Always Never Yours

by Emily Wibberley

  I laugh, surprising myself. “Better. Imagine the vending machine sitting in the back row,” I say, adopting my most directorial demeanor.

  He’s laughing, too, but he halfheartedly kicks the vending machine one final time. “Make fun all you want,” he replies, grinning ruefully, “but I’m a man in a crisis right now.”

  I take two steps toward the vending machine, where I glimpse a bag of Skittles caught in the spindle and hanging half off the shelf. “A Skittles crisis,” I elaborate, smiling inwardly at how perfectly Tyler Dunning the situation is.

  He nods gravely. “The worst kind.” I step up to the glass, scrutinizing the stuck spindle. “I tried shaking it,” he explains. “I even reached my arm up through the door—”

  I ram my shoulder into the glass, interrupting him. I hit harder than I intended, and the whole machine bounces against the wall with an echoing bang. The Skittles tumble into the bin at the bottom.

  Tyler’s watching me, mouth half-open. Before he says anything, a door opens across the hallway. Owen’s head emerges. “What’s going on?” he asks, his eyes round with concern. When they find me, it’s like someone’s switched off a light in an upstairs room.

  “Our Juliet just beat up a vending machine,” Tyler says behind me, sounding impressed.

  “Oh,” Owen replies flatly, his gaze shifting to Tyler. Without a word to me or so much as a glance in my direction, he withdraws and closes the door.

  I stare at it after he’s gone, feeling the laughter of a couple moments ago ebb away. Tyler nudges me. “Hey, slugger,” he says, and I turn, putting Owen and his disinterest firmly behind me. “Do you need some ice? That looked like it hurt.”

  I rub my shoulder, considering. “It felt kind of good, actually.”

  Tyler looks at me for a long second before he shrugs, his expression relaxing. He tears open the Skittles and tips the bag in my direction without taking any for himself. “You want some? They never would have happened without you.”

  I feel myself smiling as I hold out my hand. He shakes the bag, and two purples and a green fall into my palm. We start to wander down the hall, not saying anything while we pass a group of juniors playing cards on the floor. “Final rehearsal tomorrow,” Tyler says, slowing down and tipping more Skittles into my hand. “You feel prepared?”

  I glance at him out of the corner of my eye. “That depends.”

  “On?”

  “On if you remember to lift your leg before you roll over me in the bedroom scene.” I wince, remembering a week of rehearsing the scene in November and the consequent bruises on my thigh.

  “It looks good!” Tyler protests. “Jody said it looks good from the audience.”

  “I don’t care! You knee me every time! I’m going to have nerve damage by the end of this play!” He laughs, and I point a finger in his face. “I’m serious. You do it in tomorrow’s rehearsal, and I’m eating garlic before the premiere.”

  He pulls a look of horror. “You wouldn’t.”

  I nod threateningly. “You think playing opposite me is hard now? I want to see you ‘It was the lark, not the nightingale’ me when I smell like ten servings of raw garlic.”

  “Actresses . . .” Tyler rolls his eyes. Then his voice softens. “But seriously, it’s awesome starring with you. You’re a great Juliet.”

  “Really?” I snort, keeping my eyes on the floor. “I feel like I’m kind of stumbling through it. I still think I’m going to freeze up and forget my lines in front of a real audience.” An audience including members of the SOTI faculty.

  Tyler drifts to a halt in front of a door. “Everyone thinks that’s going to happen. But it won’t.” He smiles reassuringly. “Not if you know it.” He nods toward the door, and I realize it must be his room. “We could go over it one more time, if you want?”

  Why not? I think to myself. Running lines with Tyler will definitely distract me from my empty room and the look on Owen’s face before he closed his door. “That’d be great,” I say, following Tyler into his room.

  It’s empty, but I quickly deduce Jeremy’s his roommate from the backpack on one bed with Jeremy stitched on it. Walking over to the other bed, I briefly wonder if Cate’s managed to sexile her roommate, and if anyone but me will actually sleep in their own room tonight.

  I close my eyes, bringing to mind my lines and the staging for my first scene, and feel Tyler sit down on the bed next to me.

  “How now—” I begin to recite.

  The rest of the line is smothered by Tyler’s lips crashing into mine. His hands grab my waist, his nose pressing into my eye. This isn’t his Romeo kissing, gentle and thoughtful—this is Tyler, kissing me with the sloppy overenthusiasm I remember from a year ago. What the fuck is he doing?

  I shove a hand into his chest, pushing him off me. “What the hell?” I gasp, wiping my lips.

  “I thought it was obvious.” His brow furrows, but his voice sounds impossibly reasonable.

  “What’s obvious?” I jump off the bed.

  He gestures at the door, looking at me like I’m the one who’s lost my mind. “I invited you into my bedroom to read lines . . .”

  I don’t believe what I’m hearing. “You think after complimenting my acting and giving me some Skittles, I’ll just jump back into bed with you?”

  “It doesn’t have to be a big deal,” he says easily, sending my head spinning all over again.

  What doesn’t have to be a big deal? I want to ask. Is it that his relationship with Madeleine means so little that he’d throw it away to cheat with me? Or if he really is in love with Madeleine, is hooking up with me so inconsequential he’s not even considering what it would do to his relationship? I don’t know which one is worse.

  “A big deal?” I get out. “I thought you were in love with my best friend.”

  Tyler shrugs. “Madeleine doesn’t have to know. Not if you don’t tell her.”

  I’m stunned speechless for a second. Tyler is somehow a worse guy than I thought he was—than I knew he was. Even when he cheated on me and dumped me, I never expected he could be capable of something like this. Hurting Madeleine for no reason just to have something he’s had and replaced.

  “We did this, Tyler,” I hear myself say. “Remember? You’re the one who didn’t want me anymore.”

  He tries to place a hand on my arm, but I twist away. “It’s just, doing the play with you, being here with you,” he begins, “I’m remembering what it was like when we first got together. We had something really great for a while.”

  “We did.” I glare at him. “Until you chose Madeleine.”

  He holds his hands up in defense. “Okay, okay. Forget it, then.” I watch him cross the room to his suitcase and pull out his script. “You want to run the lines?”

  I stand there with shock written on my face, not believing anybody could possibly shrug this off. But there he is, already opening the play. “No, I don’t want to run lines,” I spit. Doubting he’ll bother to reply, I leave his room and hurl the door closed behind me.

  I don’t get two steps before my heart sinks. Tomorrow, I’ll have to do a lot more than run lines with Tyler. I’ll have to run the entire play, in front of everyone. The thought makes me want to drink poison and lock myself in a sepulcher.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  ROMEO: Is the day so young?

  BENVOLIO: But new struck nine.

  ROMEO: Ay me, sad hours seem long.

  I.i.164–6

  I WAKE UP THE NEXT MORNING AT 10:14 a.m., having slept for ten hours. I’m pretty certain it’s a personal record. I only woke up briefly before 7:30 room checks when Alyssa snuck back in. The next time I woke up, she was gone.

  I reach to the nightstand to grab the schedule Jody passed out on the bus. I’ve missed breakfast, I discover. Rehearsal’s supposed to start in an hour, which means I should get up. I should get ready to e
ndure Owen ignoring me, to withstand Alyssa’s scowls and face Tyler, to play the role of a beloved, lovestruck girl who I really, really hate.

  I stay in bed instead.

  I know I have to tell Madeleine, but I also know doing so will ruin her relationship, a relationship everyone thought was perfect. It’s not fair, when I think about it. It’ll be my words that hurt her, even though it’s Tyler who did something wrong. I’m not up to giving her that call just yet.

  If not for me, Madeleine wouldn’t have anything to find out about Tyler. And if not for me, Mom wouldn’t have to be reminded of or talk to the person who broke her heart. She would’ve moved on the way she wanted when she moved out. She might’ve even been happy if I hadn’t been there to reopen wounds she’d tried to forget. None of this is my fault, but it is because of me.

  The thought hits me then, involuntarily, like it’s come from somewhere outside me. Like someone else wrote it down and shoved it into my hand, the world’s worst love note.

  I’m the reason everyone close to me gets hurt.

  Rehearsal time comes and passes. I don’t budge, staring up at the ceiling from under the covers. It’s six minutes into rehearsal when the texts start. The first three from Bridget Molloy, the stage manager, with increasing urgency culminating in a long string of exclamation points. One from Tyler, just u coming? A longer one from Jenna notifying me that Jody’s freaking out and is going to send someone to my room in two minutes.

  I wait ten minutes, refusing to get out of this bed until I’m dragged by the ankles. Nobody comes.

  I’m dozing off when a final text lights up my phone.

  WHERE ARE YOU?

  Anthony’s name on my screen stabs me with a sliver of guilt. I remember what this performance means to him. It’d destroy him if this show was ruined, and especially if his best friend let it happen.

  It’s not just Anthony, either. There’s Jason Mitchum, who really learned to swordfight from YouTube tutorials to play Tybalt. Jenna, whom I overheard murmuring her lines to herself the entire bus ride. And then there’s Owen, who loves every word of Romeo and Juliet with a deeper appreciation than any actor I’ve ever worked with.

  This play is important to people other than Tyler Dunning. People who are important to me. Showing up and playing Juliet is one small opportunity I have not to hurt them. And am I really ready to throw away my chance to go to the college I’ve dreamt of since I was a kid? I launch myself out of bed, throw on a pair of jeans and a parka, and fly out the door.

  I run the three blocks to the theater, the cold biting my lungs, and thread between bicyclists and coffee-carrying pedestrians. I’m out of breath by the time I hit Pioneer Street, which fortunately isn’t crowded because it’s the Oregon Shakespeare Festival’s official off-season. The rounded back of the Elizabethan theater goes by on my left as I rush down the hill to the Angus Bowmer Theatre straight ahead.

  Throwing open the door, I burst into the auditorium. Our monastery set is on the stage. No one is seated in the audience, unlike at school, except Bridget with her headset and Jody with her clipboard and a pencil pressed to her lips.

  “I long to die if what thou speak’st speak not of remedy,” I hear from the stage, and despite my parka and the overactive theater heating, I feel a chill run through me. That’s my line . . . but I’m not on stage. I watch motionless as Alyssa walks to my mark while Owen gives Friar Lawrence’s reply. She doesn’t stumble over a single line, delivering Juliet’s desperate dialogue flawlessly. Better than I would’ve.

  “Take thou this vial, being then in bed—” Owen pauses in the middle of his monologue when he sees me. Jody follows his gaze, her eyes narrowing.

  Without bothering to call the scene to a halt, she walks up the aisle toward me. Her face is red, her mouth pulled tight in something between irritation and disappointment. “Where have you been?” Her voice rises on the final word and echoes in the empty theater.

  “I—I overslept,” I mumble.

  Her eyes widen. “You overslept? In the four years I’ve known you, Megan, you’ve never been less than ten minutes early to a rehearsal. I know you weren’t thrilled to get the Juliet role, but I thought you were mature enough to handle it, or at least that you respected us enough to show up and try.”

  “I’m here now, aren’t I?” I force impudence into my voice to push down the tears.

  “You’re here an hour late to the most important rehearsal of the entire production. You were off your game in class yesterday, obviously distracted. I’m tired of fighting you on this, Megan.” Her expression softens, and she looks unfamiliarly sad. “I don’t know what’s going on with you, but you win. I’ll give you what you’ve always wanted. You’ll play Lady Montague, or nothing.”

  I don’t answer. Alyssa watches me from the stage, and I realize what’s happened. They don’t need me. They never did. Jody waits for me to decide, but I turn and walk toward the door. Away from what I knew deep down to expect.

  If they want to replace me, fine. It’s probably better if they do.

  * * *

  I’m halfway to the hotel when I feel my phone vibrate. I pull it out, dreading a gloating text from Alyssa or one from Anthony telling me I’m the worst friend ever.

  Instead, it’s Owen.

  What the hell was that?

  Blinking back tears, I send him what I hope will end the conversation.

  What should have happened a long time ago, Owen. Just leave me alone.

  It’s the first time Owen’s voluntarily talked to me in weeks, and under better circumstances I wouldn’t pass up the possibility of figuring things out between us. But not today. Not now.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  CHORUS: But passion lends them power, time means, to meet,

  Temp’ring extremities with extreme sweet.

  II.prologue.13–4

  I HAVEN’T LEFT MY ROOM IN SEVEN hours, except for the trip to the vending machine to pick up what passed for dinner—which hardly counts. I pretended to sleep when Alyssa returned to the room to be counted for nightly room checks by a parent chaperone, and while my former understudy unpacked noisily, probably wanting to wake me up in order to brag about Juliet, I didn’t budge until she left for Will’s again.

  I’m flipping channels between two stations of Ashland nighttime news when there’s finally a knock on the door. Three quick taps, light but deliberate. I’ve been expecting Jody to try to talk to me, or maybe lecture me some more, ever since rehearsal ended. I’m surprised she waited this long.

  What if she waited this long because she’s sending me home? Worry constricts my chest. What if she had to organize my transportation, or whatever? Knowing I can’t ignore her, I drag myself to the door.

  But I crack it open to find Owen, clutching his notebook.

  “What do you want?” I ask, holding the door open only a couple inches.

  His expression is guarded but gentle. “I want to show you something.”

  I start to shut the door. “I’m really not in the mood, Owen.”

  “I finished it.” He holds up his notebook, and in a moment I realize what he means. His play. It surprises me enough that I release my hold on the door, and he brushes by me into the room.

  I collect myself, rounding on him. “You ignore me for weeks, and now you barge in here to show me your play? That’s . . . great. I’m really happy for you,” I say sarcastically.

  “I wasn’t ignoring you.” His voice is quiet.

  “We haven’t talked since . . .” I can’t bring myself to complete the sentence. To put a name to whatever happened between us in his room.

  “What you said about Cosima and my play stung, and I know I said enough to make you hate me. I was ashamed and frustrated with myself, and I needed distance.” He fervently flips the pages of his notebook. “But I couldn’t ignore you. Not even if I tried.” He looks up at me, a tentative s
mile curling his lips, and my heart does a familiar Owen-related leap. But it turns back into lead when I remind myself of everything that happened this weekend and everything that stands between us.

  “Well, thanks,” I say stiffly. “You can go now.”

  His smile disappears, but he doesn’t move. “I won’t go until you tell me what’s wrong.”

  “Nothing’s wrong.”

  “I know you better than that, Megan,” he says, looking at me intently. “Your text had complete sentences and perfect punctuation. I know something’s happened.” I say nothing, knowing he’d see through whatever bullshit explanation I give him, and he continues. “What you said to me in my room, you were right.”

  I look up sharply. About Cosima?

  “I was afraid to write because I was afraid I’d suck,” he goes on, and I deflate a little. “I didn’t want to hear it, but I needed to.” He places the notebook on the bed. “I wanted to show you the play because it’s entirely thanks to you. I thought you might need a reminder of how important you are.”

  File for future reference: Owen can crush me with a word.

  “Owen . . .” I turn away, trying to hide the tears welling in my eyes.

  He steps forward and places a hand on my arm. “Does it have something to do with Tyler? I saw you with him last night . . .”

  I jerk back. “Did he say something?” On top of everything else today, I couldn’t handle it if Tyler was spreading some story about us that didn’t happen. Knowing what he’s capable of, I wouldn’t put it past him.

  “No.” Owen frowns. “Wait, what would he have said? I just meant that he tries to make you feel bad sometimes.”

  I sag against the dresser in relief. “No, it wasn’t that. He . . . tried to hook up with me. Nothing happened,” I rush to say, not wanting Owen to believe I’m the kind of person who could go behind my best friend’s back like that. But he’s still looking at me with concern, and there isn’t a trace of judgment in his dark eyes. “It just changes everything I thought about him and me, and him and Madeleine,” I continue.