I rush to put a hand on her arm. “It was just a dumb joke, Madeleine,” I tell her. “You two are perfect.”
She smiles, relieved, and leans into Tyler.
“You guys coming to the cast party?” Tyler asks.
“Where?” Cast parties are a Stillmont drama institution. Drama’s sixth period, but rehearsal can extend until 5 or 6 in the evening. For every production, the cast and crew choose one location for post-rehearsal dinners and parties. I’m just hoping it’s not Tyler’s house.
“Verona, of course.” He grins like this is amusing.
I groan. Stillmont’s an hour from the Oregon Shakespeare Festival in Ashland. It’s not a coincidence we’re one of the strongest high-school drama programs in the state, probably the country. When I’m not being forced to play the most famous female role in theater, I feel pretty lucky to have a teacher like Jody, not to mention the departmental funding. Unfortunately, however, proximity to Ashland has its downsides. Namely, an inordinate amount of Shakespeare-themed establishments. Verona Pizza is one of the worst.
Tyler doesn’t hear, or he pretends not to. He looks down at Madeleine. “I’ll drive you home after.”
“But I have—” she starts.
“I know,” Tyler interrupts, tugging her ponytail affectionately. “Your sister’s ballet recital. I’ll have you home in time.”
I roll my eyes. Watching them together was the quickest, if not necessarily easiest, way of extinguishing whatever lingering feelings I had for Tyler. Now when I look at him, I honestly can’t imagine dating him—regardless of how his objective adherence to certain standards of male desirability might occasionally affect me.
They smile at each other for a moment, looking like the contented lovers in erectile-dysfunction ads.
I’d hate them if I weren’t happy for them.
* * *
I walk to the restaurant while Tyler and Madeleine drive over together. Verona’s just ten minutes from school—I’d probably go there every day if the place didn’t repulse me. I’m hoping the easiest way to cure the cast’s eagerness for Verona is a meal there followed by certain food poisoning.
In the parking lot, I glance up at the marquee, which today reads To eat pizza or not to eat pizza? That is the question. I shake my head. The Bard would be proud.
Inside, it’s worse. The wood paneling of the booths gives way to kindergarten-quality murals of medieval towers and turrets, interposed awkwardly with out-of-context Romeo and Juliet quotes. “What’s in a name?” is written in three different sizes over the soda machine, and I pass by “Romeo, Romeo, where art thou, Romeo?” over the door of the arcade. Yes, there’s an arcade, and it’s not even the correct quote. It’s definitely wherefore.
The big booth in the back is packed with the usual theater crowd, but when I walk up, Anthony Jenson slides over to make room. He’s holding a copy of the play, and when I sit down, he thumbs it open.
“This monologue is incredible,” he says after a minute.
“Um, which?” I lean over. He’s playing a lead, I’m certain of that. Ever since he transferred here freshman year, poached by Jody from a school district unwilling to cast a black actor in prominent roles, he’s earned key parts in every production.
He glances up at me, mock-indignant. “You didn’t check who I was playing?” He drops the script on the table in front of me. I read the open page. It’s Mercutio’s monologue about the fairy Queen Mab. “Everyone thinks Romeo’s the best male role,” he continues intently, “but Mercutio’s way more challenging. He’s got a long monologue, a death scene—” He breaks off suddenly. “What am I saying? I’m talking to Juliet!”
“Don’t remind me,” I grumble.
He eyes me sympathetically. “You’ll be fine, Megan.” He pats my shoulder. “In any case, it’s a free trip to Ashland.”
I blink. “Ashland?”
“The Shakespeare Festival—”
“I know what the Oregon Shakespeare Festival is,” I cut him off. “What does it have to do with our play?”
“Nobody told you?” Anthony looks incredulous. “Stillmont got accepted to the high-school feature this year. We’re performing Romeo and Juliet in Ashland in December.”
A tightness takes hold of my chest. Jody just had to choose the most prestigious Shakespeare festival in the country to force me into the spotlight. “Learning experience, my ass,” I mutter under my breath. I must look pale, because Anthony’s watching me with an expression that’s half concern, half distrust.
“You’re going to be great. You have to be great. This production needs to stand out. Reps from Juilliard are going to be there, evaluating me—”
“I got it, Anthony!” I loudly interrupt. “I’m just nervous. I’ll figure something out,” I say.
Anthony’s gone quiet. I glance over, guessing I’ll find him with his head in his hands, weighing the devastation I’ll wreak on his college chances.
But I notice he’s no longer looking at me, and I follow his eye line—right to a blond and obnoxiously muscled busboy. He looks our age, but I definitely would have noticed someone like him at Stillmont. He must go to one of the private schools in the area.
“Oh my god,” Anthony mutters, watching the busboy clear a table and head into the kitchen. I know what that look means. Like me, Anthony falls fast and falls often. The difference is, he falls hard. He believes every guy is the one, and he’s devastated every time a relationship falls apart. Still, there’s no use trying to stop him.
“Go,” I say, standing up and letting him out of the booth. Wordlessly, he does.
I realize I’m left sitting next to a group of senior girls who I know all auditioned for Juliet. Alyssa Sanchez is looking at me like she wishes I would go full-Juliet and stab myself with a dagger right about now. Her entourage won’t even make eye contact.
“I didn’t audition for the part, you know,” I say, hoping to defuse the tension. This kind of drama is yet another reason I prefer directing.
“Well, you got it,” Alyssa replies icily.
“It’s obviously going to be a disaster,” I try to joke.
“Yes.” She stands up. “It will.”
A couple of her clique follow her out of the booth. I look around the room, feeling distinctly out of place—or out of context. I know everyone here from drama, where I watch and direct them, but never participate. Now I’m expected to act alongside them. I spot Tyler and Madeleine in the arcade, adorably tag-teaming a Whack-A-Mole game. Everyone else, I notice, is darting glances between Tyler and me. Between Romeo and Juliet.
Everyone except one boy, sitting by himself, writing feverishly in a notebook.
I recognize him as the new kid in drama this year. He’s Asian, thin without looking underfed, with hair a little overdue for a haircut—which he’s presently running his fingers through contemplatively—and wearing a well-fitting gray sweater. I’m not sure I’ve ever heard him talk, but he’d definitely be better company than Alyssa’s minions giving me death glares. Without a second thought, I walk over and sit down in his empty booth.
“Owen Okita, right?” I remember his name from a class we had together once. Freshman math? I’ve seen him hanging out in the halls with Jordan Wood, the editor of the school paper who moved to Chicago this summer, but I’ve never really noticed him.
Owen blinks up at me.
“You weren’t in drama last year,” I continue.
“Don’t I know it,” he says, and his voice startles me. For a guy I’ve never heard speak, he sounds surprisingly sure of himself. “I’m completely out of my element.”
“Who’d you audition for?” I ask, noticing he’s fidgeting with his pen.
“I just wanted to play an extra. Instead, I’m Friar Lawrence. Like, I’m a character.”
“Come on.” I smile, relieved and sort of stunned to find someone else
in my situation. “Friar Lawrence isn’t an important character.”
“Every character’s important.” He sounds slightly affronted.
I pause, curious. Owen signed up for drama in his senior year just to play an extra? “Well, why’d you audition, then?”
“Romeo and Juliet. It’s, uh . . .” He looks embarrassed and drums his pen on the table. “It’s my favorite play. When I saw drama was doing it I had to join, but I’m terrified on stage, and Friar Lawrence has a ton of lines.”
I feel myself smile, respecting this boy who can admit to stage fright and appreciating Romeo and Juliet. “You think you’ve got it bad? Guess who I’ve got.” I reach across the table and grab the pen out of his hand, putting an end to his nervous tapping. Owen’s eyes follow it, his ears reddening.
“The Nurse?” he asks, stowing his hands under the table.
“The Nurse? Should I be offended?”
“I, sorry, I—” His ears flame brighter.
“Go higher,” I instruct, enjoying how easy it is to fluster him.
Owen pauses. “Megan Harper,” he says after a moment, like he’s just recalled my name from the recesses of his memory. I wonder if he remembers me from freshman math, too, or if he knows me for the reason everyone knows me—because I hang out with Madeleine and Tyler, homecoming queen- and king-to-be. I can practically see Owen connect my name to the cast list in his head. “You’re Juliet . . .” He studies me. “And you’re not excited.”
“Nope.” I return the pen in a gesture of goodwill.
“You must be the only girl in the history of high-school theater not thrilled to be Juliet.”
“I don’t think there’s a girl alive who’d want to play Juliet opposite her ex,” I reply.
His eyes widen. “Who’s playing Romeo?”
Now it’s my turn to be surprised. “You don’t know?” I didn’t think there was anyone left in Stillmont who hadn’t heard in too much detail about Tyler and me breaking up. If he’s unclear about my history, I guess he does remember me from freshman math.
“Uh. Should I?” Owen looks lost. I nod in Tyler’s direction, and Owen’s eyebrows shoot up once more.
“Seriously, I can’t believe you haven’t heard the story.”
“My apologies for not being up-to-date on the drama-kid gossip,” he says with a hint of a smile. I laugh, and his smile widens until it lights up his face. But before I can reply, Anthony’s standing next to the booth.
“I got a job,” he says, and without missing a beat, “Hey, Owen.”
“You already have a job.” I frown, looking up at Anthony. Then I notice the blond busboy collecting dishes across the room, and I realize what’s happening here. “Anthony, tell me you didn’t change career paths because you’re hot on the busboy.”
He rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. “Starbucks isn’t a career path. And it’s not for the busboy—it’s for love. And the busboy has a name—Eric.”
I’m about to complain about the loss of free Frappuccinos when my phone’s alarm buzzes in my bag. “Shit,” I say instead. I lost track of time. “I have to go.”
“It’s so early! You haven’t even eaten!” Anthony protests. Then a moment later, his expression shifts. “Oh, right. It’s five on Friday,” he says, realizing.
I get up. “We’ll talk about the busboy—”
“Eric,” Anthony interrupts.
“—tomorrow,” I finish, and give Owen a nod. “Talk to you later, Friar Lawrence.”
* * *
I close the front door quietly when I get home. The house is silent, nothing short of a miracle these days. I head upstairs and hope my mom isn’t frustrated. I’m a little late for our weekly video call.
Mom lives in Texas, where she moved when she and my dad divorced. When my dad divorced her, to be precise. I don’t really understand why it happened. I know they married and had me when they were only twenty-three. People throw around things like irreconcilable differences and too young and fell out of love. I guess I don’t really understand what it is to fall out of love. I wouldn’t understand. I’m never given the chance.
But I remember the day my parents sat me down in the living room, my dad stony-faced and my mom trying to keep her composure, and told me it was over. The words mutual decision were repeated over and over. They began to ring false when Mom went to cry in the bathroom while Dad finished the conversation.
I didn’t move with her to Texas because I couldn’t pass up the Stillmont theater program, which she understood. I think it was good for her to get some distance from reminders of her ex-husband, me included. But I’ve spent every summer vacation at her condo in San Marcos since the split three years ago. While I could do without the 100-degree heat, it’s nice helping out with the booth at the farmers’ markets and fairs where she sells her jewelry.
I ease open the door to my room. It’s a mess. Of course it’s a mess. Three maxi dresses that didn’t find their way to the closet are draped over my bedframe. It appears I launched a denim jacket at the green coat rack in the corner but missed, and it’s heaped on the floor on top of my boots.
My laptop’s buried under a tangle of jewelry—the remains of this morning’s failed attempt to find a pair of earrings I’m pretty sure vanished in Tyler’s couch. I sweep everything off and shove aside my wristband alarm clock. It was a “gift” from Dad, who was far too pleased with himself for thinking of it. I’ve worn industrial-strength earplugs at night since our house got noisier a year and a half ago but I have to wake up for school at 6, and the horrible wristband vibrates me awake.
I open FaceTime on my computer, taking a second to brush my fingers through my hair.
Mom’s face appears on the screen. “Hey, I’m really sorry I’m late,” I rush to say.
“If I expected you to be on time, I wouldn’t be a very in-touch mother.” She tucks a strand of wavy dark hair behind her ear. Mom has hair like mine, only much bigger. “What were you up to?”
“Just some unprotected sex with a guy I met on the Internet,” I reply casually.
Mom blanches, then her expression flattens when she realizes I’m joking. “Don’t terrify your mother, Megan. It’s not nice.”
Grinning, I continue. “I would’ve preferred unprotected sex with creepy Internet dude, honestly. I had to go to a cast party.”
She studies me, confused. “For one of your scenes?”
“No,” I groan. I explain about Romeo and Juliet and why I was forced to audition. “It turns out I’m . . . Juliet, or whatever.”
Mom’s eyebrows skyrocket. “You auditioned for a lead?”
“Of course I didn’t! Jody’s just being impossible. Believe me, I’d be anyone else if she’d let me.”
Mom chuckles. “I’m just glad I wasn’t in the dark about my daughter’s newfound acting aspirations.”
“No, there’s nothing new with me,” I say quietly.
Mom’s watching me with something like concern when my bedroom door opens without warning.
“Megan, what did I—” My dad’s voice comes through the door, followed by the rest of him. He stops when he catches sight of my mom. “Oh, right, sorry,” he mutters, suddenly stiff. “Hi, Catherine,” he says without stepping farther into my room. “How are you and Randall?”
“Fine,” Mom replies in the pinched tone she always gets when talking to my dad. “How are you? And Rose?” she adds after a second.
“Tired.” He gives what I think is supposed to be a smile, but it looks strained. “Rose is going to take leave soon.”
“That’s exciting.” Mom nods.
Looking the opposite of excited to be having this conversation, Dad places his hand on the doorknob. “Well, I’ll leave you guys to it. Megan, just keep the volume down.”
I sigh, exasperated, and mumble about not being able to talk in my own bedroom.
> Mom says gently after a moment, “You know, you’re always welcome to move in with Randall and me.”
I force a scoff. “And miss the opportunity to play Juliet opposite Tyler Dunning?”
Mom grimaces. “Oof, I’m sorry to hear that. But really,” she continues, “if it’s ever too chaotic there, we’d love to have you.”
“Thanks, Mom,” I say, softening, not wanting her generosity to go unacknowledged. She deserves a real answer. “It’s just, I’m at the top of the drama program at Stillmont. I’ve built up my scene work here, I’m in charge of organizing the Senior Scene Showcase, Romeo and Juliet’s even going to be featured in Ashland. I have to stay.”
“Well . . . you can change your mind anytime,” Mom says reluctantly. “What’s this about Ashland, though?”
“It’s nothing. Jody in her infinite wisdom put us up for a high-school feature at the Oregon Shakespeare Festival, and they took us,” I say to the floor.
“That doesn’t seem like nothing.” Mom sounds excited. Uh-oh. “When is it? I’d love to come!”
“No, Mom, it’s not a big deal, really,” I hurriedly protest.
“Resistance is futile, Megan. If you won’t tell me when it is, Dad will.”
I’m rolling my eyes when from downstairs comes an ear-splitting wail.
“Sounds like you have to go,” Mom speaks up over the screeching.
“What? You don’t want to stick around? This will be going for the next twenty minutes,” I say with half a grin, and she laughs. “I’ll talk to you later, Mom.”
I hang up and go downstairs. The source of the howling is sitting in her high chair in the kitchen. My nineteen-month-old half sister Erin is adorable, but she’s got lungs that’d make her the envy of the spring musical cast. I stop in the doorway, wanting a final moment to myself.
My stepmom reaches for Erin. Rose is tall, blonde, and undeniably beautiful. If she looks like she just turned thirty, it’s because she did. She and my dad have been married for two and a half years. I wasn’t thrilled when I first met her. It was only months after the divorce, and I was still holding out childish hope my dad would change his mind and realize Mom really was his meant-to-be.
Always Never Yours Page 2
