by Cynthia Hand
And he’s still staring at me.
“Do I have something on my face?” I ask finally.
He shakes his head, laughs. “No. I’m trying to figure out where I know you from.”
“Oh.” So he was staring because he thought he recognized me. Or maybe that’s some kind of flirty line. I kind of hope it is.
“Maybe you’ve seen her in a play,” Ronnie suggests. All through lunch she was smiling and breathy when it came to Bastian, practically fluttering her eyelashes at him.
“I haven’t seen any Bonneville plays,” Bastian says.
“She also does community theater,” Bender adds helpfully. “Cass was Anne in Anne of Green Gables this summer. Her hair was bright red. It was something to behold.”
“I didn’t see it,” Bastian admits, “although now I wish I had.”
I push a strand of my newly-dark-brown hair behind my ear and try to think of a clever reply, but nothing comes out except, “Yeah, that would have been . . . cool.”
Who even uses the word cool anymore? My dad, maybe. Ugh.
Bastian’s still staring. “Seriously, I swear I’ve seen you somewhere before.”
I shrug. “Maybe I have one of those familiar faces.”
“Do you do state drama?” Nyla jumps in. “Cass and I do a scene for that every year. We’re the reigning champions, as a matter of fact.”
She and I fist bump.
Bastian laughs. “No, sorry. I’ve never been to the state drama competition.”
“You should totally go,” Alice says, her voice even higher pitched than usual. It’s embarrassing, the way we’re all totally fawning over the new guy. We’re such a bunch of hormonal meat bags. “They give out this awesome scholarship to one deserving senior,” she tells him. “Ten thousand dollars a year to the college of your choice.”
His eyes widen. “I’ll definitely look into that. Paying for college is at the top of my to-do list lately.”
“Me too,” says Alice.
“Definitely,” giggles Ronnie.
“So what about you?” I ask to change the subject. “I mean, what shows have you done?”
“Let’s see.” He props his chin in his hand. “Last spring I was in Charlotte’s Web. I played a pig.”
I laugh. “Isn’t the pig the starring role?”
“Yeah,” he admits. “And it was kind of great, actually, doing a show for kids. I loved making them laugh.”
“What else have you been in?” Ronnie asks.
He takes a sip of his latte and thinks a minute. “I was Joseph in Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. And Biff in Death of a Salesman. And Tony in West Side Story.”
“Shut up. I was Maria in West Side Story,” Nyla gasps.
“She was amazing,” I add.
“I was,” Ny says.
She was.
“I believe it,” he says. “You’ve got a luminous voice.”
I glance at Nyla. Just last week she told me that, even though people are constantly praising her for what an amazing voice she has, they always seem to imply that she’s talented because of her color. “It’s like, of course she can sing,” she said. “Like we’re all expected to be Aretha Franklin.” One of the many reasons that Nyla is determined to go to college somewhere big and diverse and get the heck out of small-town Idaho.
But this is an entirely different kind of compliment. Even Nyla gets a bit flustered over this one. He just said her voice was luminous. Wow. “Thanks,” she says softly.
Bastian glances around the table. “So who do you want to be in Into the Woods. What parts do you want?”
“Red Riding Hood,” says Alice.
“Rapunzel,” says Ronnie.
“The baker,” says Bender.
“Cinderella,” Nyla and I say at the same time.
He looks back and forth between us. “Uh-oh.”
“Nah, we’re fine,” Nyla says.
“We’re good with whatever happens,” I agree. “What part do you want?”
“Cinderella’s prince,” he admits with a laugh.
“You should be Jack, with a voice like yours.” Ronnie cocks her head to one side. “Jack’s the best singing role.”
“I do like Jack. There are giants in the sky,” he sings, loudly enough that people seated around us shoot us some strange looks. “But no, I want the prince. The prince is fun, and trust me, I can rock a pair of tights.”
No doubt. I smile. At this point I’d smile at pretty much anything he says. I’m clearly not doing any better than Ronnie and Alice when it comes to Bastian. He’s undeniably cute, from the front, even. He’s got the great voice. The sense of humor. He’s a fellow theater nerd. And he’s not staring at Ronnie or Alice right now, is he?
No. He’s staring at me.
He’s interested (or at least I think he’s interested, if I’m reading him right) in little old me.
I was just saying I was ready to find myself a boyfriend, and then plop. Sebastian Banks practically falls out of the sky.
Um, thank you, universe?
“Gotta love a man in tights,” I twitter.
Nyla’s not having it, though, luminous or not. She gives me the subtlest of eye rolls and turns to Bastian, all business. “So why did you change schools?”
He stares at her. “What?”
“You were at Skyline, but now you’re at Bonneville. Why?”
He glances away. “Oh. It’s a long, boring story, trust me. There was a thing.”
“A thing,” she repeats.
“At school. I—” He sighs. “It’s a long story.”
“Wow, that’s incredibly nonspecific,” Ny says.
I nudge her with my leg under the table. Nyla’s always direct, and most of the time I find this refreshing, but right now I’m finding it rude. Who cares why Bastian changed schools? That’s certainly none of Nyla’s business. We just met the guy.
“Hey, look at the time.” Bastian pretends to look at his watch, like her sudden interrogation is a joke. “Maybe we should get back to the theater?”
Bender checks his phone. “Yeah, actually, we should go.”
“It’s time to kick butt and take names.” Nyla rolls her head from side to side like she’s preparing for a fight. And maybe she is.
Bastian stifles a smile at her casual substitution of the word butt. It’s funny, I know, the way Nyla switches out swear words. Sometimes it’s easy to forget she’s Mormon, and then she’ll say something like dang or frick to remind me. But it’s part of what I love about her—the weird combination of good girl and badass.
“Yeah, come on.” I take a final swig of coffee as we all jump to our feet. “Let’s go kick some butt.”
The afternoon goes by in a blur. We read for the different parts, and sing with the piano, and get up and down from the stage so often it’s hard to keep track of who’s doing what. Then the audition’s over and Nyla and I hang out for a while (just the two of us this time) in the Barnes & Noble at the mall, where Nyla gives me a hard time about Bastian.
“You’re so predictable,” she says as we walk between the bookshelves. “You’re not even playing the romantic lead with this guy—not yet, anyway—and you’re already crushing on him.”
“I am not,” I protest. “There’s no crushing. Ronnie and Alice were crushing—I mean, did you see how they were drooling all over him? Not me. I have a thing called dignity.”
Nyla folds her arms. “Uh-huh. Right. But you always fall for the leading man.”
“I do not.” I feel like a broken record here. “Not . . . always.”
She gives me her no-nonsense face and starts to tick examples off on her fingers. “Gilbert in Anne of Green Gables. Mike in Wait Until Dark. Elwood P. Dowd in Harvey, which was epically poor judgment on your part, I feel, because that guy smoked. And now . . .” She heaves a melodramatic sigh and bats her eyelashes. “Bastian.”
“Hey. I only just met Bastian,” I say. “He could turn out to be a total jerk face.”
“So you agree that he’s hot.”
“He’s not . . . terrible-looking,” she says lightly.
She finds him attractive, too, is what I take from that. Which only means she’s not blind. But Nyla’s Mormon, and Bastian’s not, at least judging by his rampant coffee consumption at lunch. So he’s off-limits. Nyla doesn’t date outside her church pool. Or much at all, really. She always says she’s too busy for boys.
My phone chirps, and then Nyla’s does, too, and we glance at each other nervously. It’s got to be the email with the cast list. Our fates decided.
“I got you,” Nyla says.
“I got you,” I reply, and take a deep breath.
We unlock our phones at the same time.
Nyla’s name is the first listed.
She got Cinderella. The green monster instantly rolls out of bed like, WHAT? I push past him and keep scanning the email, relieved to see my name listed farther down.
I’m the baker’s wife, it turns out.
“That’s an awesome part,” Nyla says quickly. “I love the baker’s wife. Some would even say she’s the female lead.”
“There are no real leads in this play,” I reply. “It’s a total ensemble. And I’m glad you got Cinderella. That’s a great singing role, and you have the best singing voice.”
“The baker’s wife is onstage for most of the show,” Nyla insists. “Well, she does get killed off in the second act. But she has that awesome solo. And she comes back as a kind of ghost.”
“I know.”
“Are you . . .” She makes a scared face. “. . . disappointed?”
A little. “No,” I say without a second’s hesitation. “I like the baker’s wife.”
“So we’re good?”
“We’re good. And hey—look at this—Ronnie’s Rapunzel, Bender’s the baker, and Alice is Little Red. All is officially right with the world,” I report.
“How about the new guy?” Nyla asks. “What’d he get?”
I lift my phone again to check. “Ah ha! Cinderella’s prince. And he’s also been cast as the wolf. I think those roles are always played by the same actor.”
“Oh,” Nyla says in an odd tone.
I’m not sure what her problem is. “That’s the part he wanted, right?”
“Uh-huh.” She’s gone weirdly quiet, especially since she landed her desired role. Then I put the obvious two and two together: Nyla’s going to be Cinderella, and Bastian is going to be Cinderella’s prince.
They’re going to be romantic leads.
The green monster swivels around to sneer at me. It’s not pretty. But I try to ignore the stab of jealousy. Be the better person, here, Cass. See it from Nyla’s point of view. And she’s probably freaking out because kissing scenes are awkward. Even if you like the guy. I would know; my first-ever kiss was for a play. It was super awkward. But does Cinderella actually kiss the prince? I try to remember. “I don’t think you have to smooch him, Ny. It’s fine.”
She snorts. “It’s not me who has to kiss him.”
Wait. What? I gasp and clap my hand to my forehead. “Wait. Wait wait wait. The baker’s wife has an affair with Cinderella’s prince!”
“Yep,” she says softly, popping the p sound.
I clutch my head. “I’m going to have to kiss Bastian! I’m going to have to practically make out with him. Onstage. In front of everybody.”
She raises her eyebrows. “I know. Good thing you’re not crushing on him, right?”
I feel a bunch of things all at once: terror, exhilaration, the urge to laugh, the urge to buy myself some quality lip balm. I remind myself that this is only a play. It’s not real life. But it feels awfully real in the moment. Me and the hot new guy. Sitting in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G.
“Just remember,” Nyla says, wagging a finger at me. “Friends before mens.”
6
“How did it go?” Dad asks when I get home. “Your mother has called me no less than three times wanting to know what happened with your audition.”
Interesting fact: Into the Woods happens to be my mother’s favorite play. I mean, any show where one of the main characters is a baker is going to earn major points with my mom. She literally squealed with delight when I told her what the fall musical was going to be. She even said this show is going to be the highlight of her year or something. No pressure.
“She could have called me,” I point out to Dad. “I do have a phone, you know.”
“She doesn’t want to pester you. But she has no problem, obviously, pestering me.” He holds out his hands like he expects me to fill them with something. “So how’d it go?”
I smile triumphantly. “I got the part of the baker’s wife.”
“I thought you wanted Cinderella.” His eyebrows bunch together.
“Cinderella’s good.” I don’t even know why Nyla wanted Cinderella, if I’m being honest. The witch has the best singing part, and is all badass and stuff—definitely Nyla territory, but that also could be a kind of stereotype, I guess. Nyla wanted Cinderella, and Mama Jo always takes what we want into account. “But the baker’s wife is the female lead,” I inform Dad lightly.
“Well, then,” he says. “I’m proud of you, Boo.”
“Thanks, Pops.” I give him a hug.
He rests his chin on the top of my head for a minute, then pulls back and looks down at me.
“And Nyla? How’d that work out?” He cringes. “Did she get Cinderella?”
“She did. I’m totally cool with it. She had a killer audition.”
“I’m glad.” He must think I’m disappointed and putting on a brave face, so he drops the subject. I love him for that. “You hungry? I could whip something up.”
“I ate earlier. I need to crash. I’ve been on an adrenaline high all day.”
“Go,” he instructs me. “I will check in later for signs of life.”
I start trudging toward my bedroom, but then he calls after me, “Oh, honey, this came for you in the mail today.”
I turn. He’s holding out a large envelope.
I know what it is the instant I see it. It’s from the Idaho Department of Health and Welfare.
My birth certificate. I’d almost forgotten I’d requested it.
“Oh. Right. Thanks,” I murmur hoarsely as I walk back to retrieve it.
“What is this, by the way?” he asks, reading the envelope. “It’s official-looking.”
Cue panic. “It’s my birth certificate. I requested a copy.”
He frowns. “Why do you need your birth certificate?”
My mind spins. I think about the way Dad’s face will look if I tell him the truth—that I’m interested in finding out who my birth mother is. That the envelope in his hand holds the answer. And then he’ll almost certainly tell Mom.
I can’t even imagine Mom’s face.
So I lie.
“It’s for college applications,” I stammer—the first thing that comes to mind.
My stomach twists. This is the only out-and-out falsehood I’ve ever told my dad, outside of that one time when I was like two and told him it was my rubber duck who pooped in the bathtub, a story my parents will never let die.
He grins. “So you’re finally applying, huh? Thank God. I thought I was going to have to write your entrance essay myself. And I’m a terrible speller.”
More stomach twisting. Even my high school guidance counselor has been on me about this lately. “Come by, Cassandra, and I’ll give you some pamphlets!” she keeps calling out at me whenever I pass by the front office this semester. “You’ve got to make some big decisions. Soon.”
“Well, I’m getting ready to apply,” I say to Dad. “The deadlines aren’t until November or December, but I want to get a jump on it. Nyla and I are working out what we’re going to do fo
r our audition videos.” This is all true, kind of. I mean, I should be preparing to apply for college. I plan to apply for college. Nyla has been talking about audition videos. And it’s possible that I might be required to provide a copy of my birth certificate.
“Where do you want to apply?” Dad asks, grinning. “I want to hear the list, of course, but what’s your first choice?”
“Uh . . .” I know he wants me to say Boise State, but I can’t bring myself to smile and nod about it this time. So I go with the real answer. It kind of slips out. “Juilliard.”
“Right,” Dad says after a long pause. “Right. You’ve always liked Juilliard.” He calls up a wooden smile. “In New York City. That Juilliard.”
“There’s only one Juilliard, Dad.”
“Right. Well. Good for you, Boo. You go . . . You go conquer the world.” He hands me the envelope. “Get some sleep.” He heads off to the kitchen.
I go into my room and quietly close the door. I don’t want to lock it, because Dad might hear me lock it, and then he’d know something was up. I put the envelope on my desk and stare at it like I could somehow read what’s inside without opening it. Opening it feels like a betrayal of the people who love me.
I am who I am, after all. A name’s not going to change that.
Her name.
Maybe my name—the original one, anyway, the one I had before my parents named me.
I sigh and pick up the envelope. It’s heavier than I would have expected.
It’s only paper, I tell myself. Paper and ink.
But it’s also an answer, to a question I’ve been silently asking my whole life.
I open the envelope, careful not to tear it, and slide the certificate from between the layers of cardboard it’s been packed in.
Then I take a deep breath and try to call up the courage to read what’s there.
Dear X,
Melly acted surprised when I gave her the second letter. I explained that the first letter sucked, so the second one was like a P.S., and she looked startled but then she said she guessed that’d be okay. There isn’t a rule that there can only be one letter. She said I could write as many letters as I wanted.
I said, “No, thanks. I’m good with the two.”