Relatively Honest

by Molly Ringle

  “I know,” I said, when it became clear he wasn’t going to speak. “Words never heard from Revelstoke. But it’s true. I love her, and not just like a cousin.”

  His forehead crinkled in anxiety, and possibly sympathy. “Dude. That is so messed up.”

  “You won’t tell?”

  He tugged his feet out of my encircling arms, and walked to his bed, where he sat down again with the laundry. “No. It’s none of my business. Serves her right anyhow, cheating on Patrick like that.”

  I slid back onto my bed and picked up my biology book. “A,” I said, “this isn’t cheating yet, and B, Patrick deserves it regardless.”

  “I quibble with A,” he said, folding up a pair of his dark plaid shorts, “but must agree with you on B.”

  Chapter 16: Fancy That

  A WEEK into February, the whole company was coming to rehearsals more often, as we did larger and larger chunks of the play at once. Swords began flashing on our belts, though our full costumes were not done yet. Had to get used to walking about with all that crap strapped to our sides, Bob told us. The set pieces took shape in the wings, a versatile collection of steps and platforms, easily rearranged. Those of us unfamiliar with applying makeup got lessons. (Sinter gave me eyeliner tips: mostly “don’t twitch.”) All the men were asked to grow thin mustaches, as that was the style of the time. Feeling like a git, I asked what we should do if we could only grow a few scraggly hairs.

  Sinter chimed in, “Or if our mustache won’t match the rest of our hair.” He was naturally a dishwater blond, or so he claimed. The few times I'd glimpsed his roots before he dyed them black, I would have called them generically brownish. After the rest of the cast laughed at us, Bob said we would get fake mustaches glued to our sorry young lips.

  Julie didn’t seem put off by our unmanliness. She made out with Sinter more convincingly than ever, and went on snuggling up to me in our time off. We had even begun talking again, albeit somewhat awkwardly.

  “By the way, how are your parents?” she said one afternoon.

  My arm was around her shoulders, and I was afraid she could feel me tense up at the question. “My parents? What do you mean?”

  “Last term you were worried about them. The investigator…”

  “Oh.” I faked a laugh. Hurrah for acting. “I was totally wrong. They’re fine. He’s just…someone they did business with.” Well, it was true. Misleading, but true.

  “No diseases? No divorces?”

  “Nope.”

  After rehearsal that day, Sinter said he was off to the library. When he had left, Julie asked if I wanted to go to the Glenwood for a light supper. I accepted, thinking I might even be able to swallow food in her presence by now.

  On the walk there, she said, “Seems like Sinter and Clare aren’t doing so well.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Nothing definite. But they’ve been spending a lot of nights apart.”

  “Ah. Yes, I noticed as well.”

  “Also, the other day she went into this tirade about how she’s mad at him for quitting smoking.”

  “Did he quit?” I asked, surprised.

  “You didn’t notice?”

  “No. Though, come to think of it, he hasn’t smelt of cloves lately.”

  “He said actors shouldn’t smoke,” she said. “Bad for the voice.”

  “Hm.” Bad for kissing non-smokers, too. Any motive there?

  “Clare thinks he’s making her look bad, since she hasn’t quit yet,” Julie added. “Which is a pretty lame thing to be mad about.”

  “People do get defensive about their addictions.”

  “I’m not sure they’re a good match. I’ve had my doubts from the beginning. I think Sinter would be better with someone gentler. I like Clare, but she’s a lot to handle.”

  “That’s probably true,” I said. But now I was wondering: why the interest in Sinter’s love life? Was all that smoke-free kissing starting to affect her? Frowning, I held open the door of the Glenwood for her.

  But I forgot Sinter readily enough once we were entrenched in a corner with our sandwiches and coffee. She peeled red onion off the inside of her roll and said, “You know, about the ‘going to Boston’ idea…”

  I put down the crisp I had just picked up. No good trying to eat now.

  Her eyes remained on the little pile of onion she was building. “I don’t want you to think it’s because I’m a weak-willed girlfriend who does anything her boyfriend says.”

  “No, I wouldn’t think that.”

  “What he tells me is, I need to get farther away from home. I’ll never grow up unless I do.” She drew the cellophane-flagged toothpick out of the other half of her sandwich, and got to work on the onions over there. “But home means a lot to me. Patrick’s parents got an ugly divorce when he was ten, so I can see why he doesn’t get it. But to me, my family is pretty much everything. I haven’t wanted to be farther away.”

  “You don’t need to be.” Hm…was “family meaning everything” a good thing to hear in my situation?

  She pushed the onion pile into shape with the toothpick. “But part of me thinks he’s right. I’ll be nineteen soon. I ought to break free. I don’t want to be a coward.”

  “I have never viewed you as a coward. No one in their right mind would.”

  “Well.” She put down the toothpick and folded her arms on the table. “That’s why I’m looking into it, in any case. I still don’t know if I’m brave enough to do it.”

  I shattered a crisp by pushing my own toothpick into it. “Doesn’t your future with Patrick rather hang on it?” Couldn’t believe I was brave enough to ask.

  “Guess that’s another question I’m afraid of facing. Couples go through bad spells and good spells. Maybe we’ll survive the distance if I stay here. Or maybe we’ll break up and then get married twenty years from now after meeting up at our high school reunion.”

  “Stranger things have happened.” Let me tell you about one.

  She took in a deep breath, and let it out in a rush that moved the hairs on my wrist. “But I guess I don’t have to decide today.”

  “No.” I smiled through my anxiety.

  “I can’t really see beyond the play, to be honest.”

  “Me neither. What will we do with ourselves come April?”

  She shook her head, apparently unable to imagine the petting sessions under lilac trees that I was visualizing. She took a bite of her sandwich. I nibbled an edge of crisp, appetite creeping cautiously back.

  “Anyway,” she said, “just wanted you to understand.”

  “Why does it matter if I understand?” I cajoled.

  She sipped her water. Her eyelids crinkled at me over the glass. “Because we’re friends, remember?” She kicked my foot.

  “Ah. Then in that case, I say as your friend that you will make the right decision, because you’re bright and you know what you want.” Which is me, right? Please?

  “Thank you. I hope so.” She put down the glass, and her eyebrows leaped up. “Oh! I have something for you.” She turned and dug into the pocket of her coat. She came up with a closed fist. “Hold out your hand.” I obeyed, and she dropped a coin into it.

  “Aw, a Canadian quarter. You remembered.”

  She rested her chin on her hand, smiling. “‘I know all small forgotten things that once meant You.’” It was a quote from the play – but a very romantic quote, one you wouldn’t spout to someone you didn’t like.

  “Me too, babe,” I answered.

  Over the crowded café table, our gazes held. My appetite, my happiness, and my sex drive slid back in and set the world aglow. With just the slightest dark edge of doom.

  BY THE beginning of March I was quite used to Julie: her body wriggling up to mine, her cold hands appearing out of nowhere to tickle my neck, her scent of floral hair and mint-balmed lips. Sinter continued to benefit from those, as he and she entwined in their gorgeous costumes on their vine-covered balcony, rehearsal af
ter rehearsal. Bev had put Julie in a wig with elaborate golden curls – it actually looked real – and a light blue gown with a satin edge along the bodice that looked so glossy I had to struggle to keep from fondling her cleavage. In fact I had to struggle to keep from fondling her more than I already was, every day. Only my own conscience kept me back now, those remaining mental whispers of Incest! Liar! Cheating!

  Sinter, meanwhile, sent us a lot of keen-eyed glances, but hadn’t brought up the subject again.

  After a number of exhausting dress rehearsals, running past midnight three days in a row, we finally reached opening night. I put on my makeup and clean uniform (as opposed to my dirt-streaked one or my blood-stained one), and pushed my way through the crowd into the green room. The air hung close, heavy with excitement and nerves. Julie was not there yet, so I went to Sinter, who paced back and forth near one of the walls. He had on a uniform like mine, but since I was the Captain, mine had more flashy bits.

  Sinter, however, would be the one to draw the attention of the female theatergoers. He looked every inch the romantic lead, with his black hair curled and shining, his blue eyes enhanced with dark stage eyeliner, and his perfect little false mustache. (Mine looked more like a slug.) I wasn’t particularly nervous, as not much of the play hung on me. But Sinter was almost hyperventilating. When he looked at me, his eyes seemed unfocused.

  “I think I’m going to pass out,” he said.

  “Nonsense. You’ll be fine. You’ve done this a thousand times.”

  “I’ll forget everything. I’ll freeze.”

  “You won’t. I mean, yes, you will.”

  He looked at me in distress.

  “You’re supposed to say things like that,” I explained. “‘Break a leg,’ and all.”

  “Oh. Yeah.” He resumed pacing.

  On an impulse of goodwill, I stepped up and confided, “Think of who you get to kiss. That ought to be relaxing.”

  He puffed out his cheeks. “Don’t remind me.”

  “Attention, please!” our stage manager shouted. “House is open! Gather ’round.”

  In the jumble of colorfully-clothed people moving forward to get into a circle, I was bumped away from Sinter, and didn’t have a chance to pursue his remark. Was he disgusted at having to kiss my cousin-crush, for some reason? Or was it the rather more obvious conclusion? His lessened interaction with Clare started to make sense in that light. Bloody hell.

  I spotted Julie across the circle. She looked stunning, of course. During the stage manager’s pep talk, I kept my gaze on the toes of Julie’s pink ballet shoes, and sent a prayer to the tragicomedy gods: Don’t let me forget lines. Don’t let me fall on my arse. Don’t let Sinter be in love with Julie and tell her everything and ruin it all for me.

  It was time to take our places. Everyone surged in a mad hushed rush to the stage. I overtook Julie in the wing and put my hands on her tight-wrapped waist from behind. She looked over her shoulder and smiled. I felt her breathing quickly. She smelt of dusty fabric and cosmetic powders, like we all did. “Break a leg, Jules.” I squeezed her.

  She reached up and flicked the end of my false mustache. “You too, babe.”

  House lights down. Curtain open. Stage lights up, and welcome to 1640.

  Opening nights are seldom the best performance. They’re seldom the worst either. We had your average opening: a few stumbled lines, someone’s jacket ripped at the seam, a light cue arriving late. But by the end we had the theatergoers sniffling in sympathy over Cyrano’s death, and the curtain call was like getting drunk without the hangover. To bow and have 300 people applaud for you – it’s a fabulous rush. Sinter, Blaine, and Julie had it even better. Sinter got some whistles, Julie got even more, and Blaine got half the house jumping up in a standing ovation.

  Afterwards, with makeup still clinging to our earlobes and eyelashes, and our hair rumpled with sweat, Sinter and Julie and I bolted across the grass outside Robinson Theater, laughing, our breath making clouds in the cold air. Julie got between us and put an arm around each of us. We walked all the way back to Spiller like that. In the stairwell of the dorm, Sinter and I both hugged her goodnight before climbing to our own room.

  Sinter fell into bed, beaming with his eyes closed. I no longer worried that he might have thought inappropriate things about his co-star. It seemed silly and impossible.

  “Told you you’d do fine,” I chided, and turned off the light.

  “Mm,” he said.

  Oh, but the next night. Oh, the next night.

  Not the performance. That went fine. That went better than opening night. The issue, in fact, began at intermission.

  I was in the dressing room, shirtless, shoulder-to-shoulder with the cadets. We were smearing brown and gray makeup on our cheeks so as to look starved and grimy for the battlefield scenes. Sinter finally rushed in. In the mirror I saw him wrestle out of his clean uniform and into the dirt-smeared one. The soldier beside me finished his makeup and walked off, and Sinter took his place. He fumbled for the brown cake makeup. While he applied it, I noticed his hands shook. He frowned at the mirror as if every motion took serious concentration.

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  He nodded and rubbed a smudge of brown under his eye.

  “You sure?”

  He ran his hands into his hair to mess it up, for that sleeping-on-the-ground look. “I, uh… Yeah. Fine.”

  “Sinter. What?”

  He sent a glance around the dressing room. Everyone else was talking, no one paying attention to us. “I kissed Julie,” he said.

  He might as well have punched me. I was that shocked. I gave it a few seconds before answering. “Presumably you mean offstage.”

  He nodded. He put the lid back on the round tub of makeup. It took him a couple tries; his hand kept slipping and dropping it.

  “Where?” I asked. “What – why…?”

  “Look, in Britspeak, I ‘fancy’ her. I know I shouldn’t. I didn’t expect to, but I do. And just now we were outside getting some air, and…” He flicked his hand to fill in what he had already said: I kissed her. He grabbed the gray makeup stick.

  It was too hot in here. Nauseously hot. “What did she do?”

  “She let me. But I don’t think…” He shook his head, and smeared gray across his chin with two fingers. “I’m so fucking stupid. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.” He looked at the makeup stick as if he had never seen it before.

  I planted my fingertips on the counter for balance. I wanted to ask many things, primarily, 1) What about Clare? 2) What about Patrick? and 3) What about me, you fucking backstabber? But there wasn’t time. I glanced at the clock: five minutes till the next act. “We’re on in five.” I took my jacket off its hanger. “See you on stage.” I turned and left.

  I tottered into the wings, bumping into four separate people, and muttering an apology each time without noticing what they said. A familiar-shaped glow of red caught my eye: Julie, in the faint blue backstage lights, sat on the movable steps in the wing. She was wearing the red dress they had assigned her for this act, and she gazed down at her long skirts, hands folded in her lap.

  I think Sinter would be better with someone gentler, she had said. So that was the temptation dangling before her now. “Should I break up with Patrick in order to steal my roommate’s boyfriend? Oh, the dilemma!” All those squeezes and cuddles with me, they had meant nothing. Just the usual crumbs you would throw to a “good friend.”

  She lifted her face and saw me. We regarded each other without speaking. Just as she parted her lips, the stage manager swept through and hissed, “Places!” and gave me a push.

  I turned away from my faithless cousin and walked to the stage. Both Sinter and I had to be there, stationed on the battlefield, when the curtain opened. Julie would arrive shortly. Good thing the scene called for a heavy dose of gloom; I doubted I could play much else.

  Sinter materialized like a ghost in the blue light, from the opposite wing. He
walked to me, his shoulders draped with the grimy jacket he would be using as a blanket.

  “I’m sorry for doing it,” he whispered. “But you don’t have to worry.”

  I glanced at him and then away, already adopting my faraway battle-lookout gaze. “What are you on about?”

  “For one thing, I didn’t tell her about you.”

  “Okay.” How generous, considering he swore he wouldn’t.

  “For another…” He sighed. “It isn’t me she wants.”

  My heart pounded. I licked my dry lips, and regretted it when I tasted makeup.

  “Places!” Stage manager again.

  “Lie down,” I told Sinter.

  “I swear,” he began.

  “Lie down.”

  Sinter left my side, and lay down on the stage several paces away, among the other cadets pretending to sleep.

  My mind was in a panic. What did that mean? Who does she want? What did she say to him? Is he fucking around with my head?

  No time to mull it over. The murmuring theatergoers went quiet, the curtain whisked aside, and the stage lights came on. I had more lines in this act than in any other, and had to stay on top of my game. Fortunately none of my lines were very long, and somehow I remembered all of them and hit my cues. Also, somehow, when Roxane arrived in her surprise visit to the war zone, I did not turn into a stuttering wreck. Neither did Sinter, though I must say the she’s-your-wife-and-you’re-about-to-get-killed kiss seemed slightly awkward tonight. He didn’t clutch her quite as tight as usual, I thought.

  But the hardest part of that scene, for me at least, was not watching their lovey-dovey interactions, for apparently she didn’t want Sinter, whatever that meant; nor the lines I had to speak directly to her, though her eyes on me made me nervous as all hell; nor even hearing her say, “Monsieur de Bergerac, I am your cousin.” No, the hardest part to endure was when Cyrano and Christian stepped aside to have their argument about Roxane, and heartbroken Christian/Sinter demanded, “Let her choose between us! Tell her everything!”

  I could have sworn he was yelling it directly at me. And I had to stand there downstage, smiling and conversing with a group of cadets and Julie herself.