Lucy did a happy little dance in reply.
“I hate you,” Sarah said, hugging her fuzzy pink body pillow.
“Tell us everything,” Glory said. “Don’t leave out a single detail.”
“He kissed you, right?” Sarah said. “Is he an excellent kisser? He looks like an excellent kisser.”
So Lucy related the story of her first date with Shane from start to finish. Shane had kissed her good night on the path just outside of the dorm, and he was, in fact, an excellent kisser.
“Was there tongue?” Glory asked.
Lucy smiled slyly. “It was a total movie kiss.”
“I’ve always wanted a movie kiss.” Sarah stared off into the distance.
Lucy put a hand on her shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. “You’ll have one someday,” she said.
“I still hate you,” Sarah said, squeezing her back.
“Does this mean you’re finally giving up on that Jesse guy?” Glory asked.
Lucy felt her cheeks go pink. Though she told Glory and Sarah almost everything, she didn’t want to share the story of the embarrassing e-mail; it was bad enough that Britt had glimpsed her at her worst. “I took down Jesse’s picture from my wall.” She tried to sound casual.
“It’s true,” Britt reported. “I couldn’t believe my eyes.”
“He’s in my past,” Lucy said. “I’ve decided to face facts.”
“About time,” Glory said.
“So, does Shane have any single friends?” Sarah asked. “Or maybe a twin brother?”
But the word twin brought Lucy another pang of embarrassment. Angelina, she thought. Maybe by sending that terrible e-mail, I’ve pushed Jesse into her arms.
Later, as she pulled on her nightgown and climbed into bed with her phone, she thought about how well the evening had gone. Shane had said he would call her soon; he’d even mentioned wanting to go out again next weekend. Still, despite her resolution to forget about Jesse, Lucy couldn’t help wondering if he had written her back. What would be worse: if he’d fired off an angry reply, or if he’d simply not bothered to write back at all?
She braced herself and checked her in-box, but there was nothing new in it. I don’t blame him for not answering, she thought. But how can I move on when his last memory of me is that crazy e-mail?
Because she knew Britt would try to talk her out of what she was about to do, Lucy waited until her roommate was asleep to write one last message.
To: Jesse Palladino
From: Lucy Sommersworth
I owe you an apology. I know the last e-mail I sent was straight-up crazy. It must have been obvious I was having a bad night and feeling a tiny bit jealous of your new friendship with Nello’s sister. I was even envious that you’re still in Italy while I’m not! As soon as I hit send I was sorry. If I could have climbed into my phone, grabbed that e-mail in both hands, crumpled it up, and tossed it into the trash, I would have. But of course there was nothing I could do but feel like an idiot.
Still, I just wanted to write you one last time, to let you know the girl who sent that e-mail wasn’t me… not really. I had a wonderful time with you in Florence and Rome—maybe the time of my life. I don’t want those happy memories to be smudged out by the stupid things I’ve said since then. So can you do me one last favor and forget everything I wrote in that e-mail? I want you to remember me the way I was when we were together—happy and excited—not insane.
I really do wish the best for you. I hope you’ve found a good job, one that leaves you plenty of time to make music. And if by chance you and Angelina do get together, I hope she treats you right, because you really, really deserve it.
Love,
Lucy
Lucy read and reread the letter, afraid to hit send. What if as soon as she did she realized she’d only messed things up even more? But she knew she had to do something, and this e-mail was the best she could come up with. Now that she’d apologized, maybe their memories of each other could go back to being purely happy ones.
So Lucy hit send. A second later, when a new message appeared in her in-box, she clicked on it, an uneasy feeling taking hold of her. Delivery to the following recipient failed permanently, it read. User unknown.
Lucy’s stomach constricted. Jesse had changed his e-mail address without telling her? Had he closed his old e-mail account just to dodge her messages? Now she had no way to reach him, no way of assuring him she wasn’t as unhinged as she must have seemed. It was official: She would never hear from him again.
Lucy waited a long moment. Then she clicked into her photos, scrolling till she found what she’d come to think of as the picture—the two of them on the Spanish Steps, the same one she’d taken down from her wall the day before. It filled her screen: Jesse’s smile, her smile. The bright blue sky behind him; the ice-cream cone melting in her hand.
Lucy tapped the little trash can at the bottom of the screen. But when a prompt popped up, asking if she really wanted to delete the photo, she panicked. Maybe she’d never see Jesse again. But that didn’t mean she wanted to forget her time with him in Italy. Not yet. Not completely.
Lucy hit the cancel button. Knowing she still could look at that picture if she wanted to—even if it hurt to see it—made her feel the tiniest bit better. Not that I should even care, she thought. What does it matter? But somehow it did.
XVI
A few nights later, rehearsals began. As Lucy hurried through the darkness to the Theater Arts building, she felt as light as a helium balloon. The lobby was bright, warm, and buzzing with the voices of the rest of the cast. Lucy found a quiet spot in a far corner and tried not to look like she was eavesdropping on the conversations around her as she waited for rehearsal to begin. Secretly, she wished someone would approach her and say hello, but nobody seemed to notice her. A few minutes before six, the double doors into the theater opened.
“Welcome, everyone,” the director called out as the cast of Rent streamed into the auditorium, claiming seats. Elegant in black silk pants and a Chinese-style jacket, she cast her gaze out over the crowd and the room fell silent.
“First of all: congratulations. Competition for parts was the fiercest I’ve ever seen it. You all deserve a hand.” The cast applauded until the director gestured for silence. “Now the real work begins,” she said.
Lucy clutched the arms of her seat, giddy with nerves.
“The first thing I’d like to do is introductions, on the off chance we don’t all know one another already. I’m Dr. Marcella Stewart, but you can call me Marcella. And this”—she gestured grandly toward the stage, where a bearlike man in reading glasses emerged from behind the piano—“is Ben Slocum, our music director.”
After the requisite applause, Ben said a few words about dedication and hard work; then Marcella did the same. As hard as she tried to listen, Lucy felt herself tuning out the speeches, fast-forwarding to her fantasies of opening night, the audience cheering her performance. She shut her eyes and imagined the scene—Brittany, Glory, and Sarah in the front row, and beside them, her parents. And Shane.
Lucy forced her eyes open. Get real, she told herself. Focus.
“Because we’ll be working very closely with one another over the next few months, we’ll need to be on a first-name basis. So when I call your name, please stand, and stay standing.”
Lucy’s name was the fourth one called. Did she imagine it, or was there a faint buzz among the others when she stood? She tried to gauge the expressions of the cast members turning in their seats to get a better look at her. A couple of faces looked friendly, a few looked less so, and the rest seemed blank. To banish her jitters, Lucy conjured up her queenly smile, the one she’d used when she played Glinda the Good Witch in her tenth-grade production of The Wizard of Oz, the smile that said, “I’m above all this.” It worked; a few of the faces smiled back at her, and she immediately felt better.
By the time Marcella had reached the bottom of her list, the whole room was standing, and L
ucy’s heart swelled with joy.
“Now let’s get cracking.” Marcella handed out the script, the score, and the rehearsal calendar—several weeks of intense work, culminating in five performances near the end of the semester. “Read this over and note it well,” she said. “Rehearsal has to be your first priority, no excuses.”
As Marcella went over the schedule point by point, Lucy looked around the room at the rest of the cast, wondering if they were all going to resent her—the interloper who wasn’t serious enough about acting to even become a drama major.
Fifteen minutes later, when Marcella dismissed them for the night, Lucy scanned the room for a friendly face. This time, a few people were looking at her, but none of them appeared exactly welcoming. Disappointed, she got to her feet. She had almost reached the exit when a tall girl with short, spiky dreadlocks and Doc Martens stepped into her path. Lucy recognized her as the girl who had been cast as Joanne, Maureen’s girlfriend. The two of them would be working closely together, singing a duet, and even sharing an onstage kiss. On the list of things Lucy was feeling nervous about, that kiss was near the top.
“Where did you come from?” the girl asked.
Thinking she was being challenged, Lucy flushed violently. “Over there.” She pointed to the seat she’d just vacated, though she knew perfectly well that wasn’t what the girl meant.
To Lucy’s relief, the girl laughed. “Everyone’s wondering who the mystery girl is. The one who snagged the best role in the show.”
“It’s not the best role,” Lucy said. “Rent has eight leads.”
“At least three girls in this room were dying to play Maureen,” the girl insisted, folding her arms across her chest. “You must be something.”
Lucy hesitated. She didn’t want to come across as boastful, but she didn’t want this girl, whatever her name was, to think she wasn’t serious.
“Come out with us,” the girl said. “For coffee.” When she smiled, her eyes crinkled, and Lucy realized she was being welcomed, not challenged.
“Us” turned out to be a clutch of cast members waiting out in the cold, and Lucy’s newest friend was Cleo, a junior English major with a minor in theater. They took her to Café Paradiso, a funky little all-night café not far from campus with a jukebox that played the same kind of electronic dance music she’d heard everywhere in Europe. As she listened to the chatter around her, trying—and mostly failing—to break into the conversation, Lucy felt warmed by the music, the company, and the café latte in her hand.
“Are you always so quiet?” This question came from Matteo, the boy sitting to her left. He’d been cast in the part of Angel, the generous and kindhearted drummer, and with his slender build and his nimbus of curly hair, he really looked the part of an angel. “I hope we’re not drowning you out.”
Lucy opened her mouth to speak but was interrupted by Celia, a willowy redhead from the chorus. “Or maybe we’re just not interesting enough for a hotshot like Lucy.” Though a moment ago she’d been joking with the others, her voice, like her words, was surprisingly harsh.
The others at the table gaped while Lucy struggled to find her tongue. “I’m no hotshot,” she said.
“You’re not?” Celia tapped an unlit cigarette against the table, then tucked it into the V between her fingers. “Are you, like, related to Marcella?”
“No,” Lucy said, shocked.
“What’s your problem, Celia?” Cleo asked. “Why are you being such a bitch?”
The redhead brandished her cigarette. “I’m just trying to figure out how she came from absolutely nowhere to steal the role so many people wanted.”
“Steal?” Matteo asked.
“You have got to be kidding,” Cleo added.
“Why don’t you let Lucy speak for herself?” Celia asked, pronouncing Lucy’s name with evident scorn.
Outraged, Lucy struggled for words. “I auditioned,” she said finally. “Like everyone else.”
“Maybe she’s just really good,” Cleo said. “Ever think of that?”
Celia sniffed. “Well, we’ll see, won’t we?”
After that someone made a joke, trying to change the subject. But all the fun had gone out of the evening. Lucy excused herself and reached for her coat. She had made it as far as the lobby when someone ran up behind her.
“Wait up, Lucy!” Matteo said. “We’ll walk with you.”
“What was that about?” Cleo asked, zipping on her fringed black suede jacket. “Celia, I mean.”
“She’s in my voice and diction class,” Matteo answered as they swept through the café doors into the night. “She’s been going on and on all week about how the role of Maureen was rightfully hers. Asking around about Lucy, and wondering if maybe she slept with somebody to get the part.”
“No!” Lucy gasped. “She said that?”
“I told her not everyone’s a desperate attention whore like she is.”
“You did not!” Cleo squealed.
“Did so.” Matteo grinned impishly.
“So that’s why she hates me,” Lucy said.
“Does it matter?” Cleo asked. “I’ve never liked Celia. If you think she’s insufferable when she doesn’t get the lead, you should see her when she does. She was a total diva last year when Marcella cast her as Ophelia in Hamlet.”
Lucy thought for a moment. “I hate being hated,” she said.
“Wear it like a badge of pride,” Matteo said. “It means you got what she wants.”
“I know,” Lucy said. “But still.”
“But nothing.” Cleo linked her arm through Lucy’s. “You need to rub her face in it.”
Lucy giggled.
“Show her how a real actor does it,” Matteo added, slipping his arm through Lucy’s other arm.
“I’ll try,” Lucy said. But what if I’m not a real actor? she thought. She wouldn’t want her new friends to know how close she’d come to giving up acting, what a fluke it was that she’d tried out at all, much less been chosen for a part everyone seemed to covet. What if I blank out onstage and let everybody down? Lucy wondered, and the thought made her shiver.
“You’re cold?” Matteo asked.
“A little,” Lucy said. Though Cleo and Matteo hardly knew her, they already seemed to believe in her. The last thing she wanted to do was let them see how little faith she had in herself.
XVII
After that night, Lucy’s life seemed to be on fast-forward. Instead of long meals with friends in the dining hall, she took to wrapping herself a sandwich and smuggling it back into the dorm; she ate most meals alone, cramming for the next day’s exam or studying her lines. That Saturday night, as Lucy was dressing for a date with Shane, Brittany sat cross-legged on her bed, a textbook on her lap.
“I hate how I hardly see you anymore,” Britt lamented. “Between Rent and Shane.”
“The play hasn’t even been in rehearsal for a week,” Lucy said.
“Now that you’re hanging with the cool kids you won’t want to be seen with me anymore.” Britt jutted her lower lip out in an exaggerated pout.
“Ha! Very funny. Nobody’s cooler than you.” Lucy dumped her overstuffed makeup bag on the desk and pawed through its contents for the perfect shade of lip gloss. “And anyway, this is only my third date with Shane. It’s not like I’m with him all the time.” Midweek, he’d taken her out for pad thai at a charming little bistro not far from campus. It had been a rainy night, and they were the only two people in the whole place. Shane and Lucy had lingered, drinking green tea in the dining room’s rosy glow, rain streaking sideways down the plate-glass window. He taught her to use chopsticks, a skill he’d mastered when he was five and his father had taken him to Beijing on a business trip.
“Still, I wish you weren’t busy tonight,” Britt said. “Glory and Sarah want to go clubbing downtown. I’d feel like less of an idiot if you came, too.”
Lucy’s fingers closed around her pink lip gloss. “Want me to ask Shane if you can come with us instea
d? We’re going to hang out at his friend’s loft in Northern Liberties.”
Britt shut her textbook and tossed it onto the pile on the floor. “That’s sweet,” she said. “But no. It’s way too soon in your relationship to be dragging a sad girlfriend along on your dates.” The night before, Britt and her boyfriend had argued for hours over Skype about whether they should be seeing other people while they were apart. It had been his idea. And though they’d made up, finally, and agreed to stay exclusive, Britt’s eyes had looked pink around the edges all day.
Lucy tried to gauge her friend’s mood. “Maybe I should cancel. You and I could stay in and watch a movie.”
“What? Are you kidding? Of course you shouldn’t cancel.” Britt flopped backward onto the bed. “You really like Shane, don’t you?”
Lucy uncapped her lip gloss, stared down at it, and gave a small sigh. “It’s like I made a list of all the things I wanted in a boyfriend, and a fairy godmother came along and waved her magic wand. Presto: Shane!”
“Well, that’s wonderful.” Britt hugged her knees to her chest. “Isn’t it?”
“It’s pretty wonderful.” Lucy bent to feel around the depths of her closet and came up with just one of her favorite black suede boots. “So far, anyway. I mean, it’s soon.”
“That doesn’t matter,” Britt said. “When you know, you just know.”
“I guess so.” Lucy ducked back into the closet to search for the other boot, not wanting to say what she was thinking. She had been so sure about Jesse, but it had turned out she didn’t know a thing.
She emerged from the closet with the missing boot tucked under her arm. “You’re sure you don’t want me to stay here with you?” she asked again.
“Go,” Britt said. “Have fun with Dream Boy.”
At the loft in Northern Liberties, Lucy ate take-out sushi and nursed a bottle of Yuengling, listening in while Shane and his friends discussed the merits of experimental jazz. She tried to follow the conversation, but found she didn’t have much to add. After a while, she got up to wander around the loft, taking in the canvases painted by Shane’s friend Allen. They were splashy and colorful, but she wasn’t sure she understood them, exactly. Allen wore heavy black-framed glasses and had a record collection full of obscure artists. Maybe if I hang out with Shane’s friends, I’ll learn to be a hipster, too? Lucy thought.
Love, Lucy Page 13
