CHAPTER EIGHT
I didn’t say a word the next morning when Stewart picked me up. He was pretty quiet himself, tapping a snappy beat on the steering wheel as we headed down the hill. Maybe he was just wrapped up in his own excitement, or maybe he could tell I was freaked out and had enough sense to back off—either way I was grateful for the silence. When we reached the pit stop, I was so nervous I took one hit too many, so that by the time I got to school, all I wanted to do was squeeze myself into a second-floor locker and shut the door.
Somehow I made it to lunch without falling off the roller coaster, though by the time I sat down at the cafeteria table with my daily dose of poop-on-a-tray, I was so exhausted from the effort I could barely carry on a conversation. So I just listened to Stewart talk circles around Eddie Edward with the usual slew of insults and outrageous lies, and kept my head down. Only when the bell rang did Stewart turn to me and speak.
“So you’ll meet me outside the drama room after school, right?”
“What for?”
He gave me a semi-disgusted look. Apparently I’d missed something.
“The posting of the parts. Just like Ms. Vale told us at the end of auditions yesterday. Remember?”
“Already?”
He shrugged. “That’s what she said. I’ve got a good feeling about this, Frenchy. Don’t you?”
“Yeah, can’t wait.”
I knew the worst was true before I even reached the drama room. I could tell by the faces of the kids as, one by one, they peeled away from the bulletin board outside the door and flitted past me in the hallway. No one said a word, but I could see the looks of surprise or resentment or amusement—sometimes all three mixed together—as they passed. By the time I reached the board, the only one left was Stewart, standing before it, as still as a statue, his hands clasped before him, his head slightly bowed as if in prayer. I could hear him murmuring under his breath, and at first I thought maybe he was praying, but as I reached him, I realized it wasn’t prayer. It was lines.
Don Quixote’s lines.
Sure enough, there it was, right at the top: Cervantes/Don Quixote—Stewart Bolger. And right below it: Sancho Panza—Gerard Paquette.
“Fuck!” I reached up with both hands to grab my hair. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
Stewart turned to me with a smile. “I know. It’s wonderful, isn’t it?”
“No, Stewart, it’s not wonderful. It’s not wonderful at all.”
His face fell. “What are you talking about, Frenchy? This is awesome. You were made for the role.”
“I was made to be your sidekick?”
He shook his head. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Look, Stewart, I don’t want a big part. It’s a lot of work, a lot of responsibility. I mean, fuck!”
Before Stewart could reply, the door opened and out came Ms. Vale. Seeing us, her face lit up.
“Oh, boys, I’m so pleased,” she said, locking her door. “Congratulations, seriously!”
I mustered the best smile I possibly could, which was pretty tough considering I felt like I was about to puke.
“Thanks, Ms. Vale,” Stewart jumped in. “You won’t be disappointed.”
“I know,” she replied. “I have to admit, Stewart, when you approached me a few weeks ago about this, I was a skeptical. But you blew me away at the audition. You both did. You’re a great team.”
She shouldered her bag and glanced at her watch.
“See you Monday. First rehearsal’s always one of the best. Two forty-five sharp.”
“Right,” Stewart replied, avoiding my gaze as Ms. Vale walked away. I could see his face turn bright red.
I waited until she’d left, then grabbed him by the shirt and threw him against the wall. He felt light. He felt like nothing.
“You set me up, you asshole. You had this planned from the start!”
I could see the fear on his face. It was the same look he got whenever the Pokers came calling.
“Easy, Frenchy. I didn’t think it would really turn out this way. I mean, it’s pretty unbelievable, if you think about—”
“That’s bullshit,” I said, cutting him off. “You lied to me. Just admit it.”
When he hesitated, I tightened my grip and pushed hard against him so that he gasped and looked away. One or two kids—freshmen, I think—rounded the corner. I gave them an ugly look and they beat it.
“Okay!” he said at last. “I’m sorry. I should have told you. But if I had, you never would’ve gone for it.”
“You’re damn right I wouldn’t have. And I won’t now.”
A look of shock crossed his face. “What do you mean?”
“I’m not doing it.” I let go of him and started walking away. “Find somebody else to be your Sancho. I don’t need this shit!”
“But I do!” he shouted after me. When I didn’t stop, he caught up to me and grabbed me by the shoulder. I whirled around so fast he jumped back and held up his hands.
“I need this, Frenchy. Seriously, you don’t know how bad.”
“Why? What’s so important about this stupid play?”
“Him.” He hesitated and looked away. “I get to be Quixote.”
“You mean you get to be crazy?” I said. “So do it. I’m not going to stop you.”
“No!” A stormy look crept into his eyes. “I need you, too. I can’t do it without you, Frenchy. You’re the only one who knows.”
“Knows what?” I said. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Please, Frenchy,” he said, his voice all shaky, like he was about to start crying. “Please just do it. I’ll do anything you want. I’ll pay you if you want. You know, like a job? Like a professional actor.”
“I don’t want any money.” I took a couple steps back, then turned to go.
He reached out again as if to stop me. “Then just do it because we’re friends,” he begged. Wisps of hair had come loose from his ponytail; his hand still hovered between us.
I shook my head. He wasn’t supposed to be like this. He wasn’t supposed to make me be like this.
I gave him the finger and walked away. This time he didn’t try to stop me.
“Frenchy!” a voice cried out as I headed down the front steps.
I turned to see Kaela in the doorway. She came out to the top of the stairs.
“Congrats! Just heard the good news.”
“Thanks. It’s a dream come true, really.”
She laughed. “Come on, now. You’ll be great. You rocked that audition. Both of you did,” she said, tucking her hair behind her ear. “I’m just glad I don’t have to deal with Quentin as the lead this year. He’s insufferable enough as it is.”
This time I laughed. “I’m sure you know how to handle a guy like that.”
“That’s right. As stage manager, I outrank you all. Don’t you forget it.” She narrowed her eyes and gave me a sly smile.
“I wouldn’t dream of crossing you.” I held up my hands.
She glanced around. “So where’s Stewart, anyway?”
“Yeah, him,” I said. “He’s inside somewhere. Probably still gazing at his name on the casting sheet.”
She nodded. “Well, I’m going to go find him. See you on Monday?”
I hesitated, then nodded and gave her a quick salute. “At your command, Madame Stage Manager.”
She blushed a little, returned the salute, then went back inside. I watched her go, then headed for home.
Stewart didn’t even slow down when he drove by me a half hour later as I trudged along the road. He knew I needed to walk, and that if I walked, I’d get over it.
And so I walked all the way home. I tried not to think, but I couldn’t help it. Even worse, the music started coming, the rhythm of my steps dragging it from my brain the way it always did when I used to walk home, only now it was those goddam songs from the play. I’d sung them and heard them so much yesterday that they were stuck in my head. Musical numbers—they’re evil that way. No
matter how fast I walked, I just couldn’t escape them. Especially that one. It kept coming back, over and over:
I’m Sancho! Yes, I’m Sancho! I’ll follow my master till the end. I’ll tell all the world proudly I’m his squire! I’m his friend!
Fucking Stewart.
For the second morning in a row, there were no words as I got into the car and plopped back against the seat. Neither of us spoke until we passed the field that looked out over the valley.
“No pit stop this morning?” I asked, forgetting myself. I’d planned on giving him the silent treatment all the way to school.
“No,” he said, glancing at me with a smile. “No more pit stops.”
He had such a loopy grin, I couldn’t help laughing.
“Yeah? Why not?”
“Don’t need them. Not anymore.”
“Okay.” I knew he wanted me to play along. And so I did. I couldn’t help it. “And why is that?”
“Because I have Sancho.” He turned to look at me. “Right?” he said, still staring.
I shook my head and sighed. “Yeah, whatever. Just watch the goddam road.”
He turned back and slapped the steering wheel.
“I have Sancho,” he murmured. “And I have Don. That’s all I need.”
As we came around the bend, the view opened back up. It was a dark morning, and the blades of the wind towers scraped the hovering clouds.
Stewart pointed across the valley. “Those fuckers,” he said, pausing for dramatic effect, “those fuckers have got to come down.”
We laughed all the way to the bottom of Suffolk Heights.
CHAPTER NINE
“I thought we were all done with the pit stops.”
It was Monday morning and cold as hell. The frost was heavier than last Monday, the valley fog thicker than ever. When we pulled into the field, even the sky seemed bluer, the leaves an even richer, deeper red than last week. Of course, at that point I didn’t know what Stewart had in store for me, had no clue I’d be wrapped up in this whole business of the play. It’s funny how things can change so fast. I don’t like it much.
“We are, dude,” Stewart said, getting out of the car. “This is something else.”
I dragged my ass out of the passenger side and watched him walk to the back of the Volvo. I could only wonder what he was up to this time. We hadn’t spoken all weekend, which was fine by me—I was still a little pissed off with him over the whole audition thing. I mean, I’d gotten used to the idea, but I’d been just as glad when he didn’t call.
“Went to Boston this weekend.” He spread his hands over the trunk.
“Boston, huh?” I said. “Wow.”
I’d been to Boston only once, last spring, when my mother and I went to pick up my father at Logan Airport. We never actually made it into the city, though. After an eighteen-month deployment, the old man wasn’t in the mood for any detours.
“Lucinda was so psyched about the play, she wanted us to celebrate.”
“Wow,” I said again. “That’s great.” I didn’t bother to mention I’d spent most of my weekend watching Ralph sit around on our couch scratching his nads.
“How about you? Was your mom excited?”
“Totally.” A bald-faced lie, since I hadn’t actually told her yet. I almost did a couple times, but with the douche bag hanging around, it just didn’t feel right.
“That’s awesome,” Stewart said, gazing down at the trunk. I couldn’t tell if he believed me or not. “Anyway, I got something when I was down there.”
He opened the trunk and pulled out a long, thin box covered in wrapping paper, complete with ribbon and a bow. Fucking Stewart.
“Here you go,” he said, handing me the box. “I even wrapped it for you.”
“Thanks,” I said, even though I knew his mother had really done the wrapping.
“Wait!” he said as I started to pull at the ribbon. He went back to the trunk and retrieved an identical box.
“I got one too,” he said.
“So what’s this all about?” I said. “Hasn’t there been enough scheming?”
“Just a little something for the occasion,” he said with a grin. “It’s our first day of practice, after all.”
“Oh yeah,” I snorted. “Thanks for reminding me.”
“Look, I know you were pretty upset about how this all came about, and you have every right to be,” he said. “I thought about it all the way down to Boston. I should’ve told you. I should’ve trusted you. So consider this a peace offering. It’s not a fucking bribe,” he added.
I blushed and felt myself shrink a little in the wool jacket. It still had that new-coat smell.
“No, you were right, what you said last week,” I replied. “I wouldn’t have given it a chance. I wouldn’t even have gone to the audition. But thanks anyway.”
He laughed. “So open it already.”
“All right, all right.” I slipped the ribbon off and tore the paper. Stewart unwrapped his too. Underneath was a plain white box. I could see him waiting for me to open it.
Inside was a cane, about three feet long, polished and straight, with a marbled wood grain and a beautifully carved handle. Stewart’s was the same, though with a slightly darker finish.
“Wow, a cane,” I quipped. “Just what every seventeen-year-old needs.”
“Yeah, well, check this out, smart guy.” He gripped the handle of his cane, gave a little twist, and pulled.
The long, thin blade flashed against the sun as he pulled it from the body of the cane. I tried mine. Sure enough, the sword slipped right out. Holding it out before me, I could see my eyes reflected in its polished steel.
“It’s really a sword,” he said. He swept his blade around, batting mine aside with a loud clink! so that I almost dropped the goddam thing.
“Yeah, I can see that,” I said, taking a step back. “What a…cool gift.”
I was going to say “weird gift,” but I didn’t want to seem ungrateful. Besides, it was kind of cool. I reached out to test the edge. The next thing I knew, my thumb was laid wide open.
“Good fucking Christ, this thing’s sharp!” I shouted, staring down at the blood welling up and running into my palm.
Stewart grimaced at the sight of my thumb before letting out a nervous sort of giggle.
“Yeah, I forgot to tell you,” he said. “I spent a few hours sharpening them last night. The factory edge is dull as shit.”
“Maybe there’s a reason for that,” I growled. I stuck my thumb in my mouth and did my best to ignore the metallic, salty taste of blood.
Stewart didn’t reply. He was too busy slicing his sword back and forth before him in an arc, like he was one of the goddam Three Musketeers or something. His blade whipped through the frigid morning air, sending out a high-pitched whistle that made me wince. I returned mine to its scabbard and leaned on the cane, pulling my thumb out to check on it. It hadn’t stopped bleeding.
“I can’t believe your parents let you buy these things.” I went over to the open trunk and grabbed a paper towel from the roll inside to wrap around my thumb.
“Oh, they were back at the hotel when I got these,” he said, interrupting his imaginary battle to glance over at me. “They think they’re just canes. That’s the beauty of it, Frenchy. No one knows. Just you and me.”
“Great. You got a Band-Aid?”
“Check the glove box,” he said. “No, they never would’ve gone for it,” he continued. “They’re fucking pacifists. They don’t approve of weapons. Not even one like this. This is a rapier, a distinguished weapon. A gentleman’s weapon. The kind Don Quixote would have.”
“And what about Sancho?”
“No, Sancho’s a peasant. He’d have, like, a fucking club or something. But you’re no ordinary Sancho, are you, Frenchy? You’re a cut above. You’re, you know, special.”
“Special, huh? I’ve heard that one before.”
Plunking down in the passenger seat, I rummaged through the crowded
glove box while Stewart returned to his mock battle.
I finally found a Band-Aid under all the crap, and even though it was pretty old and beat up, it worked well enough. I could still taste the blood in my mouth. I could even feel my pulse beat in my throbbing thumb. I’ll say this for the cut—it sure as hell woke me up.
When I got back out of the car, Stewart was going at it with renewed frenzy, drifting farther out into the field, slashing at the air as he faced the tower-lined ridge across the valley.
“You’re going to break a sweat if you don’t watch it,” I called out.
He didn’t reply, and as I drew closer, I could hear him murmuring. I wondered if he was rehearsing lines again.
He stabbed forward with one final thrust, then whipped the sword back, holding it upward, straight before him.
“How do you like that, fuckers?” he muttered.
“Hey!” I said. He whipped around and looked at me, still panting. “We’re going to be late.”
He sheathed his sword, glanced down at his watch, and nodded.
“Right you are.”
“Just keep away from me with that thing,” I said as we made our way back to the car. “You’re fucking dangerous.”
“No fear, Sancho,” he replied. “No fear.”
“Like my bandage?” I said, holding out my wrapped thumb.
Mr. Bryant glanced up from his desk. It was the first time either of us had spoken since he’d invited me to sit down. I don’t know how many minutes had passed, but it was more than a few. I always felt like there was some unspoken challenge to see who would speak first, like those stupid staring contests I used to have with my older cousin Luc. I never won those things.
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