“I tried to call her yesterday, but the nurse said she didn’t want to speak with me. Surprise, surprise. But they did tell me she’s moving up to the psychiatric floor tomorrow. Apparently, she’s consented to it.”
“That’s good.” Maybe there’s hope for her yet.
“We could visit her,” Jill offers. “Maybe in a few weeks for her birthday?”
“Yeah.” I nod. “Maybe.”
School starts back with a freak cold snap, and for the first time since moving here, I’m comfortable wearing a jacket. Everyone else at school is dressed like they’re ready for the Winter Games.
“I think my nipples are going to fall off,” Chels announces at the lunch table.
“That’s because I can almost see them. Maybe you should wear heavier clothes?” West stabs a cherry tomato with a flourish of his fork then pops it in his mouth.
“What are you grinning at?” he teases me.
“N-Nothing.” I look back down at my own lunch. Today’s culinary adventure resembles Picasso’s Rose Period, blotches of orange and red. I think it’s supposed to be some kind of casserole, but honestly, I’ve stopped trying to identify ingredients. I’m starting to understand why the salad bar is so popular at this school.
“I don’t look good in bulky clothes,” Chels argues, oblivious to the silent flirting happening across the table. “Remember when I wore that cardigan and a freshman thought I was the librarian, Ms. Scholtz? No thanks.”
“Chels, that was Bobby Reed. He’s legally blind.”
“See? Even blind people can tell I look awful in sweaters.”
Shay joins us, setting her signature can of Diet Coke on the table beside me.
“Hey, Shay,” I greet her. “Hey, Lock. I see you’re brave enough to try the mystery casserole. If you die, would it be alright if I took your seat in Chemistry? I’d be able to see the board so much easier.”
We laugh, and I kinda hope she’s kidding. I swear I see something on my plate move, so I push it farther down the table. Silent Steve takes it from me without hesitation, dumping the goop onto his own plate.
“You guys ready for the show this weekend?” Shay asks, opening the can.
“No!” West’s hands clap over his ears, and he’s humming something that sounds strangely like Wonderwall.
“Don’t mind him.” Chels rolls her eyes. “He thinks talking about it is bad luck. Things are going great except we just had one of our prop makers drop out because she got pink eye, so that’s kinda stressful.”
“Can I help?” I ask.
West uncovers his ears. “What?”
“Yes!” Chels shrieks. “This is perfect! You were so great with the set, I’m sure Mr. R will be thrilled to have you. He may even dedicate the show to you at this point.”
“I really hope he doesn’t.”
“Wait.” West intercepts the conversation. “What just happened?”
“Meet our new master of props!” Chels announces.
“Master?” I really hope she doesn’t expect me to have a certain knowledge base.
“Is there anything you can’t do?” West asks me, his chin propped on the table.
“There’s plenty.” I get ready to list them, but it dawns on me he was probably being facetious.
“I’m totally coming opening night,” Shay tells us. “Can’t wait to see it!”
“Just don’t laugh when I fall on my face,” Chels tells her. “My latest character development sessions with Mr. R. have evolved into me spending the majority of the show on roller skates.”
Shay laughs, but I think Chels might be serious.
“We’ll sew padding onto your ass,” West says. “Just make sure you fall backwards.”
It’s freaking opening night. I don’t know how it got here so fast, but I’m backstage and there’s makeup on my face and I can’t feel my toes in these stupid shoes and the mic tape is already coming off my cheek because I’m sweating profusely and I just really can’t right now.
“Fifteen minutes to curtain,” calls the stage director—a boisterous but accommodating girl named Trina whose headset makes a dent in her tall hair. I didn’t even notice her standing behind me because she’s in all black and moves like a freaking ninja. I guess that’s a necessary talent for stage crew. I wouldn’t be good at it. I stand out even when I’m not trying to.
Chels rolls up on her skates, skidding to a stop with precision. “I think I’m finally getting the hang of these,” she says, patting the crazy crinoline of her white skirt. “Cutting it kinda close, huh?”
“I think I’m going to ralph.”
“Gross. Could you at least aim for Jessica Bennett’s hair?” She grabs my shoulders, steering me. “The bitch stole my mirror in the dressing room then proceeded to tell me ‘good luck,’ so I really just want to even up the karma scale. I thought about walking behind her, chanting, ‘Mac-you-know-who,’ but I guess that would have fucked us all over, huh? I mean, can you imagine if—”
“Chels?” I interrupt her, swallowing the bit of bile in the back of my throat. “I love you, but you’re rambling, and I’m really trying to focus on not going projectile right now.”
“Sorry, honey.” She rubs the small of my back. “What’s up with you, anyways? You never get stage fright.”
“I’ve never been the lead before,” I tell her, taking deep breaths through my nose. “But now, it’s all riding on me. If I mess up, it’s not a cute little side shtick. It’s the main role, and everyone will be watching me, and then everyone will know I suck and can’t do anything right, and I’ll end up homeless on the street with no one and nothing—”
“Now who’s rambling?”
I give her a push, and she glides a few feet away before coming right back, the world’s chattiest boomerang.
“You’re gonna do great.” She tries to pump me up. “I watched all of your and Cheng’s scenes last night. They had me tearing up, they were so sweet! And that fight scene between you and Tybalt? Totally scary. Plus, when’s the next chance you get to use a blood pack?”
“That’s true. I do enjoy bleeding on stage.”
“See?” Chels’s arm wraps around mine. “You’ve got nothing to worry about. And you know every prop will be in place because Lock’s whipped these sorry bitches into a well-oiled machine. He’s got both freaking wings lined off with tape and sticky note labels. I think Trina is ready to propose to him, which is probably not going to sit well with her girlfriend.”
As if on cue, Lock walks by with a clipboard, checking over one of the foldout tables lining the wall.
“Lock!” Chels floats over to him. “West needs our support. He thinks he sucks.”
“But he doesn’t.” Lock doesn’t look up from his clipboard.
“I know that. You know that. It’s him who apparently does not.”
Lock checks a final box then turns to me. He’s wearing all black too, which is weird because I’m used to seeing him in a thousand shades of gray with maybe some blue thrown in but never black. It makes his eyes look lighter.
“Why do you think you suck?” he asks point-blank.
“I don’t think I suck.”
“Then why are we having this conversation?”
“West.” Chels moonwalks past us. “You literally just said you suck not two minutes ago.”
“I said people will think I suck and that’s the same as sucking. Oh god, why do I have to suck?”
“What if you made a list?” Chels offers. “Like, of all the things you love about performing.”
“Or all the things that could go wrong.” Oh god. Now I’m gonna start hyperventilating.
“I’ve got this.” Lock sets down his clipboard. He takes my hand, dragging me away from Chels and into a dark corner behind the cardboard lockers waiting to be placed after the first scene.
My heart is thumping against the walls of my chest, but I think that’s still the nerves building and not from Lock standing really close to me. At least, that’s what I te
ll myself.
“What are you doing?” I ask, pressing my back up against the cool brick wall.
“You need to focus,” he tells me, taking my other hand so now he holds both. “My dad taught me this trick. Now, close your eyes.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“Trust me,” he says, closing his own. “I do this when I need to psych myself up to interact with people, but it should translate well. Now, picture yourself onstage. There’s a sea of faces in the audience, and the lights are hot against your skin. Can you feel them?”
I roll my eyes before closing them. “Um. Sure?”
“Now, picture yourself giving the performance of your life. Nailing every cue, hitting every punchline, can you see it?”
Surprisingly, I can. This is kinda creepy, but in a good way.
“Yes. Are you related to Miss Cleo?”
“Shut up,” Lock says. “Now, finally, see yourself after the show, removing your makeup and costume, looking in the mirror, and feeling pride in the job you accomplished.”
I do as he says, everything matching his description. I see myself, peeling off the sweat-stained button-down and wiping the globs of eyeliner from my face. I don’t shy away from my reflection either, and I realize it’s because Lock is there too, standing beside me. And I’m not wearing a shirt. And he wraps a strong arm around me…
Oh boy.
“Now, just breathe for a second.”
I crack my eyes. Lock’s face is perfectly serene as he takes deep breaths. I can’t help myself. It’s all his stupid exercise’s fault. I keep hold of his hands, craning my head to kiss him. He tenses at first, surprised I’m sure. But then he softens, and I fold into him like water against a rock.
When we break apart, his breathing is labored.
“Did I do it wrong?” I ask, grinning.
“N-No.” He chuckles, fingers still intertwined in mine. “Definitely not. How are you feeling now?”
“Honestly?” I release my hold on him to adjust my suddenly tight pants.
He laughs again, this time wholeheartedly. I’m not nervous anymore, or at least, not about performing. There’s something new in the pit of my stomach, a string pulling me toward Lock, aligning me to him like a needle on a compass.
“Five minutes!” Trina calls.
“Thank you, five!” I call from our hiding spot.
“You need to get to places.”
“I know,” I say, but I bury my fingers in his shirt, pulling him in for one more kiss. He gives me a look when I pull away. “You know, for inspiration. Cheng isn’t nearly as fun.”
I turn to leave, but Lock catches my sleeve, pulling me back into hiding.
“Can we talk after the show?”
The urge to vomit is back. “Sure,” I tell him. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah.” He nods, letting go. “Totally. Break a leg, West.”
I give him a nod, and he hurries to the other wing.
With one last deep breath, I take my place as the curtain opens.
Backstage is a wreck by the end of the show. Props are scattered everywhere, and costumes reeking of BO litter the floor. I’m doing my best not to lose my freaking mind.
“Can you start gathering the candles from the memorial?” I ask Tiffany who never argues. She grabs the clear plastic bucket from me and sets to work.
Everyone’s buzzing about the opening night party, and I haven’t even seen West since the curtain. He was magic on the stage, truly. Even when he was kissing Cheng, I had no problem believing he was Romeo.
My lips tingle just thinking about our own kiss before the show. It leads my mind to wander for just a second.
“Where do these go?” asks Thomas, holding up two prop laptops.
“Stage left, table number three, please.”
Man, these people would be lost without me.
“Lock!”
Chels bounds up to me, her nurse outfit slung over her arm.
“Great show,” I tell her because that’s what I’ve heard everyone else saying. Even though she fell like, four times.
“Thanks, honey.” She grins. “Are you coming to the party?”
“Oh. Am I invited to that?”
“Of course, dummy!” She smacks my arm. “We couldn’t have done this without you.”
“I’ll think about it,” I say, looking over her head in the hope West is right behind her.
“West’s already headed over there,” she tells me. “He rode with Trina because she wanted to give him notes on the way. But he asked me to give you a lift.”
My disappointment is wiped away by the fact he thought about me, even if he did ditch me as well.
“I’ve gotta finish resetting for tomorrow’s show.”
“No worries, honey. I’ve got about three pounds of makeup to scrape off then reapply. Just come find me when you’re done, and we’ll go.”
“Right. Will do.”
Chels gives me a hug then scurries back to the dressing rooms.
Another party.
I wonder if this one will have the same ending?
Do I want it to?
“Hey Lock, where does this go?”
The party is at Trina’s house, which is far more modest than Chels’s. Then again, I suppose not everyone can have a famous author for a mom. Chels parks at the end of the street—the only space available—and we trade the warm car for a stiff autumn breeze.
“I-It’s f-freezing.” Chels wraps an arm around mine, pulling me into her side. “And you’re so warm. Why are boys always warm?”
“Are they?” I hold in my comments about the short skirt and revealing shirt playing a role in her lack of insulation.
It’s not hard to find Trina’s house as it’s the only one with the Hamilton soundtrack blasting through the windows. A few souls are braving the chilly weather outside, but they’re huddled close together, drinking from steaming Styrofoam cups.
Inside is chaos. Theater kids are a strange breed.
There’s a circle of people rapping along with former American presidential candidates, three or four couples in various stages of dry humping on the couch and surrounding floor, and of course, Solo cups everywhere, most likely filled with cheap alcohol.
Chels keeps ahold of me so I don’t get sucked into the mass of bodies. She guides me effortlessly through the cast and crew and party-crashers. I keep scanning faces, looking for one belonging to the boy who kissed me just three and a half hours ago.
“Chels!” someone yells from across the room. “We need an Angelica over here!”
I panic as she lets go of me.
“I’ll be right there!” she shouts over the start of another song. “I’m gonna go show these bitches up real quick,” she tells me. “Are you okay?”
“No.”
“You’ll be fine,” Chels says. “West is around here somewhere, just use your gaydar or whatever to find—Oh. That would be like using a metal detector in a canning factory right now, wouldn’t it?”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“Just hang out here. I’m missing my cue. I’ll be right back! A toast to the groom!” She launches into the song, bolting for the other side of the room.
I’m left on my own to stand awkwardly and say ‘excuse me’ every time someone drunkenly bumps into me. The song Chels is crushing ends, but then another one begins, and she doesn’t show any sign of slowing down.
I wander in search of something to drink. If I’m going to be uncomfortable, I might as well be uncomfortable and drunk.
Trina is in the kitchen, hand in hand with a girl in overalls. She waves at me as I pour a drink, but then she’s sucked back into the conversation. I have no idea what mixes well with cotton candy flavored vodka, so I end up drinking it straight. It’s disgusting but warms my chest with every sip.
A gaggle of giggling girls drives me out of the way as they get refills, and I find myself staring out the window at the backyard. My breath steams the glass, so I entertain
myself drawing shapes across the foggy surface, only to erase them and start over.
Before I think about it, I’ve doodled two names on the window.
I can’t explain how it makes me feel, seeing them so close together.
Shadows pass by the window, shapes moving in the night. By the time I finish my nasty drink, they blend together into a tapestry of ink blots.
I focus on a pair of them.
There are two people standing in the backyard under the lamp post by the pool. They’re close to each other, one taller than the other. His unnatural silver hair almost glows in the light. From their body language, it’s an intimate conversation.
The shorter person pushes the taller one, and my heart skips a beat.
That’s West.
The taller boy grabs ahold of him, and then they’re kissing and I can’t watch anymore.
My finger drags across the window.
I squeeze back through the ranks of inebriated girls, grabbing the nearest bottle and filling my cup.
Another burning sip does little to numb the ache in my chest.
I push Clay away for a second time.
“What the fuck?” I wipe the taste of him from my mouth.
“I know I messed this up,” he tells me, frantic, “but I really do like you, West. I’ve always liked you.”
“You have a boyfriend,” I remind him. “And I don’t care how much you like me. You’re kind of a terrible person. How did you find me, anyways?”
“I came to see your show. Listen, I’ll break if off with Seth,” he says, grabbing onto my hands again. “I’ll do it right now, if you want me to.”
“I don’t want you to do anything.” I pull away from his grip. “Other than leave me the fuck alone.”
He recoils like I’ve slapped him.
“Look, Clay.” I sigh, trying to fight back the anger flaring in my gut. “You have terrible timing. I really don’t like that I was your side piece. Then again, I wasn’t exactly honest with my intentions either—but none of that matters. This isn’t going to work.”
Lock & West Page 22