Always Never Yours

by Emily Wibberley

  “I feel like I’m playing Romeo’s opening lines too comedic,” Tyler continues. “It’s probably throwing Megan off.”

  Wow. Even worse. Tyler never criticizes his own work. He must think I’m on the verge of having a meltdown in the middle of rehearsal over something he did to me half a year ago.

  Jody rubs her eyes. “No, Tyler, it’s not just on you,” she mutters. Putting her glasses back on, she looks from Tyler to me. “I think the two of you need to take a couple minutes to talk through the scene dynamics. Regroup backstage, and we’ll pick up in five.”

  I literally would rather change a thousand of Erin’s diapers. Clenching my script, I head down the narrow stairs. Tyler’s waiting for me backstage, rubbing his neck, looking uncharacteristically nervous.

  “Jody’s on the warpath today. I actually think the scene’s going pretty well,” he says in a rush and way too casually.

  I stare at him hard. “Why are you doing that? First you try to take the fall. Now it’s Jody’s fault? I can handle getting critiqued.”

  “I guess I feel bad.” He shuffles his feet uncomfortably. “You know, for my part in what happened. I never meant to cheat on you.”

  Is he for real? “Oh, well, if you never meant to, then it’s fine.”

  He pulls a remorseful expression—one I’ve seen too many times on stage. “I’m trying to apologize, Megan.”

  “Then I should fall over myself forgiving you, right? What you did was shitty, and I’m not just going to be cool with it because you feel bad.” I hear Anthony hurling insults at Jason Mitchum on the other side of the curtain, rehearsing Mercutio and Tybalt’s fight sequence. At least everyone’s not just listening to Tyler and me.

  “Huh.” He rubs his jaw. “I didn’t think you had it in you.”

  I narrow my eyes. “What?”

  “You just never seem to really care about, well, anything.”

  I blink a couple times, his words setting in. First Anthony telling me I’m resigned to failure, now Tyler thinking there’s nothing I care about? Is that who everyone thinks I am? Just a girl who flits through life without trying, without hurting, without caring about anything except the next guy?

  “Well, I do care,” I fire back. And I want to prove it. I glance down at the script in my hand. “Right now I care about figuring out this scene.”

  He stares at me disbelievingly for a moment, then scoffs. “I don’t know what to tell you, because honestly I’m killing it out there while my Juliet can’t even be bothered to look impressed at my flawless intonation. You have no idea the nights I’ve spent perfecting iambic pentameter—”

  “Tyler, shut up for a second.” Surprisingly, he does, and I realize in an unexpected rush of inspiration what’s wrong with the scene. “This is exactly the problem. If you read the lines, Juliet is not impressed by Romeo’s wordiness. But there’s a point in the scene where something has to change, because by the end Juliet’s professing her love to him. I feel like we haven’t figured out that point.” I notice Tyler’s actually listening. “We need a moment where something softens her—where she falls head over heels.”

  “What do you propose?” he asks.

  “We need something genuine, where Romeo’s words get out of the way.”

  He nods slowly, but his eyes are bright, and I can tell he’s with me. “Something physical?” he offers.

  “Exactly.” I’m liking this interpretation. I only need to figure out how to fit it into the script. Looking past Tyler, my eyes catch the wooden stairs leading up to the balcony. I nod toward the set, the idea coming together in my head. “This is what we’re going to do. My genius boyfriend built the set so you can climb the trellis.”

  Tyler starts to grin.

  I find the page in my script and point. “Here.”

  * * *

  “Deny thy father and refuse thy name, or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love, and I’ll no longer be a Capulet.” I’m back on the balcony, doing my utmost to look like a teenage girl in the throes of irresponsible love.

  This time, I’m not just trudging through the lines. I’m excited, and it’s making the dialogue come easier, more naturally. When Juliet asks, Wherefore art thou Romeo? into the night, she’s not flush with passion, not yet. It’s more like she’s trying the feeling out.

  “What’s Montague? It is nor hand, nor foot,” I continue reciting, “nor arm, nor face, nor any other part belonging to a man.” I allow Juliet a smirk, knowing what part she has in mind. “That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”

  When I finish my speech, Romeo leaps out of the bushes, and I immediately turn Juliet skeptical. I’m downright standoffish by the time she proclaims, “I have no joy of this contract tonight. It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden, too like the lightning, which doth cease to be ere one can say ‘it lightens.’” I’m enjoying delivering the lines, capturing the inflection. It’s almost better than watching actors navigate their lines when I’m directing.

  “O, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?” Tyler moans, and the rest of the cast laughs from the audience.

  I haughtily raise my chin and ask him challengingly, “What satisfaction canst thou have tonight?”

  I catch Tyler’s eye. He’s turned toward me, and the audience can’t see his face when he flashes me a quick grin. I hold my breath as he executes a running leap onto the trellis. In two graceful steps, he’s scaled up to my level, and out of the corner of my eye I notice Jody lean forward in what I hope is interest.

  “Th’ exchange of thy love’s faithful vow for mine,” Tyler utters in a stage whisper.

  Then for the first time in six months, Tyler Dunning’s lips meet mine. I give Juliet a moment of stunned recoil before I melt into the kiss. He smells the way I remember, but it’s not weird like I expected it to be. I don’t feel like Megan Harper kissing her cheating ex. I feel like Juliet falling in love.

  Maybe it’s because I’m getting better at getting into character. Or maybe it’s because he’s not kissing me like Tyler Dunning, not reaching for my bra and parting my lips with too much tongue. He’s kissing me like I imagine Romeo would, his hands remaining on the balcony while he gently presses his lips to mine.

  “I gave thee mine before thou didst request it, and yet I would it were to give again,” I breathe when he pulls back.

  “Okay”—Jody’s voice cuts between us—“stop there.”

  I turn to where she’s standing. Every ounce of excitement I just felt for the scene drains out of me, and doubt rushes in. The cast is hushed like I’ve never heard them during notes—except for Alyssa, who’s whispering in Courtney’s ear and sneering at me. I search Jody’s expression for any indication of what’s coming, whether she’s going to tell us to rethink the scene again or whether I’m finally kicked out of the role for good. I figure it’s one of the two.

  But it’s not me she speaks to first. “Tyler, what could have possibly compelled you to climb the set and kiss your costar?” I hear nervous laughter from the audience. “Last time I checked, that wasn’t in the script or the blocking we discussed. When I told you to step through the scene in private, I didn’t mean come up with an entirely new, entirely dangerous staging.”

  “It was Megan’s idea,” Tyler says unhesitatingly, jumping off the trellis. Well, so much for trying to take the fall for me.

  Jody turns her attention to me. “You’re an actor here, Megan. Not a director. You need to remember your role.” It’s an agonizing few moments before she continues, like she’s torturing me on purpose. “But . . . I’m impressed,” she finally says with a slight smile. “That’s the Juliet I’ve been waiting for.”

  I breathe a sigh of relief without entirely meaning to, hearing Owen’s words in my head. Don’t undervalue yourself.

  “Me too,” I reply.

  * * *

  I walk out of rehe
arsal half an hour later, still grinning stupidly from nailing the scene, and go directly to the bulletin board in the front of the Arts Center. The campus is quiet this time in the afternoon, the sun beginning to dip below the trees and paint the pavement. There’s only a scattering of cars left in the parking lot, those belonging to the cast and the athletes here for afternoon practices.

  Today was the deadline to sign up for the Senior Showcase scenes, and while I really should head home—Dad told me if I was late to dinner one more time there would be ill-defined “consequences”—I have to know who signed up. The exhilaration of the showcase beginning to come together, combined with the Romeo and Juliet rehearsal, is nearly enough for me to forget how messed up things are with Madeleine.

  I fold back the open-mic night poster on the bulletin board to find the flier I printed out with Death of a Salesman at the top. I left four lines for the four actors I need. I’ll sort out who plays who later. The first name I spot is Tyler’s. Yeah, he’ll be a perfect Willy Loman. Sorry, Dad.

  I read down to Kasey Markowitz, who I’m glad took my advice and signed up, and Jenna Cho, written in her exaggeratedly loopy handwriting.

  Then at the bottom of the list, Owen Okita.

  He’s written his name in the deep blue ink I recognize from the endless scrawl in his notebook. I feel my chest warm with gratitude. He didn’t even tell me he’d be signing up, and I wonder why stage-shy Owen would volunteer before it occurs to me, of course he would. He’s a good friend like that.

  But the feeling only lasts a moment because I realize there’s one name unaccounted for, one I was really hoping to see. Will made it sound like he wanted to sign up.

  The door to the drama room swings open, and Owen walks out, backpack slung over his shoulder and notebook in his hand. “Owen!” I shout. “You signed up for my scene!”

  He spins to face me, his eyes finding mine. “You’re right. I did,” he says, looking amused. “I wanted to experience Megan Harper directing firsthand.”

  “Was that before or after you watched me direct an actor into kissing me?” I had to. I can’t help it.

  But Owen doesn’t blush this time. Instead, he rolls his eyes. “Before, Megan. Cosima, remember?”

  “Come on, Owen. If it’s on stage, it doesn’t count.”

  “Good to know,” he says, and I swear there’s a sparkle in his eyes. He comes up to read over my shoulder. “Who else is on there? I didn’t really check before, I was in a rush.”

  “Tyler, obviously . . .” I say under my breath. I’m hyper-conscious of Owen behind me, his face next to mine.

  He takes a step back, and he’s frowning when I turn to face him. “Why’s that obvious?” he asks.

  “Well, it’s just, my scenes have a reputation for stealing the show . . .” I know how full of myself that sounds, but whatever. It’s the truth.

  Owen grins. “Right. Obviously.” But he must notice I don’t return his smile, because quickly his face turns concerned. “Hey, what’s up? You seem upset.”

  “It’s stupid, but I thought Will would sign up,” I mutter. It’s not Owen’s problem, I realize as I tell him. I pull out my phone and write a message to Will.

  senior scene signups?? I send, and look up at Owen.

  “Death of a Salesman doesn’t feel like Will’s kind of thing,” he ventures.

  “I guess,” I reply. A second later, my phone vibrates. I glance down and read Will’s text.

  Shit, I forgot!! I’ll make it up to you later? ;)

  “He forgot,” I say emptily, returning my phone to my pocket. Owen bites his lip like he’s trying to figure out what to say. Before he does, my phone starts vibrating repeatedly. “Someone’s calling me,” I say, pulling my phone back out.

  “Is it Will?”

  I check the screen. “Uh, no,” I say, surprised. “It’s my mom’s boyfriend. I guess I should answer.”

  “Oh, of course.” He nods. “I’ll talk to you later.”

  I start to raise the phone to my ear, but watching Owen push open the Arts Center door, I call after him. “Hey.” I hold up the signup sheet. “Thanks. You’ll make a perfect Biff Loman.”

  He breaks into a wide smile before he turns and leaves me to my phone call.

  I hit ANSWER. “Hey, Randall,” I say.

  On the other end, I hear a clattering sound and then Randall’s voice. “Megan, hi! I’m not getting you at a bad time, I hope?” He sounds surprised, like he wasn’t certain I’d pick up. “Your mom told me you have rehearsals after school, and I didn’t know if you’d be done, and there’s the time difference—”

  “It’s not a bad time,” I cut him off.

  In the background, I hear an unexpectedly loud voice. “Randall, buddy! We need you! Epps just bowled spare number two. We need the Strike Master.”

  I have to smile. The Strike Master? “Are you at a bowling alley?” I ask Randall.

  “I’m, oh, I’m sorry,” he stutters. “I, the team I’m on, we’re in the second bracket of a regional tourney. I ducked out a bit early. I wanted a quick word with you.”

  “Okay . . .” I’ve never been able to figure out how to talk to Randall. I don’t know how my mom does it. Honestly, Randall’s kind of an incongruity in the life of my mom, the former experimental visual artist who never fails to meet my sarcasm with some of her own. Randall is an accountant and painfully awkward. When I met him, he was wearing toe-shoes—those goofy shoes that look like gloves for your feet, which he wore around the house even though I’m fairly certain they’re meant for running—and he excessively complimented everything my mom cooked that first night like he was afraid she’d kick him out if he didn’t. He keeps unveiling odd new hobbies, first pottery and now this. How does my mom go to bed next to a guy who spends weeknights in regional bowling tournaments?

  “What’s up?” I ask when he says nothing.

  “I’ll be in Stillmont in a couple weeks,” he says a little too loudly. “I hoped you might be available to get coffee?”

  “Yeah. Um. Okay.” I don’t know why Mom didn’t ask me herself. Then a worrisome thought occurs to me. “Wait, is Mom coming with you?”

  “No! I’m, uh, no, it’s a business trip,” he clarifies. “I’m only going to be in Oregon for a day or two, but I’d kick myself if I didn’t spend time with my—with you. But your mom’s very excited to be coming in December for the festival!”

  “Right . . .” If this phone call’s any indication, a one-on-one coffee date with Randall is going to redefine stilted small talk. But I should give him the benefit of the doubt. He’s nice, and he must make my mom happy somehow. “Okay, yeah,” I say with more conviction. “Text me when you’re in town, and we’ll figure it out.”

  “Perfect! I’ll—I’ll just text you,” Randall exclaims like the idea had never occurred to him.

  “Cool.” I’m about to hang up. But instead I add, “Break a leg. You know, with the tournament.”

  * * *

  “Thanks for the warning, Mom.”

  It’s Friday, 5:13 p.m. In the grainy FaceTime window on my computer, Mom’s eyebrows go up. “Warning?” she chides with half a frown. “You need a warning before you talk to Randall? I never got a warning when I’d come home to find the newest boyfriend making out with my daughter on the couch. I get to have a love life, too, Megan.”

  Damn, Mom. “I didn’t mean it like that,” I say, chagrined. “Like, what do we even have in common? It’s going to be so awkward!”

  “You have me in common!”

  I roll my eyes. “Not exactly the subject I want to discuss with my mom’s boyfriend. I guess I’ll have to brush up on my professional bowling news if I’m going to have something to say to the Strike Master.”

  “Be nice to the poor man,” Mom orders, not amused. “He’s not used to talking to seventeen-year-old girls.”

 
“I should hope not.” I adopt a scandalized tone, and Mom laughs. There’s a knock on the door, and per usual, Dad infuriatingly walks in without waiting for my permission.

  “Hi, Catherine.” He nods to the computer, and instantly my anger dissipates. I’m struck by how congenial he sounds. There’s none of the tension or reserve that typically characterizes my parents’ conversations.

  “I hope I’m not too early?” Dad asks.

  “No, now’s fine,” Mom replies, and I whip to face her.

  “Fine for what?” I look between them, trying to figure out what could possibly compel my mom and dad to talk in my bedroom like old friends.

  They exchange a look, and I know whatever this is about, it’s something serious. “We wanted to discuss something with you,” Dad says in his vice-principal’s-office voice, sitting down on my bed.

  “We?” I repeat.

  He goes on, making more eye contact than I’m used to. “Rose and I put in an offer on the house in New York, and it looks like the seller’s going to accept.”

  Without a word to Dad, I turn to Mom. “You knew and didn’t tell me?” I don’t try to hide the hurt in my voice.

  She meets my eyes unwaveringly. “We wanted to have the conversation with you together.” Her voice is even, but there’s something placating in it, like she’s trying to urge me to take this in stride.

  Not going to happen. “What else have you decided in these conversations I didn’t know were happening?” I ask bitterly.

  “Megan, we’re grown people who have a daughter together. Occasionally, we talk,” she replies.

  No, you don’t, I think to myself, knowing better than to say it out loud. How many times have they told me to check with each other about who’ll pay for my summer programs and plane tickets, to convey happy birthdays, to figure out separating their iCals and the family iTunes library? Now they’re talking again?