Dramatically Ever After

by Isabel Bandeira

  “Did you invite Geoff to our room later so he can hear you play?” I asked.

  Her cheeks turned pinker. At the rate we were going, she’d never need blush again. “I…no.” Her voice came out in a hiss and she lowered it even more. “The boys aren’t even allowed in our side of the inn.”

  I shrugged and pulled myself into the bus, picking a seat that kept me as far as possible from Kris and guaranteed Ann would have to sit next to Geoff if she wanted to finish our conversation. Unfortunately, that meant sitting next to Red and his endless mountain of checklists. “It’s not like you’re going to do anything, Saint Ann. But if you want to keep being perfect, do a mini-concert in the sitting room. He’s allowed there.” I pointed at the empty seat next to Mr. Louisiana of the gorgeous eyes and accent. I gauged her reaction, trying to figure out how much to push without going anywhere that would really upset her. “If you don’t do it, I can’t be responsible for anything I might say during breakfast tomorrow.”

  Kris passed as he walked down the aisle and gave me a confused once-over before continuing to the back of the bus.

  Geoff looked across the aisle at me, but addressed his question to Ann. “What is Jersey talking about?”

  “I don’t know. People from the Mid-Atlantic are insane.” Ann tossed her hair over her shoulder so it fell waterfall-like into her lap.

  “Now that’s the truth.”

  As the two of them fell into adorably awkward conversation, I sat back, leaned my head against the back of my seat and closed my eyes. I was transported back to the rotunda and the look on Kris’ face before he leaned in and we almost, sort-of kissed. The fire that ran across my skin whenever I thought of that moment wasn’t like anything I’d ever felt before. Thrill and dread mixed in my blood again and all I wanted to do was bolt back to Guanyin and hide for the rest of the competition. If he was trying to mess with my mind enough to throw me off, he was winning.

  When the bus stopped in front of the restaurant where we were eating lunch, I rushed to the bathroom the second I got off the bus and locked myself in one of the stalls. I needed a minute to myself before going back to the crowd, like being in the green room or breathing behind the curtain before a show.

  Stupid hormones and stupid museums with romantic paintings. Stupid, manipulative boys who knew how to play to people’s emotions to get what they wanted. Stupid me, for thinking I could stoop to his level. My chest tightened and I bent over to try to catch my breath. I sucked in a lungful of air and tried to think of Wil and Germany and the Freiburg Christmas market thing he had been telling me about for weeks.

  Crap. I’d forgotten all about Wil at the museum. I forced in another breath before guilt could pull me back under. It was going to be okay. I was going to fix all of this. I thought of Wil’s dark-blue eyes until the memory of golden-brown ones faded into the background.

  Anxiety squashed as much as I could, I pushed the stall door open and straightened my top and jacket. All I needed to do was avoid Kris the rest of the night and, tomorrow morning, I’d be ready to tackle him again. “Just breathe,” I said and stepped into the restaurant.

  From: Em (emkatsaros@dmail.com)

  To: Wilhelm (wmeyer@dmail.de)

  Subject: Museum of Fine Art in Boston

  Hi Wil!

  How are you? I haven’t gotten any emails from you, so I wonder if you’re okay. But if you’re busy, I understand.

  Things are wonderful here in Boston. We went to the art museum and all I could think about was you. It’s impossible to forget you; we’re so much a part of each other. There’s this really awesome statue of Guanyin that I just sat in front of for a while—if we ever do that road trip here, I’ll show you that statue. Do you remember when we went to the art museum in Philly and I showed you Tanner’s The Annunciation and told you it was my favorite painting because of the expression on Mary’s face? Well, this might be in the running for my favorite statue because the compassion on Guanyin’s features is…well, it was like a real person was looking down at me and offering her comfort, you know? I wish you were here to support me like you always do. The judging is soon and I’m scared because I really want this scholarship and I’d love to know you’re cheering me on.

  I’m trying to avoid Kris because he’s a pain, but they keep sticking us together. Ugh. But at least I have thoughts of you to make it all bearable.

  Anyway, love you, talk to you soon.

  XOXOXOXO

  Em

  * * *

  From: Wilhelm (wmeyer@dmail.de)

  To: Em (emkatsaros@dmail.com)

  Subject: Re: Museum of Fine Art in Boston

  Em, we are not dating right now. We should not be emailing.

  I am glad Boston is nice and good luck in the competition.

  -Wil

  “You’re distracted today.” Lauren’s words were a statement, not a question, as she pulled the battered and marked-up copy of my speech out of my hands.

  I stopped mid-word and took a beat to look up from the now-empty space between my hands. Part of me wanted to say something like, “Yeah, I’m just a giant eff-ed up ball of emotion right now with the suckiest speech in this place, so can we skip to the part where I fall apart and lose this competition?” Instead, I calmly said, “Distracted? What do you mean?”

  She didn’t even bother to hide her frown. “I work with politicians, who are incredibly good at hiding their emotions when they have to. You’re not that good an actress.”

  I flinched. “That’s a little harsh.”

  “It’s my job. If I don’t call you out when I think you’re at risk of endangering your performance in the competition, I won’t be much use as a mentor.” Lauren set her elbows on the table and dropped her chin into her hands. “So, what’s wrong?”

  “I’m fine. I just can’t be on for twenty-four hours a day,” I said, trying my hardest not to sound peevish. Let her try being so composed when the boy she loved was ghosting her and when she’s being emotionally manipulated by the guy she’s trying to emotionally manipulate.

  Lauren studied me for a long moment, then reached into her purse and pulled something small out of the front pocket. Without saying a word, she dropped a worn patch into my hand, its frayed edges tickling my palm. I studied the patch, my fingers brushing lightly over the raised image of the planet Earth, the loose blue threads of the ocean waving as I passed over them. It looked like some sort of planetary merit badge.

  “Okay, I give. What does this have to do with being on and making speeches?”

  “It’s a reminder.” She just swung us into weird Zen-mentor territory and I was getting whiplash. One minute, she pulled the speech out of my hands and covered it in red pen and highlighter, the next, she handed me merit badges. “Right now, you have the whole world in the palm of your hand. You have so much potential. It’s so easy to get distracted and drop it.” She leaned forward on her elbows again, her face lit up like a stage light. “But here’s the thing—boys, problems, so many other distractions—you have time for those later. Right now, what you need to do is focus on making the best speech possible to win the scholarship. Have fun out there,” she waved towards the door, “but don’t let all that affect this.” Her finger jammed straight down onto my speech like a perfectly manicured missile.

  If only it were as easy as she made it sound. She probably didn’t have her nemesis competing against her way back in the days of Clueless-style plaid shorts and the Backstreet Boys. “Right.” We’d taken a left turn from Zen to inspirational self-help.

  I tried to hand back the patch, but she shook her head. “It’s yours. I want you to keep it as a reminder of where you need to focus.” Her ponytail bounced with her eager words. “This entire conference and competition are about change. To help change the world, you’ll need focus and determination. To make it in the world, you need the same. I believe you can do it. Don’t sabotage your chances by dropping this amazing opportunity you’ve been given.”

  “Do you have ten
of these in your bag?” If she handed a patch out to every person she mentored every year, she probably had stock in a patch-making factory.

  Lauren’s smile was bright and she looked like she was about to launch into some long reminiscence. “No, that’s one of a kind. My mentor gave me the same lecture when I was in your chair. It’s helped me a lot when I had to make choices in my life. Right now, I have a feeling you need it more than I do.”

  “Just…” I was about to say ‘you have no idea,’ but bit it back and instead said, “…thanks.”

  She nodded, then looked at her wristwatch and quickly closed a folder on my speech. “Almost lost track of the time. My next student will be here in a minute.” She passed the folder over to me. “Go work on this and I’ll see you Friday.”

  I shoved the patch in my pocket and stood. “But we didn’t really talk about what I needed to fix.”

  “The text looks fine. I need you to focus on the delivery for our next session. You need to make the audience believe you.”

  Great. Instead of a coaching session, I got an old patch. Helpful. “Okay. Thanks.”

  “Remember, don’t lose your focus.”

  “Right. Got it.” Between my emotional mess and rollercoaster mentor, I definitely wasn’t going to get anywhere near the top ten if I couldn’t.

  Between avoiding Ann’s endless flute practice sessions and trying not to bother her while working on my speech, the inn sitting room practically became my second room. While Ann and probably most of the other competitors were asleep, I set myself up at the old writing desk in a corner of the room with Lauren’s notes. On her way out, one of the inn employees had dropped off a cup of herbal tea for me and its spicy smell filled the room. For some reason I couldn’t completely explain, I sat the stupid patch in my line of sight, its edges defined in the low light.

  It struck me as hilarious that I was doing exactly what Alec and the others had told me not to with my entry. Thanks to Lauren, I tore the speech apart word by word, trying to understand her critiques from our first session. Too much emotion, not enough emotion, too much showing, too much doing. She said the text on my latest draft was okay, but I needed it to be perfect. It had to be perfect.

  I needed to place high enough to impress Dr. Lladros, prove that I deserved to compete for this as much as anyone else, take Kris down a peg, and get enough scholarship money to keep my parents from telling me I was throwing away a perfectly good free education. And the competitive part of me just wanted to win.

  Phoebe and Alec always said that I either overreacted or turned into a control freak when things got tough. This was the only thing in my life at the moment I could control.

  A little note penciled in the margin of the speech jumped out at me: What does Em believe and want?”

  I looked at the patch again. Life had been so wonderfully black-and-white back home, like a classic movie. Old Em wasn’t caught up playing mind games and instead dreamt of a good scholarship and a winter wonderland reunion with Wil, who called and texted all the time like the perfect boyfriend in an epic romance. Kris was a self-centered jerk. I’d caught the attention of one of the professors at my dream school and she’d remembered my name. Pre-Boston me just wanted to blow the New Jersey judges away with my awesome speech.

  Now, everything spiraled out of my control and it scared the hell out of me. So, I wrote and rewrote, picking apart every paragraph and sentence. I needed to block out the memories that kept flooding back from the museum and hold tight to the one thing that was separate from Kris’s games and my swirling mess of emotions.

  “Damnit.” A cramp ran through my palm, forcing me to shake my hand and take a second’s break to sip at the tea. My fingers weren’t used to holding a pen this long and I ran through a mental litany of curses at Lauren and her old-fashioned way of critiquing things.

  What did I want? I wanted to win the competition. I wanted the scholarship. I wanted everything to be simple and straightforward so I could just have fun in Boston before competing. I wanted—I pushed away the last thought and picked up the patch, turning it over and over in my hands. I needed to focus on winning. If that meant I had to forget every second of the romance-scene perfect moment in the museum, that’s what I had to do.

  No boy, especially a hot but pain-in-the-assedly self-centered boy, would keep me from making my real dreams come true. I flexed my fingers one more time and dove back into the critiques.

  When the words started blurring together on the page and, more than once, I woke up with my face pressed against the desktop, I dragged myself up to bed. I’d focus more in the morning. And tomorrow, I’d raid the kitchen for coffee.

  “Welcome to the Old South Meeting House.” A man in colonial costume stood on a raised platform as we milled around the floor of the meeting house, checking out rows of seats that looked like a cross between church pews and pens, down to their hinged doors. I couldn’t help but pay more attention to the giant arched windows that surrounded us than him. “On December 16, 1773, a meeting was held here to debate the tax on tea that was waiting to be unloaded from a ship called the Dartmouth, docked in Boston Harbor. Today, you will be given the chance to recreate the debate. Some of you have been given roles, but the rest of you will be divided into either Loyalists or Patriots.”

  Red and the other advisors were handing out cards already marked with our names and roles. My heart sunk a little bit when my card didn’t have anything but my name and “Loyalist” printed on the front. “Seriously, a Loyalist?”

  One of the actors in colonial costume squinted at my card, then smiled up at me. “New Jersey had many disaffected Tories and Loyalists before and during the war. If you are up in Boston at this time, you are likely the daughter of landowners who are thankful for the crown’s protection.”

  I shook my head. “That sounds more like Kris’ family.”

  “And that’s why I’m a Loyalist, too. Hail King George,” Kris said as he came up beside me, waving his own paper.

  “Okay, now I definitely need to be a Patriot.” I dug my nails into my palm and tried to force away the museum-emotions that threatened to overwhelm me again. I was an actress. This was a game where winning was my only goal. End of story. Although a tiny part of me did do a happy dance when I saw New York point to her paper and mouth “Patriot?” to Kris, then frown when he shook his head.

  “Perhaps you’re a Loyalist because your parents are merchants with many Loyalist customers, like your friend’s family,” the man suggested patiently. I could tell he wanted to move on to someone who didn’t care what role they got.

  “You don’t know her very well,” Kris retorted, which earned him an elbow in the side from me. “Ow. You know, your elbows are freakishly pointy.”

  “The better to maim you with.” At least my words didn’t come out tight. I could totally make it through this.

  “I’m sure you’ll enjoy the debate regardless.” The man nodded at nothing in particular, then moved on to the guy from South Carolina, who had apparently gotten an actual part in the recreation.

  I looked from the actor to Kris, who shrugged. “I think we scared him away.”

  That earned him a major eye-roll. “Maybe it was your whole ‘Hail King George’ thing.”

  “My father’s lands have benefitted from our relationship with England. Besides, our governor, who happens to be Benjamin Franklin’s son, supports the king, so why shouldn’t I?” His expression was a mixture of amused and superior. He tilted up his chin proudly. “I need to think of Lambert’s fields first.”

  I watched him with amusement. This was a side of Kris I’d never seen before and, even though most of me wanted to bolt away, another part of me wanted to keep as close as possible to see if he could keep it up. “Now who’s getting into character?” Around us, everyone else found their seats. Weighing the option of sitting up on the second level against being closer to the action by sitting in one of the pens down on the main floor, I finally slid in to the row closest t
o us and Kris followed. His leg pressed against mine and, as a constant static hum of energy took over every inch of me that touched him, I regretted my decision. I shifted slightly to break the contact, pretending to fix the skirt on my awesome vintage nineteen-sixties dress. I needed to tug it down, anyway, because the short skirt rode up to show more leg than he needed to see.

  “I saw we were coming here and did some research last night. You know that’s where our town got its name, right? Lambert’s fields? I probably had a few Loyalists in the family, but maybe they ended up becoming my Canadian cousins when England lost the war and Loyalists moved north.”

  He really did look like a kid who had just been offered a pony and a treehouse full of candy. I tilted my head and tried to reconcile this Kris with all the other versions of him I knew. “I didn’t know about the Lambertfield thing. That’s funny. Still, I know I would have been a Patriot back then. Down with the king and all that.”

  “Well, you’re a Loyalist now.” Kris moved slightly to flick the card in my hand, his leg back to pressing against mine. Now his hip touched my hip, too. “I thought you liked acting. Act.”

  I thought about my own ancestors, none of whom were anywhere near Lambertfield during the Revolution. Dad’s family was back in Greece, where Yiayia joked we could trace everything back to Adam and Eve immigrating to Larissa. Mom’s family was either somewhere down South or still back in Africa. Even with Dad’s family history, it was weird to imagine being able to talk about somewhere your entire family was from. Kris didn’t even have to think of a character, but me—“I’ll take the merchant thing, then. Or maybe I’m just trying to impress a Loyalist boy.” If I was going to get into character, I might as well kill two birds with one stone. I bat my eyelashes at him like Mary Pickford in one of her silent films, all big eyes and overdramatic gestures.