Peter gets scornful, and it takes me off-guard. He’s so good, so real, that for a second I forget he’s acting. He’s not, in a way. I’m pretty sure this is how Peter looks when he’s angry. “Ha, ha! are you honest?”
He takes a step toward me, and I back up. “My lord!”
He reaches for me, reaches for my face, “Are you fair?” and I duck away, raising a hand.
“What means your lordship?” My voice cracks, but from real fear this time. He means to touch Ophelia. Physical choices, she said.
Peter answers, “That if you be honest and fair, your honesty should admit no discourse to your beauty.”
He steps away again, smiling, which confuses me. I want him to turn around.
“Could beauty, my lord, have better commerce than with honesty?”
He advances, and as he speaks, he reaches for me again. I step away, but he moves faster, grabs me around the waist with one arm, his other hand on my shoulder. No skin’s touching, but the wave is crashing in. I can’t have a panic attack on stage, but my breath rasps.
“Ay, truly,” he says, “for the power of beauty will sooner transform honesty from what it is to a bawd . . .” He claps his hand down nearly on my backside, pulls my hips toward his, our faces so close . . . I make a noise, push back against his chest, but he goes on: “. . . than the force of honesty can translate beauty into his likeness . . .” He relaxes his hold but keeps his hands at the backs of my elbows, keeps me close, looks me straight in the eye, so unguarded, so in need.
No one has ever looked at me this way before.
“I did love you once,” he says.
And he reaches one hand toward my cheek.
Ophelia would let him. I’m Ophelia, but I’m Caddie, too.
I’m not sure what’s real anymore.
I lift my gloved hand to catch his wrist. It feels strong in my hand, and his fingers, his palm, burn an inch away from my already hot cheek. The wave rises over our heads. I breathe in once, twice—it’s hard to get enough air. His hand floats so close but doesn’t move closer. It would be a choice to let him touch me. I almost want to pull his hand to my face, close the gap, and let go.
Nadia’s voice, from a great distance, gives me my line: “Indeed, my lord, you made me believe so.”
It comes out a whisper. I have to stop for breath between phrases.
Peter drops his hand then, drops me, and I sink to my knees.
“You should not have believed me,” he says, “for virtue cannot so inoculate our old stock but we shall relish of it.” He says it with disgust: “I loved you not.”
“I was the more deceived.” The line falls from my lips. I don’t know where I am anymore. I’m crying, but I’m not sure why. Because he almost touched me? Or because he stopped? Or because I’m her and she hurts?
Peter’s gone on with his speech. When I’m brave enough to catch his eyes, there’s hesitation there, concern that belongs to Peter. Or maybe Hamlet feels that too, that he carried the act too far.
Over the next few lines, my breath hitches, and I sob before I’m able to speak. It’s either the best or the worst acting I’ve ever done—both at once. Nadia should stop us. It’s too much. I’m a mess.
At the cursing part, Peter gets much more physical than Drew. He crouches and squeezes my shoulders. “Be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape calumny.”
I backpedal away from him, and he lets me go, delivers the rest of his lines out to the audience. I don’t know if it’s a choice, or if he’s too worried about me to touch me again. It’s all I can do not to ask to stop, but it wouldn’t be fair to Peter to wreck his audition more than I already have.
He finishes his lines, “we will have no more marriages; those that are married already, all but one, shall live; the rest shall keep as they are. To a nunnery, go.”
Peter’s off in crazy Hamlet land—he leaves with barely a look. I want him to come back, now that he’s gone.
I could stop now, but I’ve learned the monologue. This might be the only chance I’ll get to give it onstage. And I’m feeling the right things—a gap’s closed between Ophelia and me. We’ve both pushed away boys we like. We’re both being watched, and embarrassing ourselves. We’ve both wrecked everything.
If I want to tell Ophelia’s story without “acting,” there might not be a better time.
“O! what a noble mind is here o’erthrown . . .”
The emotion is there, so I don’t have to force anything, just shape the words like a song. I lift my eyes toward the audience and let them in. It’s awkward to let them see my face when I’m feeling so much, but that’s what the scene needs.
They applaud. I try not to look at individual people, but Peter walks back onstage, beaming and clapping for me, and something between us has shifted. It feels dangerous to make eye contact with him, like if I look too long, I won’t ever be able to stop.
Nadia doesn’t clap. Her face is blank, judging me, but there’s no way to tell what she’s thinking.
I stand up, mutter “thank you,” and walk down the stairs on the far side from Peter, away from his arms that are stretched out to give me a hug.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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14.
I make myself sit through the next few auditions even though my whole body feels like it’s burning. I sit far away from Mandy and her friends. Everything seems far away—I don’t think I could look them in the eyes and hide how far away I am.
I go over and over the scene in my head, where I felt like her and forgot myself, where I felt like myself except out of control, where I felt both at once . . . Peter holding me, almost touching his hand to my skin.
Shakespeare didn’t write stage directions that require Hamlet and Ophelia to touch, but how could I ever think acting with Peter would be safe? I’ve seen how physical Peter can be in real life, and the whole point of theater is that it’s bigger, more.
Maybe because it’s acting, a touch wouldn’t matter. He’d be touching Ophelia, not Caddie. But Ophelia’s still with me, buzzing inside, and all our nerve endings are electric. It’s not just the fear of Peter touching me . . . it’s the bigness of the scene. It’s so big how she feels, how she loves.
I want to play her so badly, but to do that onstage again and again, so open and exposed, to want him to touch me . . . The tremor starts at my center, rumbles out through my heart, shoulders, wrists, hands, and teeth.
Nadia’s going to hear my teeth clatter, going to know better than to cast me, even as a guard. I should never have let the fear get this bad or my stupid crush on Peter go this far. It’s a joke to think I can act, or have friends, or a boyfriend, or anything else if performing one scene makes me shatter.
I’m up and halfway to the auditorium door before I know it, one leg swinging in front of the other, stabbing the ground and propelling me out. When my brain catches up with my body, I speed to a jog.
In the hallway, I roll against the wall and will my teeth to stop, try to steady my breathing. I’m getting too much air, enough to drown. Thinking that makes it worse, but the thought comes, and I sink against the wall.
I don’t want to panic in school, but at least no one’s watching.
Then the door to the theater creaks open.
Peter.
I cover my eyes with the heels of my hands, hold my breath so he won’t hear my voice catch, wait for him to get that I want to be alone, but he stands there. I have to breathe, gasp, and cover it by coughing.
Slowly, Peter shuts the door. His army boots shuffle closer. “Oh, no . . . sad clown.”
“I’m okay,” I tell him.
He doesn’t take the hint. He slides down the wall so he’s crouching beside me. “You don’t look okay.”
“No, I’m fine. I just—I want to be alone right now.”
He doesn’t move, but he doesn’t speak
, either. I try to steady my breath, but it isn’t cooperating. “I really—Do you mind?”
“I’m so glad I got to read with you,” he says. “I was impressed.”
I shake my head.
“Caddie, you were amazing . . . that monologue . . .”
I did get through the monologue, and I felt like Ophelia. But everything else was a mess.
My voice gasps as I breathe, and Peter says, “Are you . . . should I get someone?”
I shake my head emphatically, and he waits while I get it together to speak. “I just—I get like this. When I’m anxious.”
He waits for me to say more, then says, “I hope I didn’t . . . I hope nothing made you uncomfortable. Nadia wanted us to be physical. The rest of us, we’re used to it, but you’re new. Maybe I shouldn’t have—”
“It’s nothing you did,” I say. “I’m sorry. I just want to be alone.”
He accepts it, just like that. I told him it wasn’t his fault. He believes me. No fuss.
Because he knows that it isn’t his fault. He knows that I’m strange.
“I don’t believe in letting people cry alone,” he says. “You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to, but I’m not going anywhere.” His face seems perfectly steady, like he couldn’t care less what I think about him joining me on the floor.
“Look, I’m embarrassed,” I tell him. “I don’t want you to see me like this.” And he nods. He isn’t grinning exactly, but his lips are set.
“That’s okay, but like I told you before, I’m not going anywhere.”
For a split second I wish he would hug me, crush me, so this stupid game can be over, so I don’t have anywhere to go or anything to do but cry into his shirt. And then I want to smack him. But I’m not allowed to do either. I stand, wobbling a little, and he reaches out a hand to steady me.
“Don’t,” I say, pulling away and balancing myself on the wall. “You can stay here as long as you want, but I’m going.”
“Good deal,” he says, and he stands too, following me down the hall.
“God, just quit it, okay?”
He shakes his head.
“You can’t follow me home.” He shrugs as if to say he can. “We barely even know each other, Peter, so why do you care?”
“Is that a serious question?”
“You’re making me angry.”
“Good,” he says. “Angry is better than what you were before.”
I don’t know how to argue with him, so I walk. He follows me. It’s almost funny. His steps thud behind me, then speed up and he’s beside me. At the stairs, I run, up and up as fast as I can. Peter laughs and races me, taking the steps two at a time, wheeling around me on the landing and beating me to the top.
We both have to catch our breath, and when his eyes meet mine, I actually start laughing. It’s all so ridiculous, I can’t help myself.
“Where are you going?” Peter asks.
“To the roof,” I say, putting on a wild bravado. “I’m going to jump off the building. Do you want to come do that, too?”
“I did that once,” he says. “Jumped off a roof. Roof of a cabin at summer camp. I broke my leg in two places and got to go home.” He says it nonchalantly, as if that’s a completely normal thing for a kid to do, and he sinks down on the step above me.
“Why would you jump off a roof?”
“I didn’t want to be there. I was like seven years old. I was living with my dad while my mom did grad school. Dad had just remarried. He and the stepmom wanted a honeymoon. I told my cabin counselor if he didn’t let me call them I would jump off the roof. He didn’t. I did. It took them a day or two to get back from where they were, but they came and got me.”
“That’s crazy.”
Peter slides down a step to sit beside me, and I let him. There’s no point telling him to go away. The guy jumped off a roof.
“Did you—When you did it, weren’t you afraid of what might happen?”
He shakes his head. “No. I remember being angry that it hurt so bad. It’s like I thought they were making it hurt worse to punish me. I wanted to dole out some pain to every adult there.”
“Wow.”
“I was scared, too, like, the doctors told me I was bleeding from my bones, and I thought that must mean I was a goner.”
“That’s awful. Were you okay? Did you ever forgive your dad?”
“Oh yeah, I guess I did. What else do you do when you’re seven? I definitely milked it for a while. I was a bratty little patient.”
I can imagine.
“So, are you okay?” he asks.
It’s a moment before I can think about myself again to answer him. “Yeah, I am,” I say. “You pissed me off, but yeah, I guess I feel a little better.”
“I knew you were nervous,” he says. “You hide it, but I could tell.”
I should tell him to stop looking so hard, keep it safe between Peter and me. But I like that he looked, that he could tell.
“It’s more than that,” I say. My chest’s tight from saying it out loud. “My dad doesn’t want me to be here. He says I have too much ‘academic potential’ to be an actress, like this isn’t even a real school. I feel like I have to do well here or else . . . he’ll have been right. I’ll be disappointing my mom. Things . . . aren’t good right now between them.”
“I wondered,” Peter says.
I do a mental rundown of the time I’ve spent with Peter, what I might have done to give that away. Or is it blatantly clear to everyone, like a face tattoo reading CHILD OF A BROKEN HOME?
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing. I thought something might be going on with your family. You never talk about them. You seem stressed a lot of the time.”
Hearing him say that aloud is comforting somehow. I haven’t talked to anyone about this stuff—wanting to prove myself to my dad, wanting to make Mom proud.
We sit there silently, listening to the hum of air sighing through the old building.
“What’s the most scared you’ve ever been?” he asks, and right then I want to tell him everything and see how he reacts, see if anyone can understand and not think I’m crazy like I know I am. I want to tell him about our fight in March, and the hospital, about the day Dad left and not touching, about how I imagine it would feel if Peter touched me, like the worst and best things in the world all at once.
“I don’t know,” I say. “A lot of things scare me.” He nods like he could have guessed that’s what I’d say.
He’s so close, our clothes touch. He plays with the corner of my cardigan that rests on his thigh, giving it the slightest tug. When he looks back to me, he tilts his head, and this might be the moment if we were two normal kids when he’d lean in and we’d kiss.
But instead he stares as if he can read something written on my skin. I’m unnerved by his ease with me, how close he came to making me spill everything.
“Okay, so am I excused?” I say. “I think I need to go.”
“I think you’re safe to travel. You sure you’re okay?”
I don’t answer, but I smile long enough to convince him I’m all better, then guard my face on my way down the stairs. I don’t want to chance Peter reading more than I’m ready to say.
All the way home, I think about falling.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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15.
Ophelia falls. On purpose or not, we don’t know. She falls from the willow branch into the pond and drowns.
I could drown in Peter. One touch, skin to skin, and I’d fall.
I’m chopping veggies, helping Mom with dinner even though it’s Friday. The others are probably out celebrating being done with auditions, but I didn’t have the guts to make eye contact with Mandy after I read for Ophelia, much less call her.
“Caddie,” Mom says. I’ve stopped chopping. “You looked so far away.”
&n
bsp; “I was thinking,” I tell her.
“What’s on your mind?”
I shake my head.
She faces me, her lips in the pout she makes when she can’t decide how far to push. “I know it’s been hard on you with Dad gone.”
It annoys me when she skirts around the words. “That you’re getting divorced.”
“We’re taking some space. Sometimes you need that space in a relationship. Even a very good one.”
Which theirs isn’t.
“Mom. I understand how things are. It’s okay. It’s not your fault.”
Her eyes soften. “I appreciate that,” she says quietly. “It’s not your fault either. You know that, right?”
I nod and go back to cutting, try to bottle the cry in my throat before it can grow into a full-fledged sob. I know no such thing. It’s arrogant in a way to think I could have such an effect on them, but that doesn’t change how it feels.
“I submitted a portfolio to the Goblet,” Mom says, changing the subject. The Goblet is a bistro with a gallery. Fancy customers wander around there with decorators in tow, sipping wine while they shop for their homes. “They’re open to new artists’ work.”
“That’s cool.” My voice is too flat, but the hope in her voice, the enthusiasm, worries me.
On a night like this, making dinner with Mom, it’s easy to act like nothing’s changed. But Mom submitting to a gallery—that’s very new. And she agreed to let Jordan play football. And she’s certain, even though I warned her it doesn’t look good, that I’m getting a part in the play. She’s got all three of us doing things that Dad might describe as “frivolous.”
Maybe that’s what we all need, to move on and let go. Jordan takes out his aggression on a football field. Mom gets a gallery show. I get a role in a play, a boyfriend. . . .
Peter almost touched my skin at our audition. I keep telling myself I was careful, but no amount of careful can make me feel safe because I know something new: I want to know what it feels like to have Peter touch me. And I want to touch him.
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