Never Too Late

by A. Destiny

  I flopped back on my bed with a sigh. And how unprofessional would it be to change the play just because I couldn’t stand the lead actor? No, the kiss was going to happen, whether I liked it or not. But I’d just do my best to hold off on it during practice until the last possible minute. Maybe I could fake a late-spring cold or claim that I wanted to have the element of genuine surprise by not rehearsing it.

  Jason wouldn’t care anyway—with how “boring” and lame as he thought I was, he’d probably be grateful I didn’t subject him to it more than once.

  My phone buzzed and I grabbed it, expecting a text from Olivia or Lauretta.

  Practice tmrw after school in theater? ~ J

  The pulse in my throat fluttered wildly. Jason.

  He hadn’t waited for me to send him a text, contrary to his puffed-up declaration in our meeting earlier today. But how did he get my number? He had to have asked one of my friends for it . . . but who gave it to him?

  It took me several times correcting the typos caused by my shaky thumb before I managed to reply with, Yes, see you there.

  With that, I took the script back up and flipped to page one. Now that our practices were kicking into high gear, it was time for me to work on memorizing these lines.

  “Good day, milord,” I said in my best British accent as I read the play’s opening lines, giving a deep curtsy and using my free hand to hold out my imaginary gown. “May we talk?”

  Chapter Four

  So, how was your play meeting yesterday?” Olivia asked me at lunch the next day. She poked her fork at the slab of uninspiring pizza on her tray, giving a big grimace. “By the way, does it seem lately like the lunch ladies have given up? I mean, look at this—barely any cheese or sauce, and the crust is lumpy and overcooked. Where is the pride and joy in a pizza well done?”

  I snorted. “Maybe they’re just as ready for the school year to end as we are. It can’t be fun, making lunches for hundreds of finicky eaters every day.”

  I picked up my peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich and took a huge bite, relishing the rich, creamy peanut butter and sweet tang of grape jelly. Classic perfection.

  “That’s the best thing about making my own lunch,” I continued after swallowing. “Every sandwich is made with love—and massive amounts of peanut butter. Just the way I want it.”

  “If you’d start making me sandwiches too, I wouldn’t be in this pickle,” she retorted in a jokingly snotty tone, rolling her eyes at me. “Anyway, I heard it’s a good cast. How is the play itself? Are you excited? Did you already get your script—”

  I put my sandwich down and held up my hands, laughing. “Whoa, that’s a lot of questions. Um, the play looks like it’s a lot of fun. I got the script yesterday and already read it through. It’s about two brothers who are in a competition for the same girl, someone they’ve known since childhood. Naturally, romantic capers and flirty dialogue ensue as the guys try to outdo each other on winning her over.”

  She put her fork down and smiled. “That sounds like a ton of fun. You’re going to do great. And the costumes . . . they’re going to be gorgeous, I bet. The play department always has a nice production budget.”

  “Well, we can use the department’s costumes, but I actually want to make my own. Hey, speaking of plays, when do we start working on your puppet stuff? Have you figured out what you want to write about yet? I can help. Maybe something about one of the royal families from that time period?”

  “Ooh, great idea!” She rubbed her chin. “I don’t know a lot about puppet plays from that time period . . . or if they even had any, actually. Let’s walk to the library after school. Maybe we’ll find something to inspire us.”

  “Sure, we can—” I paused. “Oh, wait. Crud. I’m rehearsing today. Jason wants to run lines before we do our first group practice.” I desperately tried to ignore the nervous pitch of my stomach at the thought of being alone with him for a full hour.

  All I could do was hope he would keep it focused on the play and not say something mean-spirited. I wasn’t sure I could put up with it today, not after spending much of the evening and night studying and practicing my lines.

  Olivia raised an eyebrow at me. “Soooo . . . everything okay on that front? With Jason, I mean?” Besides the one eyebrow, there wasn’t anything else on her face to indicate her emotions. I could tell she was trying hard to school her feelings on the subject, and I appreciated her efforts.

  I kept my face as equally neutral, though my pulse picked up in response to the fine line we were dancing. “Good, thanks. No big disasters have happened yet, so here’s hoping—”

  Someone shoved into my back, pushing me against the table and knocking the breath out of my lungs.

  “Sorry!” the guy said to me with a laugh then moved away, disappearing within a cluster of other guys. It was one of Jason’s meathead friends—the one from the dance last year, in fact. Figured.

  I didn’t even bother to respond. I was too busy rubbing my sore ribs. Great company Jason kept, hanging out with jerks like that. I huffed out a breath. Maybe I was being a little unfair, lumping him in with everyone else. Still, that small, frustrated part of me couldn’t seem to let it go.

  Olivia ripped off a piece of pizza and shoved it in her mouth, chewing unenthusiastically.

  I chuckled. “Guess hunger won out, huh?”

  She shrugged. “Sometimes we have to just get by until we can have what we really want.” There was a strange flatness in her eyes as she spoke.

  Was she thinking about Jason? I patted her hand, giving a comforting smile. While I didn’t approve of her crush—she deserved so much better—I could see how the pains of unrequited love could make everything an aching, complicated tangle. And seeing my friend hurt over a guy broke my heart, regardless of who the guy was.

  “You’ll find the perfect person someday,” I told her warmly. “Someone totally worthy of you.”

  Olivia looked over at me, giving a weak smile. “Thanks. I know you don’t like . . . that is, I know we don’t always see eye to eye on everything, but I appreciate you trying.” She gave me a big hug, which I returned, squeezing her until she gasped. “I can’t breathe, Abbey,” she said with a wheeze, laughing.

  That got the response I’d hoped for—to help her shake off these blues. I polished off my sandwich and stood. “I gotta run,” I told her, glancing at the clock on the wall. “Can’t be late for geometry. Miss Pawlinski makes us do math problems on the board if we aren’t on time.”

  She grimaced. “That sounds awful. Go, for heaven’s sake. And send me a text tonight to let me know how your practice went.”

  I nodded and saluted. “You got it, Captain.”

  “William,” I said to Jason in a shaky voice, peeking up from the script into his eyes, “your brother has asked to court me. He wishes to take me horseback riding in the morning.”

  Jason stared back at me, his own eyes growing wide. He didn’t even glance at the script. “Henry?” he scoffed, his eyes suddenly narrowing. “What could he possibly want with you?”

  The words and sentiment so closely echoed his awful ones from last year’s homecoming that I got caught up in the moment and jerked my gaze away. “Um, I—”

  Focus, Abbey!

  I turned my attention back to the script, but the words were foreign, a bunch of black scribbles. “Shoot,” I whispered, sliding off the edge of the stage and scouring the page for my lost line.

  The practice this afternoon had been like this from the start, with me flaking out more than I cared to admit. I couldn’t focus for more than a minute or two, sitting this close to Jason. All I could do was smell his soft, rich, woodsy scent. Hear the musical cadence in his voice with each line he spoke.

  Was it getting warm in here? I looped a finger around my neckline and fluttered it a bit, letting the air waft under my shirt.

  “What’s wrong?” Jason asked. I could hear a hint of frustration in his voice. “You keep flubbing up the lines.”

&nbs
p; I turned around, my lips pinched tightly. “We just got the script yesterday. Sorry I’m not as skilled at instant memorization as you seem to be.” Embarrassment made me lash out at him a bit harsher than I’d intended, but I was getting a little fed up. He was pushing me too hard, making me even more flustered and awkward.

  For the past half hour, it had been a constant back-and-forth between us, filled with Jason’s seemingly unending commentary directing me on how I should be speaking my lines:

  “No, no, that has less inflection there. Like this.”

  “You’re rushing that part. Let’s do it again.”

  “Where is your emotion? Dig deeper!”

  I wanted to throttle him. His ego was so massive, I was surprised he even fit in the theater.

  “I don’t have it memorized. I . . .” He paused, a bit of the ire fading from his face. “Sorry. I’m a bit of a perfectionist.”

  “Ya think?” I shot back.

  He shrugged. “I believe in doing it until it’s right. What’s wrong with that?”

  “Nothing’s wrong with it, but there’s a reason it’s called ‘practice.’ We learn new things each time we go through it.” I swept a hand across my face.

  With violin, I was a big believer in first running through the whole piece in its entirety, going back to see what needed work, practicing those spots a few times, then running through it again. It was a strategy that worked well for me, but it was painfully clear Jason didn’t work that way. Nor did he ever want to.

  Stubborn and bossy guy.

  “This constant rerunning of the same parts, over and over again, has me feeling like I’m spinning my wheels,” I continued, biting my lip. “We’re not making any forward progress.”

  Jason hopped down too, looking at me in an unusually open way. “Do you want to take a small break?”

  I nodded, plopping down in one of the front-row seats and grabbing my bottled water. My throat was tight, dry, sore, and growing more so by the minute.

  Jason studied me in silence as I drank, without any trace of hostility or irritation on his face. The frank appraisal made my throat grow even tighter. What was he thinking? Why was he looking at me like that?

  “What?” I blurted out, shaking the water bottle with the force of my question.

  A little bit sloshed out the top and sprinkled cold dots onto my jeans. I scrubbed a hand over my thighs, trying to dry them. Nice job. The guy was rattling me far too easily. Where was my control?

  “You’re not what I thought you were,” he said quietly.

  I wasn’t sure how to respond to that. Of course I wasn’t. He’d made a hasty assumption about me last year, one that wasn’t true. I wasn’t boring, contrary to what he and his jerky acquaintances may have thought. I had friends. I had fun. I was artistic and quirky and smart.

  I gave a short nod.

  He tilted his head, leaning his backside against the stage and crossing his arms. “Why did you audition for the lead, Abbey?”

  I blinked. Not a question I’d expected. I put my bottle down, got out of my seat, and drew up to stand on the stage and look around me. The theater was totally quiet—the only sounds were our soft breaths and a few shuffles outside in the hallway. Plush, lightly worn purple velvet seats stared back at me. Thick black curtains framed the stage. Golden, scratched wood flooring rested beneath my feet.

  A place where I always ached to belong, with people who would help me find a way to shine.

  “Because I wanted to be a part of something amazing,” I finally admitted to Jason, surprised at my frankness. I kept my gaze trained away from him, not wanting to see his face right now. Not when I was being so honest. “Music is important to me, and I love playing violin, but there’s something about . . .” I flushed, knowing it was going to sound goofy, but I said it anyway. “There’s something amazing about you being the instrument and bringing the play alive.”

  Jason hopped up on the stage and stood beside me, casting his gaze out into the theater as well. “I know exactly what you mean.” There was a wistful edge in his voice that intrigued me.

  Who was he, really? Was he just the shallow guy from the dance last year, or was there more to him? There was a lot I didn’t know about this guy, a possible depth to him I never would have guessed.

  Perhaps he was a lot different one on one than in a group. More intense.

  More . . . real.

  I looked over at him. The seating lights played across his face, highlighting the line of his nose, the strong angles of his jaw, the surprising thickness of his lashes. “And why did you audition?” I tossed back at him.

  He shrugged. “Lots of reasons. Seemed like fun. A good way to ensure I’d do something I wanted in the Renaissance faire, instead of being assigned to a job I’d probably hate.” He paused. “My dad was a theater minor in college. Since I was little, he told me stories about the fun plays and musicals he participated in. I wanted to be a part of something like that too.”

  “Jason, are we having a moment here?” I asked.

  He glanced at me, a small smile on his face. “It would seem so. But don’t worry—I’m sure we won’t make a habit of it.”

  I returned the smile, half rolling my eyes. But the tension in my shoulders, my stomach, eased up. Maybe I could get through this without flubbing up anymore. “We should finish up this scene and head out soon. Unfortunately, I have a lot of homework to do. And a play to memorize.”

  Jason grabbed our scripts and handed mine to me. “Let’s take it from the top, shall we?”

  Chapter Five

  The muscular system is one of the most vital in the human body. It’s the whole reason you’re able to move.” Mr. Smith jumped out of his seat, the top of his thinning hair fluttering as he practically ran over to the chalkboard. He began scrawling down a bunch of key terms: “bone,” “tendon,” “epimysium,” “perimysium”—and the list kept going. “Muscles work by expanding and contracting . . .”

  I’d never seen anyone so excited about muscles, other than the meatheads in the gym who did nothing but pump iron and chug protein drinks.

  My hand was cramping from writing down the terms, even though I was only half paying attention to Mr. Smith. The other half of my brain was distracted, which I had been all day.

  It started in gym class this morning. Lauretta and I had been talking and walking our laps, as we usually did, when Jason blew by and threw me a challenging look over his shoulder. One I couldn’t let go.

  With a grin, I took off after him, even as my brain was yelling at me that this was a bad idea—why was I engaging Jason in anything, given how much I couldn’t stand him?

  “. . . bundles of muscle fibers known as fasciles,” Mr. Smith droned, interrupting my thoughts.

  I glanced at my horrendous spelling of “fascicle” and fixed it then zoned back out again. Jason and I had once again run as hard as we could, this time tying for the lead. It was invigorating . . . until he’d gotten back to his friends and they’d harassed him for several minutes for tying with me.

  Put a bit of a damper on the whole thing when I heard him assure them he’d take the lead back tomorrow, because after all, he was in far better shape, being on the baseball and golf teams.

  My cheeks still burned thinking about it. I could either run full tilt against him and defend myself against his unspoken declaration of my laziness, or I could abstain and face ridicule for chickening out. A lose-lose. And a harsh reminder that he was nothing more than an egotistical jerk.

  Somehow, in the intimacy of our rehearsal yesterday, I’d forgotten that simple, straightforward fact. But no more.

  Lauretta, who was sitting in front of me, dropped her arm and reached her hand back to me as subtly as possible. A piece of paper was folded in her fingers.

  I dropped my pencil and as I bent to pick it up, grabbed the note, tucking it under my notebook until Mr. Smith went back to drawing and labeling a model of the typical muscle on the chalkboard.

  I unfolded the
note.

  You okay? Seem quiet. Gym still bugging you?

  Biting back a sigh, I replied, I don’t know why I let him get to me. It’s not a big mystery what a jerk he is. I can’t stand him. I underlined that last sentence just to get the point across.

  I passed the note back to her, shaking my head. After the frank conversation during yesterday’s private rehearsal, things had gone well. Scarily well, in fact. Jason had backed off being such a control freak, and we’d actually gotten further in the script than I thought we would.

  I was an idiot to let my guard down. Something I’d have to remember in future rehearsals. If I was going to be an actress, I had to work at better guarding my true feelings from everyone else, including him. Leaving any room for vulnerability, a way to get hurt again, was not an option.

  Lauretta slid back her reply. I opened it.

  For someone who dislikes him so much, you spend an awful lot of time talking about him. . . . ;-)

  My cheeks flamed up instantly. What was she trying to say, that I actually might not hate Jason? Utterly ridiculous. Besides, I didn’t talk about him that much or hardly think about him at all.

  Right?

  The bell was going to ring in a couple of minutes, so I crammed the note in my pocket and poked my pencil eraser in her back. I heard her light chuckle float back to me. Lauretta knew how to get me riled up by teasing me, but she wouldn’t tell a soul about any of this.

  Not that there was anything to tell, of course.

  The bell rang. I grabbed my books and got behind Lauretta as we left the room. “What did you mean by that last note?” I asked her.

  She waited until we got out in the hallway then tugged me to the side by my elbow. “We’ve been friends for . . . what, almost five years now?”

  I nodded. I’d met Lauretta the first day of middle school. We’d gone to different elementary schools, but the first time we sat beside each other in sixth grade, I instantly knew we were going to be friends. She had a frank, earnest way about her but a warm sincerity that made you want to tell her everything on your heart.