“Keep the line moving,” said a lunch lady.
We hurried, steering through the line until we found an empty table.
“I was accepted, but I won’t be able to go.” Devin swiped at her bangs, brushing it off her brown skin.
I stabbed at the wilted lettuce. “What do you mean you won’t be able to go? We’ve been waiting for this since our sophomore year.”
“I’m late.”
“Late?”
Devin’s brown eyes darted over to James.
I followed Devin’s gaze. Then it hit me. “Are you sure you’re pregnant?”
“Yes. I texted James the results last night.”
“That’s crazy. What’d he say?”
“Promise not to tell anyone?”
“I won’t. I promise.”
Devin looked at her pasta dish. “Does tomato pesto have nuts in it?”
“I think so. Do you have your EpiPen?”
“It’s in my locker.”
“Then don’t eat it. What did James say?”
“He hasn’t answered my texts.” Devin took a bite of her plum. “He never goes anywhere without his phone. I think he’s ignoring me.”
“Maybe James is like in total shock. Give him some time.”
“Doubt it. But his ex-girlfriend, she’s been at me to talk. Keeps sending me messages on Scatter.”
“Block her.”
“She just creates a new profile. This is the third time.”
“Use the screenshots of her messages and report her.”
“If it happens again, I will. When she learns that I’m pregnant, the drama will start all over.”
For what felt like an eternity, heaviness weighed in my heart as I thought about what Devin’s pregnancy would mean for her. In nine months, she would be yanked out of her teens and thrust into the mommy zone filled with dirty diapers and late night bottle feedings. It would sever Devin’s dreams to attend Reyersen, leaving me alone to claim our destiny. A destiny where we lived life in front of the camera.
A light on the other side of the lunchroom blinked off and came back on.
I said, “This is all kind of weird. I mean we’re seniors. Being parents isn’t something we should be thinking about. Mom made me promise no dating until I was eighteen.”
“You did it anyway.”
“For my parents’ sake, Austin and I are ‘friends.’ But Mom’s long talks about getting pregnant before I was old enough, and being financially responsible, was what I heard every time I started making out with Austin. That’s just wrong. Parents say those things to mess with our head.”
Devin’s shoulders slumped. “I’d give anything to have had a talk with my mother. But she’s never home. Too busy looking for her next husband.” She laid her head down in the crook of her arm.
Words choked in my throat as I reached for Devin’s hand. She looked up at me with a forced smile.
“I found the wig,” I said, reaching into my backpack.
“Good. I’ll keep focused on the play.” Devin tried it on, made a face and snapped a picture with her phone.
“And,” I said sliding my yearbook across the table. “You promised.”
“No one does yearbooks anymore.” Devin signed her photo.
“My dad got it for me. He says I’ll thank him someday.”
Austin and his friends jostled into the lunchroom, carrying subs, pizzas, and cheeseburgers. My stomach churned. Real food.
My phone buzzed. It was a message from Devin. “Best. Friend. Ever.”
Definitely. I glanced up at Devin and told her about what I’d found in the attic.
“Forget about it. You’re graduating soon, and you’ll be leaving. You’ve told me the stories about your childhood.”
“Only the things I remember.”
“Yeah, well, that’s scary enough.”
“But I don’t know what’s real or not. How did my bio parents die? It’s not like they planned on dying and wrote the letter just in case. And reading between the lines, it’s like I wasn’t supposed to know my real father.”
“Say you’re right. What does it matter now?” Devin took off the wig and placed it in her bag. “Take it from me; some things are better left buried.”
Chairs scraped the floor as people cleared their tables and migrated towards the double doors leading outside.
I wanted to leave this alone, but in my heart, I knew it wasn’t going to happen. I looked down at my chicken salad and pushed it to the side. “Let’s go practice your lines.”
“I’m tired of hurting. I want to feel something different.” Devin moved across the campus, pretending to be on stage. She looked my way.
“Killing yourself isn’t the way,” I said, reciting the line of her stage counselor. “Isn’t there something that makes you happy?”
“Not feeling makes me happy.”
“Then numb yourself with positivity. Not anger.”
Devin flipped a page and said, “Can you promise me things will get better?”
“No. But I can promise to be there for you.”
Devin’s lips trembled as a tear zig-zagged down her cheek. “Then I’ll try.”
“Scene.” I put the script away in my backpack. “You’re going to kill this play.”
“At least something’s going right in my life.”
“Forget James. No matter what, I’ll be there for you.”
Chapter 3
The Truth
On Saturday, I checked Scatter and scrolled through friends posts about upcoming graduation parties. Seven interests on one, sixteen on another. More invites filled the page as I neared the bottom. All events had shown interest except one. The one Devin and I created, hosting our grad party two weeks after the ceremony, hoping to avoid scheduling conflicts. Who were we kidding anyway? Our party vs popular teens and their squads.
Guess Devin and I will spend another night hanging out watching reality shows debating if indie is the way to go and forgetting the hassle of waiting for our big break.
I texted Devin the update that our event, once again, bombed. I waited for a reply but didn’t get one. I pulled the notebook I’d found out from under my pillow, opened it and began reading some more of the songs.
By the ninth one, a heavy feeling settled in my chest, and I closed the book. Devin’s right. I need to let this go.
A knock on my bedroom door jarred me out of my thoughts.
The door opened, I tossed the journal under my pillow and turned to face Mom. “Hey.”
“Movie night…” Mom’s gaze held mine for a few seconds before stepping into my room and closing the door behind her. “What’s under your pillow?”
My stomach tossed as if I’d eaten the chicken salad I’d refused the day before. “A thing I found.”
“What did you find?”
Here was my chance to confront my mother about this thing that was eating at me and learn the truth. But would I get the truth about something that had been kept a secret for so long? Mom and Dad had stated countless times that if I did something wrong, lying to them would only make it worse. It was better to tell the truth the first time.
Although with everything going on with Mom, including the possibility of losing Daniel, would my problem make her situation worse? Was I running the risk of seeing my mom lie to my face just to protect this secret? Why had it been hidden at the bottom of a tote, tucked away in the dark corners of the attic?
There was no other way to see the situation. I wasn’t supposed to find that journal.
“A notebook filled with songs. It was in the attic.”
“In a brown tote?”
I observed my trash can overflowing with energy drinks. Pretty much how I saw my life. Too many questions buzzed in my head, leaving me with an empty feeling. No more waiting. I retrieved the notebook and handed it to Mom. “Is the letter true?”
“I wished it wasn’t true. You were never supposed to find out.”
“But I have, Mom. What happened?�
��
“I rather we discuss this after your graduation.”
“It’s that bad? That you’re worried about me being distracted?”
Mom moved further into the room and sat next to me on the bed. “It’s hard to explain—”
“All my life I’ve heard that telling the truth is never hard unless you’ve got something to hide.” I got to my feet, ready to bolt for the door.
Mom grabbed my wrist, stopping me. “Okay, Oli. If you believe this is what you want, I’ll tell you.”
My heart stuttered as I ingested Mom’s words and the brittle tone in her voice. That’s the tone I often heard whenever she had to deal with anything negative. When there was no way to sugarcoat the news. The tone that meant there was no turning back.
A wave of regret settled into the pit of my stomach.
“Your birth mother, Olivia, was sixteen when she had you. She was abused by her brother, and on her twenty-third birthday, she killed him at a party.”
My bio father was my uncle. I fought back the urge to throw up. “Why didn’t anybody stop him?”
“We will never know why your grandmother never handled the issue. Anyway, your mother became sick and was in and out of mental hospitals. Eventually, she turned to alcohol. That’s how the three of us met. Dad, Olivia, and me. We were all in the same out-patient program at Alcoholic Crisis Center.”
“Traci, what are you doing?” Dad asked, from the doorway.
“Our daughter found the notebook I’d put in the attic,” Mom said.
“Oli,” Dad said coming into my room. “We didn’t keep it from you to hurt you. We did it to protect you. At the time, your mother and I thought it was for the best.”
“If I hadn’t found it, would you’ve told me?”
Dad shook his head and wrapped his strong arms around me. The smell of the hospital clung to his clothes.
It was hard to be mad at my parents. But hearing the news sucked. There couldn’t possibly be anything else to learn. If it was, I wasn’t interested. I’d heard enough.
The question now was, knowing what I did, how would I move on from here? For the moment, I had no more questions about my bio family, only disgust. It’d be better if I treated this as a scene in one of my plays and moved on to the next.
I’m not tainted. I’m not a forgotten child.
It’s what I desperately wanted to believe.
Later that afternoon, I walked outside and saw Mom tossing paper into the fire pit while pieces of ashes floated towards the sky. I ran across the yard in Mom’s direction, arriving just in time to see her place pages from the notebook into the flames. “Mom, what are you doing?”
“Doing what I should’ve done years ago. Started a fire.”
“You burned the notebook?”
“Yes. Good riddance.” Mom hurled the remaining pieces into the flames.
I turned, blew past the pool and cushioned chairs until I found myself back inside the house, stewing. Why was I mad about the burning of the notebook? It was good that Mom was trying to rid our home of bad things. Wasn’t it? Except whenever someone tries hiding something, no matter what, it always comes back.
Dad walked into the kitchen, poured himself some coffee and glanced out the window. “Your mother is under a lot of stress and needs a break. I’m going to take her out of town for a couple of days. I’ve made arrangements with Daniel’s nanny. He’ll stay at her house. She’ll check on you throughout the day.” He looked at me. “You okay?”
“I don’t know. I feel confused. Maybe a little depressed.”
“We can postpone until you’re feeling better.”
“No Dad. I just suck right now. I guess you guys were right. I wish I didn’t know what I know. But it’s out there. Now I want this hole, this hurt I’m feeling, to go away.”
“It’s called life. It’s a part of growing up.”
“I get it, Dad.”
“Your focus should be on graduating high school. A summer job, then attending Reyersen.”
“Dad, okay.” My phone buzzed. It was Devin.
“Why aren’t you at tonight’s rehearsal???”
Damn. I texted, “Leaving now.” I grabbed my keys off the table.
Dad said, “So much for family night.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Check in with a text or the GPS app.”
“Yes, Dad.”
I hurried out the door and into my Dodge Dart. Seconds later, I was on Buckley Road, weaving in and out of traffic, hoping I didn’t get pulled over. The clock on the radio read 3:46 p.m. Mr. Cavanaugh’s rule; if you’re not backstage thirty minutes before call time, then you’re late. That rule was set in stone for everyone. Seeing as rehearsal started at three o’clock I was going to get tagged and lectured. I only prayed that he didn’t mark it down in the notes of my senior portfolio.
When I arrived, everything was happening and happening fast.
“Mercer, you owe me forty minutes. Ten minutes for stage time, the rest is clean-up.” Mr. C looked at another student. “Looks like you get to go home early.”
“Thanks, Oliana,” said the student.
“You’re not welcome.” I grabbed my clipboard off the table, flipping through pages until I found the rehearsal schedule. Someone messed with my notes. The schedule’s always on top.
Devin rushed to my side. “Where’ve you been?”
“Did you mess with my clipboard?”
“No. Why are you late?”
I told Devin everything that happened this morning up until her text. Seconds later, Devin’s face blurred.
“Don’t cry. Think of this as a crazy scene rewrite. You’ve gotta stay positive. Maybe it’s a good thing this all came out.”
“But you told me to leave it alone.”
“Yeah. But you didn’t. Anyway, I was only trying to help. Besides, you should’ve been here to help with River. Things are getting worse.”
Mr. C said, “Worthy. Mercer. You’re costing me precious time that I don’t have.”
Devin trudged onto the stage as I wiped my eyes dry and scanned the rehearsal schedule. Three more left. I created a group text and reminded everyone about the final fitting and the recent script changes.
Mr. C waved me over to him. “Quiet on the set.”
I joined him, watching Devin play the part of her heroine’s character as she walked over to the counselor, working the scene. At least my wig fit her better than the clunky one the school owned.
A few seconds later, Devin transitioned to the next scene. Her diction and volume were on point. Like always, she owned the stage without missing her line or her mark while delivering emotion that kept her audience in their seats.
Excitement raced through me as I soaked up Devin’s passion for our art. It reminded me why we both fell in love with acting. Why we both applied to Reyersen.
You deserved the part, Devin. But tonight, you’re making me wish it was me up there instead of you.
The counselor said, “You don’t need to live your life on social media.”
“It’s a way to be “cool.”
“But it’s causing you stress. That’s not cool. We need to find out what’s triggering your depression.”
“It’s hard being a teen. My parents don’t get that.” Devin tugged on her bracelet. “Social media allows me to be who I am. It’s my safe space. Until certain people invade that space. They’ll say things to embarrass you, then make it public for everyone to see.”
“You’re talking about bullying. That’s your trigger.”
“Yeah.”
“This is your safe space. Feel free to open up.”
“I’m tired of hurting. I want to feel something different.”
“Cut.” Mr. C moved toward the stage and signaled the sound designer. “We’re going to switch to the party scene. I want to make sure the music fits the recent changes. I want it tight.”
“You got it.” River Fuller directed her team as they sound tested and set up for the
upcoming scene.
Although River wasn’t a part of the popular crowd, she was the top geek in all things music and James’ ex-girlfriend. Her motto: If you truly love music, then practice every day.
“Oliana,” said River.
I glanced over at River, trying not to stare at the clunky French braid that I believed was her attempt at creating a medieval hairstyle. “Yeah.”
“Can I see the changes for the club scene?”
“Here.” I handed her a copy and left quickly, hoping to avoid her gnawing gaze and questions about Devin and James.
Minutes passed. Soon we were back up and ready for the next scene. Music pumped from the speakers as everyone talked and danced with drinks in their hand.
Devin entered, dressed in a purple blouse and skirt. She adjusted the strap on her wedges, plopped down on the couch and turned to a girl wearing a similar outfit, only in red. “I’m not sure about this party. This is a bad idea.”
“Stop acting so nervous. People will think we’re underage.”
“We are underage.”
Rick, a tall male with slicked back hair strutted in carrying a six pack of bottled beer. “You’re slaying that dress,” he said, walking over to Devin. “Want a drink?”
“My mom would kill me.”
“She won’t know.” Rick handed Devin a beer. “Besides, it’s a light beer. Think of it as water with a shot of yellow.”
Devin took the bottle and sipped, a slight frown carving her face. “Kinda tastes like water. Or—”
“See, it’s okay,” said Rick.
Suddenly, the bottle hit the floor, shattering into pieces.
Devin lurched forward, choking and holding her throat.
My chest tightened with fear as I combed through the script. What? I looked back at Devin who was now on the ground, gasping for air, her lips swelling. “Something’s wrong.” I dropped my clipboard and darted for the stage.
Soon I was hovering over my best friend, watching her eyes roll into the back of her head. “Get her EpiPen out of her backpack.”
Footsteps trailed away as Devin struggled to breathe.
I gripped my best friend’s hand in mine. “Hold on.”
Shadowed Seats: (Oliana Mercer series Book 1) Page 2