Other than the cutting board, the house is perfectly clean. I mean, you could literally eat off the floor. Put on white gloves and run your finger along the bookcase—your glove will come away white as snow. There are medical words for the problems my mom has, but my only words for it right now are batshit crazy.
These are the worst moments, knowing I can’t say a word while something important to me hangs in the balance. How many times have I been late or missed entire events because of a dirty dish or my mom’s sudden need to dust or organize a cupboard, water the grass. I’ve learned my lesson the hard way: pester her, even just once, and that’s it, you’re not going.
4:58—if we leave right now, I’ll only be five or ten minutes late. That’s respectable. You can blame traffic or a watch that’s set too slow.
4:59. My mom hands me the keys. “Go get your brother in the car seat.”
I grab Sam and run.
SIX
I see you every day after school for four hours. For most of it, I sit hunched over my copy of the script, writing down the blocking and anything else Miss B needs the cast and crew to remember once we get onto an actual stage. Being a stage manager is serious business. I could screw up the entire show, so unlike you and the rest of the cast, I don’t have much time for socializing.
You’re Billy Flynn, of course. No surprise there. The first time I ever saw you perform was when you played Don Lockwood in Singin’ in the Rain. I was a lowly freshman, utterly besotted from my seat in the audience. When you’re onstage, nobody can look away. You just have it. You know, It. Star quality, that je ne sais quoi.
Something’s happening now with you and me, but I’m not sure what it is. I catch you looking at me, furtive glances that you hold long enough for me to see. You want me to catch you looking. There are soft smiles that make me blush. And suddenly there are hugs. When you see me, when we part ways. Hugs that last longer than they should, your heat seeping into me. More and more often now you’ll come and sit by me and do homework if you’re not in whatever scene is onstage. Or you pretend to do homework—mostly you write funny little notes to me.
When I walk into a room the magnets inside us make it almost impossible to stay more than a few feet apart. But we don’t talk about it. Any of it. There are no phone calls, no dates, nothing. Just these magnets.
I worry that it’s all in my head. Wishful thinking. I mean, come on. We’re talking about Gavin Davis here. I’m not the type of girl that gets a boy like you. And yet.
Nat makes a beeline for me, pulls me to an empty corner.
“I heard something,” she says.
I raise my eyebrows. “Don’t tell me God spoke to you again.”
Every now and then Nat will say that God laid something on her heart, which in Christian speak means God communicated directly with her. It’s usually something that she needs to do or fix. Lys thinks that’s creeptastic, but I don’t know. It’s kind of nice, I think.
“No,” she says. Then she gets a wicked look in her eye. “Maybe I shouldn’t tell you.”
“I’ll give you my firstborn child if you tell me your secret,” I say, contrite.
She laughs. “Fine. Gavin told Peter and Kyle that you’re hot.”
I pretend to be offended, but inside? DYING. “Is that so hard to believe?”
“Oh, shut up. Of course it’s not hard to believe.” Her big brown eyes dance. “I think he’s crushing on you.”
“Don’t get my hopes up,” I say. But they’re already up. This is going to crash and burn so hard.
“Fabulous thespians!” calls Miss B. For some reason, she’s decided to have an English accent today. “Gather round while I tell you the schedule.” She says it the British way: shed-jewel. I love Miss B. She exudes theatricality. The whole world is her stage. She’s got a thousand-watt smile, a chic bob, and when she talks, she uses her hands as much as I do. Her hair’s black, with one white streak in the front. In short, she’s super awesome.
You catch my eye and I can’t look away and we smile goofy smiles.
Nat takes my arm and whispers in my ear, “I think he’s imagining having sex with you right now.”
My face turns bright red and I hit her arm as she guides us to the opposite side of the room from where you, Kyle, and Peter lie on your backs side by side, elbows propping you up, the Kings of Roosevelt High Drama. Your head turns, ever so slightly, following me. Cue soft smile. Cue my blush.
“Uh-huh. Just as I suspected,” Nat says under her breath.
“Nothing’s going on,” I say, adamant. So why are things bursting inside me, stars being born where there’d been only darkness before?
Miss B runs down the shed-jewel: five more weeks of rehearsal after school, then we move into the big, fancy theater we get to use downtown. I could pee my pants I’m so excited. Once we start night rehearsals and performances, I won’t have to go home until ten every night. It’s the only freedom I’ll have until the next play, which is next October. (Best not to think about that.) Then Mrs. Menendez comes up, our dance P.E. teacher who choreographs all the shows.
When she gives the rundown on all the things the dancers will need to buy, I thank my lucky stars I’m not in the cast. It gets old being broke. My family’s biggest splurge is getting the two-for-one cheeseburgers at McDonald’s on Sundays. On my last birthday, I had to use the money my grandparents sent me to take my family to the movies, otherwise we would have had to just stay home and do nothing. I know people are starving in Africa and it’s wrong of me to complain, but it’s hard, seeing how most of my friends don’t get it. I’m so used to Money doesn’t grow on trees, Grace. I honestly don’t remember the last thing my mom or The Giant bought me. Oh wait—The Giant lent me the money to get a soda at Costco last week. Yes, he lent me the ninety-nine cents—I shit you not.
After rehearsal, I head toward my house, walking as slowly as I can. A slow walk takes between eight and ten minutes, as opposed to normal walking, which takes only five. I always dread that moment when I walk through the door. I never know what’s waiting for me. Maybe I’m already in trouble and I don’t even know it. I shove my earbuds in and turn up Rent. I’m in NYC, eating lunch with my bohemian friends at the Life Café …
There’s a honk and I turn around. Your Mustang pulls up, a shimmery dark blue classic, the engine purring. “Hey, girlie,” you say, sunglasses slipping down your nose, your voice purposefully creepy. “Want to take a ride with me?”
I lean in the window and grin. “My mommy told me not to talk to strangers.” I hold up my hand when you open your mouth. “Don’t you dare make a your mom joke, Gavin Davis.”
You laugh. “Fine. I’ll resist the temptation—just this once.” You turn down the radio—indie rock of some kind, mellow and deep.
“So…,” you say.
“So…,” I say.
Smile. Blush. Repeat.
“You want a ride home?” you ask.
My stomach goes all kinds of wonky.