Foolish Hearts

by Emma Mills

  Zoe likes to work with the kids closer to our age. But I volunteered to be in the nursery. I like babies, and maybe part of me thought it would be an easier job.

  It’s quiet when I get in this evening. The lights are dimmed, and most of the little ones are sleeping. But I go up to the crib of a baby named Makenna, and she blinks big eyes back at me. A monitor at her bedside reports her heart rate, connected through a wire to a sensor attached to one of her big toes.

  “Could I hold her?” I ask the nearest nurse. There’s an impressive nurse-to-kid ratio here, so there’s always one close by.

  The nurse gets to her feet, reaches in for Makenna—we’re not allowed to pick the babies up ourselves—and gestures to a rocking chair at the foot of her bed. I sit, and she places Makenna in my arms.

  She’s warm and cuddly and quiet, and I rock her until she falls asleep. Not a bad way to spend an evening.

  We started volunteering here last year. As is usually the way, Zoe wanted to, and I followed along. She wants to go to medical school, and apparently volunteering in a “clinical setting” looks good on your résumé. Zoe is forever trying to get an early leg up on things.

  I didn’t know what kind of hospital Roosevelt-Hart was. That the majority of older kids were there because of brain and spinal cord injuries, and that the majority of babies and toddlers had had surgeries and needed breathing tubes, or suffered from failure to thrive, or were there because their parents couldn’t care for them.

  The first night we volunteered, it was dark when Zoe and I left the hospital. We walked across the wide parking lot, in and out of the paths of the parking lot lights.

  It was quiet between us until I finally spoke, voicing the thought that had been running through my mind all evening.

  “I don’t think I can do this,” I said, slowing to a stop in front of the car. Zoe crossed around to the passenger side, but neither of us got in. “I don’t think I can come back here.”

  “Why not?”

  I shook my head. I was trying not to cry, and my throat ached with it.

  “It’s just.” Blink. Swallow. “Sad.” Swallow again, around the massive lump. “It’s so fucking sad, Zoe.”

  She looked at me for a moment, but her face betrayed nothing. Zoe could be so incredibly … placid sometimes. Unreadable. I didn’t feel like she was judging me—I knew her well enough to know that she wouldn’t—but I couldn’t tell what she was thinking.

  “Yeah, it is,” she said finally, nodding. “But feeling bad won’t help anyone. You or them. Pity’s not gonna help.”

  “I know.” A few tears slipped out, and I rushed to catch them, pushing up the side of my glasses, so half of Zoe was blurry when I looked back at her. “But I can’t help it. It’s not fair. Why do people have to go through that? Why do—kids—have to go through that? It sucks. Everything about it sucks.”

  “But there are places like this,” she said. “And doctors and nurses and … and volunteers and stuff, to help take care of them and help them get better. That doesn’t suck, does it?”

  I shook my head.

  “I think it’s kind of awesome actually,” she said, looking back at the building. It was a pretty new facility with a modern design, lots of windows. The lights from the lobby lit it up like a jewel box, glowing through the darkness. “It makes me feel good, to be a part of that.”

  “Maybe you’re just stronger than me.”

  Her gaze returned to me, and she shook her head. “Bullshit.”

  “I don’t know if I can do it.”

  “Bullshit,” she said again.

  We didn’t say much more on the ride home. By the time we reached her house, I was more or less composed. We said good night, she went inside, and I drove home. We didn’t talk about it again after that.

  The following Thursday, I put my Roosevelt-Hart shirt on and drove to Zoe’s to pick her up.

  She didn’t comment on it, but she was already waiting for me on the front porch, wearing her own blue shirt, so I knew she already knew I was coming. That I would go back, despite what I said.

  She glances over at me tonight as I pull to a stop at a red light. “What?”

  “What do you mean, what?”

  “You’re thinking really loudly.”

  “Yeah, I just…” I shake my head. “I was thinking about the play. They’re posting the cast list tomorrow.”

  “Ooh, your dramatic debut.”

  “Ugh.”

  “It’ll be fine. You’ll do great.”

  I have no doubt she believes it. Zoe has always had faith in me, even when I wasn’t sure if I deserved it.

  The light turns green. I press the gas, and we go.

  ten

  The cast list is posted outside the PLSG music room the next morning. Apparently there are no nonspeaking tree roles in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, so I find my name toward the bottom, in a list headed in big bold letters with the word Crew.

  Only the girls’ list is posted here. I wonder briefly if Gideon Prewitt secured the role of Oberon as my eyes catch on a few of the other names on the list.

  Titania: Paige Breckner.

  Hermia: Sudha Prabhu. No surprise there.

  Helena: Lena Ideker. An interesting choice, to be sure. I didn’t know Lena’s interests skewed toward Shakespeare.

  And toward the bottom, First Fairy: Iris Huang.

  Huh. Who’d have thought. For all of Iris’s ire, I guess she did a halfway decent audition. Better than me, at least, though that wouldn’t have been tough.

  We’re all meant to meet in the auditorium at Danforth after school. I guess that’s when I’ll find out what exactly crew entails.

  Painting scenery and stuff? Zoe texts me at lunch. Operating the spotlight? Hey, maybe you’ll open and close the curtain.

  I could handle that. Could build up some upper body strength at least.

  You’re gonna get so ripped, Zoe replies.

  * * *

  A Midsummer Night’s Dream is really an ensemble show. There’s no singular main character or narrator but a few different groups of characters, all of equal importance.

  First there’s the court—the Duke and his lady Hippolyta, as well as some royal hangers-on, who conveniently turn up at the beginning and the end of the show to set the scene, add commentary, and pass judgment.

  Then there are the lovers—Hermia, Lysander, Helena, and Demetrius. Hermia and Lysander are madly in love, Demetrius is into Hermia despite it being an entire no-go on Hermia’s side, and Helena is hopelessly into Demetrius, despite it being an entire no-go on Demetrius’s side.

  Next there are the Mechanicals—a rough-and-tumble group of people tasked with putting on a play for the Duke’s impending wedding. And last there are the Fairies—the King, Oberon, and the Queen, Titania, and their respective crews.

  Oberon and Titania are fighting, and the world is all out of whack because of it. Meanwhile, Hermia and Lysander run away to get married when Hermia’s dad says she has to marry Demetrius. Demetrius follows them into the woods because he can’t take no for an answer, and Helena follows him because neither can she.

  This all leads to some capital-H Hijinks, and then when things are sorted, there’s a play-within-a-play at the end that the Mechanicals put on, and it’s all good fun.

  I heard through the grapevine that Gideon Prewitt had indeed secured the role of Oberon. And although in theory Noah Edelman probably would’ve been a good candidate for Oberon’s magical sidekick, Puck, Noah would be playing Nick Bottom, the head Mechanical who thinks he’s an amazing actor and unwittingly gets turned into a donkey. Or a partial donkey, at least. Donkey from the neck up.

  Everyone is gathering in the first few rows of the auditorium before the start of rehearsal. I spot Gideon and Noah down front with Sudha, Alicia, and Lena.

  I take a seat as far back as I can get and still look involved, and I crack open my copy of the play while we wait for everyone to assemble. I haven’t been sitting long when someone
clears their throat behind me.

  I glance around. Iris is now seated two rows back, glaring right at me.

  What could I have possibly done? I’m literally just sitting here.

  I face forward. But Iris clears her throat again, and when I turn back to her, she gestures toward the stage.

  “Down front,” she says pointedly.

  I look ahead. Gideon has turned around in his seat and is waving at me. He smiles and then gestures like he wants me to join him.

  There are people on either side of him, people that I’m not great friends with, and it would be so weird to just … insert myself in there.

  I shake my head.

  Gideon sticks out his bottom lip in a pout, and I crack a smile. But then his attention is drawn somewhere over my shoulder. I think for a moment that he’s looking at Iris, but then Paige walks swiftly down the aisle next to us, raising a hand toward Gideon, who grins broadly, all pretense of pout gone. He says something to Noah, who gets up and moves to Alicia’s other side, and Paige takes his vacated seat. The King and Queen of Fairies united. Gideon starts talking to Paige, and I am forgotten.

  I glance back at Iris. Her face is arranged in an impressive scowl.

  “What?” she snaps.

  I face forward again.

  * * *

  Ms. Ohlemacher and Mr. Palmer make some opening remarks, have us all introduce ourselves, and then divide us into cast and crew.

  Ms. Ohlemacher is in charge of the crew. There are about twenty of us who assemble backstage while the actors gather onstage.

  We get our crew assignments based on what we said on the sign-in form at auditions. I had ranked costumes one, scenery two, and lighting three. After Ms. Ohlemacher rattles off a list of names for set building, she looks up from her clipboard and says, “For costumes we’ve got Claudia Wallace and Caris Pearlman.” Caris grins back at me from a few rows ahead. “You’ll be working with Delilah; she’s designing for the show.” She gestures to Delilah, who nods at Caris and then turns and looks at me with a short dip of her head, eyes serious.

  Delilah Legere, or Del as everyone calls her, is actually one of the first people I met at PLSG. She sat in front of me in freshman English.

  We aren’t friends, but we’re cool, I guess. I wouldn’t say PLSG is cliquey, per se, but I wouldn’t say it isn’t cliquey either, and somehow, if I had to pick two girls in our class—in the whole school, even—who didn’t somehow fit in with any of the cliques, it would be Del and myself. So we share that, at least.

  Unlike me, though, the thing about Del is that she’s basically just too cool for it. She has friends in college. She does all sorts of interesting stuff outside of school. And she’s so focused on getting into design school, I guess she doesn’t have much time to waste at the parties and the luncheons and the rest. She certainly wasn’t at Amber Brunati’s Pink Party. Though I would love to see what she would’ve worn. She definitely has a signature style.

  I can handle making costumes for Del.

  “I assume you both can sew?” she says, looking from me to Caris after the crew has further divided up into our respective areas.

  “Yeah, I like to make costumes,” Caris says. “Me and Robbie do cosplay.”

  “Precious,” Del says. “You?”

  I nod. “My grandma taught me. It was a … bonding-type activity.”

  Del’s expression says that this kind of information is superfluous.

  “We’ll meet after school starting next week,” Del says, “at the multimedia studio. It’s in the basement of this building. That’ll be our costume shop. I’ve already got designs worked up. We need to get supplies, take measurements, get started on construction. Lots to do. Are you with me?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Aye aye, captain!” Caris says, smiling.

  Del’s lips twitch, like she might almost smile back. “Excellent.”

  * * *

  I cut back through the Grove to get to the PLSG parking lot after we break for the day. Alex is supposed to come pick me up since Dad headed home when classes got out.

  Footsteps crunch through the brush behind me. I glance back.

  “I’m not following you,” Iris says sharply. “As if I would follow you.”

  “I know.” I point to the group of sophomore girls on the path up ahead of us. “I’m not following them either. We all happen to be going back to the same place.”

  I don’t slow down. And I don’t think Iris is picking up her pace, but somehow she ends up nearer, almost in step with me.

  “So what are you doing on the show anyway?”

  I glance over at her, surprised. An actual question, unsolicited.

  “Costumes.”

  Iris snorts.

  “What?”

  “No, it makes sense. I figured you’d do something that requires little to no skill.”

  That, of all things, breaks me. Or maybe it’s just the one thing added to the massive pile of other things that finally tips the scales.

  “Why do you have to do that?”

  “What?”

  We’re basically alone now, distance stretching between us and the group of sophomores up ahead, so there’s no one around to witness it if Iris Huang actually succeeds in making me cry. The words just come out: “Why do you have to be so mean? Seriously, what do you get out of it? Is it, like, a rush of endorphins? Is there some chemical released in your head when you’re a dick to people? Would your brain light up in the same places as a heroin addict getting a fix?”

  My voice doesn’t waver. I manage to keep it together.

  And somehow, inexplicably, Iris just responds with a huff of laughter.

  I’m so shocked, all I can do is blink.

  “What?” she says. “That was funny.”

  “It wasn’t supposed to be funny.”

  “Well, it was.”

  I don’t know what to say to that, so I don’t say anything at all. I just turn and head off through the Grove, moving quickly enough to leave Iris behind.

  eleven

  British lit finds us with another assignment the next week. We’re supposed to find “critique partners” to review each other’s papers. The mad flurry starts, but I know better this time.

  I turn to Sam, but before I can grab her attention, Iris appears and drops a notebook down in front of me.

  “Write your number,” she says.

  I blink at her. I don’t know how she moved across the room that fast.

  “We need to exchange numbers if we’re going to work on this outside of school,” she says slowly, like I’m stupid.

  “Who said we were partners?”

  Iris glances around. “Everyone else has paired up.”

  And it’s true. By now, everyone has.

  “We need to show Dennings we can work together,” she says.

  “So this is some kind of … redemption arc?”

  “Write your number down, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Maybe I don’t want to.”

  Iris looks at me for a moment and then up at the ceiling. “Please.” It seems like the word physically pains her.

  Inwardly, I sigh.

  And then I write down my number.

  * * *

  I go to the appointed place in the basement of the Danforth arts building after school to meet Del. It’s a multipurpose kind of studio—there are big craft tables, some sewing machines, computers, some woodworking equipment.

  Big bulletin boards line one wall of the room. When I arrive, Del is pinning sketches to one of the boards. She glances back when I approach.

  “We’re not staying long,” she says. “We’re going to the thrift store.”

  “Field trip?”

  “A working trip.”

  I pick up one of the closest sketches not yet pinned up. It shows a figure in a sort of hoop-looking petticoat, wearing a cutoff blazer and fingerless gloves, with aviator goggles around their head, sort of like Amelia Earhart. MUSTARDSEED is printed in all caps
underneath.

  “I wasn’t sure what kind of fairies we were going with,” I say when Del catches me looking. “You know, Tinker Bell or, like, bug people?”

  “Neither,” Del says. “Mr. Palmer wants to set the show in the present day.” She points to sketches of Hermia and Lysander, already tacked up. Hermia is wearing a cute white dress with a little jacket over it. Lysander has on black skinny jeans and a motorcycle jacket.

  “But the fairies will be kind of … out of time,” Del continues, pointing to Titania and Oberon and Mustardseed, still in my hands. “A mix of clothes from a bunch of different periods, like they’ve picked up stuff along the way, and they’ve lived so long, it’s from all different times.”

  “Huh,” I say. “That’s cool.”

  Del actually smiles. “I know, right?”

  When Caris joins us, we set off to the thrift store. Del gives us each a list of items to track down.

  “Fun!” Caris says, beaming. “It’s like a scavenger hunt.”

  I look through mine quickly. Some are more generic items, like assorted T-shirts (any size/color), white button-down (one each men’s and women’s), flannel shirt, while some are more specific, like ugly bridesmaid dress, and yellow raincoat.

  “How do we know what size?” I say. “We haven’t even got measurements from people yet.”

  “Doesn’t matter. We’ll probably end up deconstructing most of this stuff anyway.”

  So we set off on our scavenger hunt. Caris is right—it actually is kind of fun.

  She and I are sifting through a bin of neckties (twenty neckties—greens, golds, and browns) when she glances up at me.

  “Guess what.” Caris’s eyes shine.

  “What?”

  “Robbie said Gideon was asking about you.”

  I frown. “What about me?”

  “You know. Just. About you.” She raises and lowers her eyebrows emphatically.

  I think of the Oberon sketch tacked up on the bulletin board. A great cloak, a head scarf, big black boots. The figure Del drew didn’t have a face, but it somehow captured that Gideon Prewitt swagger, as if she designed it expressly with him in mind, even before the part was his.

  “He … he’s probably just—” I shrug. “You know. Being polite.” I fish a gold-patterned necktie out of the bin and add it to our pile.