Exit Stage Left

by Nall, Gail

  “What?”

  “Not here.” I look side to side. I don’t want anyone else to hear my plan before Harrison. Gabby’s a few lockers over, talking to Jill from the stage crew. Which is a nice change from seeing her chasing after Trevor like usual these days. And I know there’s a group of set design guys behind us. As big as this school is, the theater people always seem to be drawn together, like gossip-loving magnets.

  “Why? What’s so top secret that you can’t talk about it in the hallway?”

  “Don’t ask questions. Just meet me after school.”

  The rest of the day drags by. I barely make it through a splatter paint project in Expressions of Art. When the bell rings, I grab Harrison and pull him outside. I lead the way down the front steps through clumps of students.

  “Casey! Harrison!” Kelly waves at us from where she’s standing with Chris, Tim, and some other drama people.

  I wave back. “See you later.” The List can’t wait. Now that I’m determined to find my true passion in life, I don’t want to waste another second. Kelly gives us a funny look and turns back to the others.

  We weave through the parked buses out front and the parents lined up for carpool. I don’t stop until we reach the small park across the street, where I plop onto a bench. Harrison stands in front me.

  “So, what’s all this about? Did Ms. Sharp change her mind?”

  “No. Better than that.”

  “What, then?” He drops his backpack on the ground and sits next to me. “I’ve got to get to the elementary school by four.” Once a week, Harrison volunteers to help little kids learn about theater. It’s insanely cute, and he’s great with the kids. I’d do it too, but I decided a long time ago that I couldn’t let anything interfere with my dedication to my art. No volunteering, no job (much to Mom’s annoyance), no unrelated extracurriculars. Only theater, dance class, and voice lessons. And, well, Trevor.

  I might be regretting all that now.

  “Remember yesterday, when you said you didn’t know if you’re supposed to be an actor?” I say.

  Harrison nods. “If I was, then I would’ve gotten the lead, right?”

  “Right. Well, I’ve been thinking about it, and I feel the same way. About me, that is. What if I wasn’t ever meant to be in theater? What if I’m really supposed to be . . . I don’t know . . . a botanist or something?”

  “A botanist?”

  “That’s not the important part. The point is, how will we ever know what our real passion is if we don’t look for it? Just think of how many things you could be a genius at, but don’t even know you can do.” I wait for Harrison’s reaction.

  He thinks for a moment. “Okay. That makes sense, in some kind of odd philosophical way. So how do we look for it?”

  With a flourish, I pull The List out of the front pocket of my backpack. The paper flutters in the warm breeze. “This is The List.”

  “The what?”

  “The List,” I say impatiently. “The List of How We Find Our Passion.”

  “Oh. Okay. So, what’s on it?” He peers over the edge of the paper.

  I clear my throat and pull the paper toward my chest so he can’t see it. “I’ll read it to you.” I pause for dramatic effect. “Number One: Art. Since drama is an art, maybe we’d be good at regular art, like drawing or something.”

  “I can barely draw a stick figure. And did you see my splatter paint thing just now?”

  “But have you tried? I mean, really, really tried? Taken a serious class—not Expressions of Art? Read a book about it? Studied technique?”

  “No, I guess not. Okay, what’s next?”

  “Number Two: Horseback Riding.”

  “I’ve only been on a horse one time,” Harrison says.

  “So? I’ve never been on one. We can learn. It can’t be that hard. I mean, people used to ride horses all the time before there were cars.” Maybe I should’ve added lawyer to The List. I’m pretty good at this persuasive argument thing.

  “But what would we do with that?”

  “Show them. Like, in the Olympics. Be a veterinarian. Or buy a horse farm and breed thoroughbreds for like a gazillion dollars each. Or work on a dude ranch out west. Buy a stable and give lessons to little kids. Be stunt doubles in the movies. Or—”

  He holds up a hand. “Okay, I get it.”

  “All right, Number Three.” I pause again because this is definitely the most exciting thing on The List.

  Harrison checks his phone. “Spit it out already.”

  “You’re ruining the moment,” I inform him.

  “I’m going to be late.”

  “All right, fine. Flying a plane. That’s Number Three.”

  Harrison’s eyes go round behind his glasses. “Seriously? Like a real plane? In the sky?”

  “No, in the ocean. Of course, in the sky. We can learn to be pilots! Can you believe something that awesome is an actual job? Greater Holland Airport has flying lessons. I’ve seen it on that big sign they have by the road out on Highway 57.”

  “I am so up for that. I’ve never even been in a plane.”

  “That’s because your family’s idea of a vacation is a football game in the snow at Notre Dame.”

  He rolls his eyes. “I think I still have frostbite from that. Okay, so what’s the fourth thing?”

  “Number Four: Join a Band.”

  “Like a rock band?”

  “Yup, or any kind of band really. I mean, if Eric can do it, why can’t we? It just has to be something totally different from theater. So like, no Broadway covers.”

  “I hate to break it to you, Case,” Harrison says. “But the only instrument I play is the kazoo. You remember that awful two weeks Dad made me take sax, right?”

  I shudder. “We can be co-lead singers or something. Maybe you can be the drummer too. All you have to do is keep rhythm. And think of how hot that would make you look.”

  He pushes his lips together, like he’s considering it, and then he starts tapping out some rhythm on the bench. He’s really getting into it, bobbing his head, and I try really hard not to laugh. I mean, he’s shorter than me and wears glasses and has regular-guy hair. He doesn’t look like a rock star.

  I interrupt his drum solo. “Want to hear Number Five?”

  He sits back down, grinning. It’s the first time I’ve seen him smile since the cast list was announced.

  I clear my throat. “Number Five: Figure Skating.”

  “Figure skating?” he says in a tone as if he doesn’t believe what I just said.

  “Figure skating is drama on ice,” I inform him. “They have classes. We could do pairs!”

  He raises his eyebrows even higher. I’m afraid they’ll disappear into his hair. “No,” he says. “No way.”

  “But why?”

  “Because I’m really not coordinated enough for that. Everyone would laugh at me. And you have to wear those tight clothes. And I think you have to start that kind of thing when you’re like four to be any good at it.”

  I hate to admit that he’s probably right. I’ve been ice skating twice, and I spent most of the time clinging to the wall and wishing that ice were softer. “Okay, then. We need a new Number Five.”

  We sit in silence for a minute.

  “Botany?” I suggest.

  Harrison rolls his eyes and checks his phone again. He stands up.

  “You can’t leave until we have a new Number Five!”

  “How about poker?” he says.

  “Really?” I picture fat men with cigars in a dark room tossing cards on a table and grunting things like, “One-eyed jacks are wild.”

  “Yes, poker. C’mon, Casey. You picked everything else. I demand poker. And just think of how rich you can get if you’re really good and go to Vegas to be a poker shark. You wouldn’t even have to go to college then.” Harrison crosses his arms.

  I wouldn’t have to go to college. I hadn’t even thought of that. I know plenty of people don’t go to college, but I’d nev
er even considered it. Mom assumes that both Eric and I will get degrees. But why waste her money if I know my talents lie elsewhere?

  “Okay, poker it is.” I cross out Figure Skating and write Poker Shark next to the number five. Then I fold The List and return it to my backpack.

  “So, when do we start?” Harrison asks as he leads the way back toward school.

  “Tomorrow. Art is up first.”

  “You know what? We should talk to Alexa James and her friends.”

  The Bohemian Brigade. Perfect. “Good idea. Hey, can you drop me at home?”

  “Casey, I have to get to the school!”

  “It’s on your way. Sort of. Please don’t make me hang out here and listen to Eric’s band.” I fold my hands in a prayer.

  “Fine,” he says with a huff. “I think you should add Get a License to that list.”

  “Why? So I can become a race car driver? No thanks.”

  We’ve just crossed the street when I stop in my tracks.

  No way. I did not just see what I thought I did. I close my eyes and open them again. It’s still there.

  Harrison stops when he realizes I’m not behind him. “What? What’s going on? You’re making me late.”

  I can’t speak. I just point.

  At them.

  Chapter Ten

  Harrison follows my outstretched finger. “What are you pointing at?”

  “Them!” I wave my finger. Amanda is walking toward the parking lot with . . . Trevor. Amanda said she was going home to memorize lines. What is she doing with Trevor?

  There has to be a rational explanation. Maybe they’re walking to their separate cars together. Except I know for a fact that Trevor doesn’t have his car today, because he was complaining to Johnny and Steve-o earlier about having to take it to the garage.

  Harrison looks at Amanda and Trevor. “I bet they’re going to work on lines.” He turns back to me. “So what? We don’t care about that anymore . . . right?”

  Harrison is so clueless. “The problem is that we used to be together. You don’t just go hang out with your best friend’s ex-whatever without saying anything. Because that’s weird. I mean—”

  Harrison holds up a hand. “Don’t want to know about it.”

  He is the worst most-likely-gay friend a girl could have when it comes to sort-of-relationship—or ex-sort-of-relationship—advice. I take off toward the parking lot, Harrison on my heels. I just have to know if they get in the car together.

  “Slow down,” he complains. “We didn’t have cross-country on that list.”

  I pull up sharply behind someone’s hand-me-down SUV and watch as Amanda and Trevor get into her new Jetta, laughing about something. They drive off just as Harrison chugs up behind me, completely out of breath.

  “Seriously, Case. No running. Please. I’m losing a lung here.” He leans forward, hands on his knees.

  “You’re the one in a hurry to get to the elementary school,” I snap at him. I instantly feel like a jerk. “Sorry. I’m just in a mood now.”

  “Well, that’s nice. Can we go now, or are you still stalking Trevor?”

  “I am not stalking him.”

  “Could’ve fooled me.”

  I refocus my anger into planning our Art Takeover tomorrow. What’s important right now is me getting my life back on track, not Trevor. But it’s a little hard to refocus when your best friend for all eternity is giving secret rides home to the one guy in school you have a long and complicated history with.

  It’s got to be completely innocent. He probably just asked her for a ride, and, nice as she is, she couldn’t tell him no. That’s all.

  I’m sure it is.

  I need something that says Artist. Something to make the Bohemian Brigade take me seriously. I’ve pulled out everything in my closet. I go back through the pile on my bed and pick a long, flower-printed skirt I’d bought when I method-acted an old woman last year, an oversized white button-down top, and black ballet flats. The only thing I’m missing is a beret. Instead, I pull my brown hair into a loose braid. For a second, I consider splattering some paint onto my shirt. But that’s probably trying too hard.

  Mom doesn’t give me a second glance. She’s used to me by now. And Eric wouldn’t notice if I showed up to breakfast in a sequined formal. And Dad—well, he’s not here.

  The morning drags on as I try not to think of what might have happened between Amanda and Trevor yesterday. I wait for her to mention it to me—Oh, by the way, I drove Trevor home yesterday, and then I stuck around to run lines, and we kinda hooked up. Hope you don’t mind! But she doesn’t say anything about him. By lunch, I’ve imagined pretty much every possibility.

  I watch Amanda, looking for any signs that she feels the need to tell me something. But all she does is chew on a carrot and talk to Kelly about the play.

  “I’ve decided to sit with you drama nerds today instead of the band guys,” Chris announces as he drops his lunch bag and open drink next to Amanda. Diet Coke splashes onto the scuffed orange table. Amanda wipes it up with her napkin. It is biologically impossible for her to ignore a mess.

  “The band guys are way geekier than we could ever be,” Amanda says as she deposits the napkin on her tray.

  “Yeah, I mean, look at them.” Kelly points across the cafeteria with her fork at the band table, where a couple of guys are hard at work building a Leaning Tower of Food while another empties the spit valve on his tuba. “Gross.”

  “Speaking of gross . . . what is that?” I can’t tear my eyes away from the thing Chris has unwrapped from foil.

  “Half a pizza.” He rolls what is approximately six slices of pizza into something resembling a burrito. Then proceeds to eat about a third of it in one bite. “Dude, Casey, what’s up with the hippie clothes?” Chris asks through a mouthful of food.

  I shrug. “Just felt like it.”

  “But I thought you were Hippie Chick the first week of school,” Amanda says.

  “I was. I felt like wearing this outfit. Is that okay with everyone?” I jab my spoon into my soup bowl. Droplets of chicken broth shoot across the table.

  “Oookay . . . just asking, that’s all,” Chris says.

  I just wish Amanda would say something already. The fact that she’s keeping it secret makes me pretty sure that 1) something happened between them, or 2) she wishes something would happen. This whole thing is weird. Because since when does Amanda like Trevor? My Trevor?

  “Is everything all right?” Amanda asks.

  “Yeah,” I lie. “But I’m over people picking on my clothes. I’m a big girl. I can wear whatever I want.”

  Amanda looks at me for a second, like she isn’t sure who I am. “If something’s wrong, you can tell me,” she says in a low voice.

  “I’m fine.” I know I should ask her about Trevor and get it over with, but part of me wants her to own up to it without me pushing.

  “Is it about the play?”

  “No.” And that’s actually the truth for a change.

  “Is it your dad?”

  “No.”

  “Promise?” Amanda asks.

  I draw an X over my chest and do halfhearted jazz hands.

  She gives me a slight, fake smile. I can tell she’s still worried. I don’t say anything else, and she turns back to Kelly.

  Harrison drops his lunch bag on the other side of the table. He pulls out an apple, motions to me, and says, “Come on.”

  “Where are you going?” Chris asks.

  “We have to talk to Alexa,” Harrison says before he takes a bite of the apple.

  “Alexa? Bohemian Brigade Alexa?” Chris searches the cafeteria until his eyes land on the table in the middle. It’s hard to miss. The Bohemian Brigade don’t know the meaning of the word muted when it comes to clothes.

  I should fit in perfectly.

  I follow Harrison through the crowd, barely hearing Chris ask, “Why are they going to talk to Alexa?”

  We pass Trevor’s table, and I try to ca
tch his eye. If I can see how he reacts, maybe then I’ll know the truth. Of course, he’s looking down at his food and doesn’t even see me. Instead, I get a weird little grin from Johnny Grimaldi, as his brother kicks him and says, “Don’t be a fuckwit.”

  “Casey, come on.” Harrison looks back over his shoulder.

  I refocus my attention on the table straight ahead. Alexa’s in the middle, wild curly hair and hot pink dress over black leggings. “How exactly do you know her?” I ask Harrison. I mean, I know of Alexa, but I don’t know her.

  “Our parents are friends.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yup,” he says. “They’re both equally uptight. They get along great.”

  “Huh.” Somehow, I pictured Alexa living in a yurt with parents who make goat cheese and think of school as optional.

  “Hey, Lex,” Harrison says once we reach the table.

  “Harry!” She leaps up and gives him a bear hug.

  First, Harry? Second, how in the world did I not know that Harrison and Alexa were such good friends?

  Alexa nudges her friends down the table. Harrison and I slip into seats, smack in the middle of the Bohemian Brigade.

  “I like your skirt,” the girl next to me says in a dreamy voice.

  “Oh . . . thanks? I like your, um, necklace.” I point to the giant beaded necklace the girl has wrapped twice around her neck.

  She gives me a floaty smile. Her T-shirt is covered in splatters of blue paint. I knew I should’ve added that finishing touch.

  I’ve completely missed what Harrison’s said to Alexa, but I catch her asking, “What kind of art?”

  “Um, what are the options?” Harrison replies.

  Alexa smiles. “What aren’t the options? There are so many ways to express yourself. Charcoal, fabrics, pottery—we’re having a Throw-In on Friday. You should come! Both of you.”

  “We don’t have rehearsal. We’ll be there!” I say, maybe a little too enthusiastically. The guy straight across from me, who was—what? Asleep? Passed out? Dead?—jerks up. Necklace Girl reaches over the table and pats his hand.

  “We’ll see you Friday, then,” Alexa says. She gives Harrison another hug as we stand up to leave.

  Necklace Girl unwinds the beads from her neck. “Here,” she says, lowering the strand over my head. “They’ll bring you peace and inspiration.”