Always Never Yours

by Emily Wibberley

  When he pulls back, he’s grinning. “Too bold?”

  I place a hand on his chest. “It’s Megan Harper you’re talking to, remember?”

  He laughs and follows it up with a quick kiss. “I’ll see you after rehearsal.”

  “You better,” I warn. I sit down between Madeleine and Jenna, my eyes on Will as he walks into the Arts Center.

  “Where’s Will going?” Madeleine asks next to me. I notice she looks genuinely disappointed. One of the things I love about her is, not only does she comfort me through every breakup, but she’s excited every time I date someone new—no matter how often that is.

  “He had to finish some set design.” I give her a fake pouty look, which she returns.

  “You mean we don’t get to watch you make out for the rest of lunch?” Owen dryly laments. “How will we survive?”

  I grab one of Madeleine’s celery sticks and chuck it at Owen. He catches it to his chest and promptly eats it. Madeleine, looking mildly indignant, moves her celery farther from me. “Have you guys talked about it yet?” she asks. “You and Will? Walking you from class, that looked like boyfriend stuff.”

  I shrug. “Not yet. We’re taking it slow.”

  I hear a low chuckle from Tyler, and I’m surprised to notice Owen shoot him a look, his expression hardening. “What did that mean?” Owen asks flatly.

  Tyler glances between Madeleine and me, recognizing the indelicate position he’s put himself in. “I’ve just never known Megan to take it slow,” he finally says haltingly.

  I hardly have time to be offended before Madeleine puts a hand on my knee. “With a guy who looks like Will, I know I wouldn’t.” It’s a remark aimed to irritate Tyler, and from the way he stiffens and crosses his arms, I know it worked. “What’s he like?” she continues in a gossipy tone.

  “He’s funny, and he’s confident . . .” I begin, only too happy to brag about my new boy-whatever. “And he’s the best kisser ever.” I don’t look at Tyler, but he knows I’m talking to him.

  “Sounds like this one might last out the month,” he sneers.

  Madeleine whacks his shoulder, staring daggers at him. It’s sweet of her, but the damage is done. It’s one thing for me to joke about my short-lived romances—it’s something else for people like Tyler to think I’m the flighty one in my relationships. I might enjoy the flings, the fooling around, the green-room make-outs, but I’m never the one to keep them from developing into meaningful relationships. I get up to leave, no longer in the mood to talk about Will, and catch sight of Owen watching Tyler furiously.

  I throw my bag onto my shoulder. “Don’t be a dick,” I overhear Madeleine hiss. I ponder where exactly I’m going to go, but the bell rings, deciding for me.

  * * *

  “Why, that same pale hard-hearted wench, that Rosaline, torments him so that he will sure run mad.”

  Anthony’s strutting across the small stage in the drama room, delivering his lines with his characteristic panache. I’m sitting in the front row, next to Owen, the play open on my lap in a feeble effort to look like I’m memorizing my lines. Tyler’s a couple of rows behind me, obnoxiously rehearsing for a group of enraptured sophomores, but I’m trying not to dwell on what he said during lunch. Instead, I’m determined to sort out something else bothering me.

  Anthony’s been avoiding me since the party. Every day, he rushes out of rehearsal before I have the chance to talk to him, and he hasn’t replied to a single one of my texts. I have no idea why. I know he’s hurt about Eric, but it feels like he’s upset with me, too.

  “Farewell, lady, lady, lady.” Anthony says his final line, and Jody waves him off stage, dismissing him. I sit up straighter and try to catch his eye. It works—for a moment. But then his eyes dart from mine, and he ducks out the side door.

  “We’ll do Act Two Scene three next,” Jody declares, breaking my concentration. It’s not one of mine, but even though I’m dying to follow Anthony, I can’t leave until Jody dismisses me. Owen gets up and walks to the front of the room, where Tyler’s waiting on stage. I realize it’s a Friar Lawrence scene, and immediately I feel for Owen. Every week, he’s the only person who gets more nervous than I do on stage.

  Today, something’s different.

  Owen’s script doesn’t shake in his hands, and he’s not fidgeting with his sweater the way I know he sometimes does. Good for him, I think to myself. I remember dancing with him at the party—when Owen dives into something, he’s kind of inspiring.

  I pull out my phone. I’ll have to redouble my efforts with Anthony. I work on composing yet another hopeless text, but it’s next to impossible when I don’t know why he’s dodging me.

  “What a change is here!” I jerk my head up, surprised by the unusual fire in Owen’s voice. “Is Rosaline, that thou didst love so dear, so soon forsaken? Young men’s love then lies not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes.” Owen’s face is red, not in embarrassment this time, but in what looks like genuine anger.

  He’s really busting Romeo’s balls, I think before Jody waves her hand and steps onto the stage. Even when Owen drops his script to his side, he’s glaring at Romeo. Or maybe it’s Tyler.

  “Tell me about your interpretation here, Owen,” Jody says, pen to her lips. “Why did you read Friar Lawrence that way?”

  “Romeo’s a jerk, honestly,” Owen grimly replies. “Friar Lawrence criticizes him for being thoughtless and disloyal to the girl he was in love with two days ago, and he’s right.”

  Jody considers for a moment. “That’s a good reading, but Friar Lawrence is a friar, a man of the cloth. He wouldn’t come on quite that strong.” Owen grudgingly nods, and Jody tells them to take it from the top.

  They begin the scene again, and I watch closer this time, intrigued now. Owen tempers his voice, but I know him well enough to detect the concealed anger in his rigid posture and his clenched jaw. He’s pissed at Tyler . . . for what he said today, I realize. For me. I feel a rush of gratitude. Even if I’m only doing this play for an acting credit, I’m glad it’s brought Owen and me together.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Will stop in front of the window in the drama room door. He makes no move to come in, and I consider incurring Jody’s wrath to cross the stage and drag him in here. Then he laughs, and I realize he’s talking to someone. He takes a step to the side, revealing Alyssa right at the moment she’s not-so-casually reaching out to touch his arm.

  “Wast thou with Rosaline?” I hear Owen say from the stage.

  “With Rosaline, my ghostly Father? No. I have forgot that name and that name’s woe,” Tyler replies.

  It’s happening again, I realize, watching Alyssa laugh uncomfortably close to Will. He and I didn’t even get to define our relationship before it began falling apart. First the groupies at Derek’s party, now this. I wish I could ignore it and return to my script, but for some masochistic reason, my eyes linger on them in the hall.

  Whatever Will and I are, we won’t be much longer.

  * * *

  I walk out of rehearsal an hour later determined to find Will. He never came inside, and even though we’d planned to meet afterward, he’s not waiting in the hall like he was yesterday. Figuring he might be working on the set in the woodshop, I round the corner and nearly collide with a red-haired someone.

  “Megan,” Madeleine says, and places a hand on my shoulder to steady me. “Hey, I’m sorry about lunch today.” I hear guilt in her voice.

  “Oh, uh—it’s fine, really. Have you seen Will?” I move to step past her. Tyler and lunch feel distant now, and it’s not like what he said is Madeleine’s fault.

  But Madeleine doesn’t release my shoulder. “No, it’s not fine. What he said was not okay. I have half a mind to break up with him for it.”

  That stops me. I’m not Tyler’s biggest fan, but I wouldn’t want to come between him and Madeleine.
I look right into her contrite expression. “You guys can’t break up. You’re perfect together,” I say gently.

  Her eyes soften. “It doesn’t give him the right to dump on my best friend. I’m going to talk to him.”

  “Only if you want to. Owen already laid into him during rehearsal. Don’t feel like you have to withhold sex from him or something.”

  I’m expecting her widened eyes and scandalized smile. “Megan!”

  “Never mind,” I tease, “I know you couldn’t hold out for long anyway.” She tries to swat me, but I dodge and spin out of her reach to continue down the hall. “I have to find Will,” I call over my shoulder.

  “Hey, what are you doing the Saturday after next?” I hear behind me.

  I turn to face her. “I don’t know. Why?”

  “I’m organizing a tree-planting day,” she begins. Madeleine’s not content to restrict her volunteerism to school days. Since sophomore year, she’s spent weekends working with something called the Oregon Forester Society, planting trees and holding Earth Day fairs. The sick thing is, I don’t even think she does it for college. I think she enjoys it. “I wondered if you wanted to come and hang out?” she continues. “I know I’ve spent a lot of time with Tyler, and I miss you. It’ll be time for just us.”

  “And some freshly planted trees,” I shoot back with a grin.

  “It’ll be fun! Promise.”

  Madeleine’s never invited me to one of her community service projects, probably because she rightly knows digging holes in the forest isn’t my thing. But time with my best friend is. “Of course I’ll go.”

  I turn to continue my search for Will, but then I pause. I’ll see him tomorrow. Besides, the idea of finding him in the woodshop or pulling him into the art closet suddenly doesn’t seem quite so important.

  ELEVEN

  FRIAR LAWRENCE: They stumble that run fast.

  II.iii.101

  I’M UPSTAIRS IN MY ROOM A WEEK later, thrilled to be working on a script that’s not Romeo and Juliet, when Dad comes in without knocking.

  He sits down on the bed. “What’s that you’re reading?” He sounds like he’s uncomfortable, which would make two of us.

  I could give him the long answer. I’d tell him I’m planning the blocking for Act I Scene xi of Death of a Salesman for the drama department’s Senior Showcase in November. I’m in charge of the whole event this year after three years of directing scenes for it despite not being a senior—I won the esteem of the upperclassmen when I directed the freshmen drama production of The Crucible, and I’ve been invited into the Showcase ever since. This year, I couldn’t co-direct the winter production with Jody—because I’m the lead—so I’m especially eager to work on the Showcase.

  But I know Dad’s not here because he’s genuinely interested. I give him the short answer. “Death of a Salesman.”

  “I hope Tyler Dunning’s not playing Willy Loman,” Dad grumbles sarcastically.

  “What, you’re not a fan of Tyler’s work?”

  “I had enough of Tyler’s acting when he promised to bring you home by ten on Halloween,” he replies with the hint of a smile. I can’t suppress one of my own. Sometimes Dad’s funny even when I don’t want him to be.

  “That was one of his finer performances.”

  Maybe he did come in here just to talk. I look up from the book, waiting for his reply. But his eyes have shifted to somewhere near the bottom of my coat rack, and the humor of a couple seconds ago dissipates.

  “There’s something I wanted to talk to you about,” he says.

  Great. The line that begins every unpleasant conversation with a parent.

  “Rose and I have continued to make some inquiries into homes outside New York City,” he goes on, “and we’ve narrowed it down to a few.”

  “Cool,” I reply flatly.

  “We have to fly out and look at the houses with a realtor.” He sounds unfazed by what I thought was a pretty obvious display of disinterest. “This weekend.”

  “What?” I hear my voice go up. “This weekend? I thought the move wasn’t happening until I went to college. Or is there something else you haven’t told me?”

  “It’s not happening until then.” Dad puts a hand on my knee, as if that’ll make everything better. “But we have to visit soon because I don’t want Rose to travel too close to her due date.”

  “Of course,” I mutter.

  “While we’re gone, you and Erin will stay at Aunt Charlotte’s.”

  I sit up in surprise, letting my book fall shut. “Why do I have to stay with Charlotte? It’s far from school, and I’m seventeen years old, Dad. I’m not going to burn the house down.”

  “Megan . . .” He rubs a crease in his forehead.

  “What?” I snap. “Next year you’ll be in New York, and I’ll be here on my own anyway. We should just get used to it now.”

  He glances up at me. He’s silent for a moment, and I think I see a shadow of hurt in his eyes. Or maybe he’s just tired of arguing with me. It’s hard to tell.

  When he does speak, I’m glad he’s not using his patronizing middle-school-principal voice. “You’re calling me every night,” he says softly.

  “Text. I’ll text you.”

  He gets up and walks to the door, and I think he’s going to leave without saying anything else. But he stops and turns back, smiling slightly. “Please try to text like a fully functioning adult. If I suspect you’ve been drinking, Charlotte’s coming over.”

  “Whatever you say,” I mumble, in no mood to joke. I pick up my copy of Death of a Salesman and wait for him to leave.

  * * *

  Today, I decide when I get to school the next morning, is the day I force Anthony to talk to me.

  I don’t want to think about the conversation with my dad or the upcoming trip, and I’m hoping to distract myself. I send Anthony one more text from the parking lot, which he doesn’t answer, and when I go to find him in the library at lunch, he’s nowhere to be found, like he knew I’d look for him here. In rehearsal, I’m too busy sucking at Juliet’s death scene to keep an eye on him, and he slips out before I stab myself on stage for the hundredth time today.

  I have no choice but to drive over to Verona after rehearsal. I park in the gravel lot under the marquee, which today declares, A pizza by any other name would taste as gr8.

  The jukebox is playing Dire Straits’s “Romeo and Juliet.” This is too much. But before I can dig out a nickel to change it to something non-Shakespearean, a clamor from the corner booth distracts me. I glance over to see Anthony pouring orange soda for ten eight-year-olds in soccer uniforms, half of whom are standing on the booth.

  “Anthony,” I say from the jukebox. His eyes find mine, and he blinks. Without a word, he sets down the last drink and darts directly toward the kitchen.

  But he’s too slow. I intercept him by the soda machine and block his path. “Why’re you hiding from me?”

  “I’m busy, Megan. I’m on my shift.” He steps past me with some impressive footwork.

  I follow him into the kitchen. It’s a slow-moving hubbub of white-aproned employees placing pizza pans in the ovens and dishes into the dishwasher. “I think it’s because of the Eric thing,” I tell him over the noise.

  He pales, a horrified expression crossing his face, and I know exactly why. Eric’s washing dishes at the sink, potentially within earshot. Anthony fixes me with a glare and grabs me by the arm, pulling me to the other end of the kitchen and into the ingredients locker. Only once I’m inside, leaning against a wire shelf stocked with bags of flour, does he let go of my arm.

  “I don’t want to talk about it, okay? Not with him, not with you,” he says urgently. But what catches me is the tremor in his expression. He doesn’t look angry—he looks nervous.

  “Have you even asked him where you guys stand since the party?” I l
ower my voice.

  “Why bother?” he fires back. “I saw enough.”

  His shoulders sag. He sounds like he’s given up. It’s nothing new—Anthony’s always burying his feelings at the first sign of something falling apart. But I know he really likes Eric. He’s just too insecure to fight for what he wants, which means he needs me to do it for him.

  “Stay here,” I tell him. Leaving the ingredients locker, I walk directly to the sink.

  “Eric,” I say over the running water. He turns, plate in hand, but he doesn’t exactly look surprised that I’m in the kitchen, where I’m definitely not supposed to be. It’s like he watched Anthony and me walk into the kitchen. Like he’s aware of Anthony’s whereabouts, like he keeps track of him. It’s what I do when someone I like is nearby.

  “What’s the deal with you and that girl from the party?” I ask abruptly.

  His eyes widen for a split second, then he resumes scrubbing the plate, and his voice is casual when he replies. “You mean Melissa? She’s . . . a friend. I go to Saint Margaret’s, and she goes to our sister school. I know her from school dances and stuff. I don’t know—we hooked up.” He’s playing it cool. If I weren’t a director, I wouldn’t know he’s acting.

  “Are you guys, like, a thing now?”

  For a brief moment, I think I see his eyes flit to somewhere behind me—to the ingredients locker. “It was nothing serious,” he says slowly, his eyes returning to mine.

  “Do you want it to be a thing?” I press him.

  Now I know he glances to where Anthony’s waiting. But then he shrugs. “She’s not really my type, but who knows?” he says coolly. “I wasn’t expecting to hook up with her that night. I only knew about the party because I overheard a couple of Stillmont guys who came in here talking about it. I didn’t figure people from my school would be there.”