Stage Kissed

by Cassie Mae

  Something rumbles through her tiny stomach, then my hand warms up under her butt. Well, at least she got rid of that gas.

  “Wendy! Ben! If I have to tell you one more time to keep your tongues to yourselves, I’m recasting you.”

  I knead the heel of my hand against my forehead, leaning back in my desk chair in the AV room. If Mr. Steiman didn’t want his two leads groping each other on stage, he shouldn’t have cast two people who are dating. I’m pretty sure every time the script says, “Curly wraps an arm around Laurey and gazes into her eyes,” Ben takes that as, “Smirk and grab some boob.”

  The first bell of the day rings—the warning bell alerting the students who are crazy enough to be here before the sun rises that they only have a half-hour before the rest of the zombies get to school.

  I wish I could get out of it, but Mr. Steiman has one heck of an aneurysm if anyone is late or doesn’t show. Too bad Kate is late almost every day.

  My stomach gets a shot of adrenaline just thinking her name. Abs of steel. She said I have abs of steel?

  Making sure no one is paying attention to me—and no surprise, no one knows I exist up here—I pull up my T-shirt and poke my stomach. Kate must’ve been feeling something else, because there’s not much there.

  Though, having her touch me like that, not those friendly punches or nudges in the shoulder…well, things were shifting places and I had to have her stop before she noticed something else that was harder than she expected.

  The door to the AV room bursts open, and Dylan spreads his arms wide. I yank down my shirt.

  “The fun has arrived!” he announces, then takes a sip from the to-go coffee cup he’s got in his right hand while he hands me the one in his left. “Did I miss anything important?”

  I shake my head, stifling a yawn as I bring the coffee to my lips. My parents are coffee Nazis, so the only way I get some is if Dylan provides.

  “All right, let’s get Nick on stage!” Mr. Steiman waves Wendy and Ben off, and already their hands are in each other’s back pockets.

  If I wasn’t so tired, I’d probably laugh along with Dylan, but the yawn I’d stifled comes out instead. Dylan sets his headphones over his ears, and my eyes move across the auditorium to Nick, who’s sitting next to Kate. She looks exhausted, but she’s laughing at the PDA with all her other theater friends.

  “Nick!” the teacher yells again, and Nick leaps from his seat, tipping his baseball cap at Kate.

  With fifteen minutes left in rehearsal, my hand goes automatically to the Kansas City track. The orchestra will play at the real performance, but as they go from bad to not as bad, we use the soundtrack.

  Mr. Steiman glances at me through the window and yells, “We’re going to practice Will’s dance moves. Dylan and uh…you…can you get us in the right place?”

  He doesn’t remember my name. Dylan laughs a hearty laugh and gives Mr. Steiman a thumbs-up while I do the actual work, skipping the track to the bridge. Then I hover over the play button because Nick is still talking in his Oklahoma! accent to Kate.

  “All right, ready?” Mr. Steiman asks to a very uninterested audience. The lack of enthusiasm doesn’t dishearten his in the slightest.

  “By golly, ruffians,” Dylan does in an uncanny Mr. Steiman impression. “We’re going to get this right before we’re all released today!”

  I cover a laugh as I hit play, and Nick jumps about fifteen feet in the air.

  “Uh…” he stutters, then starts moving his feet in the choreographed dance number. Will’s part is almost all dancing, and even though Mr. Steiman is all about the theater, I wonder if he thinks these casting choices through.

  “Oh man,” Dylan says, pulling his phone out and hitting record on the dance routine. Nick is off. The music and the moves don’t match, and with each step he falls even more behind.

  “There’s no way he’s gonna be ready before opening night,” Dylan says before tilting his coffee cup back.

  “He’ll get it. Anyone can learn how to dance.”

  Dylan raises an eyebrow, then turns the camera onto me. “Then show me what you got,” he says with a grin.

  See…this is why I usually keep my mouth shut. But like any other hypothesis I have, I like to test it first. Dancing is a set sequence of steps that follows a rhythmic pattern. It’s like math, only you have to have some coordination, which I’m not too good at, but hey, I passed the balance beam in seventh-grade gym.

  Though I don’t really need to prove my point, I lean forward in my chair, feeling my eyebrows scrunch together as I study Nick’s feet.

  One, two, pause, step, three, four, pause, kick. Wait…he’s missing four. Every time, he’s missing the fourth beat. I glance down at Mr. Steiman, who’s clapping and trying to get Nick to pay attention, but I can tell he’s about two seconds away from giving up on it.

  It can’t be that hard. I’m not a dancer and even I know what the problem is. Well, maybe… I may be wrong, but from what I hear on the track, and what I’m seeing…yeah, fourth beat.

  “It’s the fourth beat,” I say, kicking my chair back as I stand to give myself space. I shove Dylan’s phone away because no way is he recording this.

  “Watch…” I wait for the cue, then hop into it.

  One, two, pause, step, three, four, pause, kick. I land the kick right on time. I pause again, smiling to myself, and start on count one when it comes back around. Pretty soon, I’m doing Will’s dance solo all by my lonesome. And when the track goes silent, I keep going, using my own “tuner” to hum the notes.

  Dylan’s cracking up. I push him on the shoulder before sitting down.

  “Laugh all you want,” I tell him. “But I just proved that anyone can dance. I’ve saved the show.”

  He laughs again. “No, man… I mean, you were good, but uh…” Then he points to the sound board, right at the bright red button.

  Looking up, my face probably turns the same color as that flashing intercom. Every person in the auditorium is staring at me through the windows of the AV room.

  I fumble around the sound board, muttering a few choice words at my laughing friend, then click off the intercom and the lights. They can’t see us from the stage now, but I can still see and hear them. Most people are laughing, Nick looks pissed, and Kate…she’s not laughing, which is good, since I’m not sure I could handle that. But she is smiling, folding her arms across her waist, shaking her head, and smiling at the AV room, even though I know she can’t see me anymore.

  Mr. Steiman claps his hands. “Okay, that’s it for the day! Nick, work on that dance.” He tilts his head toward the blackened windows. “Maybe get a few pointers from people.”

  I duck my head as they all look my direction again. Dylan pats me on the back. I feel like murdering him.

  “Yes, sir!” Nick salutes, then swings his baseball cap around so the bill faces forward. “Kate, can I walk you to class?”

  I keep my head ducked, but I can still see just enough of her to know she’s still staring at me.

  “Actually, I’ve got a couple things to do before I go. Rain check?”

  He tugs on his hat again. “All right. I’ll save you a seat at lunch. Sound good?”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, that’s it,” Dylan says, grabbing his backpack. “You coming?”

  I shake my head hard, sliding to the floor. I’m not going out there ‘til it’s a ghostland.

  “All right. I’ll see you in chem lab.” He pauses at the door. “You okay?”

  I nod, and it takes him a couple seconds to believe me.

  “Don’t stay in here all day,” he says.

  I wait till he’s gone to crawl under the table. I breathe in and out slowly, trying to calm the chaotic rhythm of my heartbeat. Bringing my fingers to my pulse, I check my heart rate to be sure I’m not having another panic attack. Those things aren’t fun, and last time it happened in the middle of the MESA party—because there were too many people looking at me.

  It seem
s like an eternity before my heart calms down, and the only sound that penetrates through the darkness is the five-minute warning bell. I guess I should head to first period. I’m sure everyone’s left.

  Fumbling around in the darkness for my backpack, I take a glance out the glass to make sure the auditorium’s empty. Sure looks like it.

  I pull the strap over my shoulder and push the AV door open, blinking as my eyes adjust to the light.

  “Nice moves.”

  It feels like my stomach leaps out of my throat. Kate sits against the wall, tucking her cell into her sweat pants. Then she plays with the hairband on her wrist.

  “Uh…”

  “So, are you good at everything you do? Like some kind of robot?” She laughs and pats the spot next to her on the floor.

  “Don’t you have to get to class?” I ask, flashing my eyes to the exit sign.

  “I’m late for everything anyway.” She pats the floor again.

  Hoping the heat from my face isn’t so bad she feels it, I slide down the wall and flump against the carpeted floor.

  She reaches into her backpack and pulls out a pack of Pop-Tarts. She offers me one, and I’m grateful for something I can put in my stomach besides coffee, so I take it.

  “So…you a robot?” she asks, breaking off a piece of crust around the frosting.

  My mouth pulls at the corner. “No.”

  “You sure? Because I’m not kidding…you’re good at everything.”

  I snort. Yeah, she should see me try to do some of the stuff she does. I think last time I played basketball in gym I could make the shots, but ask me to run and dribble at the same time, you may as well have asked me to sprout an extra eye in the back of my head so I'd have three-sixty vision.

  “I’m not good at everything. I’m pretty sure that’s you.”

  She nudges my shoulder with hers and keeps it there. Does she realize she’s touching me? Arm against arm, touching me? And she’s cool with it? Or does she not notice? Or maybe I’m supposed to shrug away and I’m not? But if I pull away, what if that makes her feel bad? Self-conscious? No, Kate probably never feels self-conscious. Why am I analyzing this?

  Her shoulder is still against mine.

  “These early mornings will kill me,” she says, then takes a bite of her breakfast.

  I will need icepacks to get my arm back to its normal temperature.

  “Did you notice I didn’t go over any lines or moves today? I don’t even know why I’m here.” She runs a finger over her hairband and throws her head back. “Sorry, I don’t mean to complain.”

  “It’s okay.” I don’t think I’ve heard Kate complain, ever, though I’m sure she’s the one person who could get a pass for it. “You have a good point. I could bring it up to Mr. Steiman, if you want.” I’d have to remind him of my name first.

  She shakes her head. “Don’t worry about it. I’m just venting.” The final bell rings, and she sighs. “Guess I’ll talk to you later?”

  I nod, and when her arm shifts so she’s not touching me anymore, something automatic in my body makes me reach out and touch her again. It’s just a pinky…my pinky hooking around hers, but she stops, looks back at me, and I force myself to keep eye contact.

  Am I breathing?

  Yeah…I’m breathing.

  “You don’t always have to make other people happy.” I gulp and release her pinky. “Don’t make things harder on yourself than they already are.”

  A tiny dimple on the right side of her mouth twitches. “I won’t.” She stands, wiping the Pop-Tart crumbs off her pants. “And you…don’t you dare tell me you can’t dance. Because I’ve seen your wicked moves firsthand now.”

  I laugh and hop to my feet. “I hope you have a photographic memory, because it won’t happen again.”

  The smell of dinner hits my nose as I open the front door and throw my sport bag on the bench in the foyer. Food.

  “Hey, sweetie!” Mom says as I round the corner into the kitchen. “Perfect timing. We’re just about to eat.” She pushes her long brown hair out of her face and gestures at the food.

  “I’m really sweaty.” A basketball practice will do that to you.

  “I don’t care.” Mom waves her hands to dismiss it. “Sit your sweaty bum down.”

  There used to be a time Mom hated when we sat on her furniture before we showered. Now, either the furniture is older so she doesn’t care as much, or we don’t have family dinners nearly as often as she’d like, so screw the furniture.

  I’m guessing it’s the latter.

  Both Rebecca and Ginny have wet hair, so I’m assuming they just got back from their practices. I kiss Dad on the cheek and sit in my usual spot, across from my sisters. Rebecca goes to grab dinner, but Dad raises his hand and stops her.

  “Prayers first.”

  We all bow our heads as Dad leads us.

  “Heavenly Father, we thank you for the food we have before us and the family around the table. Please keep us safe and healthy, and help us to live in the ways you have taught us. Amen.”

  “Amen,” we all repeat.

  Dad smiles and then locks eyes with Rebecca. “Now we can eat.”

  It’s a mad dash to fill our plates with pizza right from the box.

  “I slaved all day so you all better appreciate it.” Mom laughs. We all join her.

  “Okay, grade updates first,” Dad says with a full mouth. Not only is he the only male in the family, but he’s the one who looks the most different. His blond hair and blue eyes are in stark contrast to the brown hair and brown eyes of all the females around the table. “Rebecca, you’re up.”

  “And put your phone away, please,” Mom scolds. But her scolding is with a quirk of her lip and a look that says, I know where to hit you where it hurts. Do what I say or that phone is mine.

  Becca places the phone facedown next to her and turns to Dad to deliver her news.

  “School is good. Got an A on my English project and an A on my math test.”

  “How’d the game go yesterday?” I ask as I bite into my Hawaiian pizza. I love how my parents know my favorite slice.

  “We lost,” Becca says, looking down at her cheese pizza. “My team never remembers how to run the plays.” She throws her hands up and looks at Dad.

  “They’re trying their best. Many have never played before,” Dad explains sympathetically. It’s tough for Becca, having grown up with Ginny and me playing. She’s going to be better than both of us. And she’s the most emotional, so she gets wound up easily.

  “I never have anyone to pass to,” she whines. “And since no one is open I take the shot myself, and then the girls complain I never pass the ball.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “I just can’t win.”

  We all shake our heads, since Becca’s life is so hard. She doesn’t appreciate our response and her scowl grows.

  “Don’t worry, babe. It’ll get easier. Club starts in a year,” I remind her. “Then you’ll have a lot of girls to pass to.”

  Dad looks to Ginny. “How are your grades, honey?”

  She nods. “Good. I forgot about a quiz in Science, but I don’t think I would have had time to study for it anyway. I still did great on it. Nine out of ten.”

  “There’s always time to study. School comes first.”

  I meet Ginny’s eyes for a brief second, and then reach for my third piece of pizza. I remember eighth grade. That one was a toughie. Also when things started getting really serious. In order to make the high-school teams, you have to be on certain club teams—the ones that practice often and get mad if you miss their practices to go to another sport’s game. On top of that she’s in some advanced courses to get her ready for high school. Poor girl.

  “I know, Dad,” Ginny says, meeting his gaze straight on, a little heat to her voice. My father’s eyes grow infinitesimally harder, so Ginny’s voice loses its heat. “Really, school is going fine. I know what happens if it doesn’t.”

  Dad looks down the table at Mom, who no
ds to emphasize his point. Their words are not just idle threats. There was a time in seventh grade when my grades started slipping. I couldn’t attend a soccer game or practice until I had them back up. My throat constricts thinking about my recent grades in trig. If they knew about those, I’d be so screwed. I’ve managed to balance the horrible grades with some good ones, though I will admit that it hasn’t always been by the most honest methods. My eyes dart to my backpack in the corner, with Billy’s homework for this week in it. Even though he acts like a goof, he’s pretty decent at trig and offers practically every day to “help” me with our class. This is the first time I’ve really taken him up on it. Before this we did the homework “together” at lunch, which consisted of me nodding while he “taught” me.

  If I get a C or lower, forget basketball, soccer, the musical, any club, work… It’ll all be over. My parents have high hopes for me to play in college, as do I, but first and foremost they want me to get in because I’m a good student. And I’m not sure if I can say I am anymore. I could be, I think. But there’s just no time to be.

  When did this happen? I’m not the brightest person, but I’ve always managed good grades. And I can’t keep my struggles from my parents forever. I really wish I was as smart as Ginny. She just naturally gets stuff and doesn’t have to work as hard.

  Maybe I can convince my parents that, with a mixture of my grades and extracurriculars, I’m a well-rounded candidate and colleges won’t mind a few less-than-stellar grades.

  Maybe…

  “Kate? How about you?”

  I shake my head and focus on Dad. He’s smiling, his head tilted. I really love him, you know? There’s nothing I would hate more than disappointing him.

  “School’s going great,” I say with a lot of enthusiasm, which tears at my insides because I’m essentially lying to my parents.

  “And how is everything else going?” Mom asks as she reaches for another pizza slice. “Don’t get me wrong, the day you got your license was one of the best.” Mom laughs and I nod along with the rest of the family. “But I do miss the time we had to talk while in the car together, so spill.”