Always Never Yours

by Emily Wibberley

  “Good luck,” Rose wishes weakly as I run out the door.

  * * *

  Trying to force the conversation from my head, I get into my car and crank up the volume on the stereo, even though I’m in no mood for the Mumford & Sons CD well-intentioned Madeleine burned for me.

  I drive to the Redwood Highway for the first time in months. The clouds hang low and heavy in the sky, and the rain patters my windows insistently—it’s a constant presence this time of year. I don’t get out of Stillmont often, because there’s not much to do outside town. The all-ages club on Route 46 straight-up sucks, and I hardly ever drag Madeleine to concerts in Ashland. Her indie-folk playlists tend not to overlap with my Ramones and Nirvana.

  The only other reason I have to take the highway up through the hundred-foot redwoods is SOTI. Specifically, the June and December Mainstage Productions. It hurt the first few times I went by myself after my mom moved. We used to go as a family before the divorce, but without my mom to persuade my dad to come, I weighed whether I wanted to go on my own. In the end, I decided the opportunity to watch the best student theater in Oregon was too important to pass up. I’ve gone to every production in the past three years, from Othello to Chicago.

  Which is how I know the hour-long drive through the forest by heart. With nothing but the trees to look at, my mind returns to the picture-perfect homes in the real-estate catalog, and I reach for my phone without a second thought to call Madeleine and tell her everything over speaker phone. She’s the perfect listener—she doesn’t sugarcoat or force advice on me, she just lets me talk. It helps a little, the way it always has.

  When we hang up, the redwoods have given way to the strip malls and college-town shops of Ashland. I park in the visitor parking lot outside SOTI’s geometric concrete buildings and take a moment to try to dispel the twin discouragements of rehearsal and my fight with Dad. Not how I want to feel before the most important interview of my life.

  I’m not like most SOTI students, who go there because they love theater. I’m the opposite—I love theater because of SOTI. Before I cared or even knew I lived near one of the best drama schools in the country, I was being dragged to Mainstage Productions twice a year. I complained every time, but whenever I glumly questioned why we had to go, Mom would explain theater was important to our family. She loved to tell the story of how she and Dad fell in love when they both were stagehands in a college production of My Fair Lady.

  I never cared about that until eighth grade, when everything changed. I could feel my family falling apart around me—every morning beginning with a whispered fight and every night ending with my dad sleeping on the couch. I know now that when Mom announced we were going to A Midsummer Night’s Dream, it was a final effort to rekindle what they’d lost. It didn’t work, obviously, but when the curtain closed, I realized I hadn’t felt my family fracturing for three magical hours. My dad held my mom’s hand, and at intermission they even laughed while trying to explain the story to thirteen-year-old me.

  I didn’t realize it until that Midsummer Night’s Dream performance, but theater was never just an outing for my family. It was a time when we were a unit. No matter how briefly, no matter how ugly things were when we got home. There’s something about theater, an immediacy that brings stories to life in a way nothing can tarnish. You can put down a book or pause a movie, but a play is breathing right in front of you—it refuses to be stopped. It’s why I joined drama freshman year, and it’s what I’ve held on to ever since.

  I pull up a campus map on my phone and head toward the directing department. My interview is in Professor Salsbury’s office, which looks like it’s next to a black box theater, a small performance space with only a couple of rows of chairs and without a backstage. Once I step inside the building, I glance into the theater, where a couple students are putting blocking tape on the floor.

  I hear them swapping notes on scenic interpretation in theater shorthand, and for a moment I feel like I’m exactly where I belong. It doesn’t matter where my parents live. This is everything I need. This will be my home.

  Feeling a rush of confidence, I knock on Professor Salsbury’s door and walk in when he calls, “It’s open!”

  He’s sitting at his desk, poring over a play. His rumpled gray oxford looks like he slept in it, and he doesn’t seem much older than a student himself. “Hey, Megan, it’s great to meet you!” he says with disarming enthusiasm.

  “Uh, yeah, uh, thank you for having me.” I take a seat opposite his desk. “I brought a résumé, if you want to have a look . . . ?”

  “Prepared!” He reaches for the paper in my hand, his eyes lighting up. “I like that.” He studies it for a moment, and I feel myself relax at his approving expression. “You’ve directed an impressive diversity of material. For someone your age, especially,” he continues. “I notice you’ve met the lighting and set design requirements—great experiences to have.”

  “They were,” I jump in. “They really helped me decide how to direct Twelfth Night.”

  He nods, briefly glancing up at me. His eyes return to the page. “You’ve done a musical—West Side Story, a favorite of mine—and a couple of experimental pieces, but it looks like a lot of your work has been in Shakespeare.”

  “He’s the best,” I say. “Really original opinion, I know.”

  He laughs and sets the résumé down. Then he looks me right in the eye. “So why directing, Megan?”

  I’m ready for this question. “Because theater feels like home. It’s the one place where I’m part of something that can bring people together or transport them,” I finish decisively.

  “It’s clear you love theater.” He studies me, his voice growing more serious. “But I want to know why you’re a director.”

  “I’m really not a natural actor,” I say. “I never feel comfortable or genuine or creative when I have an audience.”

  Salsbury gives me a gentle smile. “Well, you’ll have to get used to it to some degree. We do have an acting requirement, which I see you haven’t fulfilled yet.”

  “Not to worry,” I reply lightly. “I’m getting through it.”

  “Getting through it is one thing.” His smile falters. “The requirement is there for a reason. Uncomfortable though it is to have an audience, learning how to inhabit a role will give you a deeper understanding of the emotions you’ll need to bring out in every scene. It’ll make you a better director. Even Shakespeare probably learned a thing or two from performing in his own plays.”

  My stomach sinks. Not just because Salsbury’s eyeing me with a new uncertainty—because I know he’s right. It seemed easy to brush off Jody’s criticism in rehearsal and tell myself I don’t care. But if I want to be a real director, I can’t dismiss performing on stage just because it makes me uncomfortable.

  “You wouldn’t happen to be in Stillmont’s Romeo and Juliet, would you?” His question surprises me. The professors here don’t seriously keep tabs on every local high-school production, do they?

  My hands start to sweat, and I fold them in my lap. “I’m, um . . .” No point in hiding it. “I’m Juliet.”

  Salsbury’s eyes light up once more. “Well, I’m looking forward to seeing your performance.”

  “You—what?” I stutter.

  “In December,” he answers. “You know, the high-school feature at the Oregon Shakespeare Festival. A group of faculty members and I go every year.”

  Of course. Of. Course.

  Just when I thought the Juliet situation couldn’t possibly get worse. It was enough to play a lead in front of Jody, my entire school, and the ardent Shakespeare enthusiasts who attend the festival. Now I have to go on stage knowing I’m being evaluated by the faculty of my dream university. I remember Anthony telling me Juilliard people would be there, critiquing him, but acting is what Anthony’s good at. It’s what he’s spent countless hours perfecting. I’m going t
o look ridiculous, and everyone there from SOTI will be watching.

  I force a smile. “I . . . look forward to seeing you there,” I manage.

  SEVEN

  CHORUS: Now old desire doth in his deathbed lie,

  And young affection gapes to be his heir.

  That fair for which love groaned for and would die,

  With tender Juliet matched, is now not fair.

  II.prologue.1–4

  WHEN I WALK INTO REHEARSAL ON MONDAY, I notice the Rent bed’s nowhere in sight. Thank god. The front of the room isn’t set for a scene, and I know that can only mean one thing—Jody’s doing a one-on-one with someone who has a monologue. I just hope it’s not me. She comes out of her office, and I begin involuntarily fidgeting while the rest of the class files in. She watches silently until everyone’s in their seats and the bell rings.

  “Anthony,” she calls, and I feel my shoulders sag in relief. “It’s monologue time.” Anthony fist-pumps in his seat, obviously excited for an hour of uninterrupted work on his part. “The rest of you,” she continues, “pair up, work on memorizing.”

  My relief turns to irritation. Anthony would’ve been my partner. Without him, I search the room for a replacement. Everyone’s pairing off. I notice Tyler looking at me with an inquisitive eyebrow raised. There’s a certain logic to Romeo and Juliet working together, I know. But after Friday’s bedroom scene and Madeleine’s confusing intimations about Tyler’s and my first time, I want space from him even more than usual.

  I pointedly look elsewhere, and my eyes lock on to a familiar crop of black hair. Owen is talking to Alyssa. Before she can get her claws into him, I dart over and grab him by the sleeve. “I need you . . .” I say into his ear, pushing him forward.

  He turns, his startled expression—his default, I’ve come to understand—returning, one long eyebrow curving upward questioningly. “Common sense dictates your partner’s over there.” He nods in Tyler’s direction. “You know, Romeo?”

  I make a face. “Romeo and Juliet? No, no, no,” I scoff. “Friar Lawrence and Juliet, now they have a lot to work with.”

  Owen cracks up. He looks over his shoulder, where Tyler’s dramatically proffering his hand to a group of sophomore girls. “He is being particularly obnoxious today.”

  We walk out into the hallway and toward the auditorium. Jody demands silence for her one-on-one rehearsals, and while we’d normally take the chance to rehearse outside, it’s raining today. So instead, we’re headed to the theater, which offers enough space for pairs to rehearse in corners of the room without overhearing each other’s every word.

  Still, the cavernous space sometimes echoes irritatingly. When the door swings shut behind us, I steer Owen down the aisle to the stage. “You want to run lines on stage?” He sounds incredulous.

  “Of course not.” I open the door to the left of the front row. “We’re going backstage. I have a key to the green room. It’s quiet in there.”

  I lead him up the darkened staircase, through the empty wings, and to the locked room behind the stage. Owen follows me, his footfalls softly crunching on the cheap carpet of the stairs. I figure he’s studying the cast-and-crew photos lining the wall from productions before my time. I know them by heart—2001’s Beauty and the Beast, 2005’s Grease, 2014’s Much Ado About Nothing. I remember being crestfallen to learn they’d done Much Ado right before I started high school.

  We reach the upper level. What passes for a green room at Stillmont is more of a hallway. It’s long and narrow, with only a single couch covered in dubious stains.

  Owen looks around when I close the door. “If Will comes by and you guys start making eyes at each other again, I’m out of here. This is way too intimate a setting.” He drops onto the couch.

  “If Will comes by, I’d want you out.” I shrug. “The things we could do on this couch . . .”

  Owen winces with exaggerated disgust. “Way more imagery than I wanted.”

  I collapse next to him. “If only it was more than imagery. It’s not like he’s made a move or anything,” I say with more frustration than I intend to show.

  I know he notices from the way his expression softens. “Don’t read into it. Will . . . is new-hot.”

  I wrinkle my nose. “He’s what?”

  “You know, like new-money.” Owen gestures in the air, his knees jutting far over the edge of the couch. “Will’s new-hot,” he says. “He doesn’t know the etiquette for these situations.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “These situations?”

  “Like . . .” I catch him blushing. “Having a girl, um, interested in him.”

  “Interested would be putting it mildly,” I declare. “You’re his friend. Feel free to nudge him in my direction, or, you know, shove him forcibly,” I say half-jokingly, pulling out my script and opening it to Act V. “You want to run your scene with Friar John?”

  “Want would be putting it generously.” His lips curl faintly, and I let out a laugh. He’s quick on his feet, I find myself thinking, not for the first time. “But yeah, I guess,” he adds.

  I open to Scene ii and say loudly and clearly, “Holy Franciscan Friar, brother, ho!” Owen jerks back, and I point at the page. “No, really, that’s Friar John’s line.”

  He glances down. “Right.” He looks up, trying not to read from the script. He swallows uncomfortably. “This same should be the voice of Friar John. Welcome”—his eyes flit to the page—“from Mantua,” he finishes.

  “That doesn’t count,” I cut in. “You haven’t even started memorizing, have you?”

  “I haven’t had a lot of time,” he grumbles, agitatedly bouncing his knee once or twice. “I had a breakthrough on my next play, and I spent the weekend outlining.”

  Curious, I set the script down. “Wait, really? Can I see it?”

  “No!” he blurts out, then looks uncomfortable. “It’s just, it’s nowhere near ready,” he says, rubbing his neck.

  “What’s it about?” I haven’t exactly met very many teenage playwrights, and I guess I want to know what Owen Okita in particular writes about.

  Owen turns his deepest-ever shade of red. “I got inspired by the conversation we had last week, actually.”

  “Wow.” I put a hand on my chest, jokingly flattered. “I’ve always wanted to be immortalized in drama.”

  He smiles slightly. “It’s about Rosaline. From Romeo and Juliet,” he continues. “There’s, like, nothing about her in the play, but in Shakespeare’s Verona, she could have a life and a story of her own. She could be more than an early piece in someone else’s love story.”

  His words deflate me. I’m a little more disappointed than I’d like to admit that this is the inspiration Owen drew from me. “Rosaline’s story isn’t as interesting as Juliet’s,” I say softly. “That’s kind of the whole point.”

  “It could be interesting.” Owen sounds defensive, and I don’t blame him. I did just diss his play. “But I’ve been having trouble getting into Rosaline’s head.”

  “Hence the weekend of not memorizing your lines,” I say.

  He shrugs. “There’s just not that much about her in Romeo and Juliet, and it’s hard to get into the mindset of this minor character who’s left in a strange position from the events of the play.” He folds the spine of the script in his lap, his thumb stained dark blue with ink. “I have to find her direction. Is she heartbroken? Or maybe she’s embittered and pleased with Romeo’s death.”

  “Or she knows fate won’t give her some star-crossed love, and she’s trying to convince herself it’s a good thing.” The thought leaps to my lips before I know where it comes from. Hoping Owen doesn’t read something more into my comment, I stand up sharply.

  He only nods carefully. “That’s really good,” he says, his eyes going distant. He looks like he’s in a different world, or just in his head. It’s the look I saw in the wood
s and in the restaurant at the cast party—and on his sharp features it’s entirely flattering.

  Someone knocks on the green room door, and Owen blinks. I feel an unfamiliar disappointment when that faraway look disappears from his face. I drag myself to the door, hoping it’s not Jody or someone else coming to yell at us—we’re not actually supposed to be in the green room unsupervised.

  Instead, I find Madeleine on the other side of the door, fussing with the strings on her Stillmont High sweatshirt and wearing a nervous, giddy smile. “Hey, Madeleine. Everyone doesn’t know we’re back here, right?” I quickly check behind her.

  “What?” She looks thrown. “No, Tyler told me you guys were in the auditorium, and I figured you’d be in here . . .” She pauses, visibly uncomfortable. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

  “Yeah.” I open the door wider. “What’s up?”

  “Um.” She peers behind me to Owen sitting on the couch. “Just you?”

  “Right. Of course,” I say, remembering our talk in the bathroom and realizing exactly what’s on her mind. I step into the wings and shut the green room door behind me. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with the extraordinarily good mood Tyler’s in today, would it?” I ask as Madeleine leads me out of Owen’s earshot.

  She turns to me with a tentative smile. “We had sex.”

  “You had sex this weekend and waited until the end of the school day to tell me? I demand details in reparations.” I cross my arms with mock-sternness.

  She chews her lip. “Really? I’d understand if—”

  “Madeleine, stop,” I tell her, dropping my arms to my sides and meeting her eyes. “I’m your best friend. I want to know as much as you want to share.” Her smile returns, tingeing her cheeks light pink. “Was it perfect?” I press.