Full Disclosure

by Camryn Garrett

  “Oh, I don’t know if Eric does. I just ran into him on the way to my locker,” Jesse says, waving a worn copy of Hamlet in our direction. “You know how Bernstein gets when you’re unprepared.”

  “Oh yeah,” I say. “He makes you sit in the front of the class. It’s like a punishment thing.”

  “He does that?” Miles wrinkles his nose. “I thought it was a rumor.”

  “It’s definitely not,” Jesse says, wiggling his eyebrows. “But don’t let me interrupt. Pretend I wasn’t even here.”

  He disappears down the hall with a wink.

  “Oh God,” I say, rubbing my forehead. “He’s so embarrassing.”

  “How?” Miles glances at me. “He was nice.”

  “But now he’s gonna tease me about it forever,” I say. “And that’s after he tells my friends at the next GSA meeting. I bet ten bucks they’ll follow me around making kissing noises next time I see them.”

  “Come on.” He snorts. “That’s how friends are.”

  Is Jesse my friend? I didn’t think of him that way before, but the more I think about it, about the teasing, the more the word feels right. I smile to myself. Then the bell rings, snapping me out of my thoughts.

  “There’s the bell,” Miles says, titling his head toward the classroom door. “You might wanna get in there now, since I’m pretty sure you’re late.”

  “You suck,” I call behind him. “Your name twin Miles Davis would be ashamed of your antics, young man.”

  “Thanks,” he calls back. “I’m sure Nina Simone is proud of your delinquent activity. I bet she never skipped class to kiss a hot guy.”

  “Miles.”

  “It’s okay,” he says, sticking his head around a corner. “If I had been around, I’m sure I could’ve made her late, too.”

  He knows Miles Davis and Nina Simone. I’m not sure if I should kiss him again, or punch him for making me late.

  CHAPTER 16

  Normally, it’s easy to throw myself into rehearsal. The show has so many moving parts that there’s always something new catching my attention. But today, I can’t focus. Maybe it’s because Ms. Klein is following me everywhere I move—to the pit orchestra, backstage—like she’s making sure I don’t screw up.

  Eventually, I migrate toward the front of the auditorium, folding my arms over my chest to make myself seem more official. Looking out at the cast fills me with dread. First, there’s the way everyone groans once I pull out my notebook. And there’s the fact that we’re losing time, not gaining it. The more notes I add, the more we have to work on, only we’ll have less time to do it.

  “Okay, just a few notes,” I call out. “Rocco, try not to upstage Wyatt. Share the stage. Share the wealth. You know what I mean?”

  Rocco grins, sheepish, while Wyatt, who plays Roger, sticks his tongue out at him.

  “Mia, make sure you look at the audience,” I say. Mia, playing the role of Maureen, is a sophomore who only speaks when she’s onstage. “Don’t be shy about it, okay? People want to see you.”

  She blinks at me. I guess that means she heard me.

  “Laila,” I say, glancing over at her. “Looking good.”

  She winks.

  “Eric,” I say, switching gears. “You’re not enunciating your lines properly. At this point, you should just drop the New York accent. It’s not working.”

  His face scrunches up like he just smelled something bad.

  “You never have anything bad to say to Laila,” he says, folding his arms. “It’s always me you have a problem with. Have you guys ever noticed that?”

  He looks back toward the other cast members. Rocco slinks out of sight. Wyatt’s eyebrows furrow. Mia has already disappeared.

  “That’s not true,” I say. “And I don’t have a problem with you. Your performance needs some work, but that’s why we’re rehearsing.”

  “See, this is what I’m talking about,” Eric says. “I’ve starred in five school productions. How many have you directed, exactly?”

  My face is heating up. I hate the fact that his words have an impact on me at all. Everyone knows this is my first time directing a school musical.

  “Come on, Eric,” Laila says. Her face is red. “She gives me notes all the time.”

  “Like what?” he asks. “ ‘Smile wider’?”

  “That’s enough,” I say, forcing my voice to resemble something like steel. “We’re not going to waste time on this. You guys run lines on your own for a few minutes and then I’ll watch again.”

  They slowly cluster together, Rocco and Laila tossing glances over at me. Eric is the last to move. He stares at me like we’re in some sort of battle. I take a step away from them, plopping myself down in a seat. My face is still hot and my breaths are coming out fast. I hate this.

  I try not to have favorites, but Laila is the nicest, and she hasn’t needed as much feedback as the rest of the cast. It’s not my fault that she happens to be a quick study. And, God, I wish Eric would just talk to me after rehearsal or something. Calling me out in front of everyone implies that I have no idea what I’m doing.

  “Something on your mind?”

  I jump, turning to see Jesse. He has his headphones slung around his shoulders like usual, and a clipboard at his side. He’s already crossed out half of his list of notes. Show-off. With the amount of notes I take, it feels like I’ll never get rid of them before the show in December.

  “Just thinking about everything we have to do,” I say, squeezing my arms around my stomach. “We have to finish costumes, get everyone off book, make sure the choreography looks great….It feels like everything is going by so fast. It’ll be December before you know it.”

  “It’s always like this,” Jesse says, glancing at the stage. Ms. Klein is speaking rapidly to Laila and Eric, who stare at her with rapt attention. At least they don’t get pissed when she gives them notes. “It’ll be even faster next year. You’ll see.”

  “I guess so.” I run a hand through my hair, letting out a sigh. “Do you think Lin-Manuel Miranda felt like this before Hamilton debuted on Broadway?”

  Jesse raises a brow, but if he thinks I’m full of myself, he doesn’t say so. “I think it goes by fast for everyone. Even Lin-Manuel Miranda. He did a show every night, right? By the time he got to his last night, I’m sure it felt like he had barely been there before he was passing the role to the next guy.”

  “Yeah, Javier Muñoz,” I say, glancing at him. “He’s really good.”

  Jesse shrugs. “He’s okay, I guess.”

  I raise a brow. Maybe I’m the tiniest bit more protective of Javier Muñoz because he’s positive. But still. How can Jesse say he’s just okay?

  “You probably haven’t seen him perform,” I say. “Because if you had, you wouldn’t call him okay.”

  “Hey, different strokes, right?” He holds his hands up like I’m attacking him. “I just like the original. That’s all. It’s not like I hate the other guy.”

  “Javier Muñoz,” I repeat.

  “Right,” Jesse says, but he’s already looking back down at his clipboard. “Him.”

  I sigh, turning back to the stage. It looks like Ms. Klein trapped some crew members, who are struggling to lift a fake pay phone while she talks to them. Since she seems to be handling things, I can go look for Mr. Palumbo and talk to him about my notes. He always knows how to say things without making people hate him. I could probably learn from that.

  Members of the cast usually cool down by stage left, near the door leading to the choir room. Sometimes Mr. Palumbo disappears back there to give pep talks or just mess around with the other kids. I poke my head in, frowning when I don’t see him.

  “Did you see them?” Claire’s voice is low, almost a whisper. Eric and some of the other cast members crowd around her. “I swear to God, they were practically d
oing it in the middle of the hall. His tongue was down her throat and everything.”

  Shit. That little punk. What happened to feminism and solidarity?

  “Are you sure it was her?”

  “Positive,” Eric butts in. “But maybe he’ll keep her mind off all her notes.”

  I know I’ve probably gone overboard, but that doesn’t give him the right to be such a jerk behind my back. Besides, what does Claire have to complain about? I can’t remember the last time I had any notes for her.

  I don’t know if I should scream at them or just hold it all in. On the one hand, screaming at them will only undermine my authority as director. On the other hand, they’re gossiping when we’re supposed to be rehearsing. That’s something I can call them both out on.

  I take a step forward.

  “Simone! I’ve been looking for you.”

  At the sound of Mr. Palumbo’s voice, I freeze. If I yell at Eric and Claire in front of him, he’ll probably regret making me director. But if he hears what they’re talking about, I’ll be embarrassed for the rest of the school year. I don’t feel like talking to Palumbo about my notes anymore, but it’s the best choice. With a sigh, I turn to face him.

  “Hey, Mr. Palumbo,” I say. “What’s up?”

  “We just need to have a little chat,” he says, gesturing for me to walk away from the group. “I don’t want you to get upset. You’ve been doing a fantastic job.”

  Oh no. This definitely sounds like he’s going to say something upsetting.

  “Thanks,” I say, biting my lip. “Did something happen?”

  “I think your notes are excellent,” he says. “You really have a gift for finding weak spots in each performance without being too harsh. But…”

  Dread rests low in my stomach.

  “But?”

  “Some students feel you play favorites,” he says, apology written in his forehead lines. “Don’t get me wrong—it’s totally understandable. We all have favorites. But, in the future, maybe you can try to—”

  “Favorites?” I repeat. “I’m—Mr. Palumbo, I don’t have any favorites. I treat everyone the same. You’ve seen me.”

  “Well,” he says, cocking his head to the side, “I just saw you give some notes to Eric. They were perfectly valid, but I’m sure it was hard for him to hear them in front of other students. You should pay more attention to how you deliver your notes. Try not to single anyone out too often.”

  Eric is not this delicate. He probably has been complaining to Mr. Palumbo to make me look bad.

  “I don’t single Eric out too often,” I say. “He’s just mad I say anything to him at all, so now he’s acting like an asshole.”

  “Simone.”

  I glance up. Big mistake. Mr. Palumbo is frowning at me in a way that makes his entire face droop toward the ground. I’ve never seen him look this disappointed before, not in anyone. If I thought Eric made me look bad, I was wrong. I made myself look bad.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. I’m not sorry that Eric is a prick. I’m sorry that I disappointed Mr. Palumbo. “I didn’t mean that.”

  Mr. Palumbo rubs the middle of his forehead. Heaves a big sigh. It’s like I’ve aged him ten years.

  “Look,” he says. “I think you need some time to cool down.”

  “But—”

  “It’s not a suggestion, Simone,” he says, holding up his hand. “Go for a drink of water, or a walk around the school. Just get some air. Okay?”

  From the corner of my eye I glimpse Eric leaning against the wall, with his arm around Claire. He catches my gaze, holding it for a long second. If Mr. Palumbo weren’t looking, I’d flip him the bird. As if he can read my mind, Eric smirks. If I don’t leave now, I think I might punch him.

  “Okay,” I say, turning to Mr. Palumbo. “But I’ll be back.”

  * * *

  I’m halfway down the hallway before I realize I have no idea where I’m going. All I know is that I don’t want to come back until Mr. Palumbo has forgotten the whole thing. Maybe I’ll hide out in the halls for a week.

  Taking a walk is sort of relaxing, but I need something else to do. My geometry textbook is still in my locker. Maybe I can get some homework done instead of wasting time.

  I head to my locker, another hallway over, and fumble it open. In the silence of the empty hall, this feels like a crime scene. I scan for another note. The welcome packet is the first thing I see.

  Shit. And right under it is a folded piece of notebook paper with my name on it. I’ve been checking my locker every day, and haven’t noticed anything new. Someone must’ve put it in today. I scan the hastily scrawled words.

  Whatever you’re doing is not what I call staying away from Miles. Ticktock, Simone.

  I glance toward the auditorium door. It has to be Eric.

  CHAPTER 17

  I crumpled up the note and shoved it to the bottom of my backpack hours ago, but the words are still burned into my mind. Dad and Pops aren’t home, which means I have the house to myself. I shouldn’t be home, either. I’m supposed to be at the game with Miles.

  I barely made it to the end of rehearsal, and at that point I just needed to get away. Maybe I should feel bad about ditching, but all I can think about is this stupid note. I’ve been trying to think of suspects, and I come back to Eric every time. He’s had a problem with me ever since we started rehearsals, he gossips about me, and he complained about me to Palumbo. Then, I guess, there is Claire, who joins him in gossip sometimes. There’s just no reason for her to hate me. Yeah, she’s all the way in the back of the chorus, but that’s not my fault.

  I haven’t been at my school for a full year, and Eric’s the only person who has made their hate for me completely clear. But why is he doing this? It doesn’t make sense.

  The scariest part is that I haven’t even noticed him sneaking around. Besides Lydia and Claudia, no one knows where my locker is. He’d have to follow me to figure out where it was, but I don’t even use it that often. The bigger question is how he figured out that I’m positive. He would’ve had to see me at St. Mary’s Hospital or read my medical records. But how could he get that kind of access? Why would he actually care enough to go through that much trouble?

  I drift into my room and throw myself on my bed. The first time my phone rings, playing “Seasons of Love,” I ignore it. It’s probably Miles. I texted him after rehearsal, but he still might be looking for me. I can’t tell him about the note, not when he doesn’t even know that I’m positive. I grab a pillow and hold it over my head. “Seasons of Love” stops, and then starts right back up again.

  God. Can’t anyone leave me alone when I want to wallow? I roll over, yanking the phone out of my pocket. My shoulders relax at the sight of Lydia and Claudia’s names. They’ll know what to do. Even if they don’t, talking to them will make me feel better. It always does.

  They’re already talking to each other when I pick up.

  “It’s not a big deal, Lydia,” Claudia says. “I did it just so I would know.”

  “Wait,” I say, sitting up. “Did what?”

  “I’m just surprised,” Lydia says on the other line. “Wow.”

  “Some ace people do have sex,” Claudia says, her voice almost irritated on the other line. “Just not me. I’m never doing it again. Ugh.”

  “What? You actually did it?” I shriek into the phone. “I thought you’d be an eternal virgin. I thought you’d just chill. I don’t know. This is so weird.”

  “I wasn’t even a virgin before,” Claudia says. I can practically hear her roll her eyes. “But I guess it was official this time? Since we were using fingers and—”

  “Okay,” I say. “Maybe that’s why you didn’t like it?”

  “Yeah,” Lydia says, voice peaking up on her end. “I hated my first time, but sex was fine after that. Once
I found a different partner.”

  “Nope, never doing it again,” Claudia says, way too fast. I stifle a laugh. I know I should tell them about the new note, but it’s so much easier to pretend that things are normal. “I told her I wanted to do it just to see how it would feel, and that’s what happened. Now I don’t need to worry about it ever again.”

  “What if she wants to do it again, though?” I ask, playing with a strand of my hair. “Are you guys going to get into fights about it?”

  “If she wants to fight about it, she can, but I’m not going to,” Claudia says. She always sounds so sure about everything. I love that about her. “I can’t be with someone who wants stuff that I can’t give, you know?”

  “But it would suck if it doesn’t work out,” I say. “Because you love her and everything.”

  “I do love her.” Claudia’s voice takes on an uncharacteristically dreamy quality. “I love her hair and her eyes and the way she laughs. I love the way she knows everything.” She pauses. “And her boobs. I love those, too. Maybe I’ll kiss them and that’ll be the sexual part of our relationship.”

  “Oh my God,” Lydia says. “My mom could show up at any minute and see the look on my face. We don’t need a play-by-play.”

  This time, I laugh. Lydia acts like her mom is going to drop dead if our conversations pass the PG-13 mark, but I have a feeling Lydia would be far more traumatized than Mrs. Wu.

  “She won’t even know what we’re talking about if you don’t say anything,” I say, resting a hand under my chin. “Just try to stay smooth.”

  As Lydia launches into a monologue about her family dog chewing her DivaCup, I switch to speaker mode. I have my Drama notebook on my bed, and pull it toward me. Every time we have a rehearsal, I try to come home and brainstorm solutions. This time, though, it’s taking all my brainpower to ignore the stupid note at the bottom of my backpack.

  “I think we need to have another sleepover,” Claudia is saying. “I’m tired of living with my family. Lydia’s place is my favorite. No offense to you, Simone.”