The Art of Lainey

by Paula Stokes

  “If they did,” Leo murmurs, “it probably wouldn’t be called a tragedy.”

  The lights dim and the thick curtain in front of us parts soundlessly to reveal a blue backdrop and fluffy, white clouds. The chattering of the audience fades away as two boys come to the center of the stage and begin speaking.

  The language is kind of old-English sounding, but I can tell the boys are supposed to be God and the devil. I miss a few things, but Leo is watching raptly and I don’t want to disturb him.

  “That’s her,” Leo whispers, when Riley first comes on the stage. Those are the only two words he says to me during the whole first act. It’s hard to tell what she looks like beneath her wig and heavy stage makeup. It surprises me how seriously the students are taking everything. The stage sets look like someone spent weeks designing and constructing them, and as far as I can tell no one flubs a line during the whole first section of the production. At one point, they close the curtain for a few seconds only to reopen on a completely new set.

  What surprises me the most, though, is how much I like the show. There’s something otherworldly about the whole deal. I can almost see myself up there, in a fun costume with cool makeup. Preferably a play I actually understand, but still, I never imagined I would enjoy theater so much. Even my desire to enroll in Karlsson’s class was mostly because one of the projects everyone does is film a fake Celebrity Sightings segment and put it on the internet.

  The curtain closes again and Leo turns to face me. “Intermission,” he says. “Fifteen minutes. Do you want to get up and walk around? Get something to drink?”

  “I’m okay.” I’m still kind of dazzled by the ornate theater, by the glistening chandeliers and the golden threads embedded in the wallpaper.

  “I’m going to use the restroom. I’ll be right back.” Leo squeezes past me and I pull out my phone and check my messages. No texts, but there is an email from Steve:

  Hey L—

  So far Ireland is really wet, but I don’t even need my fake ID to drink here, so it’s got that going for it, which is nice. How is everyone? How’s your summer going? I hope Dad’s not making you work too much since I’m not there to play barista.

  Since when do you like baseball? I know you’re crazy about Jason, but don’t forget to do some things for yourself this summer too. The fall will be here before we know it.

  More soon,

  S

  I type him back a quick reply:

  Hey S—

  Actually, Jay and I broke up and I was at the game with someone else. We might get back together though. I think he’s having some family issues or something.

  Mom and Dad are the same as always (so, you know, kind of lame but points for effort, ha-ha) but they’re not overworking me. I gotta run because I’m actually at a play. I know, right? Since when do I like plays? Let’s just say I’m broadening my horizons this summer.

  Stay dry,

  L

  Leo returns to his seat just as I am slipping my phone back into my purse. “Sorry if you’re bored to death,” he says. “I don’t even know if Riley saw us. She used to tell me it can be hard to see anything out in the audience because of the lights, that even the first rows are mostly just silhouettes of people.”

  “What about at the end?” I ask. “Do the actors stand at the door or anything?”

  “They come out for curtain call, but everyone will be clapping and she still might not notice.” He pauses. “There’s this after-party,” he says hesitantly. “I figured it might be a lot to ask.”

  “We can go if you want.”

  “Really?” Leo sounds hopeful. “The guy who’s throwing it lives a few miles away.”

  I pull my phone out of my purse to check the time. It’s only 8:30 p.m. “No problem.” I twist my legs sideways as an older couple squeezes past us back to their seats. “I just need to be home by midnight.”

  The house lights dim again and this time I find myself getting almost as engrossed in the play as Leo. I watch how the characters move around the stage, listening to the way they make their voices louder without shouting. Afterward I stand with Leo and clap as Riley and the actor who played the devil come out for their curtain calls. Leo puts his fingers in his mouth and whistles. Riley looks over at him. A little smile appears on her face, like she’s surprised to see him there.

  “Nice one,” I whisper in Leo’s ear. “She’s definitely looking at you.”

  The after-party is being held at the devil’s house. “This is awesome,” I say as Leo leads me up the steps toward the porch. “My first college party.”

  Leo smiles. “Glad the night isn’t a total loss for you.”

  I grab a couple plastic cups and head over toward one of the beer kegs. “Nothing is a total loss if beer is involved,” I say. It’s actually one of Jason’s favorite lines. I don’t even drink beer that much, but I’m not going to pass up an opportunity to drink at my first college party. “And I liked the play, even if I’m not exactly sure what happened.”

  Leo takes the cup I hand him without even looking at me. He’s too busy staring across the room at a petite blonde girl with a pixie haircut. The girl is standing in a group with the devil and two taller girls.

  “Is that her?” I whisper. The girl he’s staring at looks nothing like the girl onstage, but there’s something familiar about the way she gestures with her hands as she talks.

  Leo nods. The beer cup teeters in his fingers and a bit of frothy head sloshes over the top, barely missing my strappy sandals.

  I nudge him in the ribs. “Hey. Get it together. I’m your date, remember?” I put my hand on his arm and laugh. “Dude. You are so funny,” I say brightly.

  I’m not sure Riley can hear me over the pulsing dance music but out of the corner of my eye I see her look over. Her smile flattens momentarily. I put my lips next to Leo’s earlobe like I’m telling him a secret. “She totally just saw us together,” I whisper. “Grab my hand and lead me somewhere.”

  Leo’s beer cup wobbles again and I imagine the explaining I’ll have to do if I return home reeking of Bud Light. “What? Like upstairs?” he asks.

  “No, silly.” I resist the urge to bop him on the forehead. “She’s not going to want to take back a guy who’s into drunken hookups. She’ll think I’m just a rebound chick you snagged to make yourself feel better.” I laugh loudly again, as if Leo is telling me one funny joke after the next. “Take me outside in the back to look at stars or something.”

  “Pretty sure all guys are into drunken hookups,” Leo mutters. But he wraps his hand around mine and leads me through the sea of bodies, past the kitchen, and out the back door onto a large wooden deck. There’s a patio table with four metal chairs, but three of them are taken up by a group of boys playing cards. We walk to the far end of the deck and lean against the railing. Leo drops my hand.

  I crane my neck upward. The night is clear, and even with all the lights around us, the black sky is awash with silvery specks. “I love the stars,” I say.

  “Which one is your favorite?” he asks.

  It’s a weird question. I have trouble picking a favorite flavor of soda, or even a favorite color. Who would think I actually have a favorite star? But I do. “My brother and I used to wish on stars when we were little. Not about anything important. Mostly for stuff like snow days and extra Christmas presents.” I point to a shining dot of light, lower on the horizon. “That one. It’s always so strong, so full.”

  “That’s because it’s not a star,” Leo says.

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s Venus.”

  “Seriously? How can you tell?” I squint at the point of light until spots swim in front of my face.

  “Well, for one, it’s not winking,” Leo says. “Stars, their light pulses.”

  “Wow, you’re smart.”

  Leo looks down at the ground. “Yet another trait that makes me irresistible to the ladies.”

  “Girls like smart guys.” I think about it fo
r a few seconds. Jason probably isn’t particularly smart, but it wouldn’t bother me if he was. “Well, we don’t dislike them,” I clarify.

  My phone suddenly buzzes. It’s too early for my mom to be checking up on me. I fish it out of my purse and swipe at the screen. It’s a text. From Micah.

  Chapter 17

  “IF YOU KNOW THE ENEMY AND KNOW YOURSELF, YOUR VICTORY WILL NOT STAND IN DOUBT . . .”

  —SUN TZU, The Art of War

  Everything all right?” Leo asks. His eyes keep flicking toward the door leading back into the house. He’s probably hoping Riley will come outside. Or maybe hoping she won’t. I remember the way I felt at the baseball game, like I was both dying and terrified for Jason to see me with another guy.

  “Funny, that’s the same thing he asked.” I hold up my phone. “Micah.”

  I tap out a quick response telling Micah that everything is going fine. I wait for my phone to light up again, but the screen stays dark.

  “Aww, he’s checking up on you,” Leo says. “Almost like a real boyfriend.”

  “Shut up.” I slide the phone into my pocket where I’ll feel it vibrate if I get another text. “Me and Micah—that’s just business.”

  Leo cranes his neck to look through the small kitchen window. I follow his gaze. I think I see Riley’s pixie haircut float by, but I’m not sure. “I don’t know,” he says. “I see you guys at work and you’re always laughing and having fun.”

  My lips quirk upward as I remember our impromptu food fight. “Sometimes, when he’s not being mean, but it’s the same way I have fun with Bianca.”

  “If you say so.” Leo shrugs. “Just keep it real with him.”

  I roll my eyes. “Why are you acting like Micah is some delicate flower? The dude carries a switchblade. I don’t think I’m a big threat.”

  “He’s a good guy. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “I know he’s a good guy, which is why I’m helping him get back together with Amber.” Now I’m the one with the shaky beer glass. I feel like Leo’s accusing me of something, of taking advantage of his friend. Am I using Micah? Yeah, I guess I am, but he’s using me too. And it’s fine—no one is getting hurt because of our agreement. I chug the rest of my beer and slam the empty cup down on the wooden railing. Then I make a big show of digging my phone back out of my pocket and checking the time. It’s still early. “I should probably be getting home,” I say.

  “Okay,” Leo says. We cut through the house and walk out to the car in silence. If Riley is around, I don’t see her.

  I flip on the radio as soon as Leo fires up the engine. I hit the tuning arrow up until it lands on the station Micah put on for the ride home from the baseball game.

  Leo looks over at me. “I didn’t know you liked this kind of music.”

  Me neither, but I do. Kind of, anyway. “I’ve been branching out. Anything gets old if you listen to it 24/7, you know?”

  “I hear you. I like new stuff too.”

  I don’t answer. If you asked me whether I was the type of person who liked trying new things or preferred sticking with what was familiar, I would have told you I was the second girl. The if-it-ain’t-broke-don’t-fix-it girl. I also would have told you plays were lame. It suddenly occurs to me that I don’t seem to know very much about . . . me. It’s a weird feeling, like maybe a stranger is inhabiting my body. Or maybe a stranger was, and I kicked her out.

  The beginning of The Art of War said something about knowing yourself and your enemy, that without that basic knowledge you can’t hope to be successful in battle. Is that my problem? Do I know Jason better than I know myself?

  I sneak my compact out of my purse and pretend to check my eye makeup. Bronze shadow. Bright green eyes. I think I even see freckles on my left eyelid. Normally that would be frustrating, but tonight the smattering of rogue spots is a comfort. I might feel different all of a sudden, but I’m still me.

  Leo navigates the car onto the highway. “It seemed like you were getting into the show.”

  The interstate is mostly empty, even though it’s not that late. Brake lights dance in the distance, red blurs in an otherwise black night. “Yeah, I can’t believe it was based on classic literature. Who knew old German guys had such a flair for the dramatic,” I say. “Lying, betrayal. Unplanned pregnancy. It was like a cliff-hanger episode of Undead Academy. All it was missing was zombies.”

  The dark highway gives way to the soft glow of streetlights as Leo pulls onto the exit ramp. I lean my head back against the seat.

  “Have you heard from your ex-boyfriend yet?” Leo asks.

  I shake my head. “No, but Bianca’s helping me strategize. Don’t laugh. She seriously has us pulling ideas from The Art of War. Crazy, huh?”

  Leo thinks for a few seconds. “That’s actually brilliant. War is basically head games and fighting. So are relationships.”

  “What an uplifting thought.”

  “There’s even that quote about how all’s fair in love and war,” he continues.

  “Also said by someone who’s been dead for, like, a zillion years, right?”

  “Most people attribute it to Shakespeare, but it’s actually from John Lyly, who’s even older,” Leo says. “But it’s not like relationships have changed much.” He taps his fingers on the steering wheel. “You might also want to check out The Prince by Machiavelli. You can probably find the text online.”

  “Whoa.” I hold up a hand. “One dead guy at a time, okay?”

  “Okay. But let me know if there’s anything I can do to help you and Bee.”

  “Sure.” Dead Chinese Warlord said something about utilizing all available resources, but it seems weird that Leo wants to volunteer to be part of my “army” since he’s paying me and all.

  “Listen.” Leo glances at me. “What I said about Micah—I hope I didn’t upset you. It’s none of my business what you guys do.”

  “It’s fine,” I say. “But we’re not doing anything.” Leo and I are almost to my house. I lean forward and crank the radio up a couple of notches, singing along to the song. I’m hoping he’ll take the hint. The idea of me hurting Micah is ridiculous. He’s practically bulletproof.

  When Leo pulls up at the curb in front of my house, I lean over toward the center console and give him a quick half hug. “I hope Riley calls you.”

  “Yeah, me too. Thanks again for going with me tonight.”

  “Sure. I had fun,” I tell him. And I mean it.

  The next day, I wake up to streaks of sun burning through my eyelids. I open one eye and swear under my breath when I realize my blinds are open.

  “You awake?” It’s my mom’s voice. I roll over. She’s puttering around near my dresser.

  “I am now.” Raising one of my arms, I block out the offending sunbeams and watch my mother paw through a stack of magazines. “What are you doing, Mom?”

  “I was leaving you a note.” My mom drops an issue of Celebrity Tattler onto my dresser and tucks her pencil back into her bun. “But now that you’re awake I can tell you.” She smiles. Her teeth are almost as bright as the sun—unnaturally white for someone who drinks so much tea.

  I fall back on my bed and cover my face with my favorite pillow. “Why did you feel the need to open the blinds?”

  “Sorry, I didn’t want to write on anything crucial,” she says. “You should probably clean things up in here someday.”

  “Someday,” I say, my voice muffled by two inches of feathers. “What was so important you couldn’t wait till I got up?”

  “I’m heading out for the day with some of the other adjunct professors. I was curious about how things went on your date last night so I did a reading for you with my breakfast tea. I saw a bird—a swallow.” She clears her throat. “Love. New beginnings.”

  I groan. I swear my mom keeps my picture on her desk for the sole purpose of reading leaves for me against my will. It’s her weirdo way of spying or something. “Are you sure it wasn’t a raven or a vulture?” I ask. “May
be a headless chicken foretelling a future full of . . . headless chickens?”

  “Joke all you want. I just thought you’d want to know,” she says in a singsong voice. “Am I right? How was it? Is new love blooming in my daughter’s life?”

  I peer out from underneath the pillow. “It wasn’t even a date. It was business.”

  Her brow furrows. “Do I need to worry about what kind of business has my daughter donning tiny miniskirts and going out with strange boys?”

  “No, Mom. I haven’t turned hooker or anything, I promise.” I sit up and rub my eyes. “Think of it more like an anthropology project. I’m interacting with different, um, subcultures.”

  My mom’s eyes narrow to little snakelike slits. “You’ve never had any interest in anthropology before,” she says wryly. “Or plays, for that matter. You saw Faust, right? What did you think of it?”

  I stifle a yawn. “I kind of liked it, the parts I understood anyway.”

  She tucks a chunk of unruly hair back out of my face. “You know, I was in a couple of productions when I was in college. It’s exhilarating being up there on the stage, living someone else’s life.”

  Was that what I liked? The idea of being someone else? No, that’s crazy. There’s nothing wrong with my life. Well, there won’t be once I win Jason back. Most girls would trade places with me in an instant.

  “Well, keep an eye out,” my mom says. “The leaves are never wrong. New love. How exciting.” She pulls the blinds closed and practically scampers out of my room. It’s disturbing how giddy she can be sometimes.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and try to go back to sleep but it’s pointless. I grab my phone to check the time and see that I have two text messages from earlier in the morning. The first is from Bee, asking if I want to go running with her. I do, and I should, but maybe later. I tap the screen. The second is another message from Micah.

  Concert tomorrow night at TDD. You in?

  Me: Will Amber be there?