I tell myself, this is Shakespeare. You love old poetry. You can do this. And if not, what’s the worst that can happen? No one will die, right?
Of course not, Nat.
And I do okay. Not that I think it’s an Academy Award–winning performance, but I make it through my lines without stumbling and without Mrs. Green having to yell, “Louder!” more than once. I even glance up from the script once or twice to look at Starla while I’m reading and gesture with my hand. I hope I get bonus points for the gesturing.
Starla gets points docked for not spitting her gum out.
Colton grins at me flirtatiously. He is a beautiful boy with short black hair and black as night eyes, rimmed with just a hint of eyeliner. He reads well, too, with a wicked English accent.
“Good job, people,” Mrs. Green says. “Next up, let me see Ferris and Raine.” Raine smiles nervously at me as I pass her in the aisle. “Y’all did great!” she whispers.
“Thanks, good luck!” I tell her as I sit back down next to my brother. I’m so glad it’s over.
“You did great, Colton,” he says, ignoring me.
David reads next, with a few of the little girls I saw hanging out near Lucas. The little divas can act rings around my brother, but he does okay. He sits down on the end of the row next to me, as Mrs. Green calls the next group up.
“Would someone be a dear and go get me a Coke?” Colton pulls a dollar out of his wallet and waves it in the air. “My throat is so dry now.”
“Sure,” my brother says, hopping up. “Put your money away. I got it.”
“My throat’s dry, too,” I say.
David looks at me and rolls his eyes. “All right. Be right back.”
Starla giggles at me when he leaves. “Your brother’s cute.”
Colton is watching David’s . . . ass? Even though he doesn’t say anything, I think that’s a good sign.
I don’t know if I should tell Starla that she’s not David’s type. “Yeah? I suppose.” My brother would make a wonderful gypsy, with his long red curls that he usually keeps pulled back under a Braves cap. He has only the tiniest hint of a goatee. So not the image of your average truck-driving hick. He broke so many girls’ hearts in high school.
A cold draft blows through the theater, as if the air-conditioning has just kicked on.
“Hey,” David says, handing us our Cokes. I would have preferred a Dr Pepper, but I keep quiet.
“Thanks, sweetie,” Colton says. I hope he really does like my brother. I would hate to think I was doing all of this for no reason.
David and Colton begin chatting like long-lost friends, and since Raine and Starla have their heads together, plotting to take over the world for all I know, I try to watch what’s going on up on the stage. But my mind must be bored.
It starts working in overdrive.
Those kids up on stage are really good. I don’t think my audition was that strong, after all. The girl with the black ponytail uses an English accent and seems to be perfectly comfortable with iambic pentameter. The guy reading for Bottom actually juggles.
I can’t compete with a juggler.
And I’m nowhere near as cute as the little five-year-olds. Maybe I should have worn fairy wings today.
I let out a breath and see Raine and Starla glance back at me.
They’re whispering about my sucktastic audition.
My heart starts getting wound up, and my hands begin to sweat. Oh no. I’m overcome with a sudden sense of impending doom and must escape. Somewhere in the back of my brain, I think I know I’m having a panic attack, but the rest of my brain is in FLEE FOR YOUR LIFE mode. I stand up, grabbing David by the shoulder.
“Be back in a minute,” I mutter, before climbing out into the aisle.
“ ’Kay.” He doesn’t even look up at me. He doesn’t care anymore. He probably wants me to leave him and Colton alone anyway.
I try not to stumble as I walk up the aisle toward the exit. Everyone is watching me. I can feel their stares on me. Ugh.
I open the doors as quietly as possible, but light from the foyer still floods the darkened auditorium. Draw even more attention to yourself, Nat.
The women’s bathroom off the foyer has a sign on the door: UNDER CONSTRUCTION, PARDON OUR MESS! I’m not about to use the men’s room, so I head toward the backstage area, hunting for the dressing rooms.
It’s quiet back here. All the lights are off, so I move slowly with my phone out for a little bit of light.
It’s actually too quiet. My ears begin to buzz. I feel relief when I see the women’s dressing room door and push it open, making a slight squeak.
There are several toilet stalls and even two shower stalls back here. Good to know, I guess. I’m not in any hurry to get back to that crowd, but I would hate for David to say something smart-ass about me falling in.
I head back through the dark backstage area and see the back row of curtains move. The area grows chilly around me, and in the dim light I think I see a person standing there looking at me.
I don’t know if it’s someone auditioning or someone working here at the theater. “Sorry!” I say. “Just had to use the bathroom!”
The person doesn’t say anything and I hurry past, anxious now to be back in my seat next to my brother.
I turn around just as I open the door to the hallway, but the person in the shadows is gone.
* * *
At the end of tryouts, Mrs. Green announces that she’ll be making final decisions within the next two days. Practice will be from five to eight, Monday through Friday, with set building on the weekends. The performance will be in four weeks.
I feel a nervous little jiggle in my stomach. What am I doing here? Performances? In front of people? I lean over and whisper to David, “Maybe this isn’t such a hot idea.” I could be spending my summer at the beach instead of stuck in this moldy old theater.
“Don’t give up now, or I’ll have to tell Mom and Dad about the bonfire with Caleb.”
I hate my brother.
As we stand up to leave, I tug on David’s arm. “Look up there on the stage. Do you see the curtains moving? There was someone back there when I went looking for the bathroom.”
“Where?” David asks.
“The curtains in the back. See how they’re swaying?”
David takes a look on stage and frowns. “What are you talking about?”
“You don’t see the curtains moving up there?”
He stares at the stage again. Then looks back at me. “Oh Nat.” My brother sighs heavily, and glances around to see if anyone else is nearby, listening. “Not again.”
CHAPTER 3
I look at my brother and get a sick feeling in my stomach. My gaze swings from his sad face back up to the stage. To the movement in the curtains my brother can’t see. Crap. Why did I say anything?
David has his hand on my shoulder. “It’s okay, Nat. Did you—”
“Of course I took my meds!” I whisper. No one is paying attention to us, though. Starla is playing with Colton’s phone, listening to his music with earbuds in. Raine is talking with Mrs. Green up on stage.
“All right. Maybe I just didn’t look fast enough.”
“Whatever. Can we go home?” I don’t want to be here anymore. It must be the stress from auditioning. If I was hallucinating about the curtains, maybe the person backstage wasn’t real, either.
“Colton asked if we wanted to stop at the sushi place down the street. I know you like their soup.”
I sigh. I really don’t feel like hanging out with strangers right now. Getting to know new people and trying to keep them from learning you’re a freak is exhausting. “Why don’t you go without me? You’d probably make a better impression solo.”
David looks concerned. “No, if you want to go home, I’ll take you home. We’ll tell them you have a migraine or something.”
And he lies so beautifully, I think he’ll make a wonderful Shakespearean actor. I manage a feeble smile at Starla whe
n she and Raine tell me they hope I feel better soon.
Colton pouts. “We’ll miss you two.” But he’s looking at David when he says this.
“See, I’m helping you play hard-to-get,” I tell my brother, when we are in the truck driving back to Grandma’s.
He grins. “I already got his phone number.”
“David!”
“But I want to hear more about you. Did you meet any hot boys in the psych unit last month?”
I roll my eyes. And the image of Lucas in the theater flashes before my eyes. He is so not my type.
“Who’s not your type?”
Crap. Was I talking out loud? “Um, there was a boy at Winter Oaks that I saw at the theater today. But really, he’s not my type.”
David glances over at me, his pierced eyebrow cocked up. “Sis, the last boy you dated went to jail for dealing drugs. Before that, the other one slept with half of your class. While the two of you were going out. Maybe you need a new type.”
I shake my head. “I don’t think hooking up with a fellow psych patient is a smart idea.”
“Probably not.” He shrugs. “But tell me about this crazy but hot boy you met.”
I love my brother to death. “I don’t really know much about him. He was at Winter Oaks for a suicide attempt, I think, though he kept telling the counselors it was an accident. Obviously they didn’t believe him, or he wouldn’t have been there, right?”
“Hmm. Cute?”
“You’d think he was.” Lucas has floppy blond hair that usually hangs over his face. When it’s not hiding under a baseball cap. “Dresses like he belongs on the CW.”
David’s second “Hmmm” goes up an octave.
“Oh, but he definitely doesn’t swing for your team. I just remembered the reason he tried to kill himself was because of his girlfriend dumping him. So he’s not the boy for you, and definitely not for me. Don’t need someone that hung up on an ex.”
“But you just said he claimed he didn’t try to kill himself.”
“He overdosed on pills and alcohol.”
“Did he leave a note?”
I shrug. I guess I shouldn’t make any judgments when I’ve never held a conversation with Lucas before. But as I don’t have any plans to have any deep conversations with him at the theater, it doesn’t matter. And really, I don’t think he’s cute.
Much.
“Hmmm,” David says again. And I realize I’ve just spoken my thoughts out loud. Again.
My brother pulls up in front of Grandma’s house. That’s one thing we miss about our house in Athens. The driveway and the garage. David has to parallel-park between Mom’s Accord, Dad’s F10, and Grandma’s dead Jetta. She said I’m welcome to drive it if I can get it to run.
I’m thrilled at the idea, but Dad says it will probably take a lot of money. I should have gotten a job this summer instead of volunteering to hang out at the theater for free.
“I’m going back to the dorm, Hippie. Tell Mom I’ll probably be back over with my laundry tonight or tomorrow, okay?”
“Sure. But you might want to know she was planning to make tuna casserole for supper tonight.”
He makes a face. “Right, tomorrow it is. Thanks for the warning.”
I roll my eyes as I hop down out of his truck. “Later, Hick.”
* * *
I head straight to the kitchen and pull my pill organizer out of the cupboard. Did I take my meds today? The kitchen timer goes off and Mom comes in to check on something in the oven. “Hey, sweetie. How were tryouts?”
A warm, citrusy scent fills the kitchen as she opens the oven door. Heavenly.
“I auditioned for a part,” I say. Today’s square is empty. I must have taken my pill after all.
“I’m so proud of you! Want to try one of these as soon as they cool? It’s a new recipe. Blackberry and lemon.”
“They smell good,” I say. “They’re not for a customer?”
She shakes her head. It’s been hard for Mom, leaving her catering business in Athens to move in here with Dad’s mom. She’s saving up money to open a shop downtown, but I know she worries about leaving Grandma here unattended while Dad is at work. In the fall I’ll be going back to school and David is in college. We can’t be home all the time to watch her.
And it’s not like Grandma wanted us here. She’s still suspicious of everyone. Mom and Dad are under too much stress. I’m trying my best not to add to it.
“I shouldn’t have bothered placing that ad in the paper. I’ve only gotten one call from it and that lady wanted one cupcake for her boyfriend.”
“Wow. Eventually the people of Savannah will realize how lucky they are that you moved here,” I say. It burns my fingers, but I grab a cupcake anyway and break it apart. Blackberry-and-lemon-scented steam hits my face.
“It smells like crap in here,” Grandma says, shuffling into the kitchen. “What are you burning?”
I turn the cupcake over. “It’s not burnt. It’s perfect. Want one?” But I see Mom’s already moving toward the garbage with the rest of the cupcakes. “No! They’re fine!”
I sigh as the rest of the cupcakes hit the garbage can. I want to yell at Grandma for hurting Mom’s feelings. But we promised Dad we wouldn’t agitate her. Nobody knows what will set her off, and we really don’t want the cops to come back out again. I thought Dad would die of embarrassment. Even if he doesn’t know our neighbors yet.
I look at Mom, but she won’t look at me. She’s ignoring both of us right now as she cleans up the kitchen.
“I need someone to go to the store for me,” Grandma says. “I’m out of coffee.”
“There are two different bags up here in the pantry,” Mom says.
“Those are the wrong kind.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“I can taste the arsenic in it. I know the doctors tampered with it.”
Mom looks at me, and I swear I’ve never seen her so sad. So old. “Judith, this bag came from the grocery store,” she says patiently. “I don’t think they’re allowed to sell arsenic-laced coffee. How about if I make each of us a cup?”
Grandma snorts. “I think I’ll just do without.” She turns and shuffles back to her bedroom.
Mom sighs, and I don’t know if she’s relieved or just exhausted. Every day it’s another little battle. Grandma thinks we invaded her house because we are working for the government. And she says the government knows she’s not taking her meds anymore. She stopped taking them when Grandpa died six months ago.
Dad hasn’t had time to properly grieve for his father, since he’s been too worried about Grandma. And then I had to go and have my episode after the night of the bonfire. I never meant to add to my parents’ stress. I’m trying really hard to stay okay so no one has to worry about me.
Besides, watching how Grandma behaves off her meds makes me certain I never want to miss a pill again.
“The cupcake was great, Mom.” I cross the kitchen to hug her.
“Thanks, Nat.” She holds me half a second longer than I hold her. “How about if we skip the tuna casserole tonight and order pizza?”
I grin. We don’t have to let David know he’s missing pizza. “Sounds good.”
She orders from her phone and starts to clean up the baking pans.
When the doorbell rings, Grandma grabs me. Her fingers clutch my arm painfully. “Don’t open it! They’ll go away if we’re quiet!”
“Grandma, no. It’s the pizza guy. He has our pizza.”
Her eyes are wild as she stares at me. “You don’t know that. It’s not safe out there.”
“It’s okay.”
“Little girl, you’re working with them, aren’t you?” She backs away from me.
“No, but if you go hide in the kitchen I’ll get rid of him.”
Grandma narrows her wild eyes at me. She barely knows me right now. And she has a hard time trusting me. “Why don’t you come in the kitchen with me?”
“Because I have to get the piz
za. I’ll be careful.”
“Judith, come in the kitchen with me,” my mother says, standing in the doorway. “I want you to tell me if this coffee is okay.”
“I already told you it was poisoned.”
“I found another bag. In the back of the pantry. Come take a look.”
Mom hands me her wallet as Grandma goes to the kitchen. “Tip him extra for waiting, okay?”
I nod. As soon as Grandma is safely distracted, I open the front door. The doorbell has rung three times now. A very pissed-off boy stands on the front porch step with our pizza.
Lucas.
“I’m so sorry. We were upstairs,” I start to explain.
“Whatever. I could hear you guys. Twenty-four, eighty-two.”
I hand him two twenty-dollar bills. “Mom said keep the change. And sorry again.”
He’s still doing a pretty good job of pretending he doesn’t know who I am. Or that I know who he is.
But the hefty tip perks him up. “Thanks, Natalie. Enjoy your pizza.”
I’m startled by the fact that he remembers my name. “You’re welcome,” I say. But he’s already heading back to his car, an old silver Cherokee.
He gets in and drives off without another glance.
Lucas Grant, international man of mystery. Or maybe not so international. Local man of mystery?
I take the pizza inside and set it down on the kitchen counter. Grandma has decided that the coffee is safer to drink than the soda in the fridge, so she’s sitting at the kitchen table with a mug. Mom is setting out plates and napkins for us. “I got half with mushrooms for Nat and me and the other half without, Judith,” Mom tells her.
“Good. I hate mushrooms.”
“I know,” Mom says patiently.
“Your father used to hate them, too,” Grandma tells me. “Used to think they looked like dead frogs on his pizza.”
“Ew,” I say, picking one off my side of the pizza and looking at it before popping it in my mouth. “Ouch, hot!”
“Frog burn your tongue?” Mom asks, grinning. She grabs a slice without mushrooms and hands the plate to Grandma.