“So go be in a movie. Tell your mom she can be her own triple threat.”
Mandy laughs. I made Mandy laugh.
“I’m scared I don’t have the look for it.”
I’ve never known Mandy to be scared of anything, but I like her for saying it. “You’re the best-looking person I know.”
She laughs again. “No,” she says. “I mean, even if I look all right here—and I think I look all right—this is Birmingham. We’re tiny.”
I follow her eyes to the city proper, just visible through the tree cover. Our tallest buildings hardly scrape the sky, but they form a decent-sized grid stretching north and south of the train tracks. Most cities form around water, a lake or a river, an ocean port, but Birmingham’s river was a railroad.
On the edges of the city are the smokestacks and furnaces. Now, a lot of these have been shut down. Graffiti artists have outdone themselves tagging the highest pipes. At least they chose good colors, jewel tones that complement the rust.
Most of what people call Birmingham is miles and miles of little towns with names that play on nature words: “ridge” and “valley,” “crest” and “dale,” plenty of “red” for the iron. Toss in “Cahaba” and “Cherokee,” the occasional “English” or “Avon,” and you’ve got it covered.
Up here in Redmont Park over Avondale, the cicadas sing louder than the downtown traffic.
Mandy’s been still for a long time, but it doesn’t feel wrong being quiet with her. Then she looks to me. “Caddie, why did we stop being friends?”
She doesn’t seem worried by what I might say. It’s a fact that we’re no longer friends, and she says it like that, no emotion attached.
“I stopped taking dance; we went to different schools . . .”
We both know there’s more to it than that, but Mandy doesn’t contradict me.
I think I might have wrecked it with Mandy. I was jealous when she got the academy and I got panic attacks, afraid of her seeing how jealous I was and how strange I’d become.
Mandy’s stopped twirling the leaf, and she studies me like she’s making a decision.
“You’re going to like the theater people,” she tells me, and I feel like I’ve passed a test.
She holds her leaf out to me, but if I take it, our fingers will touch. I wave it away like she’s handing me a milkshake and I’m watching my weight. I’m worried I failed that one, but she says, “Let’s go,” and the leaf falls down between us as we stand.
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2.
As we climb the amphitheater’s steps and cross the drive, words pour from Mandy faster than I can follow. “You have to get into Hamlet so we can go to Mountain Bard in January. We compete at the Alabama Shakespeare Festival in Montgomery. It’s like the fifth largest one in the world and the only one that gets to fly the flag of the Royal Shakespeare Company. They’ve got this pond with royal swans—like the queen’s swans—and they give out scholarships, and scouts from college programs come. We could share a room. I mean, we have to get screened, but we almost always win the whole thing. The only time I know of that we haven’t made it was like five years ago when some kid got an asthma attack in the middle of playing Macbeth.”
“Poor guy.”
“Why? He wrecked it. I mean, take your medicine, right? Or don’t be Macbeth if you maybe can’t breathe all the way through a soliloquy.”
“But people are still talking about it?”
“You don’t bother going to a fancy arts school to not be the best at your art. He messed it up for everyone.”
And years later, they still hate him for it. Getting cast in a small part sounds better with that in mind, but Ophelia’s not small.
It feels unwise to confide in Mandy that I’ve been dreaming about Ophelia, that I have all her speeches memorized, that Ophelia has a place on the wall by my bed. I printed a copy of this painting by John Everett Millais. Ophelia is lying in a pool of water, surrounded by leaves, a crown of flowers in her hair. Her back is arched, palms open, eyes staring. She’s either dying and doesn’t know it, or she’s letting herself die. Her dress hangs heavy around her legs. Soon it will drag her down.
Mandy’s still talking. “. . . And you have to try for State Thespians in the spring. Last year we went international.”
“Whoa. Where does ‘international’ mean?”
“Lincoln, Nebraska, but it still sounds like fun. We can go together!” She squeals—actually squeals—about the two of us going on a trip at the end of the school year because she thinks we might still be friends then.
“And this is the real coup,” she says. “The juniors have half a chance at some good parts because this year’s seniors got into a whole drinking debacle in Lincoln, and they’re banned from competing. Usually they choose the competition plays specifically for the seniors, but this year it’s all up for grabs.”
As sad as that is for the seniors, it’s good news for me. But that’s not the best part. The best part is Mandy’s excitement at having me here.
We tour the entire school: the giant lounge called the “green room,” the visual arts studios, the special classrooms for dance and orchestra, and Mandy’s favorite—the rehearsal rooms, which are completely unsupervised.
“I hooked up with Drew for the first time in here,” she tells me. “He stood behind me, and I put one leg up on the barre while we were facing the mirror so I could see everything he was doing—totally hot.”
I smile, but my stomach twists. Even if I could touch and be touched, I’m not sure I could handle that.
Our tour ends at the academy’s theater for a talk from the department head. The space has that rich, dark glow that old theaters give off. Deep red carpets in the aisles match the velvet curtains around the stage, which is black, shiny, and flat, a blank canvas to hold whatever a designer imagines. But what makes the space feel endless are the lights. A whole world could fit under those lights. I could walk and walk and never fall off the edge of that stage.
The department head is Nadia, no last name. She doesn’t need one.
Nadia’s tiny with a pixie cut to match. Her clothing’s . . . unique. She wears a weird apron dress over skinny jeans and lime-green heels with rubber straps. She was at my audition, but I mistook her for a student assistant. She’d been knitting, not paying attention, I thought.
Standing center stage, she still looks like one of the stranger students, but there’s nothing “assistant” about her. As small as she is, she fills the whole stage. She pushes the microphone out of the way. Her voice doesn’t need help to reach us, reach into us.
“Acting is about action,” she says, “taking action on needs. What do you need more than anything else in this world? Need as much as you need air?”
My throat tightens, and I tuck my hands under my arms. I know what it means to need air.
I need to not feel that way. I need to not touch anyone.
That’s not really a need, that’s a fear, but maybe if I’m lucky, Nadia won’t be able to tell the difference.
After Nadia’s talk, Mandy and I head back to the junior corridor. Banks of multicolored lockers—lavender, mint, and rhubarb—hug the halls, and murals fill the spaces in between.
“I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore,” I say, and Mandy laughs.
“It’s like a rainbow exploded in here, right?”
“No, I love it.”
A few students who clearly aren’t being oriented camp out by their lockers, playing cards as if they’re completely at home.
“What are they doing?” I ask.
Mandy gives me a look. “Playing cards.”
“No, I mean, if school hasn’t started yet?”
She shrugs. “Setting up lockers? Helping teachers get stuff ready?” Then she catches on to my confusion. “Most students actually like being here.”
; “They let people hang out in the halls when school’s out?”
“Yeah, what are we going to do? Start an art riot?”
Mandy spots a tall guy at his locker and makes a face.
“Hold on a sec. Me and Peter have talking to do.”
Mandy mentioned boy trouble. Could this be the guy?
Peter’s red-brown hair falls over his glasses—the hip, nerdy kind with the plastic frames. He’s wearing a paint-spattered T-shirt, cargo pants, and work boots. He’s broad-shouldered, not huge, but there’s something about how he stands. Peter takes up space and doesn’t seem to mind.
He’s at home in his skin.
I feel like I know him or like I’m supposed to know him, but I’m sure we’ve never met. Mom’s always said she’s a little bit psychic—that every time she’s met someone who’s going to be important in her life, she’s known at first sight. I don’t really believe in all that, but there’s some kind of energy shouting at me.
Crazily, I find myself hoping that Peter’s not Mandy’s guy—a stupid hope because it’s not like I could be with Peter. Being with a guy generally involves touching a guy.
My pulse picks up and I feel a bit hot, but I don’t think that’s only from fear.
When Peter sees Mandy coming, he holds up his hands as if to say “don’t shoot,” and he smiles, guilty and loving it, totally game. Mandy steps close to him, and even though Peter’s at least a head taller, the way she gathers herself into one charged column makes them seem equally matched.
“You. Do. Not,” she says, each word a barb, “touch my car.”
From the tirade that follows, I pick up the facts. Peter is not Mandy’s boyfriend; that’s Drew—yes, from the rehearsal room hookup. Drew lives across the street from the Birmingham Country Club. Last weekend when Mandy was at Drew’s, Peter attached a winch to her car and towed it out of the driveway and onto the golf course—into a sand trap.
The more Mandy gets in his face, the wider Peter smiles.
“Drew’s the one who gave me the idea,” he says, and the air around Mandy sizzles and sparks.
For my benefit, Peter says, “Mandy wouldn’t stop complaining about having to ride in Drew’s truck.”
His “ride” comes out “rahhhd.” The most common Birmingham accent squeezes vowels into nasal diphthongs, but Peter’s vowels take up wide-open spaces, true Southern drawl.
“That truck is an eyesore!” says Mandy.
“Ah-ah-ah.” Peter holds up one finger. “Watch what you say or it’s back to the sand trap for you, missy.”
She pinches her fingers and thumb together like a beak and jabs his chest just below the collarbone. He groans, still laughing, and puts up a hand in defense.
“She should be thanking me,” Peter says to me, “for settling the fight. See, she needed Drew’s truck to tow her out, but he wouldn’t do it until she said the magic words: ‘Your badass truck is superior to my lame-ass car in every way, and I will never complain about it again.’ Problem solved.”
She goes for another jab, but he catches her wrists and holds her at bay so her kicks miss his shins. Mandy laughs too, but she doesn’t stop kicking.
I step back and steady myself at the wall, ready to bolt if they swing around toward me.
In one swift reversal, Peter catches Mandy in a bear hug, pinning her back to his chest. Our eyes meet—Peter’s eyes are green—and for one second it’s me he’s holding tight.
My breath catches. That kind of touching is definitely. Not. Allowed.
Mandy wrenches out of Peter’s grip, and only then, when Peter’s eyes drop, do I realize I’d been frozen. It couldn’t have been more than a second, but it feels like so much longer that I couldn’t look away.
I try to steady my breathing. Each breath is enough. There is no need to struggle for air.
Mandy and Peter face each other in a standoff.
“Truce?” Peter says.
“Payback,” says Mandy, “when you least expect it.”
“I live for danger.”
Peter catches me staring and stares back as if we know each other well enough for that to be okay.
It’s unnerving.
“Caddie,” he says, like he’s testing it out. I can’t think how he knows my name, but I like the way it sounds in his voice. Does he have this effect on everyone?
He takes a step toward me—Don’t touch!
“Excuse me,” Mandy says, “I’ve got to check my hair for lice,” and she stalks to the bathroom a few yards down the hall.
“I think she just said I’ve got cooties,” Peter says. “That is so fourth grade.”
“For us it was third,” I say, surprising myself with how fast something flirty comes out of my mouth.
“So you were advanced. Way ahead of me.”
He steps closer. I back up. No words come.
It’s not comfortable holding eye contact for this long, but it’s not safe to look away, either, not with him standing so close. I have no script for talking to Peter.
“So, do you do that a lot?” I say finally. “Steal people’s cars? You could have gotten arrested.”
Peter looks back over his shoulder. I can’t tell if he’s already bored with me or embarrassed by talking about himself, or maybe he’s actually afraid the cops are listening. He seems like a guy who might have earned a spot on Birmingham’s most-wanted pranksters list.
“I get a lot of great ideas,” Peter says, looking back at me. “I’m just not always good at sorting out which ones are, you know, legal.” Peter smiles the way cats stretch, easily and with his whole self.
“Hey, how did you know my name?” I ask.
“You know mine,” he says.
“I . . . I heard Mandy say your name.”
He raises one finger toward me and closes the distance between us. I step back and stumble.
“Maybe it should say, ‘My name is Jumpy,’” he says.
His finger, too close, points at the nametag I’d forgotten I was wearing. There’s space between us, but I feel the threat of his touch, potential energy between the tip of his finger and my heart.
I nod, rattled, like he’s picked me up by the shoulders and shaken me. “I should check on Mandy.”
I step far around him, keeping him in my sights as I make my way down the hall and back through the bathroom door. I take extra time and when Mandy and I finally emerge, the coast’s clear. Peter’s gone.
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3.
Dad taught me about potential energy.
It’s the energy waiting to get used when a still object finally moves. A glass that’s about to slip from a hand, a ball set to roll downhill, a car tipping over the edge of a cliff all have potential energy.
Dad had it on the day he left. He stood in the den with his hands in his pockets and rocked on his heels, back and forth, as if he were standing in sand with the tide coming in.
All the tension, resentment, and whatever else made my parents split up sloshed around him like a wave and spilled closer to me, pooled.
The air felt unnaturally still—conditioned and vacuum-sealed to keep June outside. Dust motes hovered in the air as if frozen in time, caught by the afternoon rays angling through the back woods and the den’s big bay windows.
A body in motion remains in motion. That was Dad, going away to do research in physics at the University of Virginia.
A body at rest remains at rest unless something makes it move. That was me, not about to hug Dad good-bye. I didn’t want any part of that bad-feeling wave. That’s when the magic words crept back in: Don’t touch.
Any second, Dad might have tipped forward, crossed the couple of feet between him and me, and taken my hand, wrapped me up in a hug.
But he didn’t.
And I didn’t budge from my seat in the big chaise lounge with its pillows stacked up like san
dbags, its high, wide arms two barricades. I felt powerful keeping my distance while Dad hugged Mom good-bye.
She sobbed, but not Dad. Not me. Mom says I’m “emotionally contained” just like him.
My brother, Jordan, on the other hand, exploded. He screamed in Dad’s face, broke a vase, and ran into the woods, not to return until Dad was long gone.
It probably confused Dad that I wasn’t clinging to him, begging him to stay. I thought, Let him be confused. Even if I tried to hold on, he’s stronger than me. And even if he weren’t, a person can’t hold on to another person forever. At some point, their muscles give out, or the authorities get called.
Would he try to kiss me good-bye, squeeze my hand? Better not.
Or what?
Or this pain sloshing back and forth between us will be permanent, suck us all down. Touch another person’s skin, and Dad will never come home. There will never again be enough air. This family will stay broken, drown.
Dad said, “Well, sweetie, this is it,” and patted the chaise a few safe inches away from my feet. Even that felt too close, but I’d built a wall between us that he couldn’t cross.
“Have a good drive,” I said.
Dad looked surprised, maybe even relieved, at my calm. He didn’t force things, didn’t make me stand up and give him a hug. I almost wished he would.
The game might have been over as soon as it started.
But Dad didn’t need a hug from me. He just waved.
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4.
“Was it okay?” Mom wants to know as soon as I get in the car. She reaches over and squeezes my thigh.
Clothes make it safe. I take a deep breath. Touching through clothes makes me nervous, but it can’t wreck the game; it’s important to stick to that rule.
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