by Dahlia Adler
“Like when the whole class fails a quiz?” Cece asked.
“Something like that,” Ollie said. Brushing past the three of us, he moved to sit on one of the new wishing stairs, the king of his little stage. It was the same pose he used to adopt when narrating ghost stories around the fire. “The first week of camp didn’t work. Some people were here to party, some wanted to hike. And to save money, Duke didn’t hire any counselors.”
“Adults are supposed to be in charge of themselves,” Lando said.
“True,” said Ollie. “That means being in charge of hyping themselves up. Getting excited to do the camp stuff. Making bird feeders. Talent night. Playing guitar around the campfire. Capture the flag.” He counted activities on his long fingers. “No one wanted to do everything, so lots of people did nothing.”
“I do not blame them,” I said. “That shit all sucks.”
Cece cocked a hip and crossed her arms. “Rosie. You loved talent night. Remember your one-woman Peter Pan?”
I had been pretty proud of my hand puppets that particular summer. I pretended not to remember them.
“I wouldn’t come back from college in the real world to do it all over again,” I said pointedly.
Oliver’s brow furrowed in offense. “Well, it was your dad who had the great idea to unplug. He bought those phone locks they use so people won’t film concerts anymore. Duke said that anyone who put their phone in a lock sleeve could stay an extra week for free. To soak up the last bit of summer.”
“To avoid going home,” I said. My stomach ached as I imagined my dad feverishly looking for a way to push autumn away. The year of camp restoration had turned him into a shadow person, a ghost whose true self lived in the woods. I sucked my teeth. “So, what? Without your phones you forgot what day it was?”
“I guess they don’t teach you to read the sun anymore,” Lando added, arms folded in judgment. I knew he had a policy of being anti-Ollie, but it still felt nice to have someone on my team.
“No,” Ollie said. “We didn’t forget. It’s just not important. Duke owns the land. There are built-in activities everywhere. We’re hanging out and eating through the freezer. It’s chill.”
“Chill for you,” I spat. “Not for the people you left in the real world. Just because you don’t check doesn’t mean there isn’t news or that people don’t need you!”
My voice broke, and I stared down at the scuffed toes of my hiking boots. Another pair of shoes appeared next to mine. Shoes with loud socks. Lando’s arm wrapped around my shoulder. Hugged to his side, I tilted my face to look up at him.
He ducked his head down so that for one moment, we were temple to temple, his voice a hot hum against my ear.
“Secret crush,” he said simply.
My heart lit up like a lantern.
“Where is Rosie’s dad?” Cece asked.
Ollie stood up and dusted himself off, his ears momentarily blocking the sun. “At the lake. He’s always at the lake.”
* * *
I had expected a small water park. Maybe an inflatable slide or tandem Jet Skis. But instead it was just a lake. Albeit no longer a lake that was also an EPA emergency.
Ollie followed us down the waterfront trail.
“You can’t go to the lake without being properly buddied up,” he said. “It’s not safe.”
“Aren’t there people here your age?” Lando asked him.
His lack of an answer was answer enough.
The lake was greenish and still. Some campers splashed on the far shore, but near us, it was empty. There were canoes, but no one was in one. At the end of the dock, I could see my dad fishing. Alone.
Cece skidded to a stop in the middle of the trail. “Are you sure you don’t want to go see the tree swings first? I bet your dad turned them into hammocks or a carousel or something.”
“No, they’re still tires,” Ollie said. “But there are giant hammocks on the other side of the lake.”
“We could do one more fun thing,” Cece said, clutching my arm. She lowered her voice to a sleepover whisper. “Talking to your dad is going to make you sad. Why not do one more happy thing first?”
“Because I can’t put off being sad,” I whispered back. “I’d rather face it.”
I took one more look at Lando and tried to imagine being the object of his constant crush. It filled me with an uncertain glow that brightened the more I believed in it. I tried to hold that feeling of being so impossibly liked as I walked away.
The dock was an untouched slice of camp, the round logs underfoot familiar.
Dad sat back in his chair. The sleeves of his green shirt were rolled up, exposing the pale hills of his shoulders to the sun.
“Evening out your farmer’s tan?” I asked him.
He squinted up at me. “I thought you said you never wanted to come back here.”
“I thought I’d have more of a choice.”
There was an empty chair next to his. A matching Adirondack with a sharply slanted back and a cup holder built into the armrest. I took it without invitation.
A single yellow leaf spun on the green, glass surface of the lake, rippled along by a soft breeze. The horizon was misty white. Silence stretched between us, hammered thin with unsaid apologies and explanations.
“Last day of summer,” I told him.
“Last day of summer,” he agreed. He looked over at me with liquid eyes so like my own. “I’m glad you’re here to see it, Rosalinda.”
“Rosie,” I said, stealing a glance at my camp friends over my shoulder. “At camp, my name is Rosie.”
SOME OTHER METAL
Inspired by Much Ado About Nothing
A. R. Capetta and Cory McCarthy
Leonato: Well, niece, I hope to see you one day fitted with a husband.
Beatrice: Not till God make men of some other metal than earth.
—ACT 2, SCENE 1
“Strike up, pipers!” Benedick bellowed, taking Beatrice’s hand and starting a riotous, streaming dance across the stage and down into the pit of delighted, drunken groundlings.
The performance was a success for certain, The Globe on fire this night, and even though both leads of this particular play had railed against the typecasting, the Ods Bodkins were on their way to becoming the best Shakespearean troupe in the damn galaxy.
Beatrice made her infamous move of twirling Benedick out of the dance and into an embrace that landed his face in her glorious cleavage. There he placed as many kisses as the cheers demanded before spinning them both back onto the stage and behind it, where the crowd’s enthusiasm blurred to raucous white noise. The actors snapped out of their roles: no longer Beatrice and Benedick but Tegan and Taron.
Tegan let go of Taron’s hand with a vengeance. “Why are your palms always so sweaty?”
“Stage lights and leather pants,” Taron returned. “What’s your excuse? My lips are all salty from your…” He motioned to their healthily exposed bosom, thoughts steaming. “You’re hardly wearing clothes.”
“Come to think of it, I am warm.” Tegan hauled their muslin dress off the shoulder it still clung to, revealing at least 60 percent more breasts. “There. That’s better.”
“I’ God’s name; I have done!” Taron hollered, shielding his eyes with one hand and turning to his side backstage, where he wouldn’t be bothered by the most unfortunate costar of his promising young career.
Taron whipped open the reclaimed, old oak door to his dressing room, stepping into a small box of pristine stainless steel, which he’d buffed and polished to act as mirrors from every angle. Out the small porthole, the gigantic gas planet of New Vegas—famous for a highly debauched colony and the occasional diamond rain—filled the view with orange and teal stripes. Taron preferred a view of the stars, but then, this had not been a season of Taron getting what he wanted.
He stripped away his costume down to his sweaty boxers, filled the small sink, and stuck his head all the way into the icy water, banishing thoughts, washing away
Tegan’s soft touches and hard kisses and lines delivered so close to his lips. And not just from this night but the long and many months of this play’s season.
When someone pulled him up by one shoulder, he didn’t need to peel his eyes to know Hazem’s hand. “I come to launch the merriment of our wrapped show and find you drowning your sorrows. You do know that’s meant to be done with alcohol.”
“As I don’t drink, I must do it the old-fashioned way.”
“I believe alcohol is the old-fashioned way,” Hazem countered.
“Call me new-fashioned, then.”
“Never.” Hazem grinned and tossed a hand towel at Taron’s dripping face. His good friend used the polished steel to examine his going-out look. Shirtless with gold suspenders, Hazem was advertising his lean, brown body this evening, still wearing his Don John eyeliner and knee-high boots. “You know I play each villain with glee, but the ‘bastard brother’ with a bizarrely anglicized name might be the lowest of the Bard’s baddies. I spent nearly six months stomping the stage, indicating evilness until my eyebrows hurt. Evil eyebrows are a thing, did you know?”
“Do you honestly want to compare short straws?” Taron asked. “I had my literal breath cut off by Tegan’s…”
“Glorious bosom?”
Taron flipped twin middle fingers. “Yes, do torture the demisexual mouse with your sex kitten persona. This game never gets old.”
Hazem lifted Taron to his feet by both shoulders and kissed him on the cheek. “You know I jest from a place of deep love and a complete lack of understanding.” His comfort turned wicked. “Plus, I, too, have lost my breath in Tegan’s great asset. I wouldn’t dare complain about it, though.”
They struck up a mutual slapping spree that ended with Taron in a headlock beneath Hazem’s muscular, bare arm.
“I yield!” Taron yelled, and Hazem released him.
“Come, get dressed. Let us move from pity party to cast party.”
“What do you think I’m trying to do?” Taron pulled on a baggy sweater and the pants with the stylish rips up the leg.
Hazem frowned at the aesthetic. “After having spent so much time and energy on your chest, I’d think you’d show it off a little. You’re healed now?”
Taron lifted the neck of his sweater and looked down. “It is a lovely chest. Next time, maybe. I’m always a mess of nerves after this damned play.”
Hazem shook his head in disappointment. “We sold out the house, brother. As in, we’re all getting paid this week, and you’ll never have to play Benedick to their Beatrice again. Let us have an end to the punishment we all deserved from the moment we first conceived of slamming you two together.”
“Don’t fool yourself, Haz. We knew all along what mischief the company was doing, setting us up like that.”
Hazem stopped perfecting the coif of his dark, curly hair, staring instead at Taron’s reflection in the riveted steel wall. “You knew?”
“Of course we did! You used our—let’s just say ‘merry war’—for the profit of this troupe. You and Icon and the rest knew you’d get nothing short of our rich disdain, and that is the check we will be cashing tonight.” Hazem gusted a sigh of relief, and Taron washed with suspicion. “That’s not what you thought I’d say.”
Hazem held up his palms, eyes closed. “We also thought that … mayhaps … you two might spark, like your roles.” Taron’s mouth fell open, and his friend pushed on, seemingly unaware that something fiery—and pissed—had indeed sparked in Taron. “We’ve learned our lesson. You two are as incompatible as oil and, well, a different type of oil.”
Taron had lost all words, which was rare indeed. His brain was stuck on two separate hooks. The first was his friend’s and their company’s most sincere betrayal. The second was much more Tegan-based, which always sharpened his thoughts to the point of puncture.
“You’re not mad,” Hazem tried. “Say you’re not.”
“Mad is too few letters for my current feeling. Get out.”
“Taron, curb your dramatic instincts for a moment. Nothing is damaged! You were an incandescent star these last months, and Tegan got to shout endlessly onstage, eyes fixed upon you, which we all appreciated. Their attentiveness can zap a person straight through and has done to so many of us, if you know what I mean.”
Taron did. That was at least part of the problem.
And now if Hazem wouldn’t leave, Taron would have to. He stormed out of his own dressing room, right into the rest of the company who’d merged the better elements of their costumes with clubbing clothes to take the shuttle down to New Vegas.
Iconoclast hooked Taron’s elbow with hers, preventing him from going farther. “It’s time to get our revelry on at your daddy’s grand estate! Where are you huffing off to?”
“To spread news of your endless injustice,” Taron hissed, flinging her off his arm.
The rest of the company quieted, laughter barely held in check by a series of quirked mouths. Icon turned on Hazem. “Oh, lords, did you tell him?”
“He guessed! Or maybe I cracked.”
“Where is Tegan?” Taron snapped, avoiding the multitude of dubious faces. The Ods Bodkins were a motley and many-talented family, all part-owners of The Globe, the mighty ship they’d outfitted with a replica of Shakespeare’s long-lost theatre, and like true family, he suddenly couldn’t stand a single one of them.
Icon pointed to Tegan’s dressing room, and Taron stomped onward, avoiding Hazem undoubtedly recapping this particular cat’s escape from the bag.
Taron banged a fist on Tegan’s door. “Open up, harlot!”
Tegan flung the door ajar, blocking the entrance. “Call me one more womanly slur, even one Uncle Will penned himself, and I will destroy you and the antiquated gender binary you rode in on.”
“Harlots can be any and all genders. Now, we need to talk.” Taron slipped inside their dressing room and shut the door, glancing at the familiar space that had been set up so differently from his own. The stainless-steel walls and floor were hidden beneath velvety curtains, tapestries, and small, brightly patched rugs. The long, soft curls of the Beatrice wig had been flung onto a rack, making Tegan’s shaved head stand out. Gorgeously round and impossibly hard.
“I’ve discovered they set us up to be Benedick and Beatrice. We’ve been their toys.”
“Of course,” Tegan said, popping in the sparkly nose piercing stud that they wore whenever they weren’t acting. Next they sat down to lace up the massive boots that had stamped a few overly aggressive suitors into fine powder. “The best actors in the galaxy couldn’t conjure this amount of vivid tension. We’re natural enemies.”
“You misunderstand me. They set us up … to live out the story of Benedick and Beatrice. To fall for one another or some such nonsense. Hazem admitted it moments ago.”
Tegan stood, now as tall as Taron, and got very close to his nose. “They were playing matchmaker with our roles? That’s too meta, even for them. Besides, they failed spectacularly. I loathe you more now than when I played Horatio to your whiny-ass Hamlet.”
“I was not whiny!”
“Thou doth protest so much,” they said with a haughty laugh that cut off abruptly. “Plus, it’s a direct quote from one of our reviews.”
“I’ll have you know—”
Tegan slapped a hand over Taron’s mouth. “Before we banter into oblivion, if what you say is true, we need a revenge plan. Our so-called friends must be punished.” They lowered their hand.
“Agreed,” Taron said. “Which must be a first.”
Tegan nodded once and began to scheme. Truly, scheming should have been in the Special Skills section of their acting resume, along with scansion, fight training, and speaking four interplanetary languages. “Now, what is the best rebuke for this foul act?” they asked.
Taron looked around the little room with skittish eyes as if the worst punishment imaginable might be hiding under one of Tegan’s wildly flung dressing robes.
“Isn’t
the answer obvious?” they asked with a put-upon sigh. “We let them believe we are in a mountain of affection. Let their special hell be the one where they get exactly what they asked for. A couple.” They booped Taron’s nose with their finger. “The worst, most obnoxiously in love couple The Globe has ever seen.”
“Why couldn’t you just ask me to kill Claudio?” he muttered. “That would be easier.”
“It would be easier to run Marius through with a rapier than pretend to be my boyfriend for a single night?”
“I should think you’d thank me,” he said. “Marius is a jerk of the highest order.”
“Oh, look, we agree on two whole things. Don’t get cocky and try for a third.” Of course, Tegan hadn’t always disliked the company member who’d nightly overacted the role of Claudio. Post-breakup, it did help that Tegan’s character hated Marius’s so much in Much Ado. It gave Tegan an excuse for all of the eye-daggers they needed to fling at him. “Now do you want to punish the wayward Bodkins or not?”
Taron stood to his full height and inhaled, breath control so obvious that Tegan wanted to kill this soliloquy before it started. “I will create a tempest of flirtation. I will love you with such sloppy, unstoppable passion that—”
“Stop.” Tegan let their not-quite-impressed face settle. “This might be too hard. I mean, it’s acting, which is not exactly your strong suit.”
“It is my only suit,” Taron said with pride and affliction.
“Right, speaking of which, you need to change.”
“If I change in order to woo you, no one will believe it,” Taron tossed back. “If this ruse has any chance of working, I must be myself.”
“I meant changing your questionable sweater, not your equally questionable personality.”
Taron smirked. A most pernicious smirk. “I’m not sure I have anything tawdry enough. Do you still prefer stringy tank tops and hot pants? Or are you on to something more subtle, like invisible shirts and mood-changing underwear? I hear they are the rage in the Tanaka System.”
Tegan rifled through a rack of outfits. “Stop talking and take off your clothes.”