“Perfect,” I said.
“I rarely miss when choosing lip shades for customers.” She placed the tube on the counter. “Keep it for touch-ups.”
I didn’t mention I’d sold two of those on eBay in the past month. I felt hollow from it. I’m sorry, Mom. More lines and monologues filled the gaps. More Shakespeare.
At last, Mom framed my face. “You’re a star, sweetheart.” A weighted sigh. “I guess I should find a seat.”
Did she know she would be watching my first kiss, tonight? I never talked to her about such things. Only to books, and sometimes Marisol.
“Thank you,” I said, making the space between us so much simpler than it really was.
She finished packing her kit and blew me a final kiss.
Alone, I visited the full-length mirror. I topped the wig with my bonnet and tied the blue satin ribbons. Then a final tuck, a shift of pressed fabric and lace trim.
Jase breezed by in his Benedick finery, whistling. “The whole week, you sounded like Beatrice. Now you look like her.”
* * *
True to what usually happened on epic, monumental life days, I forgot a few details, even misplaced entire chunks of time. But other moments rang so vividly, I knew, years later, I’d still be able to press Play on the memory of them like movie clips.
That Friday night, I threw myself into Beatrice. The actress-me floated on her lines, going where she was supposed to go, reacting, teasing, laughing—whatever Alyssa would’ve done. Acts One through Four fused together in one clouded rush, the way time sometimes moves in dreams. The way we move in them. One dreamy blink, and you could be in another place. Even watching yourself from the eyes of another person. Some classmates on the Jefferson stage rippled into shadow, while others blazed, the heat of them real upon my skin.
Jase blazed like a comet. Lovesick characters Hero and Claudio were finally reunited and preparing to wed. But on their way to the chapel, they confronted Benedick and Beatrice for pretending to be only friends and denying their love. Jase was showcasing his best Benedick for the visiting UCLA director. Acting opposite him, I played off his skill and polish.
Because this play was all about trickery, London and I were veiled when we entered the set for Scene Four. For long moments, I watched my fellow cast mates, hidden behind the gauzy tulle Marisol had made for our bonnets. But then, it happened. As Jase revealed my face to the audience, I felt the veil begin to slip from my heart, too. Panic beaded, warm and steamy across my forehead, and I had to stop it. I had to halt this now, because I was running out of lines—and time.
Beatrice. The audience could only be allowed to see Beatrice. Darcy Jane Wells needed to stay hidden. So, as I spoke my penultimate lines, I reached for the only tool I had—the only tool I’d ever had since that day my mother packed up all her books: words. I veiled myself with language and bricked a story wall around the real me before facing Jase, head-on. Isn’t that what I’d been doing for years, anyway?
Oh, just a half second to breathe, before...
“‘Peace! I will stop your mouth.’” And he did. The arms of an excellent actor braced my back and pulled me toward him like a wanted thing.
It’s not real. Make-believe.
Jase set my body at a pronounced angle I knew would look sexy and fierce from the audience.
And now he’s going to...
His mouth pressed over mine.
So this...this was a kiss.
The pressure and warmth were the same as real, if I had to make a guess. But if I’d expected to feel anything beyond biology and moving lips, I was wrong. An actor kissing an actress—that was the beginning and ending of us. Still, I closed my eyes, and the kiss stretched one more beat as the crowd laughed and whistled. Then Jase pulled away, grinning. The director’s notes said Beatrice had to grin, too, but hidden-Darcy’s lips remained still and closed as the scene played out to the bows.
Burgundy velvet curtains closed behind us. Clapping roared in my ears and a stagehand filled my arms with flowers.
My life as a girl who’d never been kissed had just been erased by Shakespeare’s pen—technically, anyway.
I tucked myself into a dark, quiet corner of the wings, the scent of wood and sweat and metal masked by the roses in my arms. I pressed two fingers against my lips and shut my eyes. Still costumed and technically still onstage, I let myself replay the kiss. Just once, and then I’d have to let it go. Just once, before I hid the invisible want of a book-shaped heart inside another book.
This time, my Benedick was not a boy who could act, but a boy who could fly.
* * *
Later that night, music shook the Donnelly house, an overboosted bassline weighting down the classic Spanish home with deafening gravity. Jase’s pad was a good choice for the Much Ado cast party—with an emphasis on party, since only a handful of the guests were actually in the cast.
After final bows and changing into my favorite jeans and black sweater, I’d spent a short time outside the auditorium. I’d accepted warm hugs from Mrs. Howard, Tess, and Marisol’s family. My mother, too—she’d beamed with pride and surprised me with a bouquet of daisies. But after all the sweet accolades, I left the stage, and everything that had happened on it, behind.
Not five minutes after we’d arrived at Jase’s, Marisol smacked a red plastic cup into my hands. I sniffed.
“Relax. It’s soda. Only soda,” she said.
“Thanks.”
She pulled me aside, her voice close to my ear. “Are you ready to throw a few words at it yet?”
I knew exactly the it she was referring to. I tucked my bottom lip under my teeth, still tasting remnants of the pinky-nude shade. “Not even a few. But soon, yeah?”
Marisol nodded once, cracking minty gum.
“One thing, though. From the audience, did it... I mean, did I...?”
“You mean did the action that shall not be named look real enough?”
“Basically.”
“You had me convinced.” She bumped my shoulder. “I’m going after whatever eats I can scrounge up. If I know you, you’re not quite ready to throw any food at your mouth yet, either.”
“You do know me.” I wiggled my hand. “Go forage. I’ll just find a seat and, um, sit.”
“Right. Sit.” Her mouth twitched, eyes twinkling. “You did notice this was the first time I didn’t confiscate your books at the porch, right?”
I shook my head at her exiting form.
Alone with Peter Pan already in my grip, I entered the foyer leading to the Donnellys’ formal living room. The music was a bit less headache-inducing in this space.
Bryn appeared as I passed under a curved Spanish archway. “Darcy, wait up.”
I’d barely said anything to her after her drunken bonfire game night, and I’d gladly continue my freeze-out streak as long as possible, but I couldn’t exactly ignore her outright.
“Look, I was there tonight,” she said. “You nailed the part. Pretty much the equivalent of me having to dance Swan Lake with four days to learn the moves. So, right on.”
“Thanks,” I said sincerely, but warily.
“Oh, have you seen Asher?” Bryn pulled a white phone charger from her purse. “He left this in my car.” She rolled her eyes. “If he was desperate enough to hijack my USB port from his house to Jefferson, he’ll freak trying to survive the whole night without this.”
Wait. My posture snapped straight. Asher’s house to... “You took Asher to the play? Why didn’t he drive himself?”
Bryn nodded. “Poor guy had a migraine most of the day. But an hour before curtain, he asked if I could give him a ride. Jase and London had already left for makeup. He was drowsy from the meds and couldn’t drive.” She shrugged. “He said it was important and didn’t want to miss.”
My next breath hitched. “Oh.” He still came after a migraine?
She handed me the phone cord. “Can you find him? I know he’s here somewhere, but I need to bolt. Rehearsal at seven tomorrow
morning, and I have a date with a foam roller.”
Instead of cocooning myself in the living room, I changed course for the one remaining place I could find Asher, owner of the charger in my hands. And a boy who was arguably too sick to be at a party he’d attended anyway.
Jase’s backyard looked straight out of a resort, even shadowed with nightfall. A tropical-themed pool with rock slide and grotto was lit into deep turquoise. Some classmates huddled around a blazing firepit table. Other groups leaned against walls with salty snacks and drinks likely spiked from more than a few hidden flasks.
The space bent around the white plaster home. I bent myself, too, into a large side yard complete with more seating areas and a jungle gym play area. And there was Asher, sitting on a swing, alone.
“Hey there.” He smiled as I approached, grabbing the thick chain of the second swing. “Take a seat.”
The smart, typically prudent Darcy Jane Wells would’ve tossed Asher the phone cord, thanked him for coming to the show, then spun on sand-filled flats back to the living room. Back to books.
Turns out I wasn’t that smart, after all. I breathed out an assenting noise and perched on the black rubber swing. “Bryn,” I said, offering the cord to him.
“Thanks. Decent of her. My phone’s on fumes.” He wound the cord and stowed it in the pocket of his olive bomber jacket.
I pushed back into slight motion. “Come here often?”
“Just wanted a little nostalgia. Avery and I had a swing set when we were little. I used to close my eyes and get up as high as I could.”
I smiled at his memory, pictured him in my mind.
He glanced at the house for a beat. “I should’ve known Jase would pump the bass. Not exactly postmigraine friendly. And today would’ve been day six of no migraines or dizzy spells. So close.”
Seven healthy days to fly again. “I’m sorry, Asher. The pain sounds horrid.”
“I’ve had so many, I feel them coming on like thunderstorms. I try to get right on the meds and head back to bed. Then I can usually get some of my day back. If it’s mellow.” Asher waved his arm around. “The quiet and fresh air help.”
“But you came to the show anyway? Stuck inside with bright lights and cheering?”
He smiled, but it was only a flicker of movement. “You know you were amazing up there, right?”
Lifting, floating, I could easily drift into a place I could visit, but never call home. My personal Neverland. I slowed and anchored the ball of my foot onto the ground, clenching the chains. “Thanks. I was just trying to get through each act. You know, survive.”
He searched my eyes. “That was more than survival. I’ve been watching Jase’s shows for years, and I’ve seen my share of plays. Have you thought of acting for real? You could learn the scripts like nothing.”
I blessed the night for its dependable darkness, knowing my cheeks were flaming pink. “Nah, I mean, I enjoyed some parts of the stage tonight, but that’s not me.”
“Okay, fair. Who are you then?”
I went for safe. “I want to do what I do best—work with words. State’s probably a shoo-in for me, and they have a good English program. I’ve read so many books, and I think I’d like to work with the people who write them.”
“Like an editor?” When I nodded, he chuckled. “I see where this is going. You’ll get too good, and you’ll be editing me without even thinking.”
I shivered. Could I edit him and me and... Us? Could I strike a pen through a messy manuscript? Deleting London, searching for lifelong crutch words: hoard, illness, invisible, fatherless. Replacing them with opposites and antonyms: clarity, freedom, lovable, daughter. Opened before me, it seemed like an insurmountable task.
“Darcy?”
“Sorry. I’m here.”
“Good. But still—who are you, really?”
I’m a liar. A secret keeper. A thief. “Who am I, really?” I repeated, so softly, even the distant bass pulsed right over it.
“Well, you’re not all those books you read. You’re not even your mad skills. What’s under all the words?”
Each syllable scratched across my heart, marks from end to end. “I’m...”
He tipped his chin encouragingly.
I couldn’t say. I just couldn’t. But I didn’t run. I stayed on that swing.
Asher pursed his mouth tight. “You know, I don’t tell many people everything about the accident. What I’ve lost. Plenty of friends know the big picture, but not the real cost. How it feels.”
“Why did you tell me?”
“Because you...” He paused, shrugging. “I dunno, when you told me about your tenth birthday, I sensed that you’re a person who understands disappointment. Loss, too. More than most people our age. Then I proved myself right when you told me the secret about your dad.”
I wanted to look away, but his quick stare caught my movement.
“There’s more going on than just your dad, though. The deal with your mom is more than cupcakes, right?”
My mouth opened, but not to breathe in anxious gulps—no, not even to ask why he was prying. I didn’t ask Asher why he was digging so deep when he had another girl to drive him home. When he had his own life that might never align with mine, no matter what universe we’d flown into on black rubber seats, with questions and truth and trust swinging back and forth.
And trust. Just tell him, Marisol had said.
“The problem is way more than cupcakes,” I told a boy who couldn’t, shouldn’t matter. But one whom I knew could listen.
“I figured, Darcy,” he said gently.
There was only one word large enough to describe the weight behind my walls. For so long, I’d barely been able to say it out loud, but tonight, this cluttered word felt closer and clearer than ever. If I was really going to trust him, I had to grab it. I had to voice it.
I took a deep breath and said, “My mother is a hoarder.”
Twenty-Three
Constant
“Friendship is constant in all other things, Save in the office and affairs of love.”
—William Shakespeare, Much Ado About Nothing
Some things remained the same. The large takeaway cup, square chamomile tea tag dancing off one side. Sneakers planted on the rug while he read, because Mr. Winston was there. His work clothes, washed into shabby softness. The place, too, my first afternoon shift at Yellow Feather Books the following week.
But I was different. Today I wasn’t just Darcy, friend and bookstore clerk. I was the Darcy who’d revealed the truth behind her apartment door. We were different—the girl who’d told her most guarded secret, and the boy who’d held every word like glass, because he’d known it was.
Did I look different to him today? A “hoardier” version of myself? Even though I’d proven I could reach into my soul to speak to Asher Fleet, there were some questions I was still afraid to ask.
He waited until I rang up two picture books for a young mother pushing a baby stroller. Then he made a big show of shelving a new thriller exactly the way he’d found it.
I snorted. “How’s the story?”
Cockeyed, he said, “Thrilling.”
I shook my head on a dramatic eye roll. So far, okay.
Asher grinned, then sipped hesitantly from his cup. “Olivia’s mom just shared a little tidbit with me. I have to tell you, even though it’s...”
He locked on to my eyes, and I pantomimed zipping my lips shut.
“Jeff Andrews’s incident at the center sealed his fate with Olivia’s custody battle.”
“Oh?” I restacked bills and shut the register drawer. “I guess making a drunken scene in a waiting room, assaulting a lawyer, and hunting you down an alley didn’t paint him as father of the year?”
“Guess not. And this wasn’t the only episode Olivia’s mom had documented. But the judge took special notice, and she has sole custody now, plus a restraining order.”
I sighed in relief. “I feel so much better for them now.”
/>
“Me, too.” Asher glanced sideways toward the fiction section. “Without the center incident, she would’ve had a longer and harder fight. Sounds weird, but I’m glad it happened.”
For a beat, I lost myself inside the memory of red leather and a black ponytail. “I...then I’m glad it happened, too.”
“I’m also glad it happened without me becoming one with alley road dust, and that’s because of your quick thinking.”
“That’s me,” I said, and cleared my throat. “Darcy Wells, actress extraordinaire. At your service for alley shenanigans and last-minute Shakespearean roles. I should hang a sign.”
“Do you also do corporate events and birthday parties?”
“Sure, but never bar mitzvahs or weddings.”
He clucked his tongue. “You gotta draw the line somewhere.”
“Some are definitely better left uncrossed.”
“Some,” he said quietly, his eyes never loosening their hold on mine.
The sound of the doorbell halted the rush between my ears, slowed the blood juddering into my arteries. Marisol was here, along with a grin and the stylish ripped jeans and navy sweater she’d worn at school.
She brandished two Starbucks cups, then tipped one to Asher in greeting. “I realized we needed coffee.”
I accepted my favorite ice-cold treat with a grateful sigh. “Bless.”
“What’s up around here?” Marisol’s eyebrows dived into a wide V. “When I walked in, you guys looked like you were discussing politics or religion or some steamy gossip I should know about.”
“Nothing quite that scandalous. Just Darcy’s boss acting ability,” Asher said.
My friend squealed in true Marisol fashion. “Didn’t she kill it up there?”
“Absolutely.” Asher nodded at me. “The one actual death in the play.”
Even I had to laugh. “Thanks. I think.”
Marisol softened. “I’m a proud bestie. She’s the only person I know who could’ve pulled off that feat. Most people aren’t dealing with half the stuff she is on top of learning all those lines.”
In a quick flash, I watched Asher beeline his stare onto Marisol. “You’re right. And I do, um...know,” he told her.
The Library of Lost Things Page 20