Lies You Never Told Me(8)
But before I have a chance to say anything, Frankie catches sight of me.
“I knew you’d get it,” he says loudly, pulling me into an excited hug. “Your reading was unbelievable!”
I can’t see Brynn for a moment, her face disappearing behind Frankie’s shoulder while he pulls me close. Other people are looking our way now.
“Congratulations!” Nessa says, grinning. Laura Egan grabs my hands and jumps up and down. I can’t help it; a smile blooms across my face at the sight of theirs. I’ve never been the center of attention before.
“Thanks,” I say. “Thanks, everyone.”
And then I see Brynn, standing stock-still in front of the casting list. She’s facing away from me so all I can see is the back of her head. Over her shoulder I can see my name, hand-written in neat marker.
Juliet. . . . . . . . . . Elyse McCormick
I scan the rest of the list. Frankie’s Romeo; Nessa is Lady Montague; and Laura, Lady Capulet. The basketball player, Trajan Holland, is Tybalt. Brynn’s name is halfway down the list.
She’s the nurse.
I feel queasy. It’s not fair. Brynn works so hard—she rehearses more than anyone I know. She’s gone to every drama camp, every theater workshop, every master class she could. I don’t understand why Mr. Hunter picked me over her.
I step closer to her, and the people around us get a little quiet. In the time-honored tradition of high school theater club, they are all eager for a whiff of drama. She doesn’t turn to look at me; I’ve never seen her face so still, her expression so blank.
“Brynn . . .” I start. Then I realize I don’t know what to say.
She turns to look at me, her eyes glistening with tears. But then all at once she forces a smile. She pulls me into her arms so I can smell the sweet vanilla of her perfume.
“I’m so happy for you,” she says softly. And even though her hug is a little wooden, I know she means it.
Tears well up in my own eyes. “You should’ve gotten it.”
“Not this time,” she says. “You really did kill that reading.” She wipes at her face and laughs softly. “It wasn’t mine to get. But next time . . . I’m coming for you.”
* * *
? ? ?
The rest of the day is surreal. I feel like a minor celebrity—people keep coming up to me and congratulating me. Even people I don’t know, or people who aren’t involved with theater. For once I don’t feel invisible. Somehow the news of my casting has pulled back a curtain and turned on the lights and now I’m on stage, watched as I walk down the hall or answer a question in class. Meg Derrick, the student body president, buys me a cup of coffee from a vending machine before English. And Trajan shoulder checks me lightly as we pass between classes, grinning widely. His gaggle of athlete friends give me the kind of appraising looks that make me blush and straighten up at the same time.
At one point I see Mr. Hunter. It’s just after fifth period, and he’s in the hallway outside his classroom, monitoring the passing period the way all the teachers are supposed to do. I’m not sure if I should say hi, or wave, or just scurry past as usual, but before I can make up my mind he catches sight of me. A half smile touches his lips, and he winks.
Bubbles fill my chest. I feel like laughing, skipping. But I just smile and hurry past him, remembering the way he talked to me on Friday.
You, Elyse. You’re really quite remarkable.
After school I manage to extricate myself from the crowds and head out into the crisp Portland fall. The rains haven’t started yet. I pass run-down bungalows with rusted chain-link fences, cars on blocks in half the yards. But even in my neighborhood, with its broken glass on the sidewalk and its weed-choked lawns, the sun is burnished gold against the deep blue sky and the trees are tall and bright and green.
My building is a sagging pink-and-gray box called the Shayla Apartments. I’ve always assumed Shayla was the daughter or wife or sister of some previous owner. Now the place is owned by a rental company, and the original Shayla is long gone. The parking lot is an expanse of chipped and broken concrete. The unit doors are all tightly shut, strange chemical smells coming out of some.
At mine I stop for a moment, my smile fading. Home sweet home. I stand outside listening for signs of life, hoping against hope to find an empty apartment when I go in. But I’m not surprised when I hear the TV blaring as soon as I crack the door.
My mom’s wearing stained sweatpants and an oversized Mickey Mouse T-shirt. She’s curled up on the sofa, her eyes vaguely tracking the images on the TV. She’s only thirty-four but she looks older. Her hair is fried to an ugly calico orange from too much cheap dye; her bones jut painfully against her dry pink skin. A cigarette smolders in an ashtray teetering on the edge of the coffee table. A quick pulse of anger takes over my good mood.
“Didn’t you have a shift today?” I shut the door behind me and immediately start tidying up. Celebrity gossip magazines are splayed out all over the floor, and plates of half-eaten food cluster around the sofa. A pilling, smelly afghan lies heaped on the floor where Mom kicked it off in some fretful dream.
“My back hurts real bad today,” she says. She gives this exaggerated grimace, her eyes not quite making it to my face.
I was six when my mom had her car accident. I still remember the brace she had to wear to keep her spine aligned. The crash left her with pulled ligaments, broken bones, and two herniated discs. And because it was her fault—she ran a red light—there was no hope of settlement money to help with the treatment. That was when she started on the Oxy, for the pain.