We watched as Asher removed his phone from his pocket and took a selfie in front of the nearby bookshelf.
“He’s the worst,” Bryan whispered to me, his eyes fixed on the young man who stole the role of Bertram.
“You’re crazy,” I responded. “And jealous. You should be nice. He’ll be a good contact for you. Maybe you can make videos together. Maybe he can help you become the next YouTube phenomenon.”
Bryan rolled his eyes.
I had planned to spend the night at home, watching television and feeling sorry for myself, but Bryan said I needed to get out of the house and be around people. I’m sure he was concerned that I would spend the whole night stalking Andrea Berger’s social media accounts or fighting the temptation to reach out to Whit; I was concerned that would happen too, so I tagged along.
It was strange because, before all of this, I never thought of myself as a boyfriend person. I’d never had trouble being alone, and being best friends with Bryan meant that I had a ton of acquaintances who were happy to invite me to parties or attend my bat mitzvah.
But ever since Whit had come into my life, he’d been my closest companion who wasn’t Bryan. He was still the person I wanted to call, and now my hands twitched, wanting to reach out. Without him, I felt lost and like I couldn’t sit still.
Over the past week, during my few off-hours at home between work, whiff walks, and sleep, I either played a chess app with Kyle, who was doing his best to keep me busy, or looked up the scientist who performed the original T-shirt study that inspired Ann and my mother’s research. I hadn’t heard a word from Ann since our meeting, but I wanted to be prepared.
Hours before the Junior Barders party, I was googling every paper I could find about pheromones. Then I got sucked into a study about a protein in the urine of mice that makes the animals attracted to one another. The scientist who did the study named the mouse protein darcin—after Mr. Darcy in Pride and Prejudice. I liked that.
When Bryan called to find out how I planned to spend my evening, I answered too honestly.
“Did you know that there’s something in mice urine that makes them want to have sex with each other?” I said, and heard Bryan sigh on the other end of the line.
“No, listen,” I continued, forgetting that without any knowledge of my mom’s research, he would be baffled by my interest. “There’s this protein. And it’s not just something that makes the mice want to have sex. The smell of the urine provokes a memory of attraction. The mice become aroused based on the memory.”
“Okay, Maya. I’m not even going to address this—because I can’t,” Bryan said. “But it confirms my theory that you need to come out with me tonight. I’m taking you to a party. Clearly you need a change of scenery. Somewhere where people aren’t talking about rodent urine.”
* * *
I had been Bryan’s plus-one at many Junior Barder events over the years, but this was my first time at the kickoff party, where teen cast members mingled with their adult counterparts, and everyone received their scripts and rehearsal schedules. Bryan assured me that some people would bring friends and parents, but once we entered the party, hosted by one of the organization’s super-rich donors, it was clear that I was the only non-actor in the pack. There were no friends, boyfriends, or parents, just the actors from both the teen and adult casts mingling around tables of appetizers, talking about their shared roles.
“Everyone here is in the play,” I said, hiding behind Bryan’s back as he poured himself a paper cup full of lemonade at the beverage table. “No one brought guests. I should go home.”
“It’s fine,” Bryan responded. “Just relax and eat the appetizers.”
“Bryan Russo.”
We both whipped around at the familiar voice. It was a blond girl I recognized from some of Bryan’s other productions. She had played Tatiana in A Midsummer Night’s Dream and one of the royal characters in last year’s debacle that was Coriolanus, a play that should not be performed by teenagers.
“Hello, my treat,” Bryan said, kissing her cheek.
“I can’t believe Luke Dorian is here,” she said, leaning in to gossip straight into Bryan’s ear. “He apparently blew his audition, but he’s helping backstage.”
She glanced over at me, staring at me, really, making a point to check out my simple blue T-shirt, jeans, and brown sneakers.
“Maya, right?”
“Yeah. You were Tatiana, right? Two years ago?”
She beamed. “Yes, thank you,” she said, responding as if I had complimented her. “I’m Kimberly Katz.” She emphasized the z like it was an extra syllable. “You used to date Whit Akin, right? I remember that. So sorry to hear about the breakup.”
I flinched and placed my hand on the nearby wall to stop myself from falling.
“How do you know about that? How do you know Whit?” I barely got the words out.
Bryan placed his arm around me like he knew I might drop. “We’ve all done theater stuff together,” he said. “You know, small world.”
“His dad and my dad also play tennis,” Kimberly Katz added. “Whit and his parents were over last weekend. You know, everybody’s home for the summer. Anyway, he told me.”
I nodded, and Bryan held me tighter.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything,” Kimberly Katz said, placing her hands on her cheeks. “I wasn’t even thinking. How insensitive.”
“No, it’s okay,” I said, shrugging. “I’m totally fine with it. I mean, I don’t know what he’s told you, but . . . I think that right now we’re just figuring some stuff out, and we’re both in weird places, and, you know, I think that once I start school—”
Bryan dug a nail into my shoulder to shut me up.
“Everybody’s fine here,” Bryan said. “Maya, why don’t you grab a snack while Kimberly and I find our Senior Barders? The sooner we do some mingling with the grownups, the sooner we can leave.” He squeezed my arm for reassurance.
“Sure,” I said, still winded from the news that Whit was alive and well and eating at the home of Kimberly Katz.
Bryan mouthed sorry over his shoulder before disappearing with Kimberly Katz to the other side of the party.
I froze for a moment, not sure where to place myself among the guests who had started to pair off after finding their actor counterparts. I moved closer to the food table, a plastic white one that looked out of place in a living room full of antique everything. There were plenty of trays of carrots and zucchini sticks, but I went straight to the end of the table, where I found what I needed, the plate of the mini cheesecakes.
“I envy you,” said a voice from behind.
I turned to see those big brown eyes and dirty-blond hair that was styled in a wave that stood inches above his head. It wasn’t Whit’s rare Punnett square, but it was still a striking combo.
“I’m celiac,” Asher Forman said. “I can’t remember the last time I had cheesecake.”
I took a deep breath, inhaling him. I was distracted by smells now, anticipating the project I hoped would soon begin if Ann got on board.
Asher didn’t smell at all like Whit. He was a combination of soap, tobacco, and mint.
“Are you a Junior Barder?” I asked, pretending not to know who he was. Bryan would want me to put him in his place.
“Sort of,” he said, popping a small carrot into his mouth. “I’m in both casts. Asher Forman.” He held out his hand, and I shook it.
“Oh, right. Bertram. The YouTube star.”
“Indeed,” he said, reaching to the table for a celery stick.
Asher was in a casual outfit—a T-shirt, jacket, and jeans like Bryan and most of the guys in the cast—but there was something about the fit of his clothes, the way they hung on his frame, that suggested they were expensive. His face shape reminded me of a Lego man, his jaw comic-book square.
“Are you in the crew?” he asked just before reaching out for the table again, this time grabbing for a piece of smoked sal
mon, which he popped into his mouth.
“No. I’m Maya Leschinsky. My best friend is in the cast. He’s Parolles.”
“Good for him,” Asher said, scratching that jawline like he knew he should draw attention to it. I wanted to scratch it too, and then reached for my own, on instinct.
“He wanted your part,” I said for no good reason. “It’s his last summer before college, and he thought he’d get the lead.”
“Well, he’s got a great part, too. I mean, as great as it can be.” Asher’s voice was husky and dry. “It’d be an understatement to say this is not my favorite Shakespeare play.”
I tried to conceal my shock that he’d read more than one Shakespeare play. I was sort of surprised he’d bothered to read the one play he was in.
Based on what Bryan had shown me, most of Asher’s YouTube videos featured him in a dimly lit room, maybe a suburban garage, holding a guitar and singing covers of pop songs. His gimmick was that he recorded only songs made by women, which he seemed to think was deep. He didn’t strike me as the kind of guy who’d sit around contemplating King Lear.
“I don’t know much about this play at all,” I admitted. “Is it a comedy or a tragedy?”
“I don’t even know. That’s the problem with this one. It’s not sad, and it’s definitely not funny. The ending makes you feel unsettled, which I hate,” Asher said. “Do you smoke?”
“Smoke? Like, cigarettes? No.” As if I smoked anything else.
“Want to come outside while I smoke?”
I was startled by his request for my company—and that he was so open about having a cigarette. Bryan said serious performers had to be careful with their vocal cords.
I looked over Asher’s shoulder and spotted Bryan and Kimberly Katz at the other end of the party with their adult counterparts, all four of them gesticulating wildly, almost poking one another as they spoke.
“Sure,” I said, then followed Asher Forman out the front door and into the street. He crossed the empty road and walked past some trees into a small park.
I always felt like a tourist when I was in Boston, especially in this kind of neighborhood, with its cobblestone side streets and old brownstones. My entire life was over the river in Cambridge, where university buildings were lined up next to tech companies that inhabited pristine glass offices around MIT. It looked like a city of the future over there.
But when I traveled over the Charles River, I was reminded of what Boston was known for, what it looked like on postcards, the old churches and historic cemeteries that seemed frozen in time. We visited these places on school field trips, as if they were a world away.
This particular street was field-trip-worthy, for sure, the buildings so preserved it looked like Paul Revere could trot by wearing a tricorn hat at any moment. The only anachronisms were a nearby streetlight and Asher, who checked his phone and then pulled a box of American Spirits from his jacket pocket.
As he lit a cigarette with a tiny yellow lighter, I wrapped my arms around my chest to stay warm. It felt like summer most days now, but the nights still required layers. I hadn’t thought to bring a sweater, because we’d left so early. I shifted on my feet, cold enough to wish I were inside, and maybe a little nervous to be alone with Asher Forman.
He’d asked me to come on this walk, but he was silent now, just smoking, as if I weren’t even there.
“So how did you get involved with the Boston Shakespeare Project?” I asked, trying to fill the silence.
He exhaled a cloud. His free hand rested in the pocket of his jeans.
“I guess they called my agent. I’ve got a big YouTube following, like massive. And I’m from Boston. So they asked me to take the role, and because I’m pretty young, they thought it’d be cool for me to work with the kids, too.”
“I’m sure the Junior Barders love it. Some of them are probably big fans.”
Asher inhaled again and was silent, like he hadn’t heard me.
“So you’re in high school?” he finally responded.
“I start MIT in the fall.”
He looked up then, like he was just noticing me. “That’s impressive. You must be really smart.”
“Smart at science. I come from a family of scientists, actually. My mom taught at MIT. My dad teaches middle school science.”
“You’ve seen my videos?” he continued without a pause, like he wasn’t changing the subject back to himself. “Is that why you’re here?”
I wished Bryan were with me to hear it—the narcissism.
I paused, not sure how to answer. For Bryan’s sake, I had to be nice. Also, there was a small part of me that had been curious to meet a YouTube star. I decided to be honest, partly because I wanted to keep talking so that I didn’t have to go back inside and stand by myself in the corner of the party.
“I have seen your videos, but that’s not why I’m here. My boyfriend broke up with me a week ago, and I’ve been kind of a mess, so Bryan just wanted me to be around people. I think he wants to keep me distracted.”
“And are you distracted?” Asher took a drag from the cigarette again. I rubbed my forearms because it felt like it had gone from cold to freezing, and he quickly shrugged out of his jacket. “Take this,” he said. “Please.”
Without a thought, I put it on. I was so cold. “Thanks. And yeah, I guess I’m distracted. For now. Until I get home, and then it will be terrible again. Nights are the worst.”
“See, I always hated the mornings,” Asher said, dropping the cigarette butt into the otherwise pristine grass and stepping on it with one of his suede sneakers. “In the morning you wake up and you’re like, ‘Oh, shit, she’s still gone.’ It’s like you wake up, you’re happy for one full second, and then you remember reality. Breakups are killers, man.”
My eyes filled with tears at his description. It was becoming so instinctive, this constant tidal wave of grief that passed over me whenever someone made me remember what I’d lost.
“Sorry. I can’t help myself,” I said. “My eyes just do this now.”
I smiled through the tears, almost amused by how quickly I had unraveled. Without thinking, I dragged the sleeve of Asher’s coat across my nose.
“Oh, god,” I said as we both stared at the jacket. A thick, shiny stripe of snot made a line across the black fabric of his dark coat. “That’s so gross. I’m so, so sorry. I’ll wash it and bring it back to you. Oh, god . . . I feel so bad. I’m so embarrassed.”
Asher Forman let out a loud laugh. “Don’t worry about it. Take it home with you. Don’t even think about it. That was awesome.”
He looked across the street at the brownstone, where, based on the movement of the silhouettes in the windows, the party was still going strong. “I think we have to go back in there.”
“You do, at least. You’re sort of the star of the show,” I said.
He grimaced.
“What’s the matter—you don’t like parties? I’d think in your business, you’d have to be used to attention.”
He smiled, both hands now in his pockets.
“It’s not that. I mean, this isn’t exactly what I thought I’d be doing this summer. I thought I’d have something big. A TV pilot or something. I had, like, forty auditions in L.A. a few months ago—and then nothing. And now I’m back living with my parents for three months and doing Shakespeare with high-schoolers.”
“And adults,” I offered. “This company is really good. Bryan says a lot of people go on to big things after the Boston Shakespeare Project. There are, like, Broadway people in these productions.”
“I don’t know; maybe. My agent said it’ll look good on my résumé. He said I have to diversify my work.”
“I’m sure that’s true,” I said, my tone more patronizing than I wanted it to be.
“Sure,” Asher said as he started to walk. “Come on. Back inside.”
I followed him across the street and back into the brownstone.
Asher walked straight to the woman ho
sting the party and gave her a smile I now knew was disingenuous. I stood by the snack table and watched him circle the party, shaking hands and having short conversations with other cast members.
He left about ten minutes later. On his way out the door, I ran to him and tapped him on the shoulder. “I’ll clean your jacket and give it to Bryan for you,” I told him.
“Don’t even think about it,” he said and winked, then trotted out the door like he had somewhere to be.
It was hot inside the party now. Too many bodies in one place. Bryan, whose face was red, came over and grabbed my hand. “What was that? Did I see Asher Forman wink at you? Explain.” He tugged on the sleeve of the jacket. “What is this?”
“I was outside with him. I was cold, so he gave me his jacket. Then I wiped my snot on it, so he probably didn’t want it back,” I said, holding up my arm, the sleeve shimmering under the party lights.
“He gave you his jacket?”
“Check out this landing strip of mucus. I was mortified.”
Bryan looked at me like he’d never seen me before, then shook his head.
“Let’s get out of here. It smells like Shakespeare’s armpit.”
We googled pictures of Asher Forman on the Red Line home and watched a YouTube video that featured him singing a cover of a Sia song. “I’m gonna swing from the chandelier,” Asher wailed. It had more than a million views. Then we watched one of him covering Ariana Grande. “Something ’bout you makes me feel like a dangerous woman,” he sang.
“Like, why?” Bryan said, shaking his head.
“I think he’s trying to make a statement,” I said with a shrug.
Once I got home, I grabbed my phone to call Whit to tell him what happened, then felt a wave of nausea as I remembered that I couldn’t. It was so odd, the idea that something cool had happened to me and Whit just wouldn’t know about it.
It had become the best part of good experiences, having someone like Whit to tell about it, and hearing him react like I was the most interesting person on the planet. The only other person who’d ever been that interested in what I did was my mom, and that didn’t count. But now Whit was with Andrea Berger, not having any idea that I had talked to a YouTube star and was now wearing his coat.
Chemistry Lessons Page 6
