Exit Stage Left

by Nall, Gail

  I close my eyes and breathe in the slight hay scent clinging to his clothes, slowly moving my arms to return the hug. He’s so different from Trevor. Everything about Trevor is familiar, from his broad shoulders to how he always tasted like chocolate chip cookies to the way we seemed to fit together like a puzzle. Oliver’s more angular and his hair’s too short to brush my face when he’s looking at me the way he is right now.

  My heart trips as he moves a hand over my shoulder and up my neck to trace my jawline. My eyes close involuntarily, and while I can feel his breath on me, I completely forget how to breathe.

  “You can’t miss the first tech rehearsal. Your family will just have to go to Disney without you, because if you go Ms. Sharp will kill you and then she’ll kill me because I knew about it!” Hannah Goldman’s shrill voice echoes through the theater.

  I jump backward, falling into my seat. Oliver yanks his feet off the armrests and stands up. Danielle skips ahead of Hannah and waves at us, like she’s not at all bothered by being told she’s not allowed to go on vacation. Oliver clears his throat. He’s about to settle into the seat next to me when Hannah calls for him to go over some blocking changes in Act Two.

  I pull my legs up and wrap my arms around them. And imagine what might’ve happened if no one had come bursting in through the doors. Maybe something new and different isn’t so bad at all.

  “Really, Casey, it’s not that hard. If you actually studied, you might understand it,” Harrison says from across the table. I’ve dragged him to the library during lunch to get me up to speed for my pre-calc test tomorrow. And now I wish I’d asked Amanda instead. She would’ve actually explained it to me instead of insulting me.

  “You’re supposed to be helping, not making me feel bad,” I remind him.

  “I can’t possibly teach you six weeks’ worth of pre-calc in one thirty-minute lunch period.”

  “You don’t have to teach me all of it. Just hit the highlights. Like, what’s this whole polynomial thing? And what do you do with these functions?” I tap the page with my pencil eraser and wait for Harrison to enlighten me.

  Instead, he bangs his forehead on the table.

  “So, hey, when I’ve got this stupid test behind me, I’m going to find us a band to join. What are your thoughts on jazz standards?” I can just see myself in a slinky midnight-blue gown, leaning against a piano, my hair falling in perfectly loose curls as I croon my way through some sexy ballad.

  “No,” he says, his voice muffled by the table.

  “Yeah, you’re right. It’s too similar to theater. We need something entirely different.”

  Harrison turns his head sideways, making his glasses go crooked. “We could ask Oliver. He looks like he’s really into music.”

  I flush and hope to God that Harrison doesn’t notice. I pull my pre-calc book closer, hoping to make sense out of what’s on the page, but all I see is Oliver’s face.

  “Polynomials?” a voice says over my shoulder. I freeze.

  “Hey, Trevor,” I say, about an octave higher than usual. Out of the corner of my eye, Harrison shakes his head.

  “That class is the worst. Make sure you take General Math Principles next year. It’s a snorefest, but impossible to fail.” Trevor pushes his hair out of his face.

  “Okay. Thanks,” I say carefully. He must want something. Not me, obviously, but something I have or I can do for him. Well, he can ask all he likes, but I’m not giving him a thing.

  “NYCPA doesn’t care what math you take after Algebra II,” Trevor goes on, as if I’m still able to ask for an audition there. He applied early decision to NYCPA last year, the way I’d planned to in January. He went up for an audition in spring, had his acceptance by midsummer, and could happily cross calculus off his list of senior-year classes. Thinking about NYCPA—and the imaginary life I’d planned there for us together—makes my heart ache a little.

  “I’m pretty sure you would’ve gotten in even if you couldn’t add two and two,” I say. I pull up the side of my mouth the way I do when I tease him. I’m doing exactly what I told myself I would never do again—flirt with Trevor. I shut it down immediately, but way too late for him to un-notice it. Something flickers in his eyes—something I haven’t seen in a while—and then it’s gone.

  “So,” I say, eyes back on my textbook, “why are you talking so much to me? Is Amanda ignoring you?”

  “Since when do I need a reason to talk to you?”

  “Since you hooked up with my best friend and acted like I don’t even exist.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  I glance up. He’s just standing there, arms crossed. And I’d forgotten. This is Trevor’s usual MO—deny, deny, deny.

  Harrison fakes a cough, which is his way of reminding us he’s still there.

  “Besides, I like to talk to you,” Trevor says, in a way that reminds me he likes to do more than just talk. He uncrosses his arms and leans against the nearest bookshelf, managing to look even hotter in a slouch than anyone has a right to. My irritation vanishes. It’s almost impossible to stay mad at him when he’s looking at me like that.

  Harrison coughs so hard I’m afraid he’ll start choking.

  “So, hey,” I finally say, searching my brain for the first random non-angry, non-flirtatious thing to say. “You know anything about being in a band? Like anyone we could talk to? Besides my brother, I mean.”

  “A little, actually. Me, Johnny, and Steve-o were talking the other day, and we’re going to start one.”

  I shudder at the mention of Johnny Grimaldi. I’ve been avoiding him like he’s a show doomed to close on opening night. “Really? I didn’t know you were into that.”

  “I figure it’ll be a good side gig in New York next year.”

  Harrison’s watching us, spinning his notebook on the table and frowning.

  “What kind of music?” I ask Trevor, keeping myself focused on my goal.

  He shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe something like Eric’s band, but with less screaming, you know?”

  “Got it. So, hey . . .” I can’t believe I’m about to ask him this, but I need to take one for the team. The team being Harrison and me and our futures. “Harrison and I were thinking of trying out for one.” Harrison gives me a sideways look that says he’d rather eat his shoes than be in a band with Trevor and the Grimaldis, but I ignore him. He can’t possibly think it’s easy for me, either.

  Trevor nods. “Yeah? That’s cool. I bet you’d make a great lead singer, Case.”

  I narrow my eyes at him. He definitely wants something. “What makes you think that?”

  “I don’t know. You can really belt one out, you know? And you’ve got the right look.”

  “Um, thanks, I guess.”

  “Yeah. Hey, I gotta go find a book. See you later?”

  “Sure.”

  Trevor walks away. I turn back to Harrison.

  “Casey? What the hell was that all about?” Harrison finally says. “Were you trying to get us into Trevor’s band? The one that doesn’t even exist yet? The one he’s going to form with Loser Twin One and Loser Twin Two? Did it occur to you that you should’ve run that idea by me first?”

  “Sorry,” I snap. “The opportunity presented itself, so I took it. And anyway, he didn’t ask us to join, even though I was making it kind of obvious that I wanted him to ask. So, no harm done.” I resume tapping my pencil on my book.

  “What’s up with the whole ‘you have the look’ thing?” Harrison deepens his voice in an attempt to imitate Trevor. It comes out sounding more like Ms. Sharp when someone keeps forgetting the same line over and over again.

  “I don’t know.” But I do know. He was flirting with me, again. And it was so easy for me to slip right back into my usual pattern, never mind any feelings I have for Oliver now and the promise I made to myself.

  “Please don’t tell me you’re going to start that whole cycle over again. I don’t know if I can take the drama,” Harrison says. He pull
s my pre-calc book across the table and begins thumbing through the pages.

  “Maybe he just wants me to be in his band. Us, I mean.” Images of Trevor backing me up on guitar while I mesmerize a crowd with my songs about despair and love gone wrong flit through my mind before I can stop them. “Can’t that be all he wants?”

  “Christ, Casey, I don’t know. It’s Trevor. How many girls did he go through since you dropped him last summer? He’s probably made his way through the entire school and run out. I’m sure he wants more than just a bandmate.”

  “Quit making him sound like a creep.”

  “Let’s see, there was Emma Akers, Sam DiStefano, Lucy Nguyen, Emma again, and that girl in college, Kelsey somebody. Gabby. Then Amanda. I’m forgetting someone in there. We’ve got three minutes left. I think you’re going to fail this test, by the way.”

  I fix him with what I hope is a Serious Stare. “It’s not any of your business, but I’m not going back to him. I just want to get us into his band, that’s all.”

  “You keep telling yourself that. But you’re right, it’s not any of my business. So that’s all I’m going to say on the subject.” Which is way more than he’s ever said on it. Harrison passes me the book and picks up his bag from the floor.

  “I didn’t ask your opinion on it to begin with,” I mutter. And I don’t know why Harrison’s so anti-Trevor all of a sudden. They were never BFFs or anything, but they always got along fine. “So if he does want us to join the band, are you game?”

  “You know, Casey, you do have a brother who’s already in a band. A good one, too, or so I’ve heard. Why don’t you talk to him?”

  Ha. That’s funny. “There’s no way Eric would ever—ever—let us be part of his precious Manic Banshee.”

  “Just ask him, okay? Before I get stuck spending my free time with Mr. Flippy Hair, Holland’s very own drug kingpin, and Shadow Boy.” Harrison scoops up my bag and hands it to me.

  “Shadow Boy?” Only Harrison can make Johnny Grimaldi sound like some kind of superhero.

  “Because he follows his brother around like a shadow. Obviously,” Harrison says.

  “Fine, I’ll ask. But if Eric laughs in my face, you owe me rides for the rest of the year.”

  “Like you won’t guilt me into those anyway.”

  As we pass the checkout counter, I spy Trevor. He smiles at me. I smile back until I realize what it is I’m doing. Then I just smile to myself. I might be dead-set against getting back together with him, but having him pick me over Amanda, or anyone else, is more satisfying than it should be.

  “. . . till you find your dream!” I belt out to the empty seats in the last row of the theater.

  “Good, Casey,” Ms. Sharp says, as I exit stage left. “I want to run the end of Act Two, Scene One again,” she announces to the group.

  I know exactly which scene that is—the romantic one between Maria and the Captain. Amanda stands just as Trevor passes her. He falls into step next to her and says something. He looks serious, not flirty, thankfully. Amanda doesn’t say anything back. When I pass, I give her arm a squeeze. She looks worried, and I’m guessing it’s because this is the third time Ms. Sharp’s called this scene today. Trevor shoots me a lazy smile over Amanda’s head.

  I sit next to Harrison, who’s two rows in front of Oliver. Even if we haven’t said anything to each other this entire rehearsal, every part of me is aware of exactly where Oliver is. I consider getting up and sitting with him, but that would look weird after already having chosen this seat.

  So instead, I get comfortable and watch Amanda stumble through this scene. I wish Ms. Sharp would just let it go for today. It’s clearly not clicking, and maybe once Amanda has time to process what she needs to do differently, it’ll get better. Trevor frowns when Amanda screws up a line. He’s such a perfectionist, and I know exactly how little patience he has for mistakes. Good thing I’m pretty much the same when it comes to acting, so we never had any problems. Onstage, anyway. But I feel for Amanda up there.

  Something scratchy bumps my hair and falls over my shoulder. It’s paper, crumpled into a little ball. What in the world?

  I flip around in my seat and Oliver looks straight up at the ceiling.

  “Did he just throw something at you?” Harrison asks.

  I unfold the paper to see writing. Assassin? is all it says. I hide a smile behind my hand as Harrison peeks over my shoulder.

  “What does that mean? And why is he throwing notes? What is this, third grade?” Harrison says.

  He’s throwing notes because he doesn’t have my number. It’s kind of cute, actually. I flatten the note on my armrest and find a pen in my backpack. Nice try, I write. Think sexier. Then I ball it up, turn around, and toss it back.

  Not a minute later, a ball of paper lands in Harrison’s lap. He opens it.

  “What the hell?” he says at the same time I read the words. Naked assassin? it says.

  My body goes so warm that it’s almost like I just stepped into a sauna. I snatch the paper away from Harrison and stuff it into my bag.

  “Is there something I should know, Casey?” Harrison asks, smirking.

  “Nothing I want you to know.”

  “Then it must be something good.”

  I ignore him and stare straight ahead, just in time to see Ms. Sharp toss her script to Hannah in a huff of irritation. She throws up her hands, effectively ending the torturous scene between Amanda and Trevor. Hannah calls the next scene since Ms. Sharp is too busy muttering to herself to do it.

  Amanda falls into the front row by herself. I’m about to slink out and join her when Trevor slides into the empty seat on the other side of me.

  “Hi,” I say. I give Trevor a suspicious look. But not too suspicious, because I still want him to ask us to join his band.

  “Do you have something in your eye?”

  I blink. “No. Yes.” I rub my right eye. So much for looking suspicious.

  “So, what are you up to this weekend?” Trevor leans back and puts his feet against the empty seat in front of him.

  I can feel the wind from Harrison’s head as it whips around.

  “Nothing much,” I say, not looking at him.

  “I’m thinking about going to Battle of the Bands Saturday night. You going?”

  Now I look at him. That familiar face—not just those eyes and that smile, but the dimple in his left cheek and the six freckles on his nose. I used to trace constellations with those freckles. A million memories rush through my head, and I can’t speak. Worse, I forget all about how much we don’t belong together. And anything I feel for Oliver. “Yeah, sure. Why not?” I say, like it’s no big deal.

  “Awesome. See you there.”

  Then he’s gone, and I’m trying to get over the fact that I’ve just erased all the work I’ve done getting him out of my mind.

  “Casey! What’s wrong with you?” Harrison whisper-yells at me the second Trevor leaves.

  “Nothing. We’re just going as friends,” I say, partly to reassure him and partly to reassure myself. I can stay in control here. It’s for the band, for my future. Nothing more.

  Harrison narrows his eyes. “Trevor doesn’t have friends who are girls.”

  “Sure he does.” I can’t think of anyone off the top of my head, but he’s got to. “Besides, it’s not like I’m going to hook up with him or anything.” Lies, my subconscious is telling me. All lies. Except they don’t have to be, if I set those feelings to the off switch, where they should be. Then it’s just me, being smart and using this situation to my advantage.

  That’s all.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I’ve got most of my closet spread out across my room (again) in search of clothes that will make me look irresistible and band-worthy when my phone chimes.

  Have need 4 cinnamon rolls. Pick you up in 30? It’s Amanda.

  I type out a yes and turn my attention back to my clothes. I still have time to pick something out. If he’s dead-set on trying
to get me back, then it won’t really matter what I wear. I could probably show up in my mom’s reject flared jeans from fifteen years ago and he’d still agree to anything I ask for. But I never do anything half-assed, and with that in mind, I test a bunch of different outfits until I stumble on the perfect combination.

  I study my reflection and test out how I look while singing some Violent Femmes (who I’ve been listening to a lot this week). I look totally kick-ass and I’m finally getting what I want—or wanted, technically. I’m actually happy, like I’ve won some huge battle. More than happy—freaking thrilled. I launch into the next verse, holding an imaginary microphone in my hand the way Amanda and I did when we pretended to be Hannah Montana as kids.

  Eric peeks through the open door. “You are seriously deranged.”

  I sing even louder, adding a high kick to my little performance.

  “Deranged,” he repeats as he shuts the door.

  “Wait! Eric, hang on.” I follow him out to where he’s stopped in the hallway, decked out in his garlic-scented, stained work uniform.

  “Make it quick,” he says. “I’ve got a late-night practice to get to.”

  “That’s what I wanted to ask you.” God, I can’t believe I’m doing this. I promised Harrison, though, and the faster I can get a no from Eric, the faster I can get us into Trevor’s band-to-be. “You ever think about having a girl in Manic Banshee? You know, maybe to sing on a few songs?”

  He blinks at me. “Are you asking to join my band?”

  “Well, yeah. And Harrison, too. You know he can sing. And he’s got a background on the sax.” No need to mention that Harrison wasn’t particularly talented in that area.

  He laughs. “Case, you’ve heard our music.”

  That I have. It sounds like a train crash mixed with a little nails-on-chalkboard.

  “What the hell would we do with a sax player?”

  “He can drum. Maybe even play guitar.” Now I’m just making things up.

  Eric runs a hand through his shaggy brown hair. “We’ve got all the musicians we need. And, no offense, kiddo, but you couldn’t keep up with our songs.”