Exit Stage Left

by Nall, Gail

  “Oh . . .” I run my fingers over the heavy, colorful orbs. I suppose I look like I need some peace and inspiration. “Thanks. I’ll see you at the Throw-In.”

  “The what?” Necklace Girl asks. But before I can answer, she’s humming something completely out of tune and sketching on a notepad.

  “They’re . . . interesting,” I say to Harrison as we walk back to our friends. I try to imagine myself as a member of the Bohemian Brigade, wearing flowy, colorful clothes all the time and never being entirely sure where I am or what day of the week it is.

  “Nice necklace,” he says.

  “Thank you,” I reply in my best floaty voice.

  “You know, we don’t have to become one of them to be artists.”

  “Says you.” I gesture at his jeans and wrinkle-free oxford shirt. “If I’m going take up pottery, I’m going all the way. Good-bye Theater Casey, and hello Potter Casey. Hey, do you think there are any art colleges that give scholarships to late bloomers with iffy grades?”

  “Here comes your boyfriend,” Harrison says instead, as we rejoin our table.

  I look around so fast I almost give myself whiplash. “He’s not my boyfriend,” I say automatically. “But maybe now I can get the truth.”

  “Why don’t you just ask Amanda?” Harrison says.

  “Hey, everyone.” Trevor’s velvet voice wafts over the table.

  I rearrange my new giant necklace and say, as normally as possible, “Hi, Trevor.”

  He gives me the smile that made me nearly lose my mind freshman year.

  “Ready for rehearsal?” I ask.

  “The rest of us don’t have to be off-book yet even if you are.” And that would be him getting defensive, which is about how half of our conversations go.

  I didn’t say you had to is about to slip off my tongue, but I swallow the words, flip my too-short braid over my shoulder, and say, “Of course not” with a pasted-on smile. Picking a fight is not going to get me the answers I want right now.

  He softens, and I try not to look into his big brown eyes.

  “So, hey, Amanda.” Trevor’s gaze shifts from me to her. “Here’s that movie I was telling you about yesterday. Let me know what you think.” He hands her a DVD.

  I watch as Amanda gives him a shy smile. She reaches out and takes it from him. Their fingers touch, just ever so slightly. I fight the urge to jump up and grab the movie.

  “Thanks.” She’s so quiet I can barely hear her.

  “Bye, Casey. See you guys later.” Trevor waves at the table and leaves.

  I narrow my eyes at Amanda. He’s lending her movies now? Her family has every available streaming service. It’s not like she probably couldn’t find the movie in all that—she doesn’t need a DVD.

  But even worse, they had a heart-to-heart talk about it? That’s it, I have to know what happened yesterday. If she was just honest about it, maybe I wouldn’t even care. Maybe.

  Amanda puts the disc in her bag and goes back to eating, like nothing has happened. “Where’d you get that necklace?” she asks.

  “From a friend. So, um, what was that about with Trevor?” I ask her as I break a cracker into my cold soup.

  “Nothing, really,” Amanda says. “He’s just lending me this movie he likes.”

  “Oh.” I drop my voice. “It’s okay, you don’t have to pretend. I saw you guys walking out to the parking lot together yesterday.” I side-eye Amanda to see her reaction.

  She smooths her jeans. Aha. Not good. Flattening out nonexistent wrinkles in her clothes is her go-to nervous tic. “He needed a ride home. I wouldn’t have offered, Case, but he asked me. It seemed really rude to say no since it was on my way.”

  I brush cracker crumbs from my fingers and consider my options. Direct seems like the best approach. “Do you like him?”

  “I . . . no, of course not. I wouldn’t do that to you.” Amanda smooths her shirt. Definitely not good if she’s moved on to other articles of clothing.

  “Well, it wouldn’t matter. I certainly don’t want him back.” I dropped Trevor for a reason. Now that my college plans are well, nonexistent now, I have an even bigger reason to stay away from him. I have to figure out what the hell I’m going to do with my life.

  “Are you sure?” Amanda asks.

  I let go of my spoon and look right at her. Why is she asking me that? Because she thinks I still have feelings for him, or because she wants him? “I’m sure,” I say as evenly as I can.

  Amanda smiles. “Okay, you had me worried for a second. You made me promise not to let you get back together with him, after all. Which I agree with, by the way. Now, do you want to watch this movie with me?”

  I shrug. “Sure, why not.”

  He needed a ride, and she happened to be there. Then they talked about a movie. No big deal. And, even if it was a big deal, I need to trust Amanda enough not to let it go anywhere. She’s been friends with me since before I thought Trevor was an annoying fourth-grader who put gum in my hair.

  “Why don’t you stay over? I’ll get some pizza and we can have a girls’ night,” Amanda says. “Now, are you going to fill me in on what you and Harrison were doing with the Bohemian Brigade?”

  “Oh. It’s not important. Harrison wants to go to this Throw-In thing Friday right after school.”

  Harrison raises his eyebrows at me from across the table. I don’t know why, but I don’t feel like explaining The List to anyone. Even Amanda. I’ve just always been so sure of who I am and where I’m going. Now I’m not, and I don’t know that I want everyone to know that.

  Chapter Eleven

  Except I need to be sure. The only way I’ll know if I’m really meant to be an artist is if I wholeheartedly believe I am. I’m imagining my future pottery career (mostly setting up shop on the beach somewhere and searching for inspiration each afternoon on a chaise lounge parked in the sand) when Harrison and I arrive at rehearsal. Chatter buzzes throughout the theater as everyone waits for Ms. Sharp. Hannah’s here, but she doesn’t dare start without Ms. Sharp.

  “Hey!” Amanda dances up to me, her hair swinging behind her. “We get to start blocking today. Isn’t that great?”

  I can’t help the smile that jumps up on my face. I love blocking. Figuring out how my character will move throughout the show is one of the best parts of rehearsal. Of course, it would be more fun if I were Maria. But that doesn’t bother me anymore. My best friend is Maria, and I’m thrilled for her.

  “People. People!” Ms. Sharp walks down the main aisle, clapping her hands. “We’re going to block some of the bigger scenes today. Everyone needs to pay attention, because we’re only going through each scene once. Let’s start with Scene Three. Sisters, onstage, please!”

  I start to skip up the steps to the stage when I notice Trevor sauntering down the aisle toward Amanda. He intercepts her on her way to the stage, he says something, and she smiles at him. If I didn’t know for a fact that he still wanted to get back together with me, I’d swear he was flirting. And if I didn’t absolutely trust Amanda, I’d swear she was flirting back.

  Ms. Sharp walks us through the entire song, and I fill my script with notes, distracted for a few minutes from Trevor and Amanda. Then I go offstage . . . and stay there forever. So I decide to get a drink from the vending machines.

  I push through the theater doors when I realize someone else has the same idea. I turn around to see who’s following me. Oliver.

  “Hey,” I say once we leave the theater.

  He doesn’t say anything.

  “Look, you don’t have to pull that whole Silent Hollywood Guy thing with me. I know you talk.”

  His face goes a little red. “What did you call me?”

  “Um, Silent Hollywood Guy.”

  He laughs, and his face resumes its normal shade.

  “I didn’t come up with it.” We stop at the alcove filled with vending machines that’s just outside the cafeteria. “So what brings you to the Alcove of Sin?”

  “T
he Alcove of Sin?” Oliver repeats.

  “You know, because it’s full of junk food. Or, well, it used to be. Now it’s mostly healthy snacks and things that pretend to be healthy, like Diet Coke.”

  “I’ll be honest—Alcove of Sin brought something entirely different to mind.”

  I flip my braid over my shoulder. That wasn’t at all a joke I thought someone like Oliver would make. “Well, I never said it wasn’t that too.”

  He raises an eyebrow at me. What am I doing? I’m flirting with Silent Hollywood Guy. I need to quit that before he gets the wrong idea.

  “What’s with the one-eyebrow thing? Are two eyebrows overrated or something?”

  The eyebrow falls, and I swear he goes a little red again. I bet he thinks girls find the single-eyebrow raise sexy.

  He clears his throat. “Damn, you saw right through that, huh. I’ll have to figure out something else now.” Just like that, the awkwardness falls away from him.

  And, this is flirting again.

  “I’m thirsty,” I say, kind of pointedly.

  He crooks up half a smile and pushes a dollar into the slot of the closest machine. “What do you want?”

  “Diet Mountain Dew, please. Here, I have . . .” I forgot I was wearing a skirt with no pockets. “Um . . . I don’t actually have any money.” Well, that’s useless. Who goes to get a drink from the Alcove of Sin without money?

  Oliver touches his hair. Checking to make sure it hasn’t deflated, I suppose. “I’ll buy. Don’t worry about it.”

  I take the drink he hands me. “Well, thanks.” He gets himself a Diet Coke and we start walking back toward the theater.

  “So, what’s your story? Are you really from Hollywood?”

  That half smile again. It’s like one side of his mouth doesn’t turn up as far as the other side. “Why, don’t I look like a celebrity?”

  I roll my eyes. Guess he’s not an undercover actor.

  “San Francisco, actually. Not Hollywood. Never even been there.”

  “So what are you doing here in boring Holland, Indiana?”

  “My parents split up last year. My aunt moved here years ago, and Mom always liked it. Dad’s from England, so he went back there.”

  “How do you like it so far?”

  He shrugs. “It could be worse.”

  “It’s easier to make friends when you actually talk to people, like you’re doing now.”

  “Right.” He looks down at his drink.

  “You know what? My dad’s in London right now for his work.” Did I just willingly talk about my father? There’s something wrong with me. Maybe I’m coming down with the flu. I put a hand to my forehead.

  “Really? That’s crazy, because mine is too. What’s he do?”

  He specializes in leaving his kids to take a job halfway around the world. “Lighting design, for shows,” I say as I mess with the pull tab on my drink. I wish I hadn’t brought up the subject.

  “That sounds like the best job in the world.”

  I shrug.

  “Your mom miss him?” Oliver asks.

  “No way. They’re as divorced as divorced can get.” I barely even talk to Amanda about this stuff, so how am I having this conversation with Oliver?

  “I—” Oliver’s cut off when the door to the theater opens. I silently thank whoever it is. Danielle skips out.

  “Oh no,” I say under my breath. I brace myself for the pep. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so quick to end that painful Dad chat with Oliver.

  “Hey, guys!” Danielle bounces toward us. “They’re blocking now for the ‘Sixteen Going on Seventeen’ scene!”

  “Only ten hours before I need to be back onstage,” I mumble.

  Oliver snorts.

  “Ha! Casey, you’re so funny! Isn’t this great?! I love this play! I love being in this play! Can you imagine anything more fun than this?!” Danielle looks at me and Oliver, her ponytail swinging as her head whips back and forth. She’s like one of those yappy little dogs watching a squirrel. I really, really hope I didn’t sound like that as a freshman, despite my Danielle-like overenthusiasm for everything theater.

  “It’s not bad,” Oliver says. “I love acting. Doesn’t matter which show or part.”

  I tilt my head, trying to figure out if he’s telling the truth. I mean, everyone knows the lead is the best role. How is it fun to be in only a few scenes?

  “Ooh! Me too!” Danielle agrees. “What’s your favorite play?!”

  “Oklahoma!”

  “Seriously?” I ask. I would’ve guessed Jesus Christ Superstar or American Idiot. Something slightly less traditional than Oklahoma!, the least edgy show in the world.

  He nods. “It was the first one I was ever in.” He takes a deep breath and belts out, “Oooooook-la-homa! Where the wind comes sweeping down the plain!” He looks so earnest that I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing.

  “Oh my God! That’s so funny!” Danielle actually bounces up on her toes toward him.

  Oliver takes a step backward.

  I crack up just as I take a sip of my drink, and end up choking on it.

  “Oh my God! Are you okay?” Danielle yells in my ear. “Can you breathe?”

  Oliver slaps my back and I stumble forward, still coughing.

  “Stop! I’m fine.” My eyes water and I wave my free hand at my face.

  The theater door flies open.

  I blink through my tears to see Trevor standing there, pushing his hair out of his eyes and looking very . . . Trevor-like. I try not to cough, but I can’t help it.

  “You okay, Casey?” he asks.

  I nod mutely. And cough again.

  “Ms. Sharp sent me out to tell everyone to come in. She wasn’t digging . . . how’d she put it? ‘All that terrible noise outside the doors.’” He steps forward and puts a hand on my back. “Sure you’re all right?”

  It feels like his hand is made out of fire. Which reminds me of that moment in the parking lot a few days ago, when his hand was in mine. And that same hand on the back of my neck the last day of school in June, right before I told him it was over. We’d snuck into the theater and spent a lunch period definitely not eating lunch. Christ, this is not what I need to be thinking about. I need to focus on The List and fixing my life.

  But for some reason, my body won’t cooperate and move away from him.

  Trevor leans forward and opens the theater door, his hand still on my back, so warm I think it’s burning a hole through my tie-dyed shirt.

  “Thanks, Trevor!” Danielle squeaks.

  “Yeah,” Oliver says with a quick glance at the two of us. I can practically hear him piecing two and two together.

  “No problem, bro.” Trevor moves his hand to my shoulder, and my brain kicks into gear again. I practically leap away from him, bumping into Oliver as he follows Danielle into a row of seats.

  I sit down and look to see if Trevor’s joining us. He’s not, and in fact, he’s already halfway up the aisle. That’s good. I don’t need him sitting here and distracting me.

  One thing’s for sure, though. He’s definitely still interested in me, even after I pushed him away the other day. Which means that ride and movie-lending thing with Amanda is nothing to worry about.

  Satisfied, although I don’t know why exactly, I turn my attention to the stage. Harrison and Kelly stand there waiting, scripts and pencils in hand.

  “And the song ends with a kiss,” Ms. Sharp is saying.

  Harrison blushes even more. Kelly coughs.

  Oliver whispers to me, “Your friends?”

  I nod.

  “They have to kiss!” Danielle whisper-shrieks, like she’s in second grade.

  Watching Harrison and Kelly struggle through the scene only reminds me of the one just like it that will come up later with Amanda and Trevor. Except I’m 99.9 percent sure that Trevor isn’t gay. And maybe only 85 percent sure that he wasn’t flirting with Amanda. Make that 90 percent.

  Pottery. I should think about potte
ry and the Throw-In tomorrow. Who needs plays or romantic scenes between your best friend and the guy you’ve spent the better part of two years with? I don’t. All I need is some clay and a kirn. Or tiln. Or whatever the thing that hardens the clay to make pottery is called. Casey, her clay, and her kirn. Or tiln.

  Chapter Twelve

  When Amanda pulls up Friday morning, I step out the door wearing a pair of black leggings and a long, flowy shirt. I have a headband around my forehead and Necklace Girl’s beads looped twice around my neck. Another totally artsy outfit, perfect for the Bohemian Brigade and my new life as a potter.

  Maybe I can major in pottery, and then, after I master that, I can branch out into—I don’t know—painting or sketching. I wonder if there’s a market for decoupaged baby food jars?

  “Cute headband,” Amanda says when I slide into her passenger seat. She looks like regular old Amanda—tailored skirt, fitted sweater, straight blond hair in a low ponytail. “You’re still on a bohemian, hippie girl streak, right?”

  “No, not really. I think I’m tired of the method acting,” I say.

  “Really? Wow. I never thought that would happen. Your theme weeks are so . . . Casey.”

  “Yeah, I know. But I can’t keep doing it forever, right?” I guess I’m still being Method Actor Casey, but in a different way. I’m trying on a new character, but not just temporarily. I’m auditioning for a college major.

  Amanda nods as she makes a right turn onto the road that stretches across town to school. “Probably good to change now. So, tonight!”

  “I’ll be there at seven. And I’ll bring the cookies.”

  We pull up at a light behind a school bus. Up through February of sophomore year (when Amanda got her driver’s license), we rode the bus together every day. We always had the same routine. Each morning we switched who got the window seat and who got the aisle. Of course, the Amanda I started the tradition with in first grade never let my ex maybe-flirt with her. She didn’t even chase Ricky Evans around the playground like every other seven-year-old girl, because I thought he was cute.