I open the app and check the little envelope.
Nothing.
I lay down in bed again and stare at the ceiling. I don’t remember much of my drunken conversation with Trace and Beeker, but I remember every detail of my time with Tamsin.
I fucked everything up at the end, and I can’t think of a way to fix it.
I could apologize, of course. That part would be easy enough. But what I can’t fix is the reason I acted the way I did.
I can’t fix being screwed up about sex. I can’t fix being a virgin with Tamsin unless I sleep with someone who isn’t Tamsin, and even if I wasn’t screwed up about sex, there’s no way I could sleep with a girl I don’t care about just to be comfortable sleeping with the girl I actually do care about.
What happened at the end of our date was a symptom of things I can’t change. So what good would it do to apologize?
Maybe it’s better that I don’t have Tamsin’s phone number. Maybe it’s better that she’s not DMing me. Maybe it’s better that we go back to being scene partners and frenemies or whatever we were before last night.
And maybe I’m a big fucking liar.
Yeah, I probably am. But going back to the way things were is all I’ve got.
* * *
It’s Tuesday night and I’m keyed up. I thought I might run into Tamsin before drama class, but I didn’t. So this will be the first time we’ve seen each other since Saturday night.
On the way to the theater, I decide I’ll let Tamsin set the tone. If she ignores me, fine. If she wants to talk, great. I was the one who asked her out, and I’m the one responsible for how it ended. I’ll let Tamsin decide what happens next.
When I get to class, Tamsin’s already there. She’s sitting between Izzy and Charlie in the third row.
What’s it going to be? Will she ignore me, or will she talk to me?
It’s sort of in-between. She doesn’t say anything, but she nods. The way you acknowledge an acquaintance.
I nod back. And even though I told myself I’d accept whatever attitude Tamsin took, that one moment of cool eye contact really stings.
Our kiss Saturday night shook me to my core. Tamsin shook me to my core. So much that I drank alcohol for the first time in eight years and babbled about her to my housemates.
But it looks like Tamsin wasn’t affected the same way.
It shouldn’t bother me. After all, I decided it would be better if we went back to the way things were. I should be happy, right?
Except I’m not happy. In fact, as Joan comes in and starts talking about dramatic tension and character conflict, I feel my own tension rising.
I want to talk to Tamsin. I want her to say that our kiss was the best one of her life, because it sure as hell was mine.
But who am I kidding? Tamsin slept with twenty-two people before she even got to college, while I’ve slept with a grand total of none. And yeah, I’ve fooled around with girls—two in high school and five here at Hart—but the fact is, Tamsin has a lot more experience than I do.
Chances are that kiss wasn’t the best one of her life.
And now, for the first time, I get why a guy might resent his girlfriend’s sexual past.
It’s not about her. It’s about his insecurity. But the fact that it’s a stupid, fucked up way to feel doesn’t make it less real.
Or less depressing.
I’m so depressed, in fact, that I don’t even feel nervous when Joan calls me up on stage.
I feel reckless.
I wasn’t really listening to her lecture about tension and conflict, but it’s too late to do anything about that. I’ll just focus on whatever setup she gives me.
“All right,” she says. “The title of today’s scene is, Confess Your Unpopular Opinion. It can be anything at all. What’s your unpopular opinion, Daniel?”
Most of what I believe is probably unpopular in here. But I don’t want to pick something random. I want to talk about something that actually matters to me. Something real.
I look out at the audience, and say:
“I believe in God.”
Joan’s eyebrows go up. She’s wearing a red sweatshirt, which makes her look even more like Mrs. Claus than usual.
“Okay, then. Who wants to take the opposite side of the argument?”
Tamsin gets to her feet. “I’ll do it.”
She comes up on stage, turns to face the audience, and bows dramatically.
“Just call me Tamsin, Godless Atheist.”
That gets a laugh, but not from me. I can already tell Tamsin won’t be taking this scene seriously.
But that’s not something I can control.
Joan hops off the stage and takes her usual seat in the middle of the front row.
“Okay, Daniel. Tell us what you believe.”
Wow. Talk about a tall order.
Then again, what the hell do I have to lose?
If there’s one thing I learned in high school, it’s that you’ll always be punished for sincerity. The only way to stay safe from ridicule is to never take anything seriously, never say what you really feel, and always sound cynical.
The day you decide you’re not going to do that is the day you grow up.
I turn to face Tamsin. She’s wearing an electric blue skirt, black boots, and a Ramones T-shirt so old the white lettering is flaking off.
She looks gorgeous.
I take a deep breath. “I believe in God’s love. I believe in God’s forgiveness. I believe that while human beings will let us down, God never will.”
Tamsin’s gray eyes narrow, and she folds her arms. Her posture seems oddly defensive, as though what I just said is some kind of attack.
“So you believe in a big sky bully, sitting up in heaven and judging us mortals?”
“Wow. No. That’s pretty much the opposite of what I believe. Did you miss the part about love and forgiveness?”
“That implies we’ve done things we need to be forgiven for.”
“Well, haven’t we? We’re all sinners. Or are you saying you’re perfect?”
“Oh, I’m far from perfect. But I don’t need God’s forgiveness—or anyone else’s.”
Her chin is up, and she looks defiant.
Does she think I’m judging her?
“No human being has the right to judge,” I say. “Our job is to forgive each other and love each other.”
I’m trying to get past Tamsin’s defensiveness, and I figure talking in a mild way about being non-judgmental and loving your neighbor is a good way to do that.
“That’s definitely the most patronizing thing I’ve heard this week. But of course it’s still early.”
So much for my theory.
“Come on, Tamsin. What’s patronizing about saying we shouldn’t judge each other? And that we’re supposed to be loving and forgiving?”
She’s looking more pissed off with every passing second, and I don’t understand why.
“I don’t need your forgiveness. Or God’s.”
I give the answer I’ve heard my minister give so many times before.
“Whether or not you need it, you have it.”
Her head jerks a little, as though I just slapped her in the face.
“Well, isn’t that sweet. No…that’s not the word I’m looking for. What is it? Oh, right.” She takes a breath. “Sanctimonious. You can take your forgiveness and shove it up your ass, you sanctimonious prick.”
I stare at her. What the hell is going on? I feel like I’m walking blindfolded through a minefield.
“I’m supposed to tell you what I believe. Okay, well, this is what I believe. I believe that God’s love can heal anything. I believe His grace is infinite and always available. But whether or not we let it into our lives is up to us.”
Tamsin doesn’t say anything to that. We just stand there for a moment, staring at each other.
“And…end scene,” Joan says. “Good job, you two. Nice job drawing out the tension and conflict. Okay, who’s n
ext?”
Tamsin’s out the door the minute class is over. I’m caught flat-footed, with no chance to catch her—not with students milling around in front of the door, laughing and chatting.
Instead of trying to force my way through the crowd to run after Tamsin, I stay in my seat until everyone’s gone.
I feel frustrated. But the truth is, it’s probably better if Tamsin and I don’t talk right now. It feels like there’s a chasm between us—a chasm that Tamsin obviously has no desire to cross.
Finally I leave my seat and head for the door. But before I get there, I stop and look at the stage. Then I climb the three stairs that lead up to it, go to the center where Tamsin and I did our scene, and look out at the empty seats.
“We have traveled so far, and my wife is very tired. Is there any room at your inn?”
“You know, most people launch right into Hamlet when they’re alone on a stage.”
Chapter Sixteen
Daniel
I whip my head around, and there’s Tamsin. She’s leaning against the doorframe with her hands on her hips.
“What is that from?” she asks. “A Charlie Brown Christmas?”
She doesn’t look mad, and she did come back to talk to me. That’s got to be a good sign, right? Maybe things between us aren’t as bleak as I thought.
“Close. It’s the nativity scene.”
“Seriously? Did you do the Christmas pageant at your church, or something?”
“Yeah. Every year.” I pause. “Are you going to make fun of me?”
“I’m not that much of a bitch.”
That makes me smile.
Tamsin comes over and sits down in the front row. “It seems like a church Christmas pageant would be an awful experience. I mean, no one really wants to be there, do they? And you’ve got little kids running around and people singing and acting who can’t sing or act.”
I come forward to sit on the apron of the stage, my legs dangling over the edge like I’m Jack sitting in the giant’s chair.
“The first year I did it, I was just trying to help out my minister. The kid who usually played Joseph had moved away and no one else wanted to do it. So I volunteered—with a strong nudge from my mom, who’s very community-minded. It was pretty much like you described, plus a really cheesy set and costumes. Take every cliché you can think of about a local church doing a Christmas play, and that was us.”
Tamsin kicks off her boots and tucks her feet up under her. “How did the performance go?”
I put my hands on the edge of the stage, my fingers curving around the smooth wood.
“It was Christmas Eve. The pageant is always at five o’clock because of the little kids. You’d think that would make it less magical, right? Compared to the midnight service. I mean, anything happening at midnight has its own built-in magic. But it’s dark by five o’clock in December, and it was snowing that day. Not too much—just the perfect amount to be beautiful without making the roads bad.
“I got to the church a little late and I had to hurry to get ready. I put on my Joseph robe and strapped on my Joseph beard, and I noticed that we all looked pretty ridiculous wearing our costumes over jeans and sneakers. But I told myself it would all be over in a couple hours.
“Then we came up from the church basement to take our places.
“There were no electric lights on—only candles. Candles everywhere. I don’t know if you’ve ever been in a big space lit by candlelight, but it’s incredible. The light flickers, and it feels like you’re under water.
“And there was this amazing scent in the air. Someone had brought in real frankincense and myrrh for the wise men, and it smelled…I don’t know. Ancient and mysterious and holy.
“Then the choir director sat down at the piano—our church doesn’t have an organ—and started playing carols to warm up before the show.
“I loved Christmas carols even before that night. But hearing them in a church full of candlelight and frankincense was something else. Then the congregation came in and we started the pageant, and I just…felt like Joseph. I felt like a poor man with a pregnant wife. We went to place after place, but no one would take us in. We’d traveled so far and she was so tired, and all I wanted to do was take care of her.
“And I did, with God’s help. We didn’t find a palace or silk sheets or anything like that, but we found a stable warm from the animals in it, and warm with the love of angels and shepherds and wise men from far away. Ordinary human love and the love of God, come together in one moment of time.”
There’s one detail of the story I don’t tell Tamsin. The night of the Christmas pageant was eight months after my neighbor molested me.
I’d been to church at least thirty times since. Eight months of Sundays. And every time we bowed our heads in prayer, I’d ask God why He let it happen. How He could allow such evil in the world.
But the only answer I found was intellectual. The idea of free will. Which basically means, as far as I could tell back then, that God doesn’t interfere with what human beings do to each other. Because for free will to be a real thing with real consequences, it has to allow for evil as well as good.
That’s when I found out that “free will” is a really unsatisfying answer when you’re suffering.
But that Christmas Eve, I wasn’t asking God why He lets bad things happen. I wasn’t asking any questions at all, really. Something about the candles and the frankincense and the kids all around me in their robes and sneakers, singing Christmas carols at the top of their lungs, just got to me.
I was there, in the moment, feeling something flow through me.
God’s love.
I know I’ll never be able to convey that moment to Tamsin. Not really. I still don’t understand it myself. I just know that after that night, I’ve never doubted that God is with me, and has always been with me, even on the worst day of my life.
When I finish talking, Tamsin doesn’t say anything right away. She just looks at me, and I wonder what she’s thinking.
“Is that the play you talked about last week? The one you thought about when you signed up for this class?”
“Yeah.”
With her feet tucked under her like that, she looks younger than she is. With my legs dangling over the edge of the stage, I feel younger than I am.
“I wish I’d been there,” Tamsin says. “I’ve never seen a nativity play, but I do love Christmas carols.”
“Have you ever been to a Christmas service?”
She shakes her head. “My mom’s Jewish, which means I’m Jewish, and my dad isn’t anything in particular.”
I didn’t know Tamsin was Jewish. “Do you go to temple?”
“Not now. We used to go once in a while, whenever my grandmother was in town. I remember this one time she took me to Yom Kippur services. That’s the Day of Atonement, and there’s this part where everyone confesses their sins. While we’re doing that, we actually beat our breasts. There was something really cathartic about that service. All those people, feeling something together. Confessing their sins together, asking forgiveness together, promising to do better together. It made me think about the whole idea of catharsis in Greek drama. The idea that the audience participates in a play through their emotions—their pity and fear—and that the experience can heal you.”
I smile a little. “So you don’t believe in the power of God’s forgiveness, but you do believe in the power of art to heal?”
“Pretty much.”
“What made you want to be an actor? Was it a play you went to?”
She nods. “The Tempest. I was fourteen, and a Shakespeare group came to our school. It hit me the way your Christmas play hit you. Like magic.”
“I probably read The Tempest in high school, but I don’t remember it.” I jump down from the stage. “Can you do a speech from it?”
“Are you kidding? Of course I can. I’m a drama queen, Daniel.”
Tamsin puts her boots back on and goes up on stage, while I
sit down where she just was.
The seat is still warm from her body.
She comes forward and looks out at an imaginary audience. I half expect her to make a joke of it, hamming it up with dramatic gestures and a booming voice, but when she begins her voice is quiet.
“Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits and
Are melted into air, into thin air.
And like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself—
Yea, all which it inherit—shall dissolve,
And like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.”
Goosebumps prickle my skin.
“Wow,” I say after a moment. “That was good, Tamsin.”
“Thanks.”
She comes forward and sits where I was, her legs dangling off the edge of the stage.
“That’s one of my favorite speeches in all of Shakespeare. I’m surprised you like it, though. I mean, it’s pretty atheistic, isn’t it? It’s talking about the transience of life without saying anything about an afterlife or heaven. Just that we’re here and then we’re gone, with nothingness before and after.”
I shake my head. “I don’t know about that. It could be saying that mortal life will dissolve, while eternal life might still be there in the background.”
“That sounds like wishful thinking. Which, by the way, is my whole objection to organized religion.”
She grins at me, and I stick my tongue out at her. Then I say,
“Hey, Tamsin?”
“What?”
“Why were you so angry during our scene? We’re talking about all the same stuff now, but you’re not yelling at me.”
She raises her eyebrows. “That was acting.”
I raise my eyebrows, too. “Really?”
“Okay, fine. I might have been a little mad at you, but it wasn’t about the scene. It was because of Saturday night.”
I wasn’t going to bring Saturday night up at all. Not unless she did.
“Since you mention it, do you mind telling me what’s so bad about not wanting to sleep with a girl on a first date?”
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