to laugh or to cry. A bright, warm feeling fills my chest. I don’t want to be this easy to flatter, but hearing that he thinks I’m talented makes me realize just how hungry I am for exactly that kind of praise.

“I don’t know, Mr. Hunter. I’ve never . . . I’ve never carried a lead before. You probably want to pick Brynn. She’s good. And she’s already done some Shakespeare; at theater camp last year she played . . .”

He’s shaking his head already. “Brynn is good. She’s quite good. But she’s not what I want in a Juliet. You, Elyse . . . you’re really quite remarkable.” Our eyes meet. This close I can see that his eyes are hazel, the kind that looks blue, green, and gold in equal measure. For a second I’m unable to move.

“I . . . what if I can’t do it?” I whisper. “What if I’m not good enough?”

“I’m not worried about that,” he says. He puts a hand on my shoulder and squeezes.

It’s starting to sink in, starting to feel real. The lead. He’s giving me the lead. A smile spreads slowly across my face.

“You’re actually serious?” I ask. “I’m going to be Juliet?”

“Yes,” he says.

I can’t help it. I throw my arms around his neck, squealing softly. He’s taller than me, so I have to stand on my tiptoes.

“Thank you!” I say. “Mr. Hunter, thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. You earned it. Congratulations, Elyse. I’m really excited to start working with you.” He gently disentangles himself from me.

I look up at the stage, the scratches and markings on the wood intimately familiar by now. I can almost picture myself, limned by light, in Juliet’s dress. Standing on the balcony. Dancing at the masquerade. Dying in the crypt, heartbroken and beautiful.

“I won’t let you down,” I say.

He’s suddenly serious. He looks me in the eye again, appraising, intent. Then he smiles.

“I know you won’t,” he says.





THREE


    Gabe




“Earth to Gabe.” Sasha snaps her fingers in front of my face. “Hey, Jiménez, look alive.”

I blink slowly, coming back to the conversation. It’s a Sunday afternoon, and a bunch of us are sitting at a picnic table in a gravelly food-truck court in south Austin, sharing brisket and white bread from Reinhardt’s. Sasha’s holding court, surrounded by her friends. I’m doing my best to look like I’m paying attention, but I’ve heard this story before. Something about a girl who forgot to take the tags off her leggings for dance tryouts.

“Of course,” I say, leaning over to give her a placating kiss. She cups the back of my head a little too hard. “Ow,” I say, breaking away. “Careful.”

But Sasha just smiles. “Oh, I’m sorry. Did that hurt?”

I give her a look. It’s been two weeks since the accident. I got off lucky, with a mild concussion and a dislocated shoulder. They never caught the driver who hit me. They also never found the girl who dialed 911. She’d disappeared by the time the ambulance arrived. So there’s no witness, no evidence, no way to find out what really happened that night.

I’m mostly recovered, but my head is still a little foggy, and focusing is hard. And yes, it hurts when someone presses their fingers into my skull.

Sasha turns back to her friends. “So we’re all out on the floor going through the group audition, and I look down and I see it.” She pauses for dramatic effect. “The tag is still there, stuck to her ass. Like a sticker on an apple.”

I take a bite of brisket, my eyes glazing slightly. The girls at the table are all eager little Sasha clones: Julia Sherwood dyed her hair Sasha-blond over the summer; Marjorie Chin’s got the exact same handbag as Sasha, in a different print. Savannah Johnston and Natalie McAfee watch her closely, hungrily, and when Savannah laughs she throws back her head, just the way Sasha does. They’ve all heard this story. Most of them were there for it; they’re all on the Mustang Sallys, our high school drill team. But you don’t interrupt Sasha without becoming one of the people she likes to talk about.