Always Never Yours

by Emily Wibberley

  “There’s something else we’ve discussed, actually,” Dad says next to me, his eyes shifting back to my mom. “Catherine, you want to, uh . . . ?”

  “Your father and I have talked quite a bit more lately,” Mom says gently, “and what with your festival, Randall and I have decided we’re going to extend our visit a couple weeks. We’d like to be there for the birth of your sister.”

  I suck in a breath. Already the idea of a couple of dinners with both my parents and their respective significant others had me nervous. But this? Watching my dad be the perfect loving spouse to Rose and father to the new baby? Waiting for my mom to finally realize just how little she—or I—belong in Dad’s new family?

  “Sounds . . . weird,” I say. It’s the understatement of the century.

  The corners of Mom’s lips begin to curl, and there’s a knowing gleam in Dad’s eyes, like they’re sharing a joke. It’s the kind of look I remember from years ago, when they were always stealing glances they thought I couldn’t see after I’d pushed them to their parenting limits. It’s almost too painful to watch.

  “Maybe a little.” It’s Mom who speaks up. “But it’s exciting. For you, for your father. . . . And while your dad’s in the hospital with Rose, it’ll be a chance for you and me to hang out. Do mother-daughter things.”

  “With everyone here? It’s still weird.” I won’t look at either of them.

  “We’ll get to spend time together, the seven of us,” Dad chimes in.

  The seven of us. It sounds impossibly strange. Erin’s birth was jarring enough, but with every new step my dad takes, his family gets further and further from me. And while I enjoy every Friday-night video chat with my mom, I can’t deny that she’s changing, too, that I understand less and less about this person who takes pottery classes and dates someone like Randall. It doesn’t feel like seven of us. It feels like four and two, and me fitting nowhere in the middle.

  I’m spared having to reply because there’s a huge clatter from downstairs followed by a tiny voice bellowing, “Noo-noos!” It’s Erin-speak for noodles.

  “That didn’t sound good,” Mom says, a smile in her voice.

  “Erin’s taken to throwing her dishes. I have to go clean Spaghetti-O’s off the wall. Third time this week.” Dad heaves himself off the bed with a resigned sigh, then glances at my mom in the FaceTime window. “I’m looking forward to having you guys in town. It’ll be a chance to welcome in the new shape of our family.”

  He lays a hand on my shoulder before leaving the room, and even though I didn’t think it possible, my heart plummets even lower. I don’t let it show on my face because I know Mom’s still watching me, still hoping her efforts to make this sound positive might have worked.

  But I hate the feeling of a “new shape” of my family. To me, that shape feels like the pieces of my family broken apart, held together only by memories everyone’s trying to forget.

  Everyone except me.

  SEVENTEEN

  JULIET: I should have been more strange, I must confess,

  But that thou overheard’st ere I was ware

  My true-love passion.

  II.ii.107–9

  I LOVE SHAKESPEARE, BUT I’VE HAD JULIET’S dialogue and cues running through my head for a month now, and it’s a breath of fresh air to rehearse a scene without the words anon or forsooth.

  “Give my best to Bill Oliver—he may remember me,” Tyler says in the voice of a defeated Willy Loman, ending the scene I chose for my piece in the Senior Showcase. He gazes wistfully into the distance like he’s looking into the past, and then his shoulders relax. He and the other three members of my cast turn to me from the drama room stage, waiting for directions.

  It’s been two weeks of Senior Scene preparations. Two busy weeks. Outside of Romeo and Juliet rehearsals, I’ve worked every night on directing my scene and organizing the entire event. I’ve had to rehearse my actors, book the auditorium, arrange the ads for the programs, figure out the lighting with the theater-tech kids, and keep the other directors on schedule for the performance.

  Honestly, I love it.

  Checking on everyone’s scenes isn’t too hard, and it’s fun seeing what they’re working on. Anthony’s doing Samuel L. Jackson’s final monologue from Pulp Fiction, which includes a level of profanity I had to push the teachers to permit. Brian Anderson, I’ll grudgingly admit, is doing a pretty nice job directing and starring in a scene from Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead. The only possible problem is Courtney, who’s putting on something from Cats. Why. Just why.

  With the showcase at the end of the week, I’m pleased with the progress on my own scene. Today’s rehearsal went well. My instincts were right in casting Kasey, and I have a hunch that after seeing her performance, Jody will give her the lead in the fall play next year. Tyler’s obviously stepped into the role like he was born to play Willy, and he and Jenna pair really well. Even Owen’s holding his own—and I have a feeling he’ll cut a nice figure in a 1940s suit.

  “Perfect, guys,” I yell from the back of the room. “See you all tomorrow.”

  They shuffle off the stage while I walk forward to collect the few props we’re working with. I reach down to pick up a briefcase Tyler’s knocked over, and out of the corner of my eye I notice Madeleine hovering by the door. I figure she’s waiting for Tyler, and I take an extra-long time returning to my seat and packing my bag, busying myself in the hope she’ll leave before I have to pass her. I know Madeleine feels horrible, and I don’t enjoy that she’s suffering, but I’m not ready to face her. I can’t help the hurt I feel whenever I think of what she confessed to me.

  “Megan?” I hear her voice right behind me, and I fumble the pen I was stuffing into my bag.

  I straighten up, glancing around the room to find everyone else gone except Owen. He’s standing near the back door, watching me warily. I silently plead with him not to leave me here to deal with this conversation on my own. Not answering Madeleine, I brush past her and head for the door.

  She’s undeterred. “Can we talk?” she says to my back.

  “I’m busy right now,” I get out. I hear her footsteps trailing after mine, and I realize if I go to my car right now, she’ll just follow me. Madeleine is nothing if not persistent. Time to take action.

  Instead of going to the door, I course-correct toward the stage. “Owen,” I say urgently, coming up with a bullshit theatrical criticism on the spot. “We need to—rethink Biff’s emotional progression in the end of the scene.”

  Owen, whom I internally thank for waiting by the door this whole time, hesitates uncertainly. I give him a pointed look and glance at Madeleine. His face softens as he understands. “Yeah, do you want me to run the lines, and you can tell me where it goes wrong?” he asks, dropping his bag and walking to the stage.

  “That’d be great,” I practically sigh in relief.

  Madeleine rolls her eyes, understanding what’s going on here. I should’ve known I’m not a good enough actress to sell this excuse. “Please? It’ll only take a second,” she begs while Owen climbs onto the stage, looking thoroughly uncomfortable.

  I ignore her. “Whenever you’re ready, Owen.”

  “He did like me. Always liked—” he begins before Madeleine cuts him off.

  “Enough, Megan.” She walks up to the stage. “This is so typically you. Something goes wrong, and you’re ready to move on like our friendship was never important to you.” The sudden fire in her voice stops me. It’s not something I hear often from poised, polished Madeleine. Not something anyone hears often. “I’m your best friend,” she continues, “and I made a mistake.”

  “Forgetting to return a library book is a mistake,” I scoff. “And yeah, you were my best friend, but—Owen, where do you think you’re going?” He’s inching toward the side door, trying to escape. He turns back, his expression pained.

  “I�
��m still your best friend,” Madeleine returns. “I’m still the girl who was there for you when your stepmom moved in, who pulled all-nighters blocking scenes with you in your room, who picked you up from a hundred rehearsals when you didn’t have a car. You remember when you asked me if being perfect was exhausting?” She pauses, but she doesn’t sound like she’s waiting for an answer. Her anger has faded, and her eyes fill with tears. “Well, now you know I’m not. What’s exhausting is having to look like I am, having to live up to everyone’s expectations. Sometimes I feel like if even one person figures out the truth, I’ll—disappear. I know lying to you was worse than kissing Tyler, but I couldn’t tell you. I couldn’t watch the person who means the most to me realize I’m not who she thought I was.”

  I say nothing, weighing her words. I want to forgive her because it’s obvious how terrible she feels, and I’m no stranger to forgiving people who’ve hurt me. I really liked Anthony, but I forgave him for dating me when he knew he had a thing for guys. He wasn’t out and wanted to keep up appearances, and I sympathized with his situation. I even forgave Tyler for dumping me for my best friend, and I guess I’ve already forgiven him again for cheating on me.

  But Madeleine hurt me worse than any boyfriend, because almost every boyfriend isn’t supposed to be forever. Madeleine and I were.

  She wipes her eyes, her 4.0-GPA, after-school-volunteer composure returning. “That’s what I wanted to say. If it’s worth anything, I’m sorry and I miss you.”

  With that, she walks toward the door.

  Owen shifts uncomfortably on his feet. I watch his eyes flit from me to her and back.

  I don’t want to give up on Madeleine. I don’t know if she’s made this right or not—I don’t know if she could ever make this right—but sometimes not giving up on somebody means forgiving them even when it feels like the hardest thing in the world. If I want Madeleine and me to be forever, I can’t let her leave feeling like her apology was worth nothing.

  “Wait,” I call after her.

  She stops just short of the door. Slowly she turns, her eyes expectant but guarded, like she’s not daring to hope. I walk off the stage to where she’s standing, and despite how she’s crossed her arms, I step forward and wrap her in a hug. She stiffens, startled for a second, before wriggling her arms free and hugging me back.

  “I get it,” I say over her shoulder. “You could never disappear.” She hugs me tighter, and I hear her sniffle. I hold her for a minute longer until her breathing comes more evenly. “You even had the perfect apology, stupid,” I add with a chuckle.

  I feel her laugh into my shoulder.

  * * *

  Madeleine and I take a detour to the bathroom so we don’t look like emotional wrecks when we get home. She’s a renowned ugly crier, a reputation earned amid the A-minus-in-AP-Euro debacle of sophomore year. I’m not faring much better, my mascara streaking black lines down my face like I’m in an emo music video.

  We part ways in the hallway after we’ve put ourselves together. Walking back to the drama room, I run into Owen, who’s coming out the door in the opposite direction.

  “Owen!” I say, surprised. “You’re still here.”

  “Uh, yeah. You left your stuff in there.” He holds up my bag and jacket.

  “Thanks. You didn’t have to wait for me.” I take my things from his outstretched hand. “You want to go get pizza? I was going to drop in on Anthony.”

  “That depends.” Owen grins. “Do you have a tearful reconciliation with him scheduled for today, too?”

  I laugh. “Nope, I got that one done a couple weeks ago.” We walk toward the front of the Arts Center, and I pull out my phone. “I’ll text Will. He should come, too. I know how much you love to watch us flirt.”

  “It’s practically an extracurricular activity,” Owen returns, giving me a sideways glance. “I could probably put it on my college applications by now.”

  I roll my eyes. When I begin typing the message, he reaches over and covers the screen with his hand.

  “Please,” he says with mock desperation. “Call him. By the time he deciphers your mangled stream of abbreviations and dropped punctuation, we’ll be there.”

  “Will understands me just fine,” I say indignantly, shoving him lightly. But the idea of getting Will on the phone does sound good. I hit the CALL icon, pointedly ignoring Owen’s triumphant smirk. It’s a couple rings before Will picks up.

  “Oh. Hey, Megan?” Will’s voice sounds distracted.

  “Hey. Owen and I are going to Verona. Meet us there in fifteen?” Owen holds the door for me, and we walk out into the quad.

  “Now?” Will says in my ear. “I’m, um, kind of busy. I have to run some errands for set crew.”

  “It’s seven at night, Will,” I say more softly.

  “Yeah, we’re really behind.” I think I hear his voice take on a bit of a defensive edge.

  I want to be the cool girlfriend who doesn’t mind stuff like this, who doesn’t blink when her boyfriend has other plans, who doesn’t overanalyze whether he’s avoiding her. But I can’t hide how much the brush-off deflates me. “You’ve been kind of busy a lot lately,” I hear myself say.

  He exhales over the line. “I know. I’m sorry. We’ll do something this weekend,” he promises. “Once the showcase is over.”

  I hear the sincerity in his tone, and the idea of a real date this weekend replaces my worry about his reluctance tonight. I glance at Owen walking beside me. “Okay. I’m going to make Owen help me come up with something awesome for us to do.”

  Owen looks back at me, his eyes wide and horrified. “I am not helping Will get laid.”

  I cover the mic on the bottom of my phone. “What about me?” I ask Owen, batting my eyes. “Will you help me get laid?” His ears redden, and he speeds into the parking lot a couple steps ahead of me.

  “Huh?” Will’s voice pulls me back to the phone. “Uh. Yeah. Okay. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  “Sounds good.” I drop my phone into my bag and catch up to Owen. It’s night, and the parking lot’s single light casts the pavement in orange. “Meet you over there,” I half shout to him in the fog now rolling through the trees.

  “Or you could give me a ride?” He’s stopped next to the light pole.

  The moment he says it, I notice mine is the only car in the school lot. “Yeah, of course.” I remember the time I saw him walking to school and he refused the ride I offered him. “Do you walk every day?” I contemplate the distances. From Owen’s house to mine and mine to school . . . “Isn’t your house, like, four miles from here?” I open my car door.

  He goes to the passenger door and gets in next to me. “Yeah, my mom usually needs the car. One of her jobs is on one end of town, the other on . . . the other.” He shrugs. “I do like the time to think. It’s why I don’t take the bus.”

  Impressed and feeling very lucky for my old Volkswagen, I say nothing. We pull out of the parking lot and drive the rest of the way in silence. Past a certain time of day, the roads in Stillmont get eerily quiet. There aren’t many restaurants in town, and most people eat at home, which is why there’s not much of a dinner rush—and why we end up at places like Verona Pizza when we do dine out.

  Shall I compare thee to a $4.99 breadsticks platter? reads the sign lit on a backdrop of the forest when we pull up.

  Inside, Anthony catches sight of Owen and me and escorts us to one of the booths lining the far wall. We pass Eric wiping a table, and I tap Anthony on the shoulder from behind. “Hey, how’s—” I catch myself before I say his name. “Nope, not going to mention you-know-who.”

  “Voldemort?” Owen asks, grinning unhelpfully.

  “Knock it off, Owen.” I smack him on the shoulder, and we take our seats on opposite sides of the booth.

  Anthony smiles at me. “It’s okay.” Glancing over his shoulder in Eric’s directi
on, he drops his voice. “He’s been giving me weird looks today, actually.” I stay silent but raise my eyebrows knowingly. Catching the look and rolling his eyes, Anthony says, “I have to get your drinks.”

  I turn to Owen, who’s been watching our conversation with writerly interest. “Okay, date ideas,” I say, opening the Notes app on my phone. “Let’s go.”

  “Do we have to?” he groans.

  “Please, Owen? I need your help.” I smile at him coquettishly.

  “My help? Girlfriend who lives in Italy, remember?” His brow rises with wry incredulity. “I don’t exactly have dating experience. And definitely none in Stillmont.”

  Okay, he has a point. Anthony drops off two Sprites, then leaves before we have the chance to order. “But you know Will,” I say to Owen, taking a sip of flat soda. Fuck this place. Really.

  “Yet somehow I’ve never taken Will out on a date,” he replies, sounding amused.

  “Come on. If Cosima suddenly came to town, where would be the first place you’d take her? Besides your bedroom, of course.” I try for my usual provocative nonchalance. But to my genuine surprise, the joke tastes bitter on my tongue. The idea of some beautiful, foreign girl in Owen’s bedroom isn’t exactly hilarious.

  Owen, however, doesn’t seem fazed. His eyes have gone distant while he considers. “I’d take her to Birnam Wood Books,” he announces after a second.

  I flush despite myself. “I love that place!”

  Owen’s eyes find mine, and I can tell he’s pleased. “But it’s not Will’s thing.”

  “Oh.” I push aside my disappointment. I thought he liked it. “What about the old movie theater downtown?”

  “The Constantine?” he says immediately.

  “Do you think he’d like that?”

  He pauses and finally shakes his head. “I tried to convince him to go once to a Jean-Luc Godard screening, but he wasn’t into it.”