Hope you enjoyed Noteworthy by Riley Redgate. Keep reading for a preview of her debut novel Seven Ways We Lie!
“All right,” I say, “either the furnace is on overdrive, or we’ve descended into the actual, literal fiery pits of hell.”
“I feel like ‘both’ is the answer here,” Juniper says. “Assemblies, eternal damnation . . . same basic concept.”
“Correcto.” I wipe sweat off my face, feeling as if I’m melting. “God, this is horrible.”
Other kids stream past to our right, flooding the overheated auditorium’s aisles, filling the seats ahead of us. Juniper ties back her hair, looking clean and sweat-free, like those airbrushed girls in deodorant ads who are always prancing through blank white voids. I’m used to it. Juniper is the kind of beautiful that we regular human folk can’t quite connect to. With guarded gray eyes, blond hair swept back, and the barest touch of blush, she’s a cautiously assembled girl. Always has been.
A noise from across the aisle catches my attention, a noise that could be either a violent throat-clearing or a cat being strangled. Looking over, I catch a glare from Andrea Silverstein that could level a building.
“Oh, good Lord, not this again,” I mumble, sinking down in my seat.
“Ignore her.”
“Trying, Juni.”
Seriously, though, can someone explain why they call it a “personal life” when it’s the one part of my life everyone knows? Today alone, I got three death stares in the hall, two whispers accompanied by averted eyes, and one So that’s Olivia Scott! face of recognition. Why do I even have a branded face of recognition?
Okay, granted: Andrea maybe has license to get defensive, since it was her brother I hooked up with. But the rest of the world can shove it up their collective ass.
Andrea’s eyes burn into the side of my skull for a straight minute. Finally, Juniper leans forward and gives her a cool, uninterested look. Andrea stops glaring at once.
I’ve been friends with Juniper since third grade, and I’m still waiting for her to pull out the magic wand she obviously owns. Something in her composure makes people stare; when she talks, she holds attention like a magnet. Juni chews on her words before saying them, as if she’s parsing the sentences in her head, ensuring they’ll come out perfect.
“Shit. Do you see Claire?” I say, looking around the auditorium. “I said I’d find her.” With the fluorescent lights bathing us all in sickly green, Claire’s red hair doesn’t pop out of the crowd as usual.
“Maybe she’s skipping,” Juniper suggests with a wry smile.
I snort hard enough to kill off a few brain cells. Claire skipping anything school-related would be the first sign of the apocalypse.
With one last scan of the auditorium, I give up my search, and preoccupation sneaks into my head. God knows what percentage of the student body skips assemblies, but I see a hell of a lot of empty seats—and I can’t help thinking that my sister’s supposed to be in one of them.
We keep getting calls at home about my sister skipping class. It’s the most bored-sounding voice mail of all time: “This is a recorded message from the Republic County School System. We are calling to inform you that Katrina Scott missed one or more classes today. Please send an excuse note within three days.”
The messages baffle me. What is Kat doing when she skips? She doesn’t have a car or as far as I know friends she could skip with. Not that I know much about Kat these days—she seems determined to delete me from her life by whatever means necessary. If it keeps going this way, I should watch out for snipers.
The lights dim, and the auditorium doors clank shut at the back. Teachers close in, standing guard on either side of the exit, as if they’re trying to discourage a revolutionary uprising. The stage lights glow as Principal Turner approaches the podium.
It’s a nice gesture, the podium and the microphone and all, but Ana Turner doesn’t need any of it. Our principal is a pearl-laden Air Force veteran in her mid-thirties, with the glare of a guard dog and the bark to match. Every time she opens her mouth, everyone under age twenty within a mile has a minor panic attack.
She clears her throat once. Silence drops like a bomb.
“Good afternoon,” she says, wearing a weirdly upset expression. I say “weirdly upset” because Turner has always done a stellar job of convincing the school that she does not, in fact, feel feelings.
She folds her hands on the podium. “Faculty and students, I’ve called this assembly to address a serious issue that has been brought to the administration.”
“This ought to be good,” I whisper to Juniper, rubbing my hands together. “You think they caught the guy who’s been pooping in the third-floor old wing?”
Juniper grins, until Turner says, “We’ve received word that a teacher at Paloma High is having romantic relations with a member of the student body.”
I blink a few times before it registers.
I look over at Juniper. Her mouth has fallen open. Noise swells back to life around us, and Principal Turner clears her throat again, but this time, the chatter doesn’t subside. Appearing to resign herself to the chaos, she talks over it. “The message we received was anonymous, submitted via our website. While it didn’t include names, we take such accusations seriously. If you have any information whatsoever about the matter, please come forward to myself or a guidance counselor. In the meantime, we’ve mailed a letter to your parents. It should arrive within two to three days.” The talk buzzes higher. Her voice booms out to compensate: “These measures are for the purpose of complete transparency. We can and will resolve this matter soon.”
I fold my arms, glancing around. The expressions in the sea of faces vary: shock, nervousness, and excitement. Normally I might wonder why anyone would get excited about a teacher-student sex scandal, but hey, even rumors of regular sex get our delightful peer group stirred up.
Turner brushes sweat off her forehead—apparently, even she isn’t impervious to the heat—and glances back down at her notes. “Unsubstantiated allegations like these are worrisome, but they serve as an important reminder that the student body’s safety is our first priority. We’ve called this assembly to reiterate our code of conduct and ensure a safe learning environment. I’ve asked Mr. García to prepare a brief presentation on how to handle unwanted sexual advances.”
Turner nods toward the wings. Our English teacher, Mr. García, wheels out an overhead projector and slides a transparency sheet onto it, a nice little throwback to the mid-1990s. García’s whole vintage obsession turns from quirky to exasperating whenever technology’s involved. Seriously, who gets nostalgic for overhead projectors?
As Turner exits the stage, García launches into a lecture. The longer he talks, the less sense any of it makes. I’ve seen shit like this on the news, but it always seems to be a crazy gym teacher and a pregnant fifteen-year-old. The idea of our gym teachers impregnating anyone makes me want to throw up—they’re both, like, sixty-five. It makes even less sense to look at it from the kid’s perspective. What person my age would get themselves into this? Wouldn’t they realize how life-ruining it would be if their name got out?
There are a few teachers young enough for a hookup not to be that gross. I always catch guys drooling over the econ teacher, Dr. Meyers, who’s short and curvy and in her mid-twenties. The calculus teacher, Mr. Andrews, is handsome in a super pale, vampire sort of way. And Mr. García’s definitely hot. Not my type, though. With the way he gets all swoony when he talks about Mercutio, I’m ninety percent sure he’s gay.
God, though, I can’t imagine any of them hitting on a student. Sometimes girls make eyes at Andrews or García, but if the teachers notice, they don’t let on. As for Dr. Meyers, she sent some kid to the office last year for saying she looked “real sexy today, Doc.” Points for her.
Half an hour later, the Powers That Be release us from the brick oven of the auditorium into the November afternoon. The chill air tastes crisp. As the sun’s harsh glare assaults my eyes, part of me feels as if the assembly weren’t real. A heat hallucination, maybe. Juniper and I head down the hill toward the junior lot. She seems just as dazed.
A voice jolts us out of our stupor. “Hey, guys!”
We stop at the edge of the parking lot, a few paces from Juniper’s Mercedes. Claire jogs up to us, her frizzy red hair pulled back into a thick ponytail for tennis practice. She elbows me. “Missed you at the assembly, lady.”
“I looked for you—promise,” I say. “Couldn’t see you. There were, like, you know, a thousand people in there.”
“True.” She clears her throat. “Where are you guys going?”
Shit. That expectant tone means I’ve forgotten something. “Um,” I say, shooting Juniper a frantic look. “To, uh . . .”
“Nowhere,” Juniper says. “Dropping off our stuff before the meeting.”
Right—student government. Juniper and I both promised Claire we’d run for junior class president, so she had at least two people guaranteed to be on the ballot.
I have a million problems with this, none of which I’ve voiced, since Claire’s so rabid about the whole thing. But Juniper and me running against each other is a hilarious farce of an idea. Juni could ask the whole school to jump off a bridge, and they’d be like, “Brilliant! Why didn’t we think of it sooner?”
Juni unlocks her car, and we sling our bags into the backseat. The three of us head across the green. Ahead, at the end of the long stretch of grass, Paloma High School’s main building looms above us like an architectural Frankenstein. They renovated the east wing two years ago. It’s three stories of glimmering plate glass and steel beams now. The west wing—brick, weathered, sixty years old—hangs off the new section like an unfortunate growth.
We cross the entire green before anyone speaks. “So, that assembly,” I say, opening the door to the east wing.
“Yeah,” Claire says. “Girl, dat shit be cray.”
I wince. “Yeesh, please don’t—you are whiter than Moby-Dick.”
Juniper laughs, and Claire flushes, flicking a curl out of her eyes. We head down a long hallway filled with afternoon sun. Light glances off the lockers, making them more of an eyesore than usual: red on top, green on the bottom. Our school colors. Also Christmas colors. Every year around the Christmas season, someone tags a red Rudolph graffiti nose onto the Lions logo out front.
“Seriously,” Claire says, pushing open the door to the stairwell, “when they figure out who’s sleeping with a teacher . . .”
“I know.” I jog up the steps after her. “We won’t hear the end of it for, like, twelve years.”
Claire aims a smirk at me over her shoulder. “It’s not you, is it?”
That stings—I bet half the school thinks it’s me—but I manage a laugh. “Go to hell.”
“Fine, fine,” she says, raising her hands. “It’s actually me. Me . . . and Principal Turner.”
Juniper mock-retches behind us. “Why, Claire?” I moan. “Why do you give us these mental scars?”
We come out on the third floor, dodging the after-school-club traffic. We pass the computer-science room, filled with Programming Club kids on their laptops, and the English room, where Poetry Society meets in a solemn-looking, somewhat cultish circle. We head into the Politics and Government room.
“Good crowd,” I say. The room’s empty.
“Three’s a crowd,” Claire says, checking her watch. “It’s just juniors today. And the girl who’s running for secretary emailed me—she can’t come. But there’s also a boy running for president, so . . .”
My heart sinks. If there’s only one other candidate, the odds of me wriggling out of this contest without hurting Claire’s feelings are way lower; and what with her hyperactive sense of responsibility, she won’t let it go for a while.
“Who’s the boy?” Juniper asks, perching in the empty teacher’s chair. Mr. Gunnar must be helping with the assembly cleanup. I bet they need a dozen people to mop up the sweat.
Claire unzips her backpack and thumbs through a folder. She draws out a sign-up sheet with one lonely name sitting at the top. “His handwriting’s terrible, but I think it says Matt something? Jackson, maybe?”
“I know him.” Juniper raises one thin eyebrow. “We did a group project together in bio, by which I mean I did the entire thing. The guy isn’t exactly a paragon of self-discipline.”
“Oh, wait,” I say, recalling the kid who slouches in late to English every day, reeking of weed. “Tall? Never talks? Kind of a pointy face?”
“That’s the one,” Juniper says.
“Well,” I say. “This’ll be, uh. Great.”
Claire scrutinizes my expression. “Something wrong, Liv?”
“What? No, everything’s fine.” I shrug. “It’s just . . . not that I don’t want to be Paloma, Kansas’s new political wunderkind, but I sort of want to drop out.”
Claire makes a dismissive tsk sound between her teeth, setting her backpack down. “Oh, come on. Don’t pull that.”
“Dude, I’m being honest. I don’t know about this Matt kid, but everyone knows there’s no contest if it’s me and Juniper.”
We both look at Juniper. She stays diplomatically silent, spinning in Mr. Gunnar’s chair.
“Well, I guess you do have a lot on your plate,” Claire says knowingly.
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe your latest conquest?” Claire wiggles her eyebrows. “Dan Silverstein, huh? Ees vairy eenteresting choice.”
I know she’s not serious, but it’s been a long day of stares. “Hmm, that’s funny,” I say. “I don’t remember telling you about—”
“I mean, no judgment. But, like, did you even know he existed before last Saturday?”
“Claire, give me a break.” I try to ignore the tug of hurt. “Can you stop doing this every time I hook up with someone? I know everyone else thinks I’m, like, Slutty McGee, Queen Slut from Slut Island, but you’re supposed to be on my side.”
“Whoa. First of all, it was a joke, and second, there’s not a side.” She frowns. “Although I’ll admit, I don’t get why you sleep with so many guys.”
“It’s not like my reasoning needs to be public knowledge,” I say, unsuccessfully attempting to keep my voice level.
“Excuse me? So now it’s not my business?” Her blue eyes stretch wide. Surrounded by gold eyeliner, they look like gilded windows framing a sunlit sea. “Do I need a reason to care about you and your . . .” She gestures in the vicinity of my ovaries.
“My what? My sex life? What, want to hop on down to CVS and pick up some Plan B with me? Because I’ve never seen you or anyone else lining up to chat about that side of things.”
“I wasn’t going to say your sex life, Olivia.” Claire plants her hands on her hips. “Okay, look. You want me to be honest? You’ve been doing this more and more, and I’m starting to get worried about your emotional well-being.”
A million mean responses swell at the back of my tongue—Claire isn’t exactly the crying-shoulder type—but before I can snap back, Juniper cuts in.
“Guys,” she says, standing in one sharp motion. Her voice is quiet with irritation. “Are you listening to yourselves? I’m not going to tell you to apologize, but this is all objectively dumb.” She folds her arms. “Could you please think for ten seconds?”
I stiffen. Juni’s voice of reason tends to be more patient than that.
Claire and I trade a glance, chastened. It’s not fair of us, dragging Juni along for every squabble when she’s already got so much to deal with. Alongside Juni’s unhealthy stack of AP classes, she’s a concert violinist with an obscene amount of Paganini to learn for her December recital. Twice a year, Juni’s parents drive Claire and me out to Kansas City so we can watch her recitals—she plays in one of the performance halls at U of M. This season’s program seems to be stressing her out hard-core.
I look down at my sneakers and count to ten, focusing on the frayed edges of my shoelaces. When I look back up, Claire’s accusatory stare has wilted. “Sorry,” she says. “Didn’t mean to escalate.”
I sigh, my anger still simmering. Every time this happens, it gets a little harder to grin and bear it. Claire was never entirely aboard the Let Olivia make her own sexual decisions! train, but she’s gotten a million times worse since May, when Lucas—her boyfriend of over a year—dumped her in a random and arbitrary fashion. Which was weird, since Lucas ostensibly is a nice person, but . . . well. There are secret assholes in the world. Big shocker.
She’s been single for six months now, and her offhand comments about my hookups have about exhausted my patience, which, God knows, is a nonrenewable resource. Opening my mouth takes herculean effort. “I’m sorry, too,” I manage. “I’ve had a not-excellent day.”
“Same.” After a long second, Claire tugs her bag from the desk. “Okay, I can’t wait around for this kid. I’m going to be late for practice. I’ll email you guys the info later.” She sneaks a cautious glance at me. “If you . . .”
I sigh, and a grudging compromise falls out with it: “I’ll run if you want me to.”
“Thanks.” Avoiding my eyes, she strides out of the classroom in her usual military fashion. We didn’t fix things—not even close.
Juniper leans against Mr. Gunnar’s desk, looking weary. “You two. What is happening these days?”
“I don’t know. Look, I’m sorry—it’s not your job to babysit us.”
She shrugs. “No, it’s okay. Is something up, though?”
“Not really. It’s just . . . I’m used to her worrying. That’s how she . . .”
“Of course. Works.”
“Yeah, how she works, yeah. But these days it feels like—I don’t know. She’s tightening in, or clamping down, and I’m like, please, will you back the fuck off? I swear to God, sometimes she thinks she’s my mom.”
The last word fades too slowly from the air.
“That’s a lot,” Juniper says, tilting her head. Her blond hair, loose again, sways in two thin curtains, framing her eyes. Those chips of wintry gray are as perceptive as always.
“Well, I mean it.” I cross my arms, feeling mutinous. “I don’t need Claire to replace anyone. And it sure as hell feels like she’s trying.”
“Have you told her that?”
“Nah. She’d do the whole ‘who, moi?’ thing, and I don’t know. I wouldn’t be able to take it seriously.”
“I can talk to her, if you’d like.”
I consider it for a second, but how childish would that be, sending Juniper as my ambassador? “It’s fine. We’ll figure it out.”
Juniper swings her legs, looking pensive. “Do you mind if I ask something?”
“Go for it.”
“I’m not questioning your judgment, but I’m curious: you could sleep with just one guy, so why go for more than one?”
I shrug. “Because my body belongs to me, and I get to make my own decisions?”
Juniper raises an eyebrow. “I mean beyond Feminist Theory 101, Olivia.”
I give her a sheepish grin. “Well, I’m not looking for anything serious. Somehow I doubt I’m gonna find the love of my life in high school, so . . . might as well have fun, right? Low stress, low commitment.” It falls off my tongue a little too fast. I give my head a quick shake. “Ready to go?”
Juni doesn’t push. She slides off the desk and follows me. She’s a reassuring silence at my shoulder as we hurry downstairs, past the lockers, and out the door.
Her question turns over and over in my head. I do like sex, and I do like making my own decisions, and I do like Feminist Theory 101. But something else about sleeping with people keeps me at it. Winding up beside someone, resting my head on his shoulder, relaxes me. That part outperforms the sex most of the time—no offense to the dudes involved.
But thinking about it too hard feels like second-guessing myself, and I already get so much shit for “whoring around,” as so many people have kindly put it—I don’t want to give my critics the tiniest hint of validation.
As we head across the green, I fold my arms tight against the chill. I try to forget Claire’s hurt expression and try to shake off thoughts of my mom. I shouldn’t have mentioned her to Juniper. Now she’s at the front of my mind, and she won’t go.
I always miss Mom more at this time of year. With Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas all in a row, thoughts of her are packed tight on the road to winter. Keeping everything locked away takes more energy than usual. Sometimes I take the memories out, dust them off, and look at them hard, and they glow a little around the edges. I still have the image of Mom’s delicate hands scooping pumpkin seeds into a bowl. “Oooh, pumpkin innards,” she’d say in a ghostly moan. “Katrina, Olivia, young mortals, assist me with the pumpkin intestines.”
These days, the house stays bare. Dad doesn’t say anything about it, but I get the feeling the empty space is easier for him. And Kat doesn’t say anything about it, but then again, Kat never says anything.
Juniper unlocks her car. I slip into the passenger seat, sliding it back to stretch my legs.
Juni presses a button. The engine purrs to life. “Kat doesn’t need a ride, does she?”
“Nah, Drama Club today,” I say. “I think she’s getting a ride after or something.” My twin sister must have occupied the “talented” half of the womb. Though I’ve developed quite the talent for sitting in audiences and applauding.
“Oh, hey. Our competition.” As she pulls the car forward, Juni nods to one side of the junior lot, where a tall boy sprawls on top of a black Camry. “Over there.”
I straighten up and almost whack my head on the ceiling. Peering out my window, I spy Matt Jackson, who lies back, texting. I’ve never looked hard at the guy before. He looks foxlike, with the forward set of his facial features and the fringe of fire-red dye at the tips of his rusty hair.
Juniper’s car dips over a speed bump. From his car roof, Matt Jackson turns toward us, and I look away. Not fast enough.
“Ah, shitshitshit,” I say. “He’s totally looking at me. He totally saw me creeping.”
“Don’t worry,” Juniper says. “He’ll never guess we’re planning his political assassination.” She lets out a maniacal laugh.
I grin. “Yeah, you’ve always struck me as a John Wilkes Booth sort of girl.”
“June Wilkes Booth, even.”
I groan, sinking low in my seat. Juniper, looking pleased with herself, turns the radio on. The sound system emits a deep, start-up hum, and one of Paganini’s Caprices sings out of the speakers. Juni’s left hand, her nails cut short, plays along on the steering wheel.
By the time we pull out of the parking lot and down the street, the day’s problems have faded in the distance, left back at Paloma High School with its waxed hallways, defaced bathroom stalls, and all the students who think it’s their job to judge me.
Backstage, the curtains smell like dust. It’s easy to forget myself here, drowned in the dark.
Whispers scurry along the wing from the girls who play my daughters. Whispers that beg for my attention.
Focus, Kat.
I tuck my hair behind my ears, digesting the lines that pass onstage, beat by beat. It’s Emily’s monologue out there—her plea for relevance.
Focus . . .
The backstage whispers scrape at me again, harder this time. Anger prickles hot in my palms. The others should be listening for their cues. They should be taking this seriously.
“—and I’m tired of waiting,” Emily says. My cue.
I stride onstage and lose myself completely.
Here in the blinding lights, I shed layers of myself like a knight casting off her armor plate by plate. I move with purpose, with want, with drive. Kat Scott is nobody. Nowhere. If she even exists, I’m not concerned with her.
“You’re tired of waiting?” I demand.
The girl across from me takes half a step back. She’s not Emily, not anymore. Now that I’m standing across from her, she’s Natalya Bazhenova: a mathematics professor who made a promise to my character years ago. She promised to sweep me away from my Russian town to an elite school and nurture my mathematical talent. Between acts 1 and 2, I reached thirty-seven years old waiting for her to rescue me from this life, but she never did. She forgot me. And now she dares to come back.
“You’re tired of waiting,” I say. “You, Natalya, who left me in this town?” I step closer, snarling my way through the questionable translation, hunting Natalya down with my eyes. “Look at me. Look at what I am now.”
“I am looking at you,” she says.
“Look harder.”
“I see a loving mother, a caring sister. I see—”
“You see nothing,” I whisper. “I am nothing anymore except wasted potential. Nothing!”
My voice echoes back from the far reaches of the auditorium, and silence ricochets afterward like a boomerang. Dead, beautiful silence.
I speak more slowly now, tasting the bitterness in every word. “You were supposed to be my teacher. You said I was brilliant—a prodigy, you said. You were supposed to take me away, teach me everything, but instead you ran the first chance you had. And now you come back and say you’re tired of waiting?” My voice hardens to a condemnation: “You hypocrite.”
“I’m sorry, Faina,” she says.
Before it happens, I know our director is going to stop us. “Hold,” calls Mr. García from the front row. I drop character, slouching down to take a seat in the kitchen chair. Everything that was held tight in my body goes loose, every muscle, every bit of focus.
It’s a relief to get out of that headspace. God, the Russians were miserable. This play, The Hidden Things, was written by a man called Grigory Veselovsky around the turn of the century, and by the end, exactly zero of the characters are happy. Our pal Grigory must’ve been a sadist.
Mr. García hops up onto the edge of the stage. Our drama teacher, Mrs. Stilwater, has to plan some regional conference, so García’s directing the fall play. He’s technically an English person, not a theater person, but he knows what he’s doing.
I’ve heard he’s not getting paid for this, though, which is insane. Not that I’m complaining. There wouldn’t have been a fall play otherwise, and most days this feels like the only reason to get out of bed.
García jogs over to my scene partner. “Emily, push it more, I think. You can heighten the physicality of being afraid. And cheat a little to the right; we’re losing that section of the audience.”
And now the volume problem . . .
“Also, I hate to say it, but we’re still losing your lines.”
“I’m so sorry,” Emily says, obviously on the verge of tears.
I purse my lips. Damn right, she’s sorry. He’s given her this note a hundred times already. The show goes up in under three weeks, right before Thanksgiving break, and I’m starting to think she might never get it.
“It’s okay,” García says. “Hey. Emily? Don’t be upset. We’ll do some projection exercises later, all right?” He gives her a thumbs-up. “It’s a matter of trusting your voice—a confidence thing. You have this.”
God, García is patient. I would’ve yelled at half the people in this cast by now, but in five weeks of rehearsing, he hasn’t so much as raised his voice.
Emily nods once, her mousy hair falling into her eyes.
“Oh, and that’s another thing,” he says, scribbling a note on his omnipresent clipboard. “You’ve got to tie your hair back or something. It keeps hiding your right eye.”
I sigh, slouching down in my chair. He’s told her that note before, too. I don’t get why people can’t follow simple directions. Sometimes it feels as if García and I are the only ones giving this show everything.
It’s not that I think I’m more talented than the rest of the cast—the other kids are all good, in their own way. But . . . I don’t know. They don’t seem to need the stage, the space to fill, the echo of the voice, and the punch of the words.
“Kat?”
I look up. “What?”
García approaches me. “You’re doing great, but there’s something missing in the way you’re tackling this scene, I think.” He puts his clipboard on the table. “What’s your character’s objective in this scene? What does she want from Emily’s character?”
I figured all this out when I did the script work back in September. I answer without hesitating. “She wants Natalya to apologize.”
García runs a hand through his hair, making it stick straight up. He looks like a hungover college student, with his stubble and thick-rimmed glasses and messy hair. He’s a new teacher this year, but he’s chill and doesn’t give too much homework, so he’s doing pretty well by most people’s standards. “Yeah,” he says, “I can see the apology motive. But what else do you think it could be?”
I frown. “I’m pretty sure that’s it. Natalya ruined my character’s life, so it—”
A fit of giggling bursts out backstage. The frustration that’s been burning low in my chest ignites. I twist around in my chair. “Could you shut up?” I snap. The giggles die.
García’s eyes glimmer with amusement. “You can let me do that, you know. Believe it or not, I, too, am capable of saying, ‘Quiet backstage.’ ”
“Sorry,” I mutter.
“Don’t be. Just don’t make it a habit.” García checks his watch. “Ah, nuts. Okay.” He hurries back to the lip of the stage, hops off, and retakes his seat in the front row. “All right, one more thing before it’s five o’clock. Let’s jump ahead to the last scene.”
Emily, who still isn’t off-book for this scene, runs to grab her script. We don’t have all the props yet, so I mime a chalkboard at center stage.
“Okay,” García says as Emily scurries back into place. “Last little bit of scene 6. Let’s take it from ‘What do you think?’ Whenever you’re ready, Emily.”
A short silence. Then Natalya Bazhenova says to me, “What do you think?”
I look at the blank space in the air, where my fingers hover over an imaginary chalkboard. I scrutinize an imaginary equation. “It’s beautiful,” I say. “It’s beautiful work.”
“So you see why I had to go? Why I had to resume my research?”
“No, I don’t. But it is still beautiful work.” Letting the imaginary chalk drop, I turn around. The lights won’t be set for two weeks, so all the brights are on too high. I squint into them.
Natalya approaches me. “Do you want me to show you the rest?” she asks, making me thirsty with imaginary want. “I could try to find a way,” she says. “I could go back and ask the other professors if you could join us at the university. I could—”
“Mama?” says a voice. I turn stage left. My character’s daughter enters. “I did it,” she says. “I made dinner. And—and we are all waiting for you at home.”
I study the sight: the lines of my daughter’s face painted a harsh white by the stage light. “Thank you, sweetheart,” I say mechanically. I turn back to Natalya. “No,” I say. “I can’t go with you.”
“But—”
“I won’t go,” I say, defeat filling the words. After a long second, I follow my daughter off left. Natalya stares after us.
“And lights down,” García calls. “Great. Everyone, onstage.”
We sit on the edge of the stage, the rest of the cast talking and joking. The guy who plays my husband flirts with Emily, who doesn’t seem to realize it. I sit off to the side, as far as possible from the girls I yelled at. I shouldn’t have snapped—I know it’s García’s job, telling them to be quiet—but it maddens me, people not having the basic decency to shut up during rehearsals.
García runs over his notes from the scenes we worked today. “Kat,” he says finally, “what do you think the play’s ending means?”
The rest of the cast looks at me. I feel the eleven pairs of eyes like spotlights. I shrug, avoiding their gazes. “I lose,” I say. “My character loses. She’s been at home waiting fifteen years for her teacher to come back, and by the time it happens, she has this kid to raise, so, like . . . you know. She can’t chase her passion. She loses.”
“That’s what I thought you’d say,” García says, dashing off a note on the clipboard. “I want you to rethink that. And I want you to rethink the apology thing from earlier. Okay?”
I nod, almost relieved to have notes for once. Usually García spends so long fixing people’s blocking, he doesn’t get to characterization.
His questions baffle me, though. How could I want anything but an apology from Emily’s character, after a decade and a half? And of course I lose at the end. My character’s dream goes out the window, and she’s saddled with a life she never wanted.
García tucks his clipboard into his satchel. “Kat, thanks for being off-book already. The rest of you, remember to off-book those last few scenes by Thursday. Nice work, everyone.”
I hop off the stage, hurrying out the side door ahead of the others. I jog down the grass of the hill, squinting into the sunset. I’m still not used to the sun setting so early thanks to daylight savings, which doesn’t seem to save much daylight at all. Though maybe that’s because we’re locked in school buildings until sunset.
Crossing the parking lot toward the street, I pass Juniper Kipling’s empty Mercedes, a shimmering foreigner in the crowd of scuffed Jeeps and mud-splattered pickup trucks. Weird—I thought Juniper was driving my sister home today.
As I reach the sidewalk, I stick my hands deep in my pockets, steeling myself for the journey. It’s not a long way home—two miles, maybe—but it’s getting cold these days. Soon I’ll have to start asking people for rides after rehearsal. I dread the awkward car conversations already.
No matter what, when I talk to people, I come off as an asshole. They should leave me alone, for their sake as much as mine. Whenever someone breaks my privacy, my head fills with panic, panic, panic. I lose my thoughts in white noise and fuzz. A short, sizzling fuse. And what comes out of my mouth is always angry bullshit.
Life is better when it’s scripted.
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