Dreaming of Antigone

by Robin Bridges

  Alex and I both blush as Trista slaps him on the arm. “Ignore him,” she says as Alex opens the passenger door for me.

  Hank’s outburst causes an awkward silence as we drive across town.

  “Did you finish a project for Verla’s poetry fair?” I hate that I can’t think of anything else to say.

  Alex nods. “I needed the extra grade. It helped a lot.”

  “Which poet did you pick?”

  His smile is shy, but he waggles his eyebrows. “Guess.”

  “You’re so adorable. Give me a hint. What century?”

  “Nineteenth.”

  “Male or female?”

  “You only get one clue.”

  “Fine. Edgar Allan Poe.”

  “Nope.” He pulls up to the entrance of the cemetery, just after sunset, and his uncle lets us through the gates. “You’re going to have to tell me where to go,” Alex tells me.

  Oconee Hill stretches out over almost a hundred acres. The oldest graves in the front section date back to the eighteen hundreds. Iris is buried in one of the newer sections, across the river.

  I haven’t been back to see Iris since the funeral. Every time Mom came, I refused to accompany her. I was scared I would only remember her as lying in the ground. I want to remember her as she was, when she was alive.

  Alex understands this. He missed the funeral, and, until now, hasn’t had any desire to see her grave. I direct him across the narrow bridge and down winding lanes lined with headstones and ancient trees.

  It’s a beautiful and peaceful place.

  He parks the truck along the side of the road, and I open my door. “Lord Byron,” I say, guessing again. Alex Hammond is mad, bad, and dangerous indeed.

  “Nope.” Alex walks around to my side. He pins me against the door, his hands on my waist. I grab on to his shirt, and he bends his head down to mine. He hesitates, only for a moment, to give me a chance to push him away, but then his mouth meets mine and the world falls away.

  His kisses are gentle, like a prayer, seeking and forgiving. The truck door is cold, but my heart is pounding and my skin is flushed. I don’t mind the cold at all. All I know or feel or breathe is Alex.

  “Robert Browning,” I whisper against his lips.

  “How did you guess?”

  I push his sleeve back and slide my fingertips along his arm, where he’s written in blue ink, What matter to me if their star is a world? Mine has opened her soul to me; therefore I love her.

  I suck in a breath, remembering the lines in the book. “You changed a few words,” I say.

  Alex’s only reply is another heart-stopping kiss. My arms twist around his neck, pulling my body closer to his.

  His hands move up the sides of my rib cage, and my shirt rides up, exposing my belly to cold air. I gasp in shock, then giggle.

  His lips pull away from mine. “Should we be doing this here?” But he’s grinning.

  I glance out behind him at the landscape. “I don’t think anyone here minds.”

  He kisses me one more time, with more affection than heat, then drags me away from the truck. “Come on. We have stuff to do. Before we can do . . . more stuff.”

  I sigh. Stuff. I count rows back from the end of the road and find the landmarks Mom had suggested. I shine the flashlight I’ve brought across the darkness. “See that river birch? And the pinkish-orange marble headstone right next to it?”

  Alex looks where I’m pointing. “Yes. That’s hers?”

  “No, hers is the small gray one in front of that one.”

  There are still a few bouquets of silk flowers and a memorial wreath. I feel bad for not thinking to stop and pick up a rose before we came out here.

  Alex stands next to me in front of the headstone. He reaches for my hand, and neither of us says anything for several minutes.

  IRIS LYDIA WEBB

  BELOVED DAUGHTER

  1999–2015

  The last dream I had of my sister, she was sitting in the kitchen, showing me postcards of my favorite astronomers. Carl Sagan. Caroline Herschel. Galileo. She was telling me how cool it was that she got to hang out with these people. In real life, Iris couldn’t care less about dead astronomers. But I’d like to think the dream means something good. That she is somewhere much happier and she’s finally found peace.

  Alex bends down at a nearby grave and rights a small American flag that has been knocked over.

  I slide the nebula ring off my finger and leave it on top of Iris’s headstone. “Safe travels, Sis,” I whisper.

  There aren’t a whole lot of trees in this section, so we set the blanket out at the end of Iris’s row, where there are no graves yet. Besides the hot cocoa, we’ve brought a minicooler packed with sandwiches and binoculars.

  It gets very dark fast. There are no street lights and there is no game tonight, so the nearby stadium is dark. I look up at the stars and gasp. I can see twice as many as I usually see from my backyard.

  Alex pulls me down onto the blanket with him. “Are you cold?” he asks, as his arms wrap around me.

  Blazing stars streak across the sky above us.

  I shake my head. Love keeps me warm.

  BEYOND THE BOOK

  DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

  1. Why does Andria identify with Antigone in the beginning of the story? Why does she grow to identify with a different character at the end?

  2. Andria feels she can communicate better with Alex through poems written by other people. Can you think of any poems she might use to communicate anonymously with her friends? Her mom?

  3. Have you ever sent a poem to someone anonymously? What was the poem?

  4. If you had to create a project for the Poetry Fair, which poem would you choose? What do you think should be included on the project board?

  5. Why did Andria feel overshadowed by her twin sister growing up? Does she still feel this way now that Iris is gone?

  6. How does Andria’s relationship with her mother change during the story? How does it stay the same?

  Read on for an excerpt from Natalie’s story,

  The Form of Things Unknown,

  coming September 2016 from Kensington.

  Natalie Roman isn’t much for the spotlight. But performing A Midsummer Night’s Dream in a stately old theater in Savannah, Georgia, beats sitting alone replaying mistakes made in Athens. Fairy queens and magic on stage, maybe a few scary stories backstage. And no one in the cast knows her backstory.

  Except for Lucas—he was in the psych ward, too. He won’t even meet her eye. But Nat doesn’t need him. She’s making friends with girls, girls who like horror movies and Ouija boards, who can hide their liquor in Coke bottles and laugh at the theater’s ghosts. Natalie can keep up. She can adapt. And if she skips her meds once or twice so they don’t interfere with her partying, it won’t be a problem. She just needs to keep her wits about her.

  Honest, nuanced, and bittersweet, The Form of Things Unknown explores the shadows that haunt even the truest hearts . . . and the sparks that set them free.

  The lunatic, the lover and the poet

  Are of imagination all compact:

  One sees more devils than vast hell can hold,

  That is, the madman: the lover, all as frantic,

  Sees Helen’s beauty in a brow of Egypt:

  The poet’s eye, in fine frenzy rolling,

  Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven;

  And as imagination bodies forth

  The forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen

  Turns them to shapes and gives to airy nothing

  A local habitation and a name.

  —Theseus, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, act 5, scene 1

  CHAPTER 1

  The course of true love never did run smooth.

  —A Midsummer Night’s Dream, act 1, scene 1

  My grandmother is listening to the Beatles again. Loudly. She refuses to use earbuds because she says bugs can crawl out of the tiny speakers and into your brain tha
t way. John Lennon’s voice travels up the stairs and under the doors and through the thin walls of this smelly old house. Lennon’s lyrics reach me all the way up here in the attic, where my parents have cleared a space for my mattress and a small bookshelf for my sketch pads. Your castle in the sky, my mother joked. I’m the madwoman in the attic, I joked back.

  Mom didn’t laugh.

  Grandma particularly loves “Strawberry Fields.” She says the angels talk to her through this song. And I worry that the longer I lie here and listen, I’m going to hear the angels talking to me too.

  My brother doesn’t think I’m crazy. At least he doesn’t treat me like a crazy person, and I’m grateful for that. Ever since I was discharged from Winter Oaks, rated the best adolescent psych unit in eastern Georgia, Mom and Dad have hovered over me, watching me like a ticking time bomb.

  They make sure I take my pills, and ask me a million times a day if I’m feeling all right. How should I feel? I’m curled up in my bed under my quilt, even though the attic is hot and stuffy, and I wonder if I can even describe the sensations I’m feeling. I can’t call them emotions. At least not right now. There are only a million thoughts. Emotionless thoughts buzzing around my head like insects.

  Thankfully, my parents now have Grandma to worry about. Maybe they’ll forget to worry about me. Until I do something terrible. Something crazy.

  “Hey, Hippie.” David tromps up the stairs and knocks on the door as he’s pushing it open.

  “What’s up, Hick?” I don’t bother to raise my head from the pillow.

  He plops himself down next to me. Grandma’s ancient calico cat has been cuddled up against me all morning. Now she hisses at David and jumps down. “Nat, I need a favor.”

  “From moi? I have no money.”

  I’ve been meaning to look for a summer job, but Dad hasn’t pushed the issue, so I really haven’t looked that hard.

  My brother picks up the nearest stuffed animal, the phallic-looking naked mole rat from Kim Possible, and starts tossing it up in the air, catching it like a football. “Do you know anything about the theater workshop they’re doing this summer downtown?”

  I try to grab Rufus away from him, but David keeps the naked mole rat out of my reach. “Um, I think they’re doing A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

  “I was thinking about trying out. Want to come with me?”

  I stare at my brother, with his backward baseball cap. “Are you feeling okay?”

  “I’m just looking for something to do this summer. I figured you knew all about that hippie drama stuff, so . . .” I think he is actually blushing.

  Now I sit straight up as I continue to stare him down. “Since when were you into hippie drama stuff?” My brother is not really a hick. Far from it, actually. But he dresses like one and drives a monster truck that I tease him about mercilessly.

  “All right,” he says, setting the naked mole rat down. “You know Colton, who works at the Pirate House?”

  My jaw drops. “You’ve got to be kidding. You two are like night and day! He’s, like, a goth queen!”

  David has been trying to get me out of the house this summer, dragging me to his favorite coffeehouse in the city. I know I should be grateful to have a big brother who isn’t afraid to let his little sister tag along with him, and I do like to sit and people watch at the coffeehouse. And the café is next door to a wonderfully seedy-looking comic book store. One day I’m going to get up the nerve to go in there.

  “He sat in front of me in Composition last semester,” David says. “He’d draw these funny little pictures on my notebooks.”

  “Is that why you failed that course? Are you saying it was the Queen of the Night’s fault?” David just barely squeaked by his freshman year at the Savannah College of Art and Design, affectionately known as SCAD. My brother is majoring in architecture.

  “No, but that’s why I need your help. My English professor is directing the play. She’ll kick me out of the theater for sure unless you come to tryouts with me.”

  “Me? Just because you got a bad grade in Comp One doesn’t mean she won’t let you work on the play. Besides, why would I want to go to play tryouts? I’m the antisocial one, remember?”

  “Because you love your brother more than anyone else in the world.” David sighs and fidgets with his cap. “I need you to come with me so I won’t look like a theater dork. I’ll just be there for my little hippie sister who can’t drive yet.”

  He ducks as I throw Rufus at his head. “It’s not like you have anything else to do this summer besides hide from the sun and sew weird clothes. Here’s your chance to wear weird clothes on stage. If you don’t want to try out for a part, maybe you could just work on costumes.”

  “Ooh, fairy dresses.” I could have fun with this. Possibly. Except I really can’t sew that well yet.

  “And you don’t want me to tell Dad about you climbing out your window and sneaking off to that bonfire with your weird friends.”

  I sit straight up in my bed. “How do you know about that? You weren’t even in Athens at the time.” If I hadn’t snuck out that night with Caleb, I probably wouldn’t have ended up in Winter Oaks.

  David rolls his eyes. “I’m the big brother. I know more about sneaking out than you. So, are you coming?”

  He does not know everything about my bonfire story. If he did, he’d know what Caleb did that night, and David wouldn’t ask me to help set him up with anyone like Colton. Straight or otherwise, bad boys really can be bad for you.

  Still, the theater workshop sounds interesting. And even though I’ve never been in a play before, I do love Shakespeare. Even madwomen have to leave their attics sometimes.

  “When are tryouts?” I finally ask.

  My brother grins. He knows he’s got me. “Tomorrow at three.”

  “Tomorrow?” What am I going to wear? My stomach starts hurting already.

  “You’ll do great, I know it.” David pats me on the knee, then jumps up before I can hit him with the naked mole rat again.

  I flop back on my bed, listening to him stomp down the stairs and out the door, back to his dorm. I missed him so much when he left for college last year, and we still lived in Athens. But Mom and Dad and I had to move to Savannah last month to be here with Grandma after Grandpa died. She refuses to take her psych meds anymore, and before Grandpa was even buried, the cops had already called Dad, when they found Grandma trying to set the house on fire.

  She claims she was cold and thought she was lighting the fireplace. Why she thought she needed a fire in the middle of May, I can’t understand. It’s extra hot up here in the attic, and even though Dad promises to get me a small window-unit air conditioner, it’s not on the top of his list of priorities right now.

  My parents are under way too much stress this summer. Dealing with Grandpa’s death, and Grandma’s craziness, and all of this happening right after my misadventure.

  I pull my damp hair off the back of my neck and stare up at the ceiling. George Harrison is singing now. A slow, sad song about his weeping guitar. Grandma prefers the later Beatles albums to their earlier work. The long-haired hippie years. Dad is constantly throwing away her incense so she won’t set the house on fire again.

  I know it’s too hot up here to light any incense, but it would certainly help to disguise the cat litter smell that permeates the whole house.

  No, I can’t hide up here in this attic all summer long. I have to get out and do something. If I have to try out for a play in front of a bunch of strangers, that’s okay. David will be there. And maybe I can help him win the love of his life.

  CHAPTER 2

  The old Savannah Theater is in one of the revitalized areas of downtown. Built back in the eighteen hundreds, according to Mrs. Green, it was closed for almost fifty years until a community arts group begged some money from local businesses and got some state grants last year. The dragon lady, as David calls her, introduces herself and welcomes us to the Savannah Theater Summer Workshop. Sh
e is a tiny woman, dressed in a dark purple sundress, with short spiky silvery hair. She gestures grandly with elegant long arms as she tells us about the historical theater.

  Mrs. Green is particularly proud of the new lighting system they installed in March. What they need next, I think, as I look around the dingy theater, are some new stage curtains. The burgundy velvet drapes are looking pretty grim.

  Still, I love the ornate molding that decorates the walls and frames the stage. I can imagine this was a beautiful place back in its day. I glance around at the various clusters of kids sitting in the rows of seats. A group of little girls sit in the very front, chatting and flipping their ponytails back and forth. Their leader blows bubbles with her gum and looks very bored.

  Up on the stage, a group of silly boys are practicing stage falls. Not that anyone would need to be doing stage falls in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. A pretty brunette is laughing at them and practicing her English accent. “I say! Thou art too funny, y’all!”

  Over by the little girls, I notice a baseball cap. Someone is wearing a baseball cap INSIDE THE THEATER. And Mrs. Green is saying nothing about it. Even David has taken off his cap. The boy sits reading, oblivious to everything going on around him. And I realize I know Baseball Cap Boy. It’s Lucas . . . Something. Crap, did I know he lived in Savannah? I can’t remember.

  Lucas was a patient at Winter Oaks while I was there. We had a few group circles together. He’s quiet and, from what I remember, a preacher’s son. Lucas Grant. He was battling depression. And . . . a suicide attempt, I think.

  “Hippie,” David says, pinching my arm. “Let’s sit over there.” He nods toward the middle of the auditorium, where Colton and two girls are sitting. One of them has long black hair streaked with deep blue. She is intimidatingly beautiful. She glances up at us when Colton waves, and looks right back down at her phone.