Instead, I’d live out just another costumed act, flooded by artificial light and make-believe.
Twenty
Forbidden
“‘Who are you?’
No answer.”
—J. M. Barrie, Peter Pan
Before bed, I’d made my choice and told an ecstatic Marisol: I would help my school and play Beatrice, accepting all that meant.
It also meant my new-old Peter Pan book was banished to my tote for a few days. I had other words to read—and memorize.
The next afternoon at Tops, I sipped green tea from a butterfly print teacup before trying the Beatrice monologue again, Marisol and Tess my only audience.
“What fire is in mine ears? Can this be true? Stand I condemn’d for pride and scorn so much? Contempt, farewell! And maiden pride, adieu! No glory lives behind the back of such. And, Benedick, love on...”
I scrunched my face, willing the rest of the line into my head.
Marisol nodded toward me. “C’mon, you know it. ‘I will re—’”
“‘I will requite thee,’” I orated, the text materializing, “‘taming my wild heart to thy loving hand: If thou dost love, my kindness shall incite thee to bind our loves up in a holy band.’”
Marisol set down the script and clapped. “I won’t ask how late you stayed up last night.”
“Wise.” I yelped when my friend whipped off my blond ringlet curl wig.
“Lines, solid. Lead actress look, not quite there.” Marisol held up the bouncy springs of yellowy blond, which could double as a mop. “This one screams Little House on the Prairie. I can’t even make a proper Regency updo with it.”
I checked my watch. “Whatever it screams, we have ten more minutes before I have to get back. Mr. Winston’s already been side-eyeing me for mouthing lines over his precious Sinatra tunes.”
Tess zipped over to us like a flighty sparrow, her black shoulder-length wig tipped with retro-glam curls. “Marisol, that one you just vetoed is the best I could find from my used stock. I thought I had one with longer waves and a softer tone, but I must’ve sold it.”
Marisol was already poking around the other side of the shop. She pointed at the faceless heads. “The wigs in this section are synthetic, right?”
“Yes, but those are all new.” Tess frowned. “I can’t lend them out.”
Marisol grabbed a long, golden blond number. “We’re not borrowing this time. We’re buying.”
I envisioned the price, which was sure to be high, even on one of Tess’s cheaper synthetic models. “I don’t have extra money for a wig. I can wear the Nellie Olsen special and—” Marisol’s pick was already on my head. Romantic and airy, with a center part and subtle layers framing my face. Then she tweaked the rolled-up sleeves of my chambray shirt, because she never could help herself.
“You’re not buying anything. I am. Stop,” she added when I opened my mouth. Marisol fluffed the waves. “You have no say in the matter. You’re wearing my designs onstage, and you will not pair them with mediocre.”
My sigh, cluttered with exhaustion and stress and pages of lines and kisses, nearly shook the walls. “It’s expensive.”
“Not really, and we could use a good wig around my house after the play. Halloween, or dress-up fun for Camila.”
Tess handed Marisol two peanut butter cookies and watched her decorate her gold bangle with chewed pink gum. “Why, isn’t that resourceful? And you’re a good friend, honey. Everyone could use a Marisol.”
I smiled gratefully and reached out to touch my friend’s forearm for a moment. “Thank you, lady.”
Tess swiped Marisol’s debit card. “Darcy, I’m closing early on Friday. Going to Jefferson High to see my best girl onstage.” She handed me the blue Tops shopping bag. “What’s your strategy for getting through the week and all the material and details?”
“We’re not speaking of it. We’re trying not to even think of it. We are just doing it,” Marisol said, and bit into a cookie.
My head throbbed, but I flashed Tess a thumbs-up. My new “strategy” was focusing on the part, the stage, and the language. If I stopped my mind on the image of my lips getting way too close to Jase’s, Beatrice’s lines would smudge into an inky blur.
Tess chuckled, then handed me two more cookies. “Take these. You’ll need them. And I’m sure Frederick gave you the rest of the week off to prepare for the show, so I won’t see you until curtain time.”
“Actually, no,” I told her. “He said he needs me for inventory this week, but it’s all right. We’re holding rehearsals after my shift until ten.”
“What about your homework?”
“I’ll manage.”
Tess walked around the counter. “Sometimes you need to do more for yourself than just manage.”
When would that sometime ever come?
“If you had the rest of the week off, would that work financially for you right now?” Tess asked.
Marisol discreetly ran one finger over her coral lips. A couple extra Elisa B. products on eBay, this week only, would make up the lost time on my paycheck.
“I could make it work,” I said grudgingly. “But Mr. Winston won’t change his mind.”
“Hmm,” Tess said, a villainous glint in her eyes. “We’ll see about that.”
“We will?”
She nodded once, firmly. She peered through Tops’ picture window. Then she marched out the door, hung a sharp left, and strutted into Yellow Feather Books for the first time in who knew how many years. Marisol and I followed, trading stupefied looks.
The bookstore was empty, but bits of Mr. Winston’s muffled phone conversation sounded from his back office. Tess spun in a lazy circle, smiling. “I must say, this is a lovely space.” She ran her hand across the walnut display table. “Oh! Look how cozy the children’s section is.” She drifted into the nook to ogle picture books and stuffed character toys.
While Tess explored, Marisol bumped my side, whispering, “How is this happening? Is it even happening?”
I glanced out the window just before the door dinged. “Whatever’s happening is now gonna keep happening with Asher as witness, too.”
Three steps in, the newest Yellow Feather guest swung his gaze from us, to Tess, then back to us. His mouth hung open. His black jeans hitched low across his hips, barely meeting the hem of his charcoal gray tee.
I swallowed forcefully, clenching my fingers around the Tops bag as Asher wedged between us. “I swear, I saw no flying farm animals between Starbucks and here,” he said.
I snorted a laugh. “Before you ask, we don’t know—”
“Yes, we do,” Marisol said. “Darcy’s worth violating sacred laws of nature.”
“Apparently she is,” Asher said. I shouldn’t have looked, but I did, feeling my stomach flutter at the sight of his mouth quirked sideways, his eyes flashing with good humor. “You’re the Helen of Troy who’s gonna inspire a war as soon as Mr. Winston gets out here,” he whispered, and snagged my runaway smile.
Were his looks starting to “look” longer recently, or had I been reading too many Much Ado romance scenes? “I already have to play one character I didn’t plan on,” I said, forcing myself back to reality. “That’s enough for one week.”
“Yeah, Jase filled me in on Alyssa and your surprise gig.”
My reply and most of my oxygen cut off when Frederick Winston strode onto the shop floor. He peered from underneath his houndstooth cap at our furtive little huddle. “What the devil is going on here?” He pointed one finger at his ex-wife. “And you! Since when do you grace my walls with your presence?”
“Since now.” Tess marched up to the counter. “Here’s how it’s going to be. Our Darcy has always been a loyal employee, and this week she needs some time off. She’ll finish her shift today, take the time she needs to get ready for her play, and then she’ll be here bright and early Saturday morning.”
“Saturday? But it’s inventory time.” Mr. Winston’s words shook. He cleared his t
hroat. “I already told her I can’t spare her.”
Tess smiled sweetly, teeth gleaming. “Of course you can’t. That’s why I’m going to help you.”
Who was this Tess, and what alternate reality had I stumbled into? Mystified and a little unnerved, I leaned a bit closer to Asher, who was just casually sipping tea and nodding appreciatively.
Mr. Winston’s brows crept downward. “Have you lost your mind?”
“Probably. But I’ll still come in an hour early and sort out your inventory woes. Then if you’re short-staffed, you can just—” she pounded their adjoining wall three times “—do that, and I’ll hang my Be Right Back sign and come fill in.”
Marisol munched peanut butter cookie pieces like popcorn kernels, chew-smiling the entire time.
“Even if I did agree to your ridiculous notion, you don’t know my system,” Mr. Winston challenged.
Tess guffawed and beelined around the counter. “Do, too.” She chose a bookmark from the mini display rack. “Ms. Random Customer, you’d like to purchase this fine bookmark adorned with rainbows and unicorns? Let me just ring that up for you, dear,” she sing-songed. Tess scanned the item, making the computer beep just like it did for me. “Oh, and all of you would like to go in on a card for that poor girl who broke her arm?” Tess poked her chin at us, then toward the spinning rack of greeting cards.
Marisol caught on immediately, grabbing the closest Get Well Soon card and placing it on the counter. Another beep. “That will be six dollars and thirty-seven cents, please,” Tess said.
I hated the thought of Marisol spending more money today, but my friend seemed to be enjoying this way too much. With a grand flourish and a grander smile, she dug into her wallet and presented Tess with a ten-dollar bill.
“Why, thank you. However will I make change?” She fanned herself in mock distress as the cash drawer shot open.
Marisol pocketed her bills and dropped three coins into the penny tray. I swore I heard Asher say, “Nice touch,” under his breath.
Mr. Winston had been surveying this entire exchange with a scowl and crossed arms. “Hmmph.”
Tess faced him squarely. “Are we settled, then? Darcy’s off until Saturday?”
He thrust his arms up and released another breathy huff. “Well, since everyone around here is so capable, I’m going out. PO Box and office supply and an espresso. Lord knows I need a triple today.” He spun toward the back door.
“That’s more like it,” Tess murmured with satisfaction, then turned to me. “Better now, sweetheart?”
Touched, I nodded. “Thank you, Tess.”
She left, blowing me a kiss before the door shut. It flew straight between my ribs.
Marisol was next. She hugged me goodbye and went home to finish the re-work on my costume.
“What is it with you and wigs?” Asher flicked the Tops bag still clutched in my hand.
“This time it’s Marisol’s fault.” I opened the bag so he could see the new blond number. “Say hi to Beatrice.”
“Ooh, a blonde Darcy this time.” He smiled. “So far I’ve witnessed electric-blue rave queen and black-ponytail girl. Must be fun getting to play all these new characters.”
My chest tightened, and I pushed out a rough laugh. I was currently having enough trouble playing my true self, living my true life, without the extra roles I’d encountered lately.
Asher went on. “All kidding aside, I gotta give you props for filling in last minute. I’ll be cheering you on from the front row.”
My stomach rose into my throat. “You’re going Friday?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
I escaped the beam of his stare by winding around to my metal stool. I felt my face blush a shade Elisa B. probably didn’t even make. Wasn’t it bad enough I was going to have to kiss Jase onstage? Now I had to do it in front of his best friend, a boy who...
Stop.
Thinking about Act Five again wouldn’t get me to Friday, let alone through tonight’s rehearsal.
Asher perched one elbow near the penny tray. “Tell me, memorizing all those Shakespeare lines so quickly, is that your version of speed-reading?”
I shrugged. “I don’t even know how speed-reading works.”
Turboprop airplanes. Soaring through text. Maybe I just like fast things, he’d said.
“Short version, I was taught to combine two techniques. Chunking, and reducing subvocalization. Chunking means learning to see groups of words as a whole unit instead of individually. Your peripheral vision kicks in and helps you absorb more text that way. Speed-readers learn to minimize eye jumps, so your eyes spend less time skipping back and forth.”
“Interesting. I know subvocalization means saying the words in your head as you read.”
He grinned. “’Course you do.”
I ducked my head over a barely there smile.
“We still subvocalize because all readers need to for comprehension. But I guess we manage it differently.” Asher drank a long sip of chamomile and nudged my script. “So how does your brain turn all this print into memorized lines in less than four days?”
“I guess I do the opposite of speed-reading,” I mused. “I read words, and they become a part of me, especially when I really focus on them. So, I do more than subvocalize. I...internalize. My mind grabs on to the language and holds on to it, like something important.” My voice got smaller and smaller. “Like you would something you really care about.”
“This might come out weird, but I’ll say it anyway.” Asher blinked, eyes flecked with bits of earth and sun. “It sounds like you fall in love with the words. And that’s how they stay with you.”
“If falling in love means you can’t stop thinking about...them, then yes.”
“I’ve always felt that’s the first clue you get when you’re falling in love.” He seemed to lose himself for a moment, a pilot caught between compass points. His face went slack—jaw and cheeks and barely parted mouth. Then he straightened, clearing his throat. “That’s a big part of love. I mean, the thinking about someone a lot. For people who are actually in love, I guess.”
Was he a person actually in love? God, I didn’t dare ask. But I knew the question would join the other words I was cramming inside my head—the Beatrice lines I was pining over—losing my heart to them until my mind learned them for good.
“However you do it, I’m here for the Darcy show. It’s not every day you get to see a literary savant in action. You’re downright extraordinary.”
Oh. A perfect, beautiful word. I wanted to wear it around my wrist, the first gift a boy had ever given me. Still, I wasn’t that hopeful. Asher was a friend, but that was all he could be. “Thanks. But what you call extraordinary in here usually comes out as super nerd at school.”
“Then they’re wrong. And probably just jealous.”
“I...you’re not reading,” I blurted stupidly. “I mean, in your usual break spot.” I licked my lips, tasting vanilla from the lip gloss Marisol tested on me earlier. Instinctively, I reached for books. I had to. Peter Pan was tucked inside my bag, so I grabbed my script, curled my hands around it, and breathed.
“Yesterday, I finished the last interesting novel from your used section.” He backed up and gestured toward the burgundy club chairs. “Now I have to drink my tea without reading material. And, tempting as it sounds, I can’t bother you the whole time.”
My eyes skipped, locking on to his for a quick beat. I inched around the counter to the thriller shelves. I picked up a hardback that had just hit the New York Times Bestseller List and handed it over.
He scanned the book jacket. One brow rose.
“You break it, or spill tea, or get construction stuff on it, or crease the cover, you’re the new owner. And every day until you’re done, which will probably be day three or four, you shelve it right here.” I tapped the empty shelf spot. “Then you can pick another.”
His smile, a firecracker. “Even Peter Pan?”
“Actually, that’s for
bidden. All others are fair game but Peter.” On the last word, I realized I was joking and bantering. With a boy. Who was I today?
“See, now you’ve just made me want to read it more. But rules are rules. And thanks,” he added, drifting toward the club chairs. He opened the book, plunked one sneaker on the coffee table, and “forgot” a coaster for his tea. He smirked dramatically. “Let me guess, Mr. Winston makes a stink if you sit over here.”
“I only loiter in that spot to clean.”
“Since he’s out, he’d have no clue if you sat here between customers, right?” Asher patted the second chair. “No idea at all if you took a load off while learning your lines. Way more comfortable than your counter stool. I won’t say a word.”
No. A terrible idea. Positively forbidden. “Sure,” I said.
Twenty-One
Paper Doll
At daybreak,
unfold me like a chain of paper dolls.
Thin and flat.
The part of me who’s much too loud.
The quiet her who slips into a hidden corner.
The silly girl who giggles in the library.
The she who watches from the second story window.
We hold hands—me and her and her and me,
until nighttime when we fall together,
pressed, body to body,
thin and white and flat enough
to fit between
the yellowed pages of a
great, wide book.
—Peter Pan Mystery Scribbler, in the blank space between
Chapters Eight and Nine
Mrs. Howard should’ve hooked puppet strings on to my sweater. Move downstage, now stage right. Step up, but not too close. Hit your mark, but angle your body toward Jase, not the audience.
On a much-needed break, I flopped offstage into the left wing and drank half a bottle of water. Sufficiently hydrated, I considered the good things: with my work schedule cleared, Mrs. Howard had moved the extra practices to right after the afternoon bell. And another “good,” the cast was treating me like some kind of porcelain doll. If I broke, their curtain would not rise on Friday. Who knew I only had to attempt the impossible to make my “super nerd” parts acceptable and maybe even favorable? At least for a few days.
The Library of Lost Things Page 18
