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.
It’s been nine years, but she still spends half her days in a fog. I don’t know how much actual pain she’s in anymore; it’s hard to know if she’s still suffering, or if she just likes feeling high.
“Mom, you’ve got to keep this job.” I try to keep my voice calm. Sometimes if I get mad, if I yell, Mom will set off on a whole new binge, trying to numb her hurt feelings. “There’s nowhere else that’ll take you.”
“I know, I know. Tomorrow. I promise.”
Tomorrow. The single most overused word in Mom’s vocabulary. Tomorrow I’ll go to the doctor. Tomorrow I’ll go to work. Tomorrow I’ll do those dishes, take out the trash, eat something, change my clothes. Tomorrow I’ll stop using. I grab the cigarette in the ashtray and stab it out almost violently.
“The rate you’re going, you’re going to set the place on fire before we get evicted.”
I stomp into my bedroom and shut the door firmly behind me. I can still hear the TV through the wall. Someone on a game show asks for a vowel. I stick the phone into my stereo dock and turn on Adele to try to drown out the noise.
My room is sparse, but comfortable. There’s a small wooden desk I found on the side of the road and spray-painted teal; the cheerful yellow curtains and pillowy duvet were bought out of my movie-theater wages. White fairy lights crisscross a tall bookshelf, stacked high with all my books.
I sink down onto the bed and start unlacing my shoes. I have just enough time to shower before I have to catch the bus. There’s a past-due electrical bill on my desk, and the other utilities will be along again soon. Ever since our last eviction, I’ve taken charge of the household bills.
Sometimes it feels like I’m juggling knives. No, not knives; sharp as they are, knives are light. I’m juggling anvils. Keeping the power on, finishing my homework on time, getting to all my shifts at work, making sure Mom eats enough. Every one is a weight that, any minute, could fall straight on my head.
Tomorrow I’ll go through Mom’s room, try to find her stash. Flush it. Not that it’ll matter; she’s got a half dozen doctors ready and willing to prescribe her more. Mom’s a mess, but she’s a cunning mess, good at manipulating what she needs out of people. But maybe I can slow her down a little.
I take a deep breath, rummage in my bag for my script. Sometimes you have to keep moving so you don’t give up entirely. I take a minute to leaf through, scanning the lines. Mr. Hunter’s words come drifting back. You’re really quite remarkable.
But what does that matter? I realize with a dull pang that the magic of the day has vanished. Shakespeare isn’t going to pay the bills. Shakespeare isn’t going to help my mom get to work on time, or help her stay clean. I throw the script onto my desk and pick up my towel. Time to get ready for work.
Because Shakespeare isn’t going to get me out of this hellhole.
FIVE
Gabe
“You gonna be all healed up in time for Big Bend this Christmas?” asks Caleb Scott, picking the crust off one of his three peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches. “I got a new tent. Super lightweight, good for the trail.”
It’s lunchtime on Tuesday, and we’re sitting at a cement table in the outdoor lunch area. The sun is mild in the sky, the heat finally broken. A few yards away a game of ultimate Frisbee rages up and down the lawn. Guitar music drifts aimlessly through the air from where a girl sits under a tree playing.
“Ugh,” says Irene Novak, before I can reply. She’s next to Caleb, doodling in her history textbook. She’s transformed Thomas Jefferson into a psycho clown, penciling a creepy painted leer on his face. “You guys are nuts. A week with no shower, no electricity, no cell coverage? Kill me.”
“Yeah, well, that’s why you ain’t invited,” Caleb drawls. He’s the only person I know in Austin with an actual Texas accent. “We don’t need a repeat of the Enchanted Rock trip.”