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.
My phone rings. It’s my dad.
“I’ll be right back,” I say, unfolding my legs out from under the table.
Sasha watches me with narrowed eyes. “While you’re up, get me an iced skinny mocha, no whip.”
I nod distractedly. I hope my relief doesn’t show as I walk away from them. I don’t know if I can listen to another round of recycled gossip.
“Hey, Dad,” I say into the receiver, once I’m out of earshot. “What’s up?”
But it’s not Dad. It’s my little sister’s voice that comes blaring out of the phone. “Gabe!” Vivi shouts. “Merry Christmas!”
Okay, so it’s October—we’re nowhere close to Christmas. But who cares? Vivi’s almost six, and because she has Down syndrome, her development is a little delayed. But that doesn’t mean she’s stupid. Who can resist a kid who thinks it’s Christmas every time she gets to talk to someone she loves?
“Merry Christmas!” I boom, in my best Santa Claus voice. “What’s up, kid?”
The giggle that comes through the phone line is pure gold.
“I wearing tutu!” she squeals.
“Tutu? You mean, like, you’re too-too cute?” Not my best work, but she’s a pretty easy audience.
She shrieks with laughter, and there’s the sound of the phone hitting something. A moment later, my dad picks up.
“She wouldn’t wait until tonight to put it on. I’m doing my best to steer her away from messy snacks, but I don’t know how long this will last.” Dad’s tone is joking, but I can also hear the exhaustion in it. Turning Vivi away from something she wants to do is a serious undertaking.
“Told you you should get two dance outfits for her,” I say. “One for eating peanut butter, one for performance.”
“Thanks for the I-told-you-so. You’ll be home by three, right? We need to be at the theater by three thirty. Don’t be late.”
I hang up the phone. A moment later I get a photo. Vivi grins toothily in her pale pink leotard, a stiff ridge of tulle around her waist. Next to her is her service dog, Rowdy; she’s been trying to teach him how to pirouette.
Pink. Nice. That won’t show every single stain, I text to my dad.
He texts me back a crying face. I roll my eyes. PhDs aren’t supposed to use emojis. Neither are dads, for that matter.
I glance back at Sasha. She thinks I’m spending the whole day with her; I’d forgotten about the dance recital. I realize abruptly that my shoulders are tense, my jaw gritted, and I force myself to relax. She loves Vivi—so maybe it’ll be fine. But the truth is, I never know exactly how she’ll react to things.
The food court is packed with people snacking on tilapia tacos, bánh mì sliders, chipotle cheese fries, Day-Glo snow cones. The coffee cart is at the other end of the lot, in the shade of a cluster of post oaks. I order the drink from the tattooed barista and stand to the side while she disappears into the truck to make it.
I lean back against the trailer, idly thinking about how I can best break the news to avoid a shitfit. Hey, Dad reminded me of a thing I’ve gotta do. I don’t want to, but I’ll be in big trouble if I don’t. Or maybe: Come on, Sasha, do it for Vivi. She’s so totally obsessed with you, it’d mean the world. No one ever went wrong banking on Sasha’s vanity.
Then I see something that brings me up short.
There, at a table just a few feet away, is the girl who saved my life.
The sight of her rockets through my brain like a firecracker. A moment ago, I couldn’t have described her with any certainty; my memories of that night are murky and shapeless. But now it’s like some dark corner of my mind lights up with recognition.