by Robin Talley
“Yikes,” I say when he’s out of earshot. “I didn’t know he was still so nervous.”
“You didn’t?” Jasmin glances up from where she’s leaning over the dishwasher. I don’t know if there’s judgment in her eyes or if I’m imagining it.
A phone buzzes. We all automatically check our pockets, but it’s Odile’s. When she glances at the screen, her eyes darken. “Sorry. I should go out and take this.”
“No worries.”
She pulls her coat off the rack and vanishes through the front door, leaving me alone with Jasmin. I turn, ready for her to lay into me for all my wrongs, but all she says is, “Pass me those forks?”
“Sure.” I rinse them under the tap first, trying to make sure they’re squeaky clean before I hand them over.
“You don’t need to do that.” She half glances up at me.
“Do what?”
“You’ve been extra nice to me all night. Hoping for a get out of jail free card?”
“I . . .” I have no idea what to say.
She laughs. “Relax. I’m sorry I gave you a hard time earlier. She isn’t actually that bad. And it’s cool if you’re friends, even though you also happen to think she’s hot.”
“I . . .” I blush, but she just laughs again.
“Anyway, I was hoping we’d be alone for a second, because I wanted to say that I really appreciate you resisting temptation for the sake of the show. I know how much you hate being single. But if you’ve held out this long, I know we can trust you to make it to May.” She glances at the clock on the microwave. “What’s taking Dom so long? I’m supposed to give him a ride, and if we don’t get going I’ll be up half the night finishing my problem set for calc.”
I crane my neck down the hallway, but the bathroom light is out. That’s weird—if he’d come out, he would’ve walked right past us. “Maybe he went out the side door?”
“Figures he’d want to skip out on doing dishes.” Jasmin slides the last plate into the rack. “Let’s go check.”
It’s freezing outside, so we both get our coats. When we first step out onto the front porch, a truck is driving by and there’s no sign of anyone in the yard, but a moment later soft voices float over the hedge.
“Seriously, it’s so normal you wouldn’t believe it,” Odile is murmuring quietly. They must not have heard us come out over the truck noise. “There’s only one trick I know. Whenever you get caught up in it, you’ve got to force yourself to focus on something completely different.”
Dom’s voice is even lower than hers. They’re sitting on the grass next to the porch, under the dining room window. It’s so dark I can only see their faintest outlines. “Like what?” he murmurs back.
“Well . . . if I show you something a friend taught me, do you promise not to laugh?”
“Promise.”
“Okay . . .” Odile lifts her hand, and the next thing I know, she’s singing. “Baby shark, do do, do do . . .”
He starts laughing. “What?”
“I’m serious. If you’re singing ‘Baby Shark’ in your head, it instantly knocks everything else out. It’s impossible to focus on being scared. Plus, if there’s no one around you can do the motions. Here, try it.”
Jasmin looks at me. We both laugh too, silently, as Dom starts doing the chomp-chomp motion with his fingers. “Ba-by shark, do do, do do do . . .”
They get through Mama Shark, but by the time they’re onto the next verse Jasmin and I can’t take it anymore. We both step up to the edge of the porch, holding out our arms in giant chomps as we lean over the edge. “Daddy shark, do do, do do do!”
“Oh my God.” Odile giggles, but Dom grins and keeps singing with us.
Jasmin and I climb down and we all go through Grandma Shark and Grandpa Shark together, but then we can’t agree on whether the sharks go hunting next or whether there’s a swimmer who gets eaten, and we’re laughing too hard to finish the song anyway. At least Dom looks like himself again.
“We’ve got to jet.” Jasmin points to Dom. “You didn’t puke in Mel’s bushes, did you?”
“Uhhh . . .” He pauses, and for a moment I’m alarmed—Pops will be highly displeased if I have to report the presence of puke in his rhododendrons—but he shakes his head. “It was a close call, though.”
“Gross. Do the shark thing next time.” Jasmin holds out her hand to help him up. I think about doing the same for Odile, but I don’t know if I could handle the physical contact. “See you tomorrow.”
“Bye. Thanks for coming over.”
Odile and I wave as they head toward the curb. A moment later they’re driving off in Jasmin’s mom’s Corolla, and Odile and I are alone on my front porch. Again.
I shift on my feet. I’ve thought a lot about how tonight would go, but I’d been focused on how painful it would be having everyone here at once. It hadn’t occurred to me that I might wind up face-to-face with Odile, with no one watching. I shiver, and not just from the cold. “So, uh . . . Was everything okay with that phone call?”
“Oh, it was fine.” Her smile fades. “My agent’s trying to put me in touch with the producer on that Netflix show.”
“Oh. I thought it would’ve been about the Scorsese movie.”
“No, it’s always about what’s up next. My agent calls it ‘parlaying this success into future projects.’”
I wince. “That sounds painful.”
She laughs. “I agree. But she’s excited about this show, so I guess I’ll get excited too.”
“Is that how it usually works?”
She shrugs. The light from the half-moon shines on the wavy hair that spills over her shoulders. “I don’t know.”
We’re both quiet for a long moment. Then Odile tucks her hair behind her ear and takes a long breath. “Mel . . . could I tell you something?”
I take a long breath too. I want to say Yes.
I want to say Yes, please.
I want to say Please, tell me anything you want to tell me. Please, tell me the words I desperately want to hear you say.
Except—she’s asking my permission.
Which means I can stop this, right now. I can say no, and nothing more will ever have to happen.
I’ll be safe. My friends will be safe. My show will be safe.
But I’m already nodding. “Yeah, um . . . if you want to, I mean, sure, I . . .”
“I really like you,” she blurts.
I’m still trying to register that when she lifts her fist to her mouth, her eyes widening.
“I’m sorry.” She presses her knuckles to her lips. “That wasn’t what I meant to say. Or, well, I suppose it was, but . . . I meant for there to be more buildup.”
I don’t say anything. I’m not sure my brain is capable of forming words. My conscience is shouting at me loud and clear, though.
The curse. The curse! Mel, you promised!
“I hope, well—I hope that doesn’t make you uncomfortable.” Odile looks down and slides her fingers into the hair at the nape of her neck. I can’t stop watching. Her every movement is mesmerizing. “I know you didn’t seem interested during your party when we—I mean . . .” She covers her face with her hand. “Forget I said anything. You don’t have to—”
“I really like you too.”
I inhale sharply as soon as the words are out of my mouth. Someday my lack of filter around Odile Rose is going to be the end of me.
I don’t regret saying it, though.
I should. I will, once my friends find out.
(Oh, God. My friends can never find out.)
But in this moment, with Odile standing in front of me, looking so hopeful, I want to forget all about the stupid curse.
After all—it might not even be real. And regardless, as long as I don’t fall in love—real, deep, fairy-tale love, not the garden-variety head-over-heels teenage infatuation this has got to be—we’ll be safe. Right?
“I have to admit . . . I lied to you.” She’s smiling her softest smile. “W
hen I came here that first time, I—well, I knew that party was only for the crew. And . . . I didn’t need to get a ride from my parents, either. I could’ve driven my car. I just . . . I wanted an excuse to see you.”
I laugh, but I’m so giddy I could cry. “You’re going to see me every day for the next two and a half months.”
“I know.” Her voice sounds so different than it did all through dinner. Open. Almost raw. “It’s hard to pay attention in rehearsal when you’re in the room. You’re very distracting.”
I blush. “Um. Thanks, I guess?”
“You don’t hold back when you’re passionate about something. It’s wonderful.” She’s blushing too, but she doesn’t try to hide it the way I always do. “I’m constantly afraid people will judge me if I say what I’m thinking. I love that you aren’t like that.”
She’s wrong. I hold back all the time. I’m careful with what I say. You have to be, when it’s your job to tell people what to do.
But I’ve never felt that way around Odile. The opposite, in fact. I have to tell her what I’m thinking. What I’m feeling.
“While I’m admitting things . . .” She tugs on her gold hoop earring. It’s stupidly adorable. “I’m not sure if you even knew who I was before this year, but, well . . . I’ve been wondering about you for a long time. Whenever I saw you backstage, I’d wonder . . . but every time I asked, people always told me you had a boyfriend, or a girlfriend. I guess you could say . . . I’ve been waiting for my chance.”
I giggle so sharply my dads can probably hear me in the basement.
I take a step toward her. The curse thing, the superstition—it’s not real. It can’t be real.
“I, um.” I try to find the right words, but as usual, the wrong ones come. “I should probably warn you, I’m not actually that exciting.”
“I think I should test that theory for myself.”
Then she kisses me, and I can’t think about words or rules or curses or anything at all. Somehow I’m still standing, even though it feels like the earth just disappeared beneath my feet.
She tastes like magic. Kissing her feels like standing in front of a dark curtain with the spotlight closing in, until the whole world is nothing but her and me.
Her lips on mine. My hands in her hair. Her fingers tracing my spine.
No one’s ever kissed me like this. I’m always the one who kisses first.
I’ve lost control. If I ever had it to begin with.
It’s too late to hold back. And I wouldn’t want to even if I could.
Intermission
ATTENTION!
Rule 1: If this door is closed, YOU SHOULD NOT COME IN.
Rule 2: If this door is closed and you MUST come in, KNOCK and wait to be admitted.
Rule 3: All requests for entry by anyone other than the SM, ASM, TD, LD, or SD must be accompanied by either the performance of a quirky set of dance steps OR the singing of at least EIGHT bars of a musical theater song (your choice, but be warned that songs from the show currently being performed OR from Hamilton or Dear Evan Hansen will be considered cheating, though exceptions may be made for the “Guns and Ships” rap).*
*Please note: This rule is to be enforced at the SM’s discretion. Sometimes the SM might be too busy or tired to properly judge the quirkiness of your dancing ability. Give them a break, they’ve got a lot going on.
—Sign taped to the Beaconville High School tech booth door
Tech Booth, Beaconville High School Theater
DAYS UNTIL SPRING MUSICAL OPENS: 66
“Can I tell you something?”
“Of course.”
“It’s embarrassing.”
“Embarrassing things are my favorite.”
“Okay, but it’s dorky-embarrassing.”
“Even better.”
“Okay, well, it’s just that I’ve always kind of had this . . . um. This fantasy.”
“Ooooooh.”
“No, no, it’s not like that. I’ve just kind of always, um . . . wanted to make out with someone in the booth during intermission on a show I was calling. . . . Okay, you can stop laughing now.”
“I’m not laughing! I mean, okay, I am, but I get it. It’s really cool up here, especially now that rehearsal’s over. It’s like our own little world, isn’t it?”
“Exactly. That’s exactly how it’s always felt to me.”
“Well . . . I know it isn’t intermission during a show right now, but would you want to, perhaps, practice? For your fantasy scenario?”
“Um . . . yeah. That would be really, um. Helpful.”
“. . .”
“. . .”
“. . .”
“. . .”
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
“So . . . how long do you think we can stay up here without someone getting mad at us?”
“Forever, in theory. I have keys to the theater.”
“Who else has keys?”
“Just the teachers.”
“None of your friends on crew?”
“No . . . why? Hey, is something wrong?”
“No, no. I was just wondering, if . . . I noticed you were being quiet when I came up to you during rehearsal today. I wondered if it was because you didn’t want your friends to know . . . about this.”
“Oh. Yeah . . . what do you think about that? Telling people, I mean?”
“Actually, I thought it might be fun to keep it a secret. Then it really would be our own little world. Plus, no one could say there was a conflict of interest, since you’re the SM and I’m in the cast. Only if you thought so too, though, of course.”
“Oh, um . . . you know, I hadn’t thought about that much, but now that you mention it, that’s a good idea. You know how people are. They’d just tease us and stuff.”
“Really? You don’t think it would be strange?”
“No, it’s cool. It’ll be something special just for us. Besides, it’s not like you really believe in the superstitions anyway.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Sorry, my mind just started wandering randomly. What time do you have to be home tonight?”
Tech Booth, Beaconville High School Theater
DAYS UNTIL SPRING MUSICAL OPENS: 52
“Ooh, hi. I was afraid you wouldn’t be able to come today.”
“I stayed in the library working on my government paper. I thought it might look odd if I was around the rehearsal since I’m not in any scenes today.”
“You stayed in the library for three hours?”
“It’s a long paper. Also, I had to take a phone call halfway through.”
“The Netflix show again?”
“Yeah. My agent’s pushing me to meet with the producer. But I’d have to fly out there, and we’re in the middle of rehearsals.”
“To LA?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“We can always redo the rehearsal schedule if we need to. We’ve certainly done it enough times for Nick. How long would you be there?”
“Just a day or two. But . . . honestly, I’d rather not have to do it. Out there, everyone acts like that’s the entire world. You’re not allowed to acknowledge that there’s life outside California. And they’re all completely allergic to the word theater.”
“Ugh. That sounds awful.”
“I wish, just for one day, I could do the opposite of all that. Pretend my life here is the entire world. That all I’m responsible for is turning in my government paper and making sure I’m ready for rehearsal, without having to be ready to jump into LA mode at any second.”
“Could you do that?”
“I probably wouldn’t even know how. But I do know . . . this is nice. Being here with you is nice.”
“Yeah . . .”
“Do you want to go back to the scene shop? We could write our names in the sawdust again.”
“Ha, sure. We just have to make sure we remember to sweep it up before someone sees.”
“We could leave the hearts this time.
They don’t have any identifying details.”
“I mean, they identify us as cheesy.”
“This is theater. We’re all cheesy.”
“Good point. So should we go?”
“. . . In a minute, maybe. First I thought maybe we could . . .”
“Okay . . .”
“. . .”
“. . .”
“. . .”
Scene Shop, Beaconville High School Performing Arts Wing
DAYS UNTIL SPRING MUSICAL OPENS: 45
“Ms. McIntyre . . .”
“Mr. Green?”
“May I make an inquiry?”
“Sure.”
“Do your parents know about your . . . situation, with Ms. Rose?”
“Uh . . . pardon?”
“I respect your wanting to keep things under wraps here at school. I just want to make sure everyone who needs the information has it.”
“. . . How did you find out?”
“You aren’t the only one who stays after rehearsal, Ms. McIntyre. The lights in the booth are hard to miss when the rest of the theater’s dark.”
“. . . Am I in trouble?”
“No, I only want to make sure your parents know why you’re staying at school so late.”
“Uh . . . yeah. I told them. Pops said he hopes she’ll be a good influence because she’s so dedicated to her goals. . . . Yeah, I know, I thought it was funny too.”
“All right. Just keep in mind that your first obligation is still to everyone’s safety.”
“. . . What are you saying, exactly?”
“As stage manager, you’ve got to make sure the other students are following protocols. It’s easy to lose sight of that responsibility when you’re distracted.”
“Oh. Okay. I thought you meant . . .”
“What?”
“Never mind. Thanks for the warning. I promise, I’ll be extra careful. Also, I’ve been wanting to ask, how come you never told me you used to be an actor? You’re like a traitor to tech kind.”
“I contain multitudes, Ms. McIntyre.”