Aaron took his cap off and combed his fingers through his hair. “I like it. That could have real viral reach, too. People love personal stories.”
“Exactly.”
“Would you help me?” Aaron asked.
“Me?” No, I thought, wishing I’d left the room when I had a chance and wondering why I’d brought up the testimonial thing in the first place.
“Sure. Maybe you could ask them. You could even do the interviews, if you wanted to. Everyone knows you. They’d do anything for you.”
“Hardly,” I huffed. “They’d do anything for my dad.”
“Same thing.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “We’re not the same person.”
His expression changed. “I’m sorry. I meant it as a compliment.” He rested his hands on his knees and leaned toward me. “What do you think? Do you want to work on it together?”
I stared at him, reminding myself that none of this was his fault. Aaron probably had no idea where Dad found the money to hire him. But that didn’t make me want to help him.
Still, the money was gone. What was done was done. Now I needed to get away from this place more than ever, and the only way I could get to BU was to make sure that sanctuary was standing-room-only on Admissions Night.
Anything I could do to help him would help me, too.
“Okay.” It came out more like a reluctant sigh than a two-syllable word, but Aaron’s face lit up anyway.
“Awesome.” He bumped my shoulder with his. “This will be fun, I promise.”
“Now, remember, this is the first time we see George and Emily interact,” Ms. Martin said from her spot in the first row of the theater.
I tightened my grip on the script rolled up in my hand.
“This scene is important because it sets up their friendship. We, the audience, need to feel the two of you connect on that stage in the same way you do in real life, right?” She gave each of us an encouraging nod. “Emory, tell Tyler something you think he and his character, George, have in common in this scene.”
I didn’t hesitate. “They both suck at math.”
“Fact,” Tyler said. The rest of the cast chuckled from their spots offstage.
“How about you, Tyler?” Ms. Martin said. “Name a trait of Emily Webb’s that you also see in Emory in this scene.”
I couldn’t imagine what he’d say. Aside from the fact that our names were almost identical, I didn’t feel like I had anything in common with the character I was portraying.
Tyler locked his eyes on mine. “Emily Webb is sweet and pure and everything—”
“Yep, that’s me,” I interjected. Everyone laughed.
“But she’s also a straight shooter,” Tyler continued. “She says what she thinks. You know where you stand with her. She’s not just being nice to George in this scene because he compliments her. She genuinely likes him. He makes her laugh. And she probably also finds him ridiculously good-looking.” Tyler waggled his eyebrows and I laughed.
“Man, that was deep. Now I feel bad that I only said you sucked at math.”
Ms. Martin took her seat and leaned forward with her elbows on her knees. “Okay, good. Let’s go.”
Tyler shook out his hands and cleared his throat, and I tipped my head to my chest, feeling the stretch all the way down my back.
We looked at each other.
“Hello, Emily,” Tyler said.
“Hello, George.” I rocked back on my heels.
“You made a fine speech in class.”
I cocked my head to one side as I delivered my next line. And then Tyler gestured toward one of the two tall wooden platforms behind us and told me he could see me from his bedroom window, doing homework at my desk each night.
“Do you think we could set up some kind of…telegraph thing, from your window to mine?” he asked. “And whenever I get stuck on an algebra problem or something I could look over to you for, like, hints.”
I furrowed my brow, like I was about to object, so he jumped back in. “I don’t mean the answers, Emily, of course not…just some little hints.”
Suddenly, I heard my phone chirp. I ignored it and kept going.
“Oh, I think hints are allowed,” I said.
Chirp.
“So, yeah…um…if you get stuck, George, you whistle to me. And I’ll give you some hints.”
Chirp.
“Shit,” I said under my breath as I slapped my script against my leg.
“Okay, this is ridiculous. Whose phone is that?” Ms. Martin was on her feet with her hands on her hips.
“Mine,” I mumbled. “Sorry. I forgot to turn it off.”
Chirp.
“Well, go do that, please. We’ll wait.”
I dropped my script on my chair and hurried over to my backpack. I dug around inside, pushing wrappers and pens and scraps of paper out of the way, searching for the phone before it chirped again. When I finally found it, I silenced the ringer and read the screen:
Mom: CHECK YOUR EMAIL!!!
I tapped the envelope icon. The message was right on top:
FROM: UCLA Drama Department
SUBJECT: Invitation to Audition
I read the message quickly, trying not to burst, and then read it again, taking in the information that time. I was typing out a quick text to my mom when Ms. Martin yelled, “Whatever’s happening over there isn’t as important as this scene, Ms. Kern!”
I stood and waved my phone in the air. “I got an audition from UCLA!”
Within seconds, I was surrounded. Ms. Martin even left her seat and climbed the stairs to join the cast in congratulating me. Charlotte tackle-hugged me from behind and screamed, “I told you!” right into my ear. Tyler wrapped his arm around my neck, pulled me in close, and gave me a noogie. “Badass,” he said.
“Not until I get in,” I said, wiggling out of his grasp.
“You’ll get in,” Charlotte said.
After a few minutes, everyone returned to their spots, but Tyler and Charlotte stuck around to read the whole email.
“You have two choices of audition times,” Charlotte said. “This Friday or next Wednesday.”
“This Friday,” Tyler said. “Get it over with.”
“I can’t,” I said. “My mom can’t take me. She has a big catering job in the city.”
“Can Luke go with you?” Charlotte asked.
“No, he has an away game.”
Tyler looked at Charlotte. “We’ll take you.”
“Yes!” she said. “I love a good road trip.”
I laughed. “It’s hardly a road trip. UCLA is forty-five minutes away.”
“Not with traffic,” she said. “It will take over an hour to get there and at least another hour just to get off the freeway in Westwood. Trust me. It’s a road trip. I’ll bring snacks.”
“Go on Friday,” Tyler added. “There’s plenty of time to rehearse on the way.”
“Hey, you three!” Ms. Martin called. We all looked up. Everyone was standing there, staring at us. “Do not get senioritis on me. You all still belong to me until the curtain falls on Our Town. Back to work.”
We scrambled back to our stage marks.
“Okay,” Ms. Martin yelled. “Let’s take it from the top. No scripts this time.”
I was beaming. I couldn’t wait until rehearsal ended so I could tell Luke.
Tyler shook out his hands. I rocked my head from side to side. And then we looked up at each other.
“Hi, Emily.”
“Hi, George.”
Tyler pulled up to the red light and stopped. As we sat there waiting for it to change, he slammed his hand on the steering wheel and yelled, “Question!” Charlotte and I both jumped. “If you could trade places with anyone for one month, who would you choose?”
It was Tyler’s thing: the Question Game. We’d been playing it forever, usually late at the diner over coffee and cheesecake. Tyler asked the questions, and Charlotte and I had to answer as fast as we could. We couldn’t p
rovide any explanation or ask for details, and if we took too long to answer, duplicated each other, or said something Tyler thought was lame, we had to sing a song from a popular musical. Neither of us could even remotely carry a tune, so we tried hard not to blow it. Tyler was the only one who really understood the rules, and they were subject to change without notice.
“You actually abhor silence, don’t you?” I asked.
“I do. Can’t stand it. Trading places. Go.”
“Michelle Obama,” I said.
“Ellen DeGeneres,” Charlotte said.
“Michael Jackson,” Tyler said. “When he was alive.”
Charlotte shot him a questioning look. I knew she was dying to say something, but she didn’t want to sing.
“Next question. Money is no object. You can live anywhere in the world for one month. Where do you go?”
“India,” Charlotte said.
“More specific,” Tyler told her.
“Mumbai.”
“New York City,” I said.
“Durham, Indiana,” he said.
Charlotte looked over her shoulder at me, and I rolled my eyes.
Tyler turned onto the road that led to Charlotte and Luke’s street. Their neighborhood looked nothing like mine. Lots of mature trees and huge houses with long driveways and little lights evenly spaced in the landscaping. Mine was a lot flatter, with less greenery, more sidewalks, and busier intersections.
Two blocks later, he turned right and gunned it up Luke’s steep, narrow driveway. He came to a stop behind Mrs. Calletti’s silver BMW and put the car in park. “Hey, can we come to Calletti Spaghetti tonight?”
On Tuesday nights, I went to Luke’s house for their weekly family dinner. Attendance was never optional for Luke and Addison, so at the beginning of the school year, when his mom asked if I wanted to join them, I made it a priority, too. It made me feel like part of the family.
“No.”
“Why not? I’m a great conversationalist. I’m especially good with parents.”
“Goodnight. Thanks for the ride.” I got out, closed the door behind me, and waved them off.
Luke’s house looked as welcoming on the outside as it did on the inside, with lots of windows and white painted shutters framing each one. I stepped onto the walkway, tiny pebbles crunching under my feet as I followed the path that led to the front door.
“Hello!” I yelled as I stepped inside. I didn’t have to knock anymore. The Callettis’ house was practically my second home. Kind of like Hannah’s house used to be.
I dropped my backpack in the entryway and followed the smell of tomato sauce. I walked through the living room, past the walls lined with Calletti family photos taken over the years. Luke and Addison as babies in matching outfits. Luke and Addison as little kids, standing in front of a waterfall during some family camping trip. Mr. and Mrs. Calletti on their wedding day. The whole family on the beach in jeans, starched white shirts, and bare feet.
“There you are!” Mrs. Calletti was standing at the stove holding a wooden spoon and stirring something in a big orange stockpot. She wiped her hands on a black apron with white bubble letters that read SHIITAKE HAPPENS.
Addison was sitting on a barstool at the kitchen island typing on her phone, and Luke was slicing through a loaf of French bread.
“You can help Luke slice,” she said, using her spoon to point at him. “And, Addison, help your dad set the table please, and don’t say ‘one sec’ again. How was rehearsal?”
It took me a moment to realize she was talking to me. “Good,” I said. “Actually, really good. I have news.”
Mrs. Calletti stopped stirring. Addison stopped typing. Luke stopped slicing. And Mr. Calletti, who was reaching into the silverware drawer, stopped cold.
“I’ve got an audition at UCLA.”
“Told you!” Luke’s dad crossed the kitchen and high-fived me. His mom yelled, “I knew you would!”
Luke dropped the knife on the counter and hugged me. “See. You’ve been all worried for nothing.”
“What do you have to do for your audition piece?” Addison asked as she opened the cupboard and removed five water glasses.
“Heather from The Blair Witch Project and Phoebe from Shakespeare’s As You Like It.”
“Okay, I’ve gotta see you do Heather,” Addison said. “Just give us a few lines.”
I hadn’t thought about Heather in over a month, but I suddenly had a crystal-clear vision of her in my mind, with her gray wool cap and those big brown eyes. I stepped away from Luke and got into character, speeding up my breathing and feeling my limbs begin to tremble.
“It’s all because of me that we’re here now…hungry, and cold, and hunted.” I let each of the words linger in the air for a moment before I said the next one. “I love you, Mom. And Dad. I am so sorry.” I paused, panting and shaking. I squeezed my eyes shut, and then I opened them wider. “What was that?” I whispered. I waited for a long time, listening. And then I continued. “I’m scared to close my eyes and I’m scared to open them. I’m going to die out here.”
I bowed while all four of them cheered. Mr. Calletti even let out a “Woot-woot,” and that made me laugh.
“Seriously, that’s the most I’ve thought about that scene in over a month!” I said. “I’ve spent all my time trying to get my lines for Emily Webb down—she has this long monologue in Act Three, and I can’t seem to get it to stick.” I sliced the last piece of bread and tossed the pieces into a bright orange bowl. “I’m supposed to be off book by the end of this week, but I’m far from it.”
“Well, I think you’re going to kill it,” Mrs. Calletti said as she picked up the pot of sauce, dumped it over the spaghetti noodles, and stirred it all together. “Grab the bread, would you, Luke?” she asked over her shoulder as she headed for the dining room.
As soon as we were alone, Luke wrapped his arms around my waist and kissed me behind my ear. “Damn, that was hot.”
“How is being lost in the woods and chased by a witch hot?”
“I don’t know, but it definitely is. Need me to run lines with you in my room after dinner?”
I wrapped my arms around his neck. “I’d love that.”
“I’ll get you off book,” he said suggestively, and I buried my face in his neck and kissed him.
“Oh, will you now?”
I was still laughing as I pulled my phone from my pocket and wrote it down next to Day 277.
“I’m going for a run,” I called as I flew past the kitchen.
“Dinner’s almost ready,” Mom called out.
“I’ll make it a quick one.”
“Wait a sec,” Mom said.
I didn’t want to wait a sec, I wanted to get outside. I’d been thinking about my run all afternoon. A crisp breeze had blown all the thick smog away, and the air smelled clean and new. I was itching to feel my feet against the pavement, to fill my lungs with air that hadn’t been trapped between walls all day.
I stopped anyway.
“Will you do me a quick favor when you get back?” She wiped her hands on the towel draped over her shoulder. “I’m putting my youth-group mission-trip presentation together for Admissions Night, and I want to include some pictures from your trip to Guatemala last year. Would you send me a few of your favorites?”
“Sure.”
I waited for Mom to return to the kitchen, and when she didn’t, I knew she hadn’t stopped me to ask for pictures. I shifted in place, feeling antsy.
“Have you given any more thought to going?” she asked.
Ah. There it was.
“That trip is for high school students, Mom. This summer, I will no longer be a high school student. Remember?”
“You’d go as a junior counselor. Since we don’t have a full-time coordinator this year, we need as many older volunteers as possible.”
“I’ve done that trip four years in a row.”
She leaned against the wall and folded her arms across her chest. “I know, but�
��this trip is kind of our thing. And, it’s just…I guess I didn’t realize the last time was the last time.”
Mom had been doing this off and on since my early acceptance letter to BU arrived. “This is the last time we’ll make valentines for the Sunday school kids together” and “This is the last time I’ll turn the milk green for Saint Patrick’s Day.” Every This is the last time statement seemed to be followed by Mom leaving the room to find a tissue.
I wondered if part of her was secretly hoping they couldn’t afford to send me to BU so there wouldn’t be any more last times.
“I’ll go again, Mom, just not this summer.” I was hoping she wouldn’t get all emotional. I really wanted to go for a run.
“Actually, I was also thinking about Emory.”
“Emory?” That got my attention. “Why?”
Mom got this dreamy look on her face. “Remember how the two of you got up early every morning and played soccer with the local kids? She seemed to love being there. She really seemed to connect with the Lord on those trips.”
She didn’t “connect with the Lord.” She loved those trips because they were the least churchy things my family had ever forced her to do.
“Besides, it seems like she really needs it.” Mom added it like it was an afterthought, but I knew it wasn’t.
“What makes you say that?”
“I had a long talk with Jennifer yesterday,” she said.
My heart started pounding hard. Had Emory finally told her mom what happened?
“What did she say?” I asked.
“Nothing specific. We’re both just worried about you two. You’ve fought before, plenty of times, but not like this. Never for this long.”
I reached for my cross pendant and twisted it in my fingers.
“Please tell me why you two are in a fight.”
She knew what Dad had said. She didn’t know that Emory had overheard him, but that wasn’t what our fight was about, not really. I wanted to tell her everything else. For the six millionth time in the last three months, I wanted to tell her, but I couldn’t. I swore I wouldn’t.
“Please, talk to me.”
Mom was pressing this subject more than usual, and I wasn’t sure why, but I knew what came next. She had this way of creeping inside my mind, breaking down the wall I’d so strategically built around it, and making me say things I promised myself I’d never say.
Little Do We Know Page 5
