Inevitable and Only

  “So!” Dad said, in Forced Good Cheer Voice. “Elizabeth, have you and your, uh, fellow decided what you’re going to see on Friday night? I hear The Super Duper Swamp Monster Blood and Guts IV is very good.”

  “That’s not a real movie, Dad,” said Josh, while my stomach churned. Elizabeth and Farhan’s date—I’d completely forgotten.

  Mom’s eyes narrowed. “What fellow?”

  Dad looked at Elizabeth. “Ah. Sorry, didn’t realize we were keeping this under wraps.”

  “No, it’s fine.” Elizabeth shook her head. “Sorry, Melissa, I didn’t tell you yet. I asked Ross if it was okay.”

  “Well, of course it’s okay,” Mom said, with a tight smile. “I’m very glad that you’re getting out and meeting people. So, who is it?”

  “Just someone from school,” Elizabeth said.

  “I know everyone from school,” Mom said. “Who is it?”

  “It’s Farhan,” I said, “she’s going out with Farhan.”

  Mom raised her eyebrows at me. “You mean, Farhan who was your—”

  “My friend, right,” I said, cutting across her words. “Yeah, I set them up together. Sort of.”

  Now Dad was giving Elizabeth a funny look. I wondered how much she’d told him. If she’d said anything about what happened at the Fall Ball.

  Mom was still staring at me. “So you and Farhan are just friends? I thought … ?”

  “Yes, we’re just friends.” It came out more aggressively than I’d meant it to. This conversation was making my stomach hurt worse. To change the subject, I said, “So, I had my first stage kiss tonight.”

  Mom and Dad both froze.

  Josh, to my surprise, cracked up.

  “What’s so funny?” I asked, annoyed.

  He kept laughing, and said, “Ewwwww. You have to kiss?”

  Boys.

  Elizabeth, on the other hand, looked equal parts shocked and impressed. “Wow,” she said. “Was it—weird?”

  “No, not at all. Zephyr has a lot of experience on stage. He’s really good at it.”

  Dad wrinkled his nose. “Cadie, I’m happy for you, but I have to say, it makes a father queasy to think about his daughter’s first kiss.”

  “It’s not a real kiss, Dad, it’s just a stage kiss. He’s kissing his thumb, over my mouth, not—”

  Dad waved a hand as if to clear the air, in a way that reminded me of Robin. “No, no, that’s enough detail. Great. Good for you.”

  Mom actually smirked. “Yes, good for you.” Good for you for making your father uncomfortable, she meant.

  The image of Elizabeth and Farhan was still swirling around in my head. And the image of Elizabeth telling Dad about her first date here in Baltimore, asking his permission. Not even bothering to tell Mom, because she wasn’t related to Mom, so why should she make an effort?

  “Mom,” I said, and I heard myself use a Voice, just like Dad. Innocent Lamb Voice. “Do you have a lot of work tonight?”

  Mom frowned. “No, actually. Why?”

  “I know it’s late, but would you take me out for a quick driving lesson? Just us. You know, some mother-daughter time?”

  It was like I got hit with three javelins to the stomach at once: Dad’s face, falling so hard you could hear it thump. Mom’s, lighting up with such a hopeful expression she looked like a golden retriever begging for treats. And Elizabeth’s, crumpling, although she looked down quickly at her plate to hide it. Because she doesn’t have any mother-daughter time anymore, you idiot. My stomach twisted with guilt. I hadn’t meant to rub salt in that wound.

  I couldn’t see Josh’s face, since he was sitting right next to me, but that was fine. I didn’t need to know whether I could’ve possibly hurt him, too.

  “Absolutely, mija,” Mom purred. “I’d love to see the progress you’re making.”

  Uh-oh. “Well, don’t get too optimistic,” I said, trying to sound as jolly as Dad had a few minutes ago. “I’m definitely still a beginner.”

  “I’ll just go grab my coat, and then we can take a spin,” said Mom, pushing her chair back from the table. Half of her tempeh Reuben was still on her plate. “I’ll save this for later,” she added, whisking her plate off to the kitchen.

  So I took my half-eaten dinner to the kitchen, too, since my stomach was hurting too much to eat anyway. I pulled out two Tupperware containers—but Mom scraped her plate into the trash instead, giving me a conspiratorial smile. She hated tempeh and sauerkraut. Dad knew that. He must’ve forgotten.

  It was nice, for once, to share something with Mom, to know that I’d made her happy. She was actually humming as she went to the closet for her coat. I just couldn’t believe how much both of us were willing to hurt Dad.

  When we got into the car, Mom said, “I’m glad to have some time alone together. We really haven’t talked, just the two of us, since—everything happened. How are you—”

  “I’m fine,” I said, cutting her off and forcing a smile. “You know what? For tonight, I’d rather not talk about it. I just want to focus on my driving.”

  She smiled back at me—a warm smile, a real one. “You’re my big girl,” she said softly. “I’m proud of you.”

  I’d thought it would somehow help me feel better, making Mom happy, but my stomach was tied in tighter knots than ever.

  I was only called for one scene at rehearsal the next night, and Zephyr wasn’t called at all. So much for our ice cream plan. Oh well, I told myself, it didn’t seem like he really wanted to go anyway.

  But when I jumped off the edge of the stage after my scene, there he was, waiting by my backpack.

  “Hey,” he said, “that was fantastic.”

  “Oh! Thanks!” I said, flustered. “Have you been watching this whole time?”

  He nodded.

  “But—you’re not called tonight.”

  “I know, but I had to blow you off last night, so I owe you a rain check.”

  “Nah, you don’t owe me anything. Don’t worry about it.”

  Zephyr rubbed his chin, a gesture I was starting to recognize as something he did when he felt self-conscious. “I thought we had plans. That’s why I came to pick you up.”

  “Oh!” I couldn’t think of anything else to say, and Robin was glaring daggers at us for talking during rehearsal, so I slung my backpack over my shoulder and we ducked up the aisle.

  “Still want ice cream?” Zephyr said, once we were outside the Shed. “Or … would you consider something else?”

  “Like what?”

  He spun his car keys around one finger. “I haven’t had dinner yet, I’m starving. Do you like sushi?”

  “Ugh. I’ve never had it. I’m a vegetarian.”

  He grinned. “Oh-ho, one of those. Well, you can get avocado rolls, or soup, or noodles. Or we can go somewhere else.”

  Adrenaline zinged through me. Zephyr Daniels wanted to have dinner with me? Before I could second-guess myself, I said, “No, you know what? I want to try sushi. It sounds fun.” And by fun, I meant sophisticated and New York. Aka perfect.

  I called home and checked in with Mom, who said it was fine as long as I was home by 9:30. So we climbed into the orange Beetle and zoomed down St. Paul Street. Zephyr parked on 33rd and led me toward a set of stairs right off the street, next to a sign that said SUSHI BELOW. The restaurant was in a basement, apparently. I followed him down the stairs, and when he pushed open the door, I was startled by a burst of blue light. The foyer was decked out with fish ponds and colorful floodlights, rock sculptures and pink flamingos and fake palm trees. The waitresses all wore neon pink-and-green or yellow-and-blue kimonos, which clashed with their beehive hairdos and cat-eye glasses, and the soundtrack to Hairspray was playing quietly in the background.

  Zephyr swept a hand out in front of us, encompassing the whole scene. “What do you think?”

  “Very Baltimore,” I said, nodding in approval.

  The hostess seated us in the back corner—perfect for people watching. I noticed Zep
hyr glancing around the room, too.

  “Do you like people watching?” I asked.

  “Oh, I’m incurable.” Zephyr sounded like a book sometimes. As if he hadn’t played with other kids much when he was little. Maybe he was an only child.

  I decided to ask. “Do you have brothers or sisters?”

  He hesitated for the briefest second, then shook his head. “What about you?”

  “One brother.” I hesitated, too. “And—one half sister. She just moved here. My parents didn’t even know she existed until a couple months ago. Things have been kind of rough lately.” Once I’d started talking about it, the words tumbled out. “My dad and I were always super close, but now it’s like we’re on opposite teams, because he has this giant secret I never knew about, and somehow I’m getting closer with my mom even though I can’t stand her most of the time, and she and my dad aren’t talking to each other at all.” I made myself stop before I blabbed my entire life story.

  Zephyr didn’t look freaked out, though, just concerned. “Wow, ‘rough’ sounds like an understatement.”

  I felt my face heating up, so I picked up a menu. “Yeah. Well. Time to drown my sorrows in sushi.”

  I ordered an avocado roll and a bowl of miso soup. Zephyr ordered a spicy tuna roll, a yellowtail roll, and something called unagi sashimi.

  “What’s that?” I said, after the waitress had taken our order. “That last thing you said.”

  “Eel,” he said, grinning.

  “Seriously? Ugh.”

  “Hey, you don’t have to eat any of it. But I’m warning you, it’s possibly the most delicious thing on this planet.”

  “Yeah … I’ll pass.” I looked down, fiddling with my napkin. “Sorry I spilled all that on you. About my family stuff.”

  He shook his head. “Not at all. I’m sorry you’re going through it.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Anyway, sounds like great stuff to use on stage.”

  I smiled. “I guess that’s a good way to think about it. It’s just all so weird. How about you? Are you close with your parents? What are they like?” I knew I was prying, but I desperately wanted to stop talking about myself. And right as I said that I remembered—he didn’t have a mother. He’d told me that on our way to Center Stage the first time. Crap.

  Before I could try to dig myself out of that one, though, he cleared his throat and answered my question. “I don’t know much at all about my parents—my birth parents. I’m adopted.”

  “Oh! Cool.”

  “I have two dads, actually.”

  “Very cool!”

  “We’ve been fighting about college stuff lately, but usually we get along pretty well.”

  I nodded, and then, thank Poseidon, our food arrived before I could say “cool” one more time. Zephyr didn’t seem to mind my blunders, though. Or else he was just a very good actor. Which you already know, I reminded myself. Oh well. Either way, my stomach wasn’t churning the way it usually did when I got nervous or upset.

  Dealing with the food kept us busy for a while. I knew how to use chopsticks, sort of, but there was a whole thing to do with mixing the wasabi and soy sauce, which came separately on a little white dish with two compartments. Zephyr showed me how to take a smidge of wasabi on the end of one chopstick and mash it into the soy sauce compartment, taste it, then repeat until it was as hot as I wanted. I mixed in too much wasabi right away, though, and coughed until my eyes watered. Zephyr laughed at me, and I swatted him with my napkin, which knocked his teacup onto the floor. It didn’t shatter, but tea splashed everywhere.

  Ordinarily, I would’ve been mortified for all that to happen in front of a boy, but he was laughing so hard that I couldn’t help laughing, too. When we finally calmed ourselves down and the waitress had brought him a new teacup, I dipped one of my avocado roll slices into the wasabi–soy sauce mixture and, mimicking Zephyr, popped it into my mouth whole.

  “Tha’s de-lishoush,” I mumbled around the mouthful of spicy rice, seaweed, and avocado. He beamed as if he’d cooked it himself.

  We ate for a little while in silence. Then I said, “So, you’re in the middle of college applications now?”

  He grimaced. “Yeah, it’s pretty much taken over my life outside of school.”

  “You’re applying to drama programs, right?”

  “Nope. Astrophysics.”

  I almost dropped my chopsticks. “Are you serious?”

  Zephyr prodded one of his rolls toward me. “Are you sure you don’t want to try some of the real stuff?”

  “Maybe just one bite. I do eat fish every once in a while. Mostly when I’m mad at my parents.”

  I took a nibble of his raw tuna roll gingerly and almost spat it back out. “Ew! It’s so—fishy.”

  “Uh, yeah,” he said, drawling the words. “It’s, like, fish.”

  This set us off into another round of laughter. What was I so giddy about? Was it something in the food?

  “We’re high on wasabi,” he said, as if he’d read my mind. “Clears up your nasal passages and makes you all light-headed.”

  “Airheaded,” I said.

  “Speak for yourself!” He jabbed his chopsticks toward me and I jabbed mine right back.

  “So,” I said. “Why aren’t you applying for a theater degree? You’re the best actor in this whole school.”

  “I don’t want to be, like, working at McDonald’s the rest of my life. Most theater majors don’t just waltz out of school and make it big-time on Broadway.”

  “I bet you could.”

  He was shaking his head.

  “Well, then you could teach! Like Robin.”

  He sighed. “Okay, okay. That’s not the real reason. That’s just what I tell people. It’s a long story.”

  “A long story?” I remembered what he’d said at Center Stage: Cadie, that’s what people say when they don’t want to talk about something. “Does that mean I should stop asking questions?”

  He smiled. “No, I don’t mind talking about it. If I’m not boring you.”

  “Of course not.” I motioned toward the two sushi rolls still sitting in front of him, untouched. “And maybe I’ll get brave enough to try that eel, if you distract me.”

  He narrowed his eyes at me and ate another piece of sushi. Then he set his chopsticks down. “Okay. It’s like this. Imagine this is Earth.” He picked a grain of rice off his sushi and set it on the tablecloth. Then he added ten more next to it. “Now, Jupiter is about eleven times wider than Earth—you could fit, like, thirteen hundred Earths inside the volume of Jupiter. So imagine how enormous Jupiter is.” He put another piece of rice halfway down the table. “Here’s our moon. See how huge Jupiter is? Well, you could fit Jupiter plus all the rest of the planets in our solar system into the space between Earth and our moon. So that gives you a tiny sense of how much space is out there.”

  He paused to let that sink in, then gestured with his chopsticks at the space between the grains of rice. “And that distance, from us to the moon? Is only like a third of the diameter of our sun. But the sun is just a star. The largest star we know of in the Milky Way galaxy is one billion times bigger than the sun. And yet, if you shrank the sun down to the size of a human white blood cell and shrank the galaxy along with it proportionately, the whole galaxy would be the size of the United States compared to that blood cell. That’s how huge our galaxy is.”

  My head was beginning to spin.

  “And then … try to imagine this: in just one photo taken by the Hubble space telescope, you can see thousands of galaxies. Each with millions of stars. Each star with its own planets.”

  “Wow,” I breathed. I’d forgotten I was still holding chopsticks; they quivered as my hand hovered over my plate. I set them down carefully, as if I might disrupt the universe he’d just laid out on the table.

  “Yeah. And that’s just the beginning. Makes you feel less depressed about only getting the chance to live one life, right?”

  I frowned. “
How do you get there?”

  “Well, on the one hand, if we’re really that tiny and insignificant, what does anything matter?”

  “Do you really believe that?”

  “Nah, it’s just the easy answer.” He smiled. “On the other hand, when I think about the universe—it gives me this colossal sense of wonder that life exists at all, that all the things that matter to us really do matter to us, somehow. That we can think and create and destroy and feel emotional about art, even though we’re smaller than specks of specks of specks. And it seems incredibly unfair that we only get to do it once. Once.” He took a deep breath. “So, that’s why I love the stage. That’s why I act—to experience something outside myself. To get to be someone besides myself.”

  We sat there for a moment without speaking, letting those words hang between us.

  “Why do you act?” he asked, finally.

  I wasn’t sure what to say after that speech. “To escape myself, I think.” The words came out before I had time to think about them. Almost as if I were saying a line I’d memorized—as if it were my inevitable and only response to his question.

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “You know, to get out of my own head. To pretend I’m someone else, someone without all my problems.” Was it true? Sure, I’d originally signed up for drama because of Dad. But the rush I felt on stage, when I was speaking someone else’s words instead of my own, diving into the authentic reactions of my character—it was a relief to press pause on my own thoughts for a while, to “consciously forget” and block out everything else and focus all my energy on being Beatrice, or Elizabeth Proctor, or whoever.

  “Really? You’d rather be someone else? You, Acadia Greenfield?” He was teasing, but something about the way he said it made my face warm up. As if he thought Acadia Greenfield was a pretty okay person to be. Or maybe it was just the wasabi.

  While Zephyr went to the bathroom, I thought more about what he’d said. About how it wasn’t fair that we only got this one chance at life, and how acting can give you the chance to try being all kinds of other people. I loved that. And then I remembered something Robin had said to me, back at the beginning of the year: You’re interested in people, Acadia, and that’s a wonderful thing for an actor. You’re an observer of human nature; you’re thirsty for it.