“You’re one to talk.” I might have to slurp melted ice cream out of my cone, but streaks of vanilla line Miles’s hand like a striped shirt. “Why do we suck at ice cream?”
“We?” He shakes his head. “I’m just trying to make you feel better.”
I follow him into the kitchen, all stainless steel like the ones on TV. Dad would be jealous of how clean it is. There are only three of us, but between Dad’s cooking experiments and Pops’s passion for shopping, it doesn’t take long for our house to get cluttered. Miles points out some paper towels on the counter, gesturing toward me with his head. I chomp down the last of my cone, reaching for the roll with sticky hands.
“When I first met you,” he starts, licking at his cone, “I never would’ve suspected you ate ice cream like a four-year-old.”
As if to prove my maturity, I stick out my tongue. He leans in to kiss me, but he’s also a mess, and one of his scoops splats right onto my thigh.
He should be apologizing, but the first thing that comes out of his mouth is a bark of laughter. Miles’s happy is so loud that it rings in my ears long after I hear it. It’s hard not to laugh along with him. I reach again for the paper towels, but he beats me to it, tearing off a bunch and tossing his cone in the trash.
“You wasted it,” I say. He bends down to wipe off my leg. I can feel the heat of his hand through the napkin. Whatever I was about to say dies in my throat. All I can muster is a soft “I can do it.”
He glances up at me, something devious in his eyes. By now, most of the ice cream is gone, but his hands, warm and rough, are on both of my thighs.
“It’s fine,” he says, voice low. “I’m cleaning up after myself.”
That’s definitely a euphemism.
His hands are still pressed against my legs, and instead of crouching down, he’s on his knees now. I lean against the counter so I can get a better look. There are so many places to look—at his lips, the long legs folded perfectly, the way he looks at my legs like they’re something to be desired. When he catches me staring, neither of us looks away.
Then his mouth is on my thigh, tasting my skin, exploring, leaving sloppy kisses in his wake. It almost tickles. He takes his sweet time reaching for the zipper of my shorts, and my hands shake as I help get them off. His eyes are darker, bigger, when he glances back up.
“Is this okay?”
I nod, blushing so hard that my face burns, but then he’s leaning in and my mind goes blank. I’m not thinking about the counter digging into my back or the fact that I’m in Miles’s kitchen or how I ditched lunch with my friends. I’m not thinking about anything.
I dig my nails into my thighs, legs trembling. His hand tugs at one of mine, guiding it to his head. I grip his hair between my fingers, letting my own head fall back.
There’s heat everywhere: radiating from me and him, burning deep inside my belly. My breathing grows labored, blood rushing through my ears. I know I’m making all sorts of noises, breathing and moaning. I don’t care. Miles always makes me happy, but this…It’s like nothing I’ve ever felt.
* * *
When I finally come back to my senses, we’re sitting on his kitchen floor, slumped against a cabinet.
“Are you okay?” he finally asks. It sounds like he’s out of breath, too.
I squeeze his hand, leaning down for my underwear.
“I just—I never knew I could feel like that,” I say. It’s not what I imagined, alone in my bed at night. It’s so much better. It feels like I’m floating, brain clear, eyes blown out of their sockets. I want to share it with him. “But now it’s your turn.”
I push him against the counter. His eyes are wide.
“You don’t have to if you don’t feel like it,” he says. The corners of his mouth turn up, but his words tumble out. “It’s not like you have to pay me back. It’s not a business transaction. I just wanted to—”
Before I can say anything else, his lips are on mine. It’s different from the first time we kissed. Kissing Miles for the first time was like texting someone for the first time: using proper punctuation and spelling, commenting only on “appropriate” topics.
It’s different now. Lazier, a little messier, like we know each other.
“Are you sure?” Miles asks, voice soft.
“I am. It’s not about paying you back,” I say. “It’s because I want to make you feel good, too.”
“You already make me feel good.”
I roll my eyes, even though I’m smiling.
“Shut up, Miles,” I say, pulling at his zipper.
CHAPTER 26
With just two weeks left until opening night, Ms. Klein has gone absolutely batshit. I can’t make a single move at rehearsal the next day without her breathing down my neck. Maybe I’d understand the concern if we were further behind, but we’re doing pretty well. The sets are all painted, and everyone knows their lines. I’d call that success.
“I think we should try that again,” Ms. Klein says, snapping her fingers. The poor kids onstage seem to hate her almost as much as Eric hates me. “You need to have more emotion in your voices. Even if you’re in the ensemble, you need to accentuate your facial features. Remember, people are looking at you!”
Claire is pouting openly, and it makes her look like a fish. I snicker. Ms. Klein whirls around and I school my features. I can’t even breathe without her giving me the stink eye. I’m pretty sure any teacher would be better at this than her.
“Do you have any notes, Simone?” Mr. Palumbo asks, turning to me. “You’ve been quiet.”
That’s because I’m intent on watching and absorbing every single detail. Once we finish running the show for the thousandth time, I’ll start taking notes again. Right now, I need to see what the audience would see if we opened tomorrow. It’ll give me a different angle.
“I’m not sure,” I say, folding my arms. “The only thing really bothering me is the ‘I’ll Cover You’ reprise, but I don’t know if I could get a word in.”
As soon as the words leave my mouth, I bite my lip, eyes widening. Sure, no one likes Ms. Klein, but she’s still a teacher. Palumbo might think that I’m a disrespectful little shit or something. Turns out, I’m overthinking it.
“You’re a riot,” he says, belly shaking with laughter. “What’s bothering you about it?”
I sigh, digging my hands into my pockets. Part of me still feels weird telling members of the cast what to do, and the whole Eric thing has made it worse. I can’t sing, and I don’t know how to act, so what do I really know? I think that loving the story as much as I do helps, but sometimes I’m not sure. Being in the show is definitely different from watching it offstage—both sides see different things.
I focus on my side. What do I see? The kids playing Angel and Collins are good singers; that’s why they got picked. But their delivery of the dialogue is too wooden for such an emotional show. Even when they sing, there isn’t enough emotion. Singing is, like, the original carrier of emotion. I should feel the grief and sadness and longing just oozing out.
“I’m just not feeling the emotion,” I explain. “I don’t know what it is. Maybe they didn’t listen to the original cast recording? No one can listen to that without being hit by a ton of bricks. If they couldn’t feel it, how am I supposed to explain it to them? You know what I mean?”
“Well,” Palumbo sighs, shifting his weight. “I would suggest trying to connect it to something relatable. Not everyone has personal experience with AIDS, but everyone has experienced grief at some point.”
“That’s true.” I could try to talk to them about death. Everyone understands death—wanting to avoid it is basically human nature. But I need something more than that. “Why is this so hard?”
“It’s only hard because you care so much,” Palumbo says, a smile in his voice. “It’ll still be hard when you’re di
recting on Broadway, but imagine how fun it’ll be.”
I’ve only dreamed of that happening, but Palumbo talks about it like it’s a fact.
“I mean, we don’t know if that’ll happen,” I say, pulling at my hair. “There aren’t a lot of people who make it to a Broadway stage.”
“But you would.” He doesn’t even hesitate. “Don’t doubt yourself.”
“I’m not,” I say. “I just—I don’t know if it’s practical. Maybe I’ll study theater, if they don’t actually make me get up onstage, but I don’t know if I should. I could just become a nurse or something.”
“A nurse?”
I shrug, not letting myself face him. Teachers who are all supportive and nice sort of freak me out. They start to learn too much about you. In the middle of class, they could watch you daydream and know exactly what you’re thinking about. I’d like to keep some things private.
“I don’t want to go to school for something that’s artistic and hard to do and end up in a sea of debt,” I say, folding my arms. “My dad told me he didn’t finish paying off his student loans until he was thirty.”
He presses his lips together. “It’s different for everyone. I say you should go to school for something that you feel attached to, or don’t go at all. It is better to be passionate and poor than rich and depressed.”
“But what if I’m passionate and depressed?” I say. “I wouldn’t want to be fifty and living in a shoebox, calling my parents for a cup of ramen.”
“That’s not going to happen,” he says, shaking his head. “Whatever you do—writing or directing or even singing—you’ll be successful.”
“You can’t be sure of that.”
My friends think I’ll be fine, my parents think I’ll be fine—all people who are biased. Mr. Palumbo just met me this year, and he’s already so confident about this. I soak it up like a plant desperate for water.
“There are always a few students who really have what it takes,” he says, lowering his voice. “You’re one of them, Simone. You just have to have confidence in yourself.”
I guess he’s right. If I can handle switching schools, HIV, and these stupid letters, I can handle anything life throws at me. That’s sort of what “I’ll Cover You” is about, actually: losing the ability to handle what life throws your way. The characters are telling us about the casualties, physical and emotional, of AIDS, in a time when no one wanted to hear about them. I’m not sure how much that has really changed.
“Hold on,” I say to Mr. Palumbo. “I think I have an idea.”
Ms. Klein is still onstage when I climb up.
“All right, remember to be quick,” Ms. Klein says as I walk past. “We want to get through the entire show before it’s time to go home.”
I ignore her.
“Guys,” I say, motioning for everyone to lean in toward me. “I just figured out how we’re going to do this song. It’s almost perfect right now, but this will make it better. Do you trust me?”
They share glances. The hardest part of being a director has been getting the cast to trust me. But I’m too invigorated from Mr. Palumbo’s pep talk to overanalyze right now.
“What’s up?” Rocco asks, turning toward me. He has a game face on. I like that about him. It’s probably why I thought he would be so great for the role of Angel. “Let’s hear it.”
Behind him stands the rest of the cast in varying stages of commitment—more members of an audience. I force myself to take a deep breath.
“I really think we need to tap into the hopelessness of the song,” I say. It’s difficult to keep all the emotion out of my voice as I describe what it must’ve been like to have AIDS in the eighties, when it was basically a death sentence. It’s difficult not to think of my fathers, who could’ve died, who lost so many people.
“It was basically genocide. No one released it, no one planned for it, but it was an epidemic that targeted a specific group of people,” I say. “Once it started impacting straight people and white people, it started to become important—but only a little bit more. To be in a relationship with someone of the same sex, and to be a person of color with AIDS—it was a hopeless situation because no one cared. So to find someone who gets it, who loves you, and to lose them because no one cares about what you’re going through—there aren’t words for that. The songs are all talking about it, but the words only tell part of the story. That’s why we need to hear about it in your voices. Do you know what I mean?”
“Okay,” Laila says, a breath of air rushing from her mouth. “I think that we can do that. Right, Eric?”
Eric doesn’t say anything. He’s chewing on his lip, pensive.
“Are we ready to run it again?” Ms. Klein asks behind us. “I don’t mean to rush, but we have to keep going.”
I clench my teeth, but don’t leave the stage. I’m not sure if I explained it well, if it’s even possible for me to share something so close to my heart. That’s probably why a song works so well—you don’t have to explain emotion when it radiates out of your lungs. It’s something you just get, even if you can’t explain it.
“Yeah.” Eric nods. “Let’s do it.”
As the pit orchestra begins to play, I’m hit with a burst of emotion. Their words are filled with all of it—angst, despair, passion. Maybe they touched on some of it before, but it feels like it’s so clear in their voices now. Listening to them, you would think they understand. You would think they lived it.
“Whoa,” Jesse breathes, standing beside me. “It’s beautiful.”
I can’t help but smile. Even if I can’t sing like them, if I’m not as talented, I helped make this. This moment is where I belong. Just being here. After all, that’s what theater is about.
* * *
I’m not expecting Claudia’s car to be the only one in the parking lot when I leave the building. I’m not sure what time it is, but the fading sun tells me that all the other clubs ended a while ago. Was Claudia supposed to pick me up? I don’t remember. I pull my backpack over my shoulder, glancing down at my phone. There are two messages from a number that I don’t recognize, all zeros. The first message is a picture: Miles and me sitting in his car somewhere. The second is a regular text: Next week.
My breath hitches in my throat. No air is getting in or out of my lungs.
It’s not just notes now. I knew someone had to be following me, but the pictures make it sickeningly real. But how the fuck are they taking pictures without anyone noticing? Eric couldn’t just leave school in the middle of the day to watch me, could he? Maybe I was right and he got someone to help him—but who?
I make my way to Claudia’s car on shaky legs. She and Lydia will probably tell me to report it to the principal, but this number, 000–000–0000, has to be fake. I doubt the principal would be able to trace it. Maybe Lydia or Claudia would know how. If I can figure out who’s helping Eric, I can make them stop.
“Hey,” I say, sliding into the back seat. My lungs can’t seem to take in any air, and talking doesn’t help in the slightest. “I’m sorry I’m late. I totally forgot you were gonna wait, and something happened—”
I catch Claudia rolling her eyes in the rearview mirror. My stomach drops.
“What?” I say, turning to Lydia. My skin is hot, and my chest heaves now that I can suddenly breathe again. I know she’s been irritated, but fuck, I can’t handle it right now. “I said I was sorry.”
“I know,” she says, turning to look at me. “But you could’ve texted or something. You know how Claude can get about these things.”
I do, but it’s not like I did this on purpose. Sometimes we just get caught up in our shit. There are times when I wait for Claudia or Lydia, and it’s never this big of a deal. They’re hanging me out to dry right when I need the two of them the most.
“What’s your problem, Claudia?” I snap. “I’m sorry I hav
en’t been around a lot, okay? We’re all busy.”
“Of course.” Her hands grip the steering wheel. “You hear that, Lydia? She’s been ditching us because she’s busy. Like she’s the only one with shit to do.”
I glance to Lydia for help, but she just stares at her lap. I want to scream, but I settle for pounding the back of Claudia’s seat. She barely flinches.
“What’s wrong with you?” I ask. “I’m trying to talk to you about this.”
“Maybe you could talk to Miles about it. I doubt you’re late when he’s waiting for you.”
“Are you serious?” I want to force her to look at me. “That’s bullshit, Claudia. It’s not about Miles.”
“That’s bullshit,” she says, turning to face me. “We all know it’s about him. All you ever do anymore is talk about him or hang out with him. You don’t call us anymore. You said you were coming to GSA and fucking disappeared. We haven’t had dinner at your house in two weeks, and you haven’t answered any of my texts about scheduling a sleepover. All because you started dating some stupid boy.”
“He’s not stupid.” I hate the way my voice trembles, especially now. Miles doesn’t do anything to her, and she doesn’t deserve to talk shit. “What, are you pissed that I’m dating a boy and not a girl?”
“Simone, come on,” Lydia says, finding her voice. “You know that’s not it.”
“Maybe she doesn’t,” Claudia says, shrugging dramatically. “Maybe she’s so caught up in herself that she thinks she’s somehow oppressed because she’s straight.”
“What if I’m not straight?”
She freezes for a moment. I’m not breathing.
“You can’t just pretend to be queer so that we’ll feel bad for you,” she finally says, mouth turned down in disgust. “Are you fucking serious? You wanna be oppressed so bad that you’re making stuff up?”
“Wait,” Lydia says, holding out a hand. “Claudia, that’s not—”
“Fuck off, Claudia.” My voice is so high that I sound like Christine’s soprano in The Phantom of the Opera. “You never listen to anyone besides yourself. You know what? I am oppressed. I’m black and probably bisexual, but I’ve only had one girlfriend, so I guess it doesn’t matter, right?”
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