The Pretty One(85)

“Have you seen Lucy?” I ask the rodent.

“I think she left,” he says casually.

Lucy left? Without saying good-bye?

I run to the side door and peer out into the hall, but there’s only a few techs milling about.

“There she is!” I hear my dad yell.

I turn around as he makes his way up the side stage steps, followed by my mom. He’s holding a big bouquet of red roses in his hand.

“You were great!” he says, handing me the roses and kissing me on the forehead.

“We’re so proud of you,” my mom adds, giving me a hug.

“Thanks,” I say, accepting the roses. “They’re beautiful.” I had watched my sister receive more bouquets than I could count, and it feels good to finally be getting my own. “Did you guys see Lucy?” My dad glances at my mom as though he doesn’t quite know how to respond. “She didn’t say good-bye.”

“She said to tell you that she thought you did great and that she would see you at home later,” Mom says.

“Oh…okay,” I mumble, trying hard not to look as upset as I feel.

“She said this is your moment. She thought she’d just be in the way,” Dad says.

This was your moment…

I press my nose to the petals as I clutch the bouquet to my chest.

“But she did come home early just to be here for you tonight, Megan,” Mom reminds me.

I flash my parents a smile. “I know,” I say.

The rodent has opened the curtains again. I look at the people still filing out of the auditorium and catch sight of Simon toward the back. He gives me a little smile and for one terrific moment, I think he’s going to come and see me. But instead, he turns his back to me and walks in the opposite direction. As he exits the theater, I give him a little wave good-bye.

“Should we go get something to eat?” my dad asks enthusiastically.

“Thanks, Dad,” I say. “But I’m not all that hungry.”

“Are you sure?” Mom says, glancing after Simon.

I look around. Although the stage is still crowded, Drew is no longer in sight. “I’m sure.”

I say good-bye to my parents and head back to my dressing room, once again, alone. I step inside and turn on the light.

That’s when I see it: a shoe box. But it’s no ordinary shoe box. The inside has been made to resemble the production studio, complete with ugly blue floor, little bookshelves stacked with miniature paint cans, a miniature table saw, and a miniature circular saw. There’s even sawdust scattered across the floor. And in the middle of it all, is Catwoman.

“Thank God for eBay, huh?” I hear Drew say.

I turn around to face him. He looks like he’s just stepped out of the shower, his face free of stage makeup and his longish hair damp and combed back off his face.

I swallow and say, “You did this?”

“You seem to be so happy when you’re there. I thought, this way, you can take it home with you.”

I glance from Drew back to the gift he has made for me with his own hands. I feel like I’m going to melt right into the casting couch.

“I wanted to give you something and, well, flowers just didn’t seem right. Too corny or impersonal or something.”

I pick it up to get a better look. I can still see the insignia on the side of the box. “Aerosoles?”

“I wasn’t sure if they were expensive or not. But I do know my mom’s boots are happy to be out of the box and free in the back of her closet.”

If this was a year or two ago, and I had just done something momentous, Lucy and Simon would have been here with me. Instead, I have Drew. It would have been nice to have all three, but I’m learning the world doesn’t work like that. Not for me anyway.

“I wasn’t sure about Catwoman,” he says.

“I think she fits in perfectly.” I gently set the diorama back on the table.

Drew moves closer. He looks at me with a singular attention and adoration, the colors in his irises changing and crackling, like tiny fireworks exploding just for me. It’s enough to make me feel like I’m in the spotlight again (but in a good way).

I reach out for him and put my hand in his, as much to steady myself as for his touch. For the first time I feel like I’m alone with Drew, just the two of us, the rest of the world having faded into the background.

“So you like it?” he asks softly, brushing a wayward strand of hair away from my eyes.

If ever there was a moment when it would be appropriate to burst into song, this is it. But fortunately for Drew, George Longwell has ruined impromptu singing for me forever.

“Yeah,” I say. “I like it.” And then I give him my openmouthed smile.




THE END