And that was true. Desiree was the parent you brought your first speeding ticket to, the one you sought out at the mall when you wanted the credit card for something you didn’t really need.
“This guy,” said Tracy. “I don’t want to marry him. I don’t want to be with him forever. Hell, I might not even see him again after tonight. His family’s just renting a place down here for the weekend. But I like him.”
“That’s fine,” said Desiree. “Like him all you want. But from a distance. Pining’s good for the soul. Getting pregnant at 18, not so much.”
Tracy stood and stomped over to the other side of the room, aware, even as she stomped, of how childlike this response was, aware of how much this would just calcify Desiree’s stance that she was too young. Aware, but too pissed off to care.
“Tracy,” said Desiree. “Do you think you’re on some kind of timeline here? Because you’re not. You can… Waiting isn’t… You…”
As Desiree trailed off, Tracy wanted to turn and see what clues the look on her face might give, but she also felt certain that now was the time to stand her ground.
“Your Uncle Michael was right,” said Desiree. “There is definitely something weird in the air tonight.”
“You know what?” said Tracy, giving in and turning, unable to bear the sound of that asshole’s name without some kind of a response. “You know what?” she said. “Fuck Michael.”
“Whoa,” said Desiree, standing. “Hold on. That’s your uncle you’re talking about. He’s the closest thing you have to a—”
“He is not my uncle. And he most certainly is not my father.”
“Tracy,” said Desiree, “where is all this coming from?”
Tracy thrust her hand toward the door, toward the props table just beyond it. “The boot,” she said. “The goddamned boot!”
“The play?” said Desiree, looking confused.
“It’s like he’s wearing it one moment and then not wearing it the next.”
“Okay,” said Desiree, “now I’m lost.”
“It’s a metaphor,” said Tracy. “The boot represents everything our family’s struggled with for over a hundred and fifty years. It’s the call to adventure, to danger, to frivolity, to the sea from whence we came. And you can either wear it or not wear it. You can’t do both. But Michael? He wants to do both. And, maybe you can for a while. But you can’t forever. Eventually, you’ve got to take it off or keep it on. Eventually, you’ve got to choose!”
“Okay,” said Desiree. “Slow down.”
“No,” said Tracy. “I’m not slowing down. Not yet. It’s my turn to wear it. And I’m going to wear the shit out of that boot until there’s nothing left.”
And with that, with nothing left to say, Tracy pushed past her stepmother and made for the stairs, for adventure and danger and frivolity, yes, but also for all of the other things that were waiting for her, the things she did not know and could not yet name.
19
Dudes Lining Up Cause They Hear You Got Swagger
They crept in through the side door a few hours later, Tracy and her two best friends in the world. Tana came first, buxom as Brünnhilde, with a voice to match, only the missing valkyrie’s helmet keeping her from looking the spitting image of that archetypal fat lady. Then came Tori, a lean and sinewy Odette, a self-described ugly duckling that, now that she had the love of Tana, felt like the swan she dreamed of dancing on stage.
“So,” said Tana, “where did whatshisname—”
“Tucker,” said Tori.
“Where did Tucker run off to?”
It had all been going so well, from the moment he had pulled his parents’ SUV into Tana’s driveway to the moment, on their way back from Provincetown, when Tori had volunteered to take the wheel so that Tucker and Tracy could sit in the back. And then it had been going even better, in that backseat, as they drove home down Route 6, as they rolled by Tracy’s house with the lights out and the car in neutral and parked down at Red River Beach. It had all been going so well, until:
“He forgot the condom,” said Tracy.
“Oh my God,” said Tana. “Seriously, you cannot do this.”
“He went to go get it,” said Tori. “It’s not like she was going to—”
“No,” said Tana. “She can’t do it at all. If he’s too dim to remember the condom—”
Tracy groaned, exasperated. “Has it occurred to you I picked him because he’s dim?”
Tana sank into the center-stage chair, rolling her eyes. Tori still stood, dumbfounded. “Oh, Trace,” she said, “that’s not why, is it?”
“You’re the smartest kid in our class,” said Tana, “an amazing writer, and a sexy-ass bitch to boot. You deserve better than insert tab A into slot B.”
Tracy sat on the coffee table, leveling with this girl she’d known since the move down the Cape all those years ago. “Yeah,” she said, “well, if I don’t start with tab A, I’m never going to get to X, Y, or Z now, am I?”
Tori asked, “Did you really pick him because he’s dumb?”
“I picked him,” said Tracy, “because he’s here. And because he’s not from here. Because he saw the sexy-ass bitch before the virtuous valedictorian.”
Tana reached for Tracy’s knee and squeezed. “Give someone some time and they’d see the sexy, too.”
Tori sat behind Tracy on the table and wrapped her arms around her friend. “I mean,” she said, “I understand where you’re coming from, but—”
“Wait,” said Tana. “How do you understand where she’s coming from?”
“What I meant was—”
“We’ve been sleeping together,” said Tana, “since the sixth grade.”
“We were not ‘sleeping together’ back then,” said Tori. “We were just sleeping together.”
“Oh my god,” said Tana. “Speaking of dim.”
“Guys!” said Tracy. “Tucker and I is going to happen. Please get over it.”
“Okay,” said Tana, “fine. Your funeral. But where?”
“Where?” said Tracy.
“I believe,” said Tori, “she wants to know which floor of the theater you’ll be using, so that she and I can abscond to the other.”
Tana smiled. “That would be correct.”
“Of course,” said Tori, leaning in closer to Tracy and whispering conspiratorially to her, “she’s assuming I’m still going to give it up after she called me dim.”
“But baby,” said Tana, “your naïveté is one of the reasons I love you.”
Tracy gave Tori’s arms a squeeze and extricated herself from her friend’s embrace. “We’ll be down here,” she said, standing.
“So,” said Tana, “we can have the attic, with all the props and set pieces?”
“As long as you mind where you place those props,” said Tracy. “You don’t know where they’ve been.”
Tana stood, extended a hand to Tori, and then dragged her off toward the stairs, the two of them pausing only long enough to each give Tracy a peck on the cheek, a silent wish of good luck. And then, then she was alone.
She was about to tidy up when she realized that all the tidying was done. So she paced instead, the sound of heels clicking against the floorboards keeping her company. It was such a strange sound, so disconnected from her understanding of herself. Tracy Silver didn’t wear heels, especially heels that went click and clack. But, then again, she didn’t wear jeans this tight either, or sweaters that showed off bare shoulders. And she didn’t bite her nails, Ms. Tracy Silver, but here she was: biting them just the same.
Behind her, the outside door creaked open and the boy’s voice called out, “Got it!”
Tucker was all muscle and hair gel, his body a carefully manufactured machine, his coiffure a calculated mess of brown hair. Only his glasses, square-rimmed and too hip for their own good, did anything to soften him. But that was okay. Tracy wasn’t interested in anything or anyone soft, at least not tonight.
“You sure you didn’t forg
et anything else?” she asked him.
“What else could I possibly forget?”
“I don’t know,” said Tracy. “You could be rocking a King Missle situation over there.”
Tucker squinted. “A what?” he said.
“King Missle,” said Tracy. “They had a song called ‘Detachable P—.’ Never mind.”
Tucker nodded and headed for the chair, running a finger along it. “So,” he said, inspecting his finger, as if for dust, “how was the play tonight?”
“The old man finally nailed his monologue,” said Tracy.
“Which one?” said Tucker. “Doesn’t he spend the whole play giving speeches?”
“The one at the end,” said Tracy, “when he’s strangling her.”
“Oh yeah,” he said, sitting in the chair, then propping his feet up on the table. “That was awesome.”
“Excuse me?” said Tracy. “What is awesome about him choking the life out of the mother of his child?”
Tucker laughed. “But it ain’t his kid; it’s the demon’s. Right?”
“If you believe the demon was real and not a figment of his psychotic imagination.”
Tucker laughed again. “Oh, that demon was real, alright. Did you see the size of his—”
“I did,” said Tracy, cutting him off. “But whatevs. What was so awesome about Silas killing Ada?”
“It was the passion in his eyes,” said Tucker. “The only other time he looked that into something was when he walked in reading Shakespeare.”
Tracy said nothing, not because there was nothing to say, but because he was right and she couldn’t bear to concede the point. Though she supposed she was conceding, just by being silent. And so, maybe—but she cut herself off and went back to listening to him before she could finish the thought.
“That was the scene where I first noticed you,” Tucker was saying, “lurking in the shadows, a death stare on your face. You may have hated him, but you were into it too. There was some part of him you liked, despite yourself.”
Tracy stomped over to him, straddled him, and then pressed her face toward his, ready to kiss him when he said:
“Shit! I just remembered the other thing I forgot.”
“What?” she said.
“My car,” he said. “I forgot to lock it.”
She ran her hands along his shoulders, let a few fingers slip under his neckline. “You’re fine,” she told him. “The hooligans of Harwich are fast asleep by now.”
“It’s my parents’ car,” he said. “I gotta go check. If it got stolen—”
She stood and moved out of his way, then watched him go. “Girls!” she shouted, once he was gone.
There was a rush of footsteps overhead and then Tana and Tori appeared in the doorway once more. Tracy stifled a laugh at the sight of them, and actually had to turn away to hold herself together. Tana was dressed in a devil’s costume, Tori in an angel’s. Tracy cast a glance over each shoulder to see if they were in the right places, then joked:
“I’m having a total Animal House moment here.”
“Animal House?” said Tori, standing off to the left.
Tana chortled, getting it, then said, “Fuck him. Fuck his brains out. Suck his dick. Squeeze his buns. You know he wants it.”
Tori said, “I thought I was the one advocating for this hook up.”
“Animal House, darlin’. I’m just playing the part I’m dressed for,” said Tana.
“I thought you guys were headed for the attic,” said Tracy.
“We were,” said Tori, “but when we passed the costume racks on the second floor, Miss Thing couldn’t resist.”
“Cosplay pushes my buttons,” said Tana. “Sue me! We’re in a theater.”
Tracy sighed. “What am I going to do?” she said, as she turned to face them.
“Do?” said Tana. “You’re going to do him. You wanted adventure. He’ll give you a good ride, at the very least.”
Tori rolled her eyes. “How can you tell?”
“He’s an idiot,” said Tana. “He can’t carry on a conversation about anything other than sportsball. So, he’s got to be good at something. Right?”
“Right,” said Tracy, nodding as if she were sure.
The outside door creaked open again and Tucker crept back in. He looked as if he were about to say something, then paused and simply smiled at the sight before him.
“We’ll be up in the attic,” said Tori. “First and second floor are all yours.”
The girls slipped upstairs while Tucker drew ever closer.
“So,” he said, “what’s it going to be? The halo or the horns?”
Tracy put a finger to his lips to shush him. “Please stop talking,” she said, taking his hand in her own, “before I change my mind.”
And, because he was obedient, because he wanted his bone, so to speak, he didn’t say another word. Not one, not until she begged him to say her name and he said it.
Again and again.
20
Not Living Up to What He’s Supposed to Be
They slept on the ratty taupe loveseat that was tucked into the alcove beside the lighting booth. Many a technician had napped here during tech week and many an actor had fucked here during cast parties (or at least those were the stories she’d heard). But this was the first time Tracy had been on this couch in years, and she didn’t understand how anyone could even sit on the collapsing old thing, let alone perform some other more vigorous act. It was true that they, both of them, had slept on it, but only Tucker was still asleep. Tracy’s rest had been fitful at best.
But maybe it wasn’t even the love seat’s fault. Maybe it was the fact that his chest, so pleasing in its hardness when looked upon, didn’t make a great pillow. Or maybe it was the layer of sweat between them that kept drying then coming back, drying then coming back. Or the ache between her legs. Or the place where her groin clung to his hip, all sticky, as if her labia didn’t want to let go. Was that her, the stickiness? It must’ve been, right? Because the condom had worked; she’d seen how he’d filled it. Whatever substance it was that glued them together, she had made it.
But what did that mean? That she wanted him again? Because she didn’t. She knew that now. She didn’t regret the one time. No, no, that had been fun, if a bit awkward, if a bit painful. But she didn’t want to do it again. She was glad he’d only brought one condom, despite the gentle kiss she’d given him when, after they were done, he lamented his decision not to bring more.
Tracy crawled out from under him, the sounds of their bodies parting louder than she’d imagined they’d be, louder than she could stomach. Her tummy turned and she braced herself against the wall, her legs wobbling. But the moment passed and soon she was standing up just fine, searching the floor for her underwear, her bra, her jeans.
She was dressed except for her top when, beyond the curtain that hid the alcove, she heard the outside door open. She tried not to breathe, but that only made every breath sound louder. Tracy heard footsteps headed for the stage as she peeked from behind the curtain to see who it was. But before she could see him, she could hear him.
It was Michael, with headphones on, singing.
Tracy put a hand over Tucker’s mouth and nudged him awake. His eyes shot open in panic, then quickly narrowed as he listened to Tracy’s instructions. He nodded along, looked calm. It was almost as if he’d been through this routine before.
While he dressed, Tracy stepped up into the lighting booth, climbed the ladder that led to the second floor, and peered through the darkness for any sight of the girls. As luck would have it, they were creeping down from the attic at that very moment, back in their street clothes.
“Is someone singing down there?” whispered Tana.
Tracy nodded, put a finger to her lips.
They drew closer.
“You have a plan?” whispered Tori.
Tracy nodded again. “You guys go and wait by the stage-right alcove; Tucker’s over in the stage-left one. Wh
en I give the signal—”
“What signal?” said Tana.
“I’m going to throw on one of the lights to disorient him.” said Tracy. “As soon as you see it, you run. Tucker’s going to do the same.”
They nodded in agreement, then took their places. Tracy ducked out of the booth to give Tucker a thumbs up.
“Will I see you again?” said Tucker.
Tracy shrugged. “It’s a mystery,” she said, quoting from a favorite film, though one he’d probably never seen. She was about to joke with him and say “Places,” but she figured he wouldn’t know what that meant either. So, she simply waved him goodbye and slipped back into the booth.
It was hard to see where Michael was in the darkness, with nary a work light to illuminate him. But then, out of nowhere, the screen of his phone lit up his face. It was perfect. He was standing right beneath the special that was set to illuminate the center-stage chair. Tracy flipped on the lighting board, waited a second to hear the tell-tale hum of the instruments overhead, then threw up the slider for the special.
A harsh circle of bright white light shone down on Michael out of the darkness and he looked up at the sight of it, startled. On cue, Tana and Tori booked it past him. Then Tucker did the same. Michael spun around to see who was racing by, but he was squinting and probably—hopefully—unable to pick out a face from the darkness.
Once her friends were clear, Tracy slid up the work lights, a gentle purple wash filling out the darkness around Michael. She crouched down and threw open the cooler the tech kept back in the booth for drinks, searching for the nip bottle she’d stashed there. It was time. There was no denying that now. Tiny bottle in hand, she found her sweater, put it on, and stepped out toward the stage.
Michael, mug in hand, shook his head at her as she drew closer.
“Isn’t it a little early for your morning cocoa?” she asked him.
“Isn’t it a little late for you to be sneaking around?”
“Touché,” she said.
He set down his mug and began to wrap his headphones around his phone. “I couldn’t sleep,” he said. “What’s your excuse?”
Missing Mr. Wingfield Page 13