Foolish Hearts

by Emma Mills

  We’re meant to assemble in the dining hall and sign in. I’m making my way through the hallway of the main building when I see Iris up ahead.

  She’s stopped outside the door to the cafeteria, staring at her phone. If she turns her head, she’ll see me.

  I duck behind a nearby statue that a plaque proclaims is Kenneth Danforth. Kenneth Danforth has a wide stance, and there’s enough room behind him to nearly obscure me. I crouch down a little anyway—we’re almost of a height, Kenneth and me—just for good measure.

  I’m only there a moment when—

  “What are we doing?” someone says in my ear, and I almost jump a foot.

  I turn, and Gideon Prewitt is looking at me, eyes alight. “Are you hiding from somebody?”

  It takes me a moment to recover, not just from the scare but from the full force of Gideon Prewitt’s Gideon Prewitt-ness.

  Madison Lutz had posted a picture of the two of them last weekend with the caption The prince and me. Gideon had his arms wrapped around her from behind, her hands clasping his forearm, their faces pressed together, smiling wide.

  Baaaaaaabes, Amber Brunati had commented, followed by no less than six heart-eye emojis.

  I swallow. “Yes,” I say. “Death. That’s why you scared me. I thought it was the grim reaper sneaking up on me.”

  A grin splits his face.

  “Should I create a diversion?” he says. “I’m very good at that.”

  “It’s fine,” I say, and I can’t help but sneak a look out into the hallway. Iris is nowhere to be seen. When I look back, Gideon’s eyes narrow.

  “You are hiding from someone. Who is it? What did they do? Or what did you do?”

  “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

  He evaluates me for a moment. “Ex-boyfriend?”

  Ha. Will Sorenson graduated with Danforth’s senior class last year and is thankfully nowhere within state lines. We both use the same server in Battle Quest, and even the chance of seeing him around Aradana is more than enough.

  “No,” I say, and glance around again but not for Iris. “Are you … are you meeting someone here or something?”

  “Here behind this statue?” he says solemnly. “Yes.”

  “I just mean, why are you…” Talking to me. Of all people.

  “Are you auditioning for the play?”

  “Yeah.”

  “We’ve got to sign in. You want to go sign in?”

  “Um. Sure, I guess. Yeah.”

  I follow Gideon to the dining hall. He holds the door open for me, and I approach the teacher sitting at a table inside with a sign-in sheet and a sheaf of forms. We have to rank what jobs in the crew we’d prefer if we’re not cast, because Iris was right—we have to work on the production whether or not we get a role in the play. The audition alone guarantees our participation. Funny how they get you like that.

  When I finish my form, Gideon is still bent over his, the tip of his tongue stuck between his teeth as he fills it out.

  I hesitate for a moment, unsure if I’m supposed to say something to officially end this interaction.

  But it was a one-off, I’m sure of that, so I don’t say anything. I just turn and head off to a table near the back, having spotted Iris at an empty one in the middle of the room. I pull out a crumpled sheet of paper—my monologue—and try to smooth it out against the tabletop.

  I mouth the first few lines. The words feel strange enough, but then I remember I’m supposed to put some kind of emotion into it, too. I try to make my face look impassioned.

  And then Gideon plops down in the seat across from mine.

  “What part are you trying for?” he says.

  “I don’t know.” None of them. “What about you?”

  “I’m going to be Oberon.”

  “You’re pretty certain about that.”

  “I’m the best man for the job.” He smiles, and his cheeks dimple. It makes something in my chest seize uncomfortably. A smile like that could be weaponized.

  “It’s funny we haven’t met before,” he says when my gaze darts back to my monologue sheet. “Did you transfer?”

  “No.”

  “Do you go to many of the parties?”

  I have to stop myself from snorting. “Not many, no.” And then I can’t help but say: “We actually have met before.”

  He blinks at me.

  “At your birthday, freshman year.”

  It had been a source of great stress for me at the time. Gideon invited all the girls in our year at PLSG to his fifteenth birthday party at this deluxe arcade.

  Most of the people in my class knew him—they had been in junior high together at Morningbrook Academy—but I had never met him before. I didn’t even want to go to the party. But my mom said it would be a good opportunity to get to know the girls at school better. “And you never know,” she said, raising and lowering her eyebrows suggestively. “Could be some cute boys there.” Her eyes widened. “Ooh, or some good party favors!”

  I did like the idea of good party favors, so I decided to go. But this led to a dilemma.

  What kind of birthday present do you get for a kid you don’t even know? Who, judging by the elaborate birthday party, probably already had everything he could possibly want?

  I ended up giving him a gift card to Outback Steakhouse that my mom had gotten free at work. “It’s his fifteenth birthday,” Mom had said, presenting the card to me with a flourish. “Fifteen for fifteen, there you go, problem solved.”

  It didn’t seem that simple. In fact, it seemed pretty embarrassing. But come party night, I left it on the gift table all the same.

  I look at Gideon now, and I know that he has no earthly recollection of me giving him an Outback Steakhouse gift card for his fifteenth birthday. He doesn’t even remember that I was there. He just blinks at me, friendly and uncomprehending.

  “I think I’d remember meeting you,” he says, leaning in a bit and flashing me that smile again.

  He’s either trying to flirt with me, or he’s making fun of me. Really only the latter makes sense, so I just blink. “You actually did, though.”

  His face falls. “I don’t remember. I’m sorry.”

  “There were like a hundred people there,” I say, because he looks inexplicably upset, like a little kid who’s dropped an ice cream cone. “It’s not a big deal.”

  “Did you bring me a present? Maybe I’d remember from that.”

  “I, uh. It was a gift card.”

  “To where?”

  “Outback Steakhouse.”

  “No way. I remember that.”

  “No you don’t.”

  “I do, though. You know why? It’s because I got a bunch of gift cards from the party, and Noah and I decided to spend them all in one awesome day. It was one of the last places we went. We had just eaten like fifty bucks worth of food at P.F. Chang’s, but we still had the Outback Steakhouse card, so we went and ordered a Bloomin’ Onion and ate the entire thing, and then we both threw up in the parking lot after. It was epic.”

  It does not sound epic. But I can’t help but smile a little. “Well, I guess I made you a memory.”

  “You did!” he says brightly.

  “Is it just me or are there more people here than last year?” Suddenly Sudha Prabhu is at my elbow, pulling out the chair next to mine. Alicia Smith circles the table and grabs the seat next to Gideon.

  “Worried about the competition?” he says.

  “Absolutely not,” Sudha replies primly. “Hi, Claudia.”

  Alicia echoes it. “Hi, Claudia. I like your earrings.”

  “Thanks. I like your shirt,” I say, because we are all wearing the same shirt. She doesn’t smile, just pokes Gideon lightly on the cheek, right in the spot where his dimple then appears, as if summoned.

  Sudha peers at the crumpled monologue sheet in front of me.

  “Interesting choice,” she says.

  I frown. There were only three options for audition monologues tacked to the bulleti
n board outside the drama room. I’m not sure how it was possible to choose wrong, but apparently I had.

  “Did you practice?” Sudha asks.

  “Well, I didn’t, like, actually … rehearse,” I say. “But I read it, at least. That’s something.”

  I had tried practicing in the mirror, but I felt ridiculous talking to myself and in the end just kind of gave the whole thing a whispered once-over.

  Sudha gives me the saddest look, like she’s somehow cognizant of my pathetic mirror practice. “Yes,” she says. “It’s something.”

  She’ll go in there and crush her audition, of course. I’d expect no less. Sudha was Sandy in Grease last spring, and Emily in Our Town the semester before that. She has a lead role locked down, no matter what the production.

  “You’re gonna do great,” Gideon says.

  “Thanks, G.” Sudha beams.

  Gideon smiles back, but when Sudha and Alicia start chatting, he points at me and gives me a double thumbs-up, mouthing the words again like they were meant for me: You’re gonna do great.

  I smile a little and look back at my monologue.

  seven

  We get called a few at a time to queue up in the hall outside the band room.

  Seated inside is the drama teacher at Danforth (Mr. Palmer, I’m informed) and the freshman lit teacher from PLSG, Ms. Ohlemacher. When it’s my turn, Mr. Palmer, who’s directing the show, tells me to start “whenever I’m ready,” which is funny, because I’m quite certain all the practice in the world wouldn’t make me truly ready.

  I hate public speaking. I’m not sure what it is—there are literally only two people in here, and it’s not like I don’t talk in front of two people—my parents—literally every single day. But something about it being structured, and inorganic, makes my stomach twist and my palms sweat.

  (“Is it because people could be judging me?” I asked Alex once. “Like, because it’s an opportunity for me to be judged?”

  “I mean, if it helps, just know that I’m judging you all the time.”

  “Shut up.”

  He grinned. “I’m judging you right now.”)

  I hold the monologue sheet up, trying to stop it from rattling in my grasp as I read from it.

  “Do you think you could do it without the paper?” Ms. Ohlemacher says gently when I’m finished.

  “No.”

  “Well, let’s have another try at it,” Mr. Palmer says. “This time, I want you to really focus on how Titania must feel here. She’s had a falling out with Oberon, and the world is going haywire as a result of it. She wants peace, but neither of them are willing to give in.”

  I try it again, try to think how Titania must feel, running into an on-again, off-again boyfriend like that.

  My hands shake slightly less this time. A marginal improvement.

  “Thank you, Claudia,” Mr. Palmer says when I stumble to a finish.

  Ms. Ohlemacher gives me a kind smile. “Yes, great, thank you.”

  I leave.

  The next group has assembled outside. Gideon is toward the front, along with Alicia and another guy who I recognize from the first day of school in the Grove. Gideon pushes off the wall when I emerge.

  “How’d it go?” he says, holding up one hand. I realize that I’m supposed to high-five it. “Did you nail it?”

  “I don’t know if I’d go that far.”

  “I’m sure you did awesome.”

  There’s some misplaced faith. “Thanks,” I say with a tight smile.

  “Hey, this is Noah,” Gideon says, gesturing to the guy behind him, who looks up from his phone. “Do you know Noah Edelman?”

  “No.”

  “He’s the greatest person I know.”

  Noah reaches out to shake my hand but looks Gideon’s way. “You really got to stop billing me like that. People are gonna be disappointed.”

  “You could never disappoint,” Gideon says, and even though he’s smiling, I get the feeling he’s not joking. “Noah’s my best friend. We shared the Bloomin’ Onion I told you about.”

  “Yeah, thanks for sponsoring that parking lot yak,” Noah says with a smile.

  “No problem,” I say for want of anything better.

  And now we’re just standing awkwardly.

  “So I should probably…” I gesture over my shoulder.

  “Yeah, don’t want to keep you,” Gideon says. “Hopefully we both get cast, then we can hang out at rehearsals.”

  “Well, you’ve got Oberon locked down.”

  “Maybe you’ll be my queen,” he says, leaning in a little and wiggling his eyebrows.

  “I mean, probably not. If there’s like … a nonspeaking role for a tree or something, that’ll probably be me.”

  “Hey.” Gideon looks suddenly serious. “Don’t sell yourself short.”

  I nod. “Yeah. See you guys.” And I head away.

  eight

  “Are you going to wear a doublet? Hose? Better yet, are you going to wear one of those Shakespearean collars?”

  “Collars?”

  “Like the big accordion-looking neck thing.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, even though I know exactly what Julia means.

  “Like the thing Shakespeare’s wearing in literally every picture of Shakespeare ever.”

  We’re both online that night, roaming the Aradanian countryside for monsters. I’ve got my phone pressed to my ear while we play. There’s a text chat function in Battle Quest, but you can’t talk aloud through the game itself. If there’s a group of us playing, we usually just do some kind of conference calling online. But if it’s just me and Julia, we get on the phone like we usually do—the same way she’d call me while she’s grocery shopping or cooking dinner, or I’d call her while I’m waiting for a ride or something. We haven’t lived under the same roof since I was in elementary school, or even in the same city since I started high school, but we manage to snag time together however we can, wherever we can. On the phone, or in Aradana, or both.

  I shoot off a couple of arrows toward a nearby creature. It turns our way and we start attacking it in earnest. It’s almost drained when Julia’s avatar, Selensa Stormtreader, suddenly falls still.

  “What are you doing?” I finish off the creature.

  “Sorry, Mark just got home.” I hear muffled conversation and then “He says hi.”

  “Tell him I don’t say hi back. Tell him I respond with stony silence.”

  Julia relays the message, and I can hear Mark laugh.

  Julia met him when she was a sophomore in college. I was in third grade at the time. He came home with Julia for Christmas that year. I don’t really remember my first impression of him—I was more caught up with Disney’s latest efforts and desperately wanting an American Girl doll. If I knew I was meeting my future brother-in-law, I probably would’ve paid more attention.

  Though I do remember he brought Alex and me presents.

  “He’s just trying to win you over,” Julia had said when Mark went off with my dad and Alex and I tore into our new loot.

  “No, he’s trying to win you over,” my mom replied with a smile.

  They got married three years ago. And now, “Oh good Lord,” Julia mutters. “He wants to go look at strollers again.”

  Julia is pregnant, and Mark is unendingly excited. Julia—although she is the baby-carrying party involved—is somewhat less enthusiastic.

  She texts me about it all the time:

  He wants to pick out nursery colors.

  He won’t stop reading about breast pumps. I THINK AS THE PERSON BEING PUMPED I SHOULD BE THE MOST CONCERNED ABOUT THE PUMPING.

  He’s highlighting the baby name book.

  We each get five vetoes, I’ve already used four. I’m gonna need to buy more vetoes.

  I wouldn’t understand Julia’s reluctance if I didn’t know her, but I do, and I know that she hates change. She gets anxious about the future. And I know that any apprehension on her side i
s just reflective of that.

  I’ve seen her rub her belly when she thinks no one is looking. I’ve seen her gazing at baby shoes at Target.

  It’s part of her shtick, acting grumpy. A little negative. But I know she’ll love that baby, I know how much she’ll care for it.

  Sweet little Cayenne or Ellipsis or Cherry Blossom or Aquafina.

  I am barely exaggerating, Claude.

  “I thought we were gonna do a dungeon,” I say, making Viola Constantinople execute a complicated twirl on-screen because Selensa Stormtreader is still just standing there.

  “Yeah, sorry,” Julia says after more muffled conversation with Mark. “Gotta go. Have fun Shakespeare-ing.”

  “I’ll try. Hey, if you’re mean to me, I’m gonna send Mark a list of names from this play. You could have a little baby Oberon or Hippolyta.”

  “Oh geez. Don’t you dare.”

  “Bet you wish you saved some of those vetoes.”

  “I’m hanging up now.”

  I grin. “I love you!”

  It’s quiet for a beat, and I think she really has hung up. Then,

  “Love you too. Bye.”

  On the screen, Selensa Stormtreader logs off.

  nine

  Zoe and I volunteer at Roosevelt-Hart on Thursday evenings.

  It’s a pediatric rehab facility, which is not—as Alex has inappropriately joked before—a place for toddlers on benders. It’s actually a place for babies and kids who have been released from the hospital but aren’t well enough to go home yet. Round-the-clock care, physical therapy, etc.

  I pull up to Zoe’s house, and she’s sitting on the front steps, wearing her bright blue Roosevelt-Hart shirt. I’m wearing an identical one with VOLUNTEER across the back in big white letters.

  We listen to Drunk Residential, our favorite band, in the car on the way there and sing along.

  When we get to Roosevelt-Hart, we sign in at the front (the attractive desk guy smiles at both of us. I manage to get out a too-loud “hi” and an aborted wave, but Zoe chats amiably with him while I check in on the computer). Then we part ways—Zoe to the rec area, and me to the nursery.