Chapter Two
Monday, September 05
“Nervous?” I asked as we walked into the auditorium at five o'clock.
“Of course not.”
“Speak for yourself,” Nate interrupted Bridget. “I'm gonna barf.”
The theater was large; there were aisles among aisles of red, plush folding seats already filling with hopeful cast and crewmembers. The students faced a stage that expanded from one wall to the next; some were excitedly socializing while others remained silent, seemingly on the verge of throwing up at any given moment. Nate wasn’t alone in his moment of nervous-nausea.
“This is quite a turn out.”
“The love of the art is growing!” Bridget bounced on her heels.
“Gag me,” Nate snapped, walking away and taking a seat alone in the back.
Once out of earshot, I leaned over and nudged Bridget.
“So, you and Nate?”
“What?”
“What’s the story there?”
“We've been best friends since pre-K,” she said. “It's a love-hate thing, you know?”
I nodded, because I’d witnessed enough of their love-hate thing to conclude that much, but something about the way she watched him left me wondering if there wasn’t a whole lot more love than hate.
Mr. Rivera climbed to the stage, and the room immediately fell silent.
“The man commands a room, huh?” Bridget whispered.
“I'd say.”
“Good evening ladies and gentlemen,” he said, cupping his hands together in front of him. “Thank you all for joining us here. Unfortunately, and as most of you already know, Mrs. Basting was injured in a roofing accident last week. She is on bed rest for the next few months, unable to direct the fall production of Romeo and Juliet.” Some students grumbled while others rolled their eyes. Some, like Nate, didn’t seem to care one way or the other. “For those of you who are used to the stunning Basting productions, I regret to inform you that I’m stepping up to take the reins.”
Most of the girls in the audience whistled and giggled. Bridget, as I should’ve guessed, was among the many.
As I watched our teacher in front of the crowd, I couldn’t help but notice the way he commanded the room, the way every eye watched him with admiration. One thing about Webster Grove High School was becoming abundantly clear. Everyone—male and female— loved and respected Mr. Rivera.
A group of boys clapped and cheered as Miss Holt joined her co-worker center stage. My little experience in Miss Holt's class after lunch today told me everything I needed to know about her—she was an adult replica of Rachel Canter. Her blonde hair fell straight down her back, complimenting her bright green eyes. And just like Rachel, she walked around a room like the whole world owed her a favor.
“Shh,” Miss Holt said, lifting a finger to her pink painted lips. “Quiet down.” When the cheers and whistles finally subsided, she continued. “We’re starting with brief interviews and sign-ups for crew positions in the back.” She motioned toward a desk set up along the back of the auditorium. “It should only take about fifteen minutes, so actors should start preparing monologues. Also,” she said, looking beyond the first few rows. “You are only allowed to stay for the auditions if you intend to act in the show. We want this process to go as smoothly as possible, so no stragglers.”
Bridget rolled her eyes.
“Sorry,” I whispered.
“I have two requests,” Mr. Rivera spoke again. “First, please be patient with us. We're clearly not as skilled and professional as Mrs. Basting, but we will certainly do our best to produce the greatest show possible. And second, we know how much some of you look forward to being in the show.” His gaze fell on Bridget. “But there are more students than there are roles, so some of you may have to settle for less than what you want. Unfortunately, that’s the life of an actor. All I ask is that you please use this process as a learning experience. Don’t let the outcome make or break you. Now, with that behind us, I wish you all the best of luck.”
“Okay,” Miss Holt spoke up again. “Anyone interested in signing up to work backstage should go ahead and line up.”
The two teachers moved off the stage and toward the desk. They sat in unison and began talking to a group of waiting students.
I turned to Bridget. “Should I …”
“Go, go,” she said, pushing me along. “You have a résumé right?”
“Not exactly.”
“Steph!”
“I've never done anything like this,” I said, lifting a collection out of my shoulder bag. “But I brought a portfolio. Will this work?”
She took the binder and flipped it open. “You drew these?”
“Yes.”
“Honey,” she said, pushing the designs back at me. “Go!”
“Okay,” I said, smiling sheepishly. “Good luck.”
“Break a leg,” she corrected me, careful not to skimp on the melodramatic flair.
With a helpful shove from Bridget, I moved toward the sign-up line. I clutched the portfolio to my chest and waited patiently as the group slowly progressed forward.
“Miss Ghijk,” Mr. Rivera said when I finally reached the table. “It's good to see you getting involved on your first day.”
“Bridget insisted …”
“I assumed,” he said, grinning as I signed my name under the costume crew. He eyed the paper in front of him and looked back to me. “Do you have any production experience in costuming?”
“No, but I brought—”
“You were instructed to bring a résumé,” Miss Holt interrupted.
“I've never done this before,” I said, ignoring her sneer. Keeping my gaze fixed firmly on Mr. Rivera, I continued, “I’m sorry I don’t have any experience in the theater, but I’m not without experience entirely. I’ve been designing and constructing clothing for nine years. I live and breathe design.”
My English teacher didn’t break eye contact as he extended his hand to acquire my artwork. He opened the portfolio, and with a hitched breath, his bottom lip drew in. I couldn’t read him—impressed, shocked, unfazed? He continued to flip through a few more pages without a word, and his eyes wandered wildly across each design.
“Well,” I said after a few long seconds of torturous silence. “What do you think?”
“Incredible,” he said, looking back to me. “You did this?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Steph, this is amazing.”
“Really?”
“I’m impressed. Your talent would be a valuable asset to our team, and I think—“
Miss Holt’s scoff interrupted him. “I thought you were going to ask your grandmother for input on the costume design,” she said to her co-director, as if I couldn't hear the objection in her voice.
“I believe what I said was that it was a last resort option to ask her, but she has much bigger things than this production to concern herself with,” he said, trying to keep his voice low. “And besides, there's no point in asking for outside help when we have a qualified student candidate right in front of us.” He sifted through the designs again. A minute later, he closed the portfolio and offered it to Miss Holt, who declined looking at it altogether. He ignored her blatant disregard for my feelings and passed the collection back to me. “Thank you for coming out and sharing this, Steph. This was truly impressive. You can look for the crew list first thing tomorrow morning.”
“Thank you,” I said, turning to walk away. I clutched the binder to my chest and caught Bridget's eye as I reached the exit at the back of the auditorium. She waved and signaled a thumbs up. Much to her chagrin, I mouthed good luck and left the building.
I stepped into the hot summer sun and moved across the empty parking lot. Our latest rental was only one block from school, which was an added convenience for walking to and from, especially since I didn't have a driver's license. It was yet another downside to living on the run—time, even for life’s most basic privileges, was a scarce resource.
I rounded the curb on Main Street and made the short walk down the block. I pulled a set of keys from my pocket as I approached the large two-story brick house on the corner. I let myself in the front door and tossed my bag to the side.
“Mom,” I called, looking around the first floor and dodging boxes left and right. She hadn’t been home when I stopped by after school to get my portfolio for the auditions. But her car was in the driveway now, so she had to be around somewhere. “Hello?”
“Here!”
I followed her voice through the kitchen and into the dining room at the back of the house. I stopped dead in my tracks at the sight in front of me. The room had taken an incredible transformation in the last hour. No longer empty, there was now a large table—complete with six dining chairs— centered on a beautifully patterned rug at my feet.
“What’s going on?” I asked, running my fingers along the tablecloth.
“Baby,” she said, her eyes lighting up. “Whaddya think?”
“I’m … confused.”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s furniture.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because, silly,” she said, turning to adjust the curtains. “Why not?”
“Well, for starters, we’ve never had furniture. And when we leave—and we will leave—you won’t be able to take it with you.” When she stared at me confused, I simply shrugged. “Aren’t you the one always telling me not to own more than I can carry?”
“But,” she was trying to come up with an argument, but she didn’t have a leg to stand on. And she knew it. “Okay, listen. This table is more than just a piece of furniture, Baby.”
“Okay?”
“It represents something bigger, a promise I'd like to make,” she said, taking a deep breath and standing taller. “I think it's time we settle down, turn a house into a home, don't you?”
“Well, yeah,” I said, taken aback. Grain of salt, I reminded myself. Take anything she says with a grain of salt. Never believe her. There’s always an ulterior motive. Always. “Of course I think we should settle in permanently. I’ve been saying that for years, but—”
“But nothing, Baby,” she said, taking a picture from a box and hanging it on the wall. “We're not leaving. End of story.”
I stood back and watched her decorate, but it was far too foreign. Here she was—a woman who was always on edge and ready to move at the drop of a hat, decorating, putting down roots. She was up to something, but I couldn’t tell what. She was trying too hard, and she had to know I’d be suspicious. After all, we hadn't even unpacked the boxes in our last three homes. Why the sudden change of heart? What had happened?
I kept watching her, completely aware that there was an angle. I just had to figure out what it was.
She had her wavy blonde hair swept into a ponytail and her hands propped on her hips as she glanced around the room, admiring all the progress she’d made. With the face of a Barbie doll and the attitude of a teenager, I always found it difficult to believe that this 33-year-old, indecisive, often flighty woman was my mother.
“Mom,” I said, pulling another picture frame from the box. “What’s going on here?”
“I’ve already told you.”
“But where did you get all this stuff?”
“What stuff?”
“The table, the chairs, the decorations—everything that wasn't here when I left for the auditions an hour ago.”
“Oh.” She shrugged. “A friend.”
“A friend?”
We’d only been in town for two days, which obviously meant that this “friend” was most likely—
“An internet buddy,” she said. “He just wanted to help.”
“Mom!”
I wanted to be surprised, but God, I didn’t know how. I couldn’t muster the simplest shock. Of course! That was her angle. She wanted me to hop on board and be excited for her newfound love. Of course, I couldn’t. Because this wasn't the first time she'd made the decision to move to a new city—or even state—because of an internet buddy. It was just another one of her many adolescent qualities. She couldn't understand the danger of the unknown; I'd known her to spend days at a time chatting online, texting with old friends, and gabbing on the phone for hours on end.
“Calm down, Baby,” she said. “It's not like he's a stranger. I've been talking to him for months. He's a nice guy.”
I rubbed my head. “Is that why we ended up here this time? We’re in Webster Grove because of a man?”
“Of course not,” she said, adjusting the curtains again to avoid my stare. “I mean, he did influence the decision, but he wasn't the sole reason.” I took a deep breath and backed into the kitchen. “Baby, where are you going?”
“Crazy,” I mumbled. I pulled a bottle of water from the refrigerator before returning to the dining room. “I guess he's been here already, then? Your knight in shining armor, he knows where we live?”
“You don't seriously think I carried all of this in on my own, do you?”
“Are you kidding me?” I yelled, feeling the beginning of a terrible migraine. “So what happens when you find out he's an ex-con, Mom? Or you guys break up? Or you find out he's married? Do we pack up and leave again?”
“No, Baby, I told you. We're here for the long haul, I promise.”
“But I've heard that before. Things change, Caroline.”
“Really, sweetheart,” she said, embracing me in a hug. “Calvin’s a keeper. Oh, and so cute. He has the darkest hair, chocolate eyes, and … ah, you should see his smile.” Her eyes glossed over at the simple thought of him. “Plus, he's a chef—owns his own restaurant, has a college degree and everything.”
“Woo-freaking-hoo,” I said, shaking out of her hug. “Mom, seriously—”
“And his brother’s a cop! They …” She paused and straightened the wrinkles in her shirt. A pause from Caroline almost always meant she was lying. So, I took the next nugget of news with that ever-so-familiar grain of salt. “They looked up your father last week.”
“Yeah?”
“He's in a Georgia prison awaiting trial on homicide charges.”
“Lovely!” I said, not disguising my sarcasm for a moment. “You picked a real winner with that one, I gotta hand it to you.”
“All I’m saying,” she said, cutting me off, “is that we won’t have to worry about him for a very long time, Baby. Isn’t that wonderful?”
Yeah, it was great. Truthfully, though, I'd never worried. Not once. I’d had little reason to believe Richard Levin ever searched beyond our original hometown to find us. I ruled Mom's impulsive behavior off a long time ago as nothing more than incredible paranoia.
“Okay,” I said, pulling a seat from under the table to sit down. “Sit.” She took the chair next to mine and leaned forward. “Tell me about Calvin.”
“He has brown eyes—”
“No,” I said. “Really. You better give me more than hair and eye color, Mom. I don’t care that he’s cute. The car he drives, the size of his bank account, the way he curls your toes—none of that matters to me. Really. You know what I want to hear. What makes him different than the rest? What makes him different than Leroy?”
Oh, Leroy, the slimy little devil. He was the latest fling in a long line-up of Mom’s ex-lovers; after three months of dating, she found out he was married with two children (and another on the way!). And sure, Caroline Ghijk loves her men, but she only wanted them as long as she could have them to herself. After a disastrous confrontation from Leroy’s wife, Mom ended the relationship with the two-state jump into Kentucky.
“I don’t know.”
“Exactly.”
“I didn't meet this one in a chat room, Baby,” she said. “I put some money toward one of those legitimate online match sites.”
“Ugh,” I dropped my head.
I couldn’t even stomach that. She invested in an online match service, with money we probably didn’t have i
n the first place. Lucky for Mom, finding a job in each new city wasn’t so difficult. Unlucky for Mom, with what little education she had, she wasn’t exactly landing top-dollar positions. And she was squandering precious pennies on things as trivial as finding her next ‘match.’
“No, listen,” she pleaded. “Don’t roll your eyes. It’s good. I signed up, we were paired the next day, and we talked for hours! We knew from that very first day that we wanted to meet.”
I lifted my glasses and pinched the bridge of my nose. “How old is he?”
“Thirty-four.”
“Age appropriate,” I said, dropping my hand.
“First time for everything, huh?”
We shared a smile.
“Just promise me one thing?”
“What's that?” she asked.
“That you'll be careful,” I said. “Because … I can’t keep doing this, Mom. It’s too much. Please.”
Without a moment’s hesitation, she nodded. “I promise. I’ll be careful.”
The New Girl Page 2
