To Play or Not To Play

by Emily Bow

  Wythe grinned and typed it in as we stood there on the stage of stages, saying the words aloud at the same time. “‘All the world’s a stage…’” Wythe hit send and then pulled me to him the way actors had done on stage for centuries, with a dramatic swoop. And he kissed me. It differed from the mystical Stonehenge kiss with the cool breeze from the plains. This kiss had the energy of the theatre. The thrill of ghostly onlookers. The promise of praise.

  Then the kiss turned. We weren’t playing anymore. My brain grew fuzzy. And I felt the moment. It was him and me. Us. Warmth. Energy. Electricity. Fire.

  Someone cleared her throat. This was no ghost of an audience long past. This was now.

  Peppa and Vihaan.

  Peppa was glaring up at us with her hands crossed over her chest. Vihaan looked like he wanted to give us a thumbs-up.

  She’d busted us. She was the head intern. She knew about the “no touching” rule.

  “It’s for the clue.” I brushed my hands over my shirt and jeans as if they were in disarray. “Romeo and Juliet.” I could have kicked myself. Excuses and fidgeting screamed guilt.

  “She’s not interning right now, Peppa. Lose the look,” Wythe said.

  Peppa shrugged. “I’m just upset you beat us here. That’s all.”

  “Barely.” Vihaan glared beside her, hands splayed. “They are only moments ahead of us.” He cocked his head back, looking up at us. “Getting a bit close for comfort now, isn’t it?” He was talking about the competition, not my internship.

  They were weirdly right behind us on this quest. I guess the clue had been an easy one because we’d come up with the answer at almost the same time as them. The other teams would probably be barging in any moment. Were we slipping from our number one spot? I wouldn’t let them know they’d worried me. “Close only counts in horseshoes,” I said, giving Vihaan one of Felicity’s favorite taunts.

  Vihaan’s blank expression implied horseshoes might not be such a known game over here.

  Wythe and I needed to get away from them to brainstorm our next step. I backed up. A groove had been notched out of the stage floor. Stage actors needed a swift getaway. I lifted it. Stairs. I climbed in. The ladder chute smelled like costumes, hairspray, and makeup. We were in the actors’ area for sure. “Come on, Wythe.”

  He was right behind me as I went down the black wooden stairs. But when I reached the last rung, the stairs just stopped, hanging well above the floor. A giant cushion underneath served as a landing. I crossed my fingers and let go.

  Whoosh.

  The air left my body but in a rushed way, not a starved-of-oxygen way.

  Wythe landed on my left.

  I knew he would. He wasn’t the type of guy to crawl back up and circle around rather than take the plunge.

  He rolled beside me and turned on his side. The move rotated my body toward his. His gaze examined me in a deep pensive way.

  I didn’t move. I was stuck there like an actress who’d forgotten her line. Like an ancient stargazer enamoured of the sky. Like an intern falling for the hot Prime Minister’s son.

  He threaded his fingers through my hair, his expression curious and then almost sad. “There’s a maritime lecture Thursday afternoon in Greenwich. We should go.”

  That was the last day I could get an intern point. “Would that get me a point?”

  He looked at me like I’d said the wrong thing, rolled away, and got up.

  I wanted to call him back. Instead, I watched him walk away. At that moment, I knew I’d rather have him here with me, even if it meant I failed the internship. The win against Felicity was no longer enough; I wanted more out of this summer.

  ***

  I wasn’t ready yet to give up on the internship photo, and I had a plan. Tomorrow was Thursday, the last possible day for an internship. If I solved the class puzzle, Wythe would be so grateful that he’d agree to an internship point event tomorrow. I caught up to Wythe in the gym. I could have waited until he finished his workout, but why would I? Seeing his muscles bunch and release as he went through the machines was a treat.

  He knew I was watching, but he didn’t stop. Even in a white t-shirt and navy sweats, he looked great. I’d buy a gym membership from him.

  “Kira,” he said as he wiped his face with a towel when he’d finished on the bench press.

  I liked his tone. It was as if the truce we’d created had held. Kira. I liked my name in his accent. I wanted to hear it again.

  He arched his eyebrow when I said nothing. “Kira?” He stretched out his arms and legs and leaned forward.

  I had to answer him. My excuse to be here was a new email from the professor. This class was the weirdest. Classes back home had rarely bucked the traditional lecture and multiple-choice test model. Sometimes. But rarely. “We got a new email from class.” I waved my phone. “‘Your mission, should you choose to accept it, deliver this clue’”—I made quotes—“‘to the team you believe will come after you. Give them a relevant author name.’”

  The task was mean, like in those reality shows where they made the contestants name who should go home. I always thought those episodes were especially vicious. In our case, it was easy though. We hadn’t seen anyone else from class other than Vihaan and Peppa. They were the team in second place.

  “Vihaan and Peppa,” Wythe said.

  “Exactly. So, we need to give them an author name.”

  “Any author?” Wythe raised his eyebrows. “That’s my level of literary gameplay. I can name an author.”

  I didn’t think that was a good idea. And I wasn’t the kind of girl to go along with his suggestion just because he’d made it. Like, as if I were gushing, he’d adore me. “The professor mentioned ‘our mission’ as in Mission Impossible? Is that even British?”

  Wythe tossed his workout towel into the bin and looked at me like I’d suggested he switch his major to literature and spend his days analyzing Chaucer. “A spy mission would be. James Bond, of course. Quite British. Finally, one I like.”

  Right. I Googled the author of the James Bond books. “Ian Fleming.”

  “You had to Google that?”

  I ignored his question. “What’s a good spy kind of way to do the information drop for Peppa?”

  Wythe’s eyes glistened. “In an Aston Martin DB5. I’ll have to shower and call to have one delivered.”

  Such a guy answer. My funds didn’t run to car deliveries. “I was thinking more of an encrypted note.” I snickered. “You’ll have time to shower, because good luck to whoever has to drop us a clue. They’ll never get through security.”

  “Kira.” Wythe shook his head and went to the door. “We’re in the lead. We won’t be getting a note.”

  “Right.” I followed him and found his words oddly sobering and unfamiliar. I didn’t spend my days in the lead. I spent them playing catch up with Felicity. Always had. Every playground, every report card. Now that she wasn’t here, I was running my own race. That was…different.

  “We’ll drop the clue to Peppa.” Wythe raised his finger at one of the hallway guards and asked him the location of Peppa’s room. I was pleased that he didn’t know where her apartment was. So pleased that I decided to make the competition fair. I shot her a text message that we were on the way and asked if she could video-in her partner. It wasn’t exactly spy-drop sneaky, but I wasn’t a spy.

  We climbed the two sets of stairs. “Why does she live here? She’s not assigned to household. Heck. I don’t really need to be here.”

  He shrugged. “Family connections.”

  “Ah. How English.” Peppa’s door was not far down from mine. I could have lived without knowing that. “Wait, I’ll get some paper.” I ran to my room and wrote out a hangman-style clue. To give Peppa a hint, I scribbled out the alphabet and marked through five of the letters. I took it back and showed Wythe.

  He nodded and snapped a photo, shooting it off to the professor.

  I knocked on Peppa’s door.

  Peppa opene
d the door in a towel. A towel. Like the English girl on that dry shampoo commercial, the one who didn’t shampoo her hair in time for her date but was acting like she had. The towel was short, red, and tucked in at the front of her pale chest. I really didn’t appreciate it. In what way was that appropriate?

  Wythe blinked and backed up a step.

  Whatever that meant. In hindsight, we should have gone to Vihaan’s house. I handed over the paper, noticing that her hair, like her skin, was dry. “I guess you didn’t get my text that we were dropping by.” My tone was only a little sarcastic. If she was going to go I’m so shocked that you caught me in the shower, she could have at least sprinkled some water on her freckled shoulders.

  I spun away. Mission accomplished.

  “Wait a moment,” Peppa said in a work tone.

  I did not want to wait a moment, but I did it anyway.

  “Vihaan and I discussed it. And we believe our team is in the lead. So, you’re team two.”

  That made me bristle even worse than the towel. We were number one.

  Peppa held out a folded piece of pink paper. “Your next clue.”

  I took it and strode off, waiting until we were out of Peppa’s sight before looking down. The paper said, Language is wine upon the lips.

  Wythe Googled it while we walked down the stairs. “Virginia Woolf.”

  I had a better quote. “My favorite is, ‘One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well.’ Virginia Woolf.” I didn’t bother asking his favorite Virginia Woolf quote; I knew he wouldn’t have one.

  “I could eat. Let me change. Meet you here in…?”

  “Thirty?”

  He nodded.

  I stomped down to my room to change, but by the time I got there, my mood had shifted upward. I was going to dinner with Wythe. I went with a yellow and white striped sundress and white flats. Primping took a while and I had to hurry to meet him on time. My legs were going to look awesome after all this Westminster walking.

  He was there waiting. Dark slacks, white untucked shirt, hair slicked back from his shower. It made me breathless.

  I leaped in with a class thought before I could flush and accidentally say something too flirty for our friendly peace treaty. “We should have thought about the next clue before giving her that puzzle. That would have been a good strategy. In front or not, we’ve got to think further than one clue at a time.” There. That sounded like I cared about the class. And I guess I did. I didn’t want Peppa to beat me. She was unpleasant. I didn’t want to let Wythe down. He mattered. Ugh. I was not going down the road of that thought.

  He held open the door and gave the driver the name of a restaurant. “We’re going to win.”

  “We’d better.”

  That made him smile.

  I got in first, and he followed me. My mind shifted back to upstairs, and my teeth clenched. What made Peppa think that was okay? “A towel. She opened the door in a towel. Who does that? Did you have some history where she thought that was acceptable?” I sounded annoyed, but I couldn’t help it.

  Wythe held up his hands. Pop music sounded in the car, and the driver put up the privacy screen.

  “Answer me, you voyeur.”

  “Whoa. I’m not in control of her wardrobe.” He gave me one of those side glances that said he was amused at how jealous I sounded.

  I drew in a breath and vowed not to mention it again on the way to the restaurant. The evening was still light outside, I’d enjoy the historic buildings on our route, the people walking along the sidewalks…and the handsome guy who sat in the car with me. The route was less than ten minutes. The car went to the left and took us to one of those UK specialties, a restaurant that didn’t look like a restaurant. A simple door with a small name outside. No flashing billboards for these folks. It looked like a private club. An entryway filled with tartan-covered furniture. Dark wood accents. Massive bar.

  We went past the main area down a side hallway. It was empty. Wythe started to lead the way, and I grabbed his arm. I wanted to ask a question in private. I shouldn’t ask this question, but I couldn’t let it go either.

  He looked down at me and arched an eyebrow.

  I huffed out a sigh. “If I weren’t here, would you be taking Peppa up on the offer?”

  He jerked back a bit.

  “Don’t pretend you don’t understand what she was offering.” The potted fern poked my calf, making me realize that I’d almost backed into it. I stepped closer to him. “Would you be all up on that?”

  His eyes lit, and he pulled me to him. His lips landed on mine. He felt right, but I pushed against him, needing answers. He moved his mouth from my lips, traced my jaw, and up to my ear. “I wouldn’t,” he said. “I have my eye on someone else.”

  His answer fixed the situation. A smile curled my lips, and I cut off the trembling, suddenly happy.

  He grinned back at me. “Shall we dine well?”

  I nodded.

  “Do you know what ‘dining well’ means? Is it the obvious?” He grimaced. “Or is it some hidden poetic symbolism or something equally awful?”

  I shouldn’t have giggled at the dismissiveness of such a wonderful literary tool, but I did. I’d gone from low to high. He did that for me. “I believe it means white tablecloth, silverware, china. So, I hope you picked out a great place.”

  “We’ll see.”

  I sat down at the round, dark wooden table while he held my chair. I loved his manners. I wanted to know more about him. Everything. “What’s in the fall for you?”

  He shrugged one shoulder. “Supplemental engineering classes. This time I’ll make my own selections.”

  We talked about jobs, our families, a sport called cricket, and travel. We’d gone through Mediterranean salads, T-Bone steaks, and now we were onto dessert. Sticky Toffee Pudding, a spongy, syrupy cake, and hot tea. We’d dined well, conversed well, and I still wanted to linger.

  “If you want to do civil engineering, you should get to do that.” I wanted him to have everything he wanted out of life.

  He shrugged and gave a half shake of his head, like he’d puzzled it out and knew he couldn’t do it, at least not now.

  “Can you go to another country for engineering? Or is it one of those degrees that require specific English teachings?”

  He arched his eyebrows.

  “Like if you’re designing a bridge in Houston, you have to take into account hurricane strength, heat, humidity…”

  “I’m free to go where I like.” His words said one thing, but his face said another.

  It clicked for me. “How would it look if the leader’s own children don’t go to school in England?”

  He finished off his pudding. “Not good.”

  “I admire your direction though. I got nothing. A Lit degree. A love of books. Anyone going to pay me to be a reader?” I took a sip of my after-dinner tea. This class or summer moving along had me thinking in a real way about what I’d be doing later.

  He pursed his lips. “You could work at a publishing house. A literary agency. A kindergarten classroom. Be an audiobook narrator.”

  “Got it. Open my mind and see the possibilities.” Publishing meant New York or the West Coast or…London.

  “Don’t decide. Volunteer. Intern if you can afford it. Even if you can’t. Try it with various companies. How will you know what suits you if you don’t?”

  Actually, that was rather amazing advice—an internship at a place where I’d actually consider working. That would help me know what I want. My sister knew she wanted to work in business operations for a large corporation. And she knew what it would take to get there. Hence her MBA plan.

  I’d always hemmed and hawed and stated random plans that weren’t real, just to keep up. But because my plans hadn’t been real, I hadn’t looked into them, couldn’t back them up, and didn’t care about them. I’d sounded wishy-washy while my sister had sounded like a go-getter. Maybe some people could pick their one dream job at this
age and have it work out. People like me had to try it before they bought it.

  “That’s a lot of thinking over a little statement.” His accent broke apart the word “little” in a way we didn’t break it with American accents.

  I liked it. Most of the time he sounded normal to me, but every now and then something hit me like this. He sounded interested, and I liked his suggestion. It resonated with me. He resonated with me. “It’s good. You’re good for me.”

  “That or the fine meal is making you think well.” He didn’t hold out his hand and take mine. But at least he wasn’t rejecting my friendship. He was being playful and redirecting me back to the class. It was something.

  “Fine. Fine. Back to your game. Thinking well to me means thinking of a favorite quote. I bet that would buy us a clue. A favorite quote, by another female writer.”

  He stared. “I got nothing. We can Google it.”

  “‘It is never too late to be what you might have been.’ George Eliot.”

  “I like that one. George is a female author?”

  I snickered. “George was a woman. But to be fair, I’ve been confused about your authors before, too. I thought Evelyn Waugh was a woman.”

  “She’s not?”

  “Nope.”

  We recorded our quote with the fancy dining table in the background and sent it off. We also threw in our “living literature” hashtag because I liked how it sounded. The professor’s puzzles seemed to be more about understanding quotes and presenting real-life interpretations rather than truly solving clues. The richness of a long-ago author’s words enriching a moment in the here and now. That defined classic.

  I loved that he was opening up to me again. Talking about his future. Talking about my future. “I liked school. I did. But I need a break. Grad school isn’t for me for now.” I toyed with my warm teacup and then put it down in the saucer, dropping my hands to my lap. I twisted the napkin between my fingers and then looked up at his handsome face through the candlelight. “I love your work ideas for me. And I think you should intern, too. You should get an engineering job in the U.S.”