“Please don’t kill her. I still need her to finish Benedick’s costume for the masquerade scene.”
“As you wish,” Valerie said with a deep sigh. “I’ve got to get back to my mark. I hear the assistant director is a positive witch if the actors don’t do as they’re told.” She winked at me. “You’re a natural, by the way.”
“Thanks. I think I might like this directing gig.”
“I meant at being a witch.” Valerie danced out of my reach before I could whack her with my clipboard.
“I hate you so much it hurts,” I called after her instead.
“I love you too,” she sang back and blew me a kiss over her shoulder.
Grinning, I pulled the headset down to my mouth. “Okay, people, let’s see how we do with Act One, Scene One. Action!”
I settled down in the front row to watch the play unfold.
Scott the Messenger stepped on stage and handed Leonato the letter.
“I learn in this letter that Don Pedro of Arragon comes this night to Messina,” Leonato declared, brandishing the envelope like a flag.
I sighed and wrote a note on my clipboard for after rehearsal: Remind Leonato to open the letter before announcing what’s inside.
~
“Okay, everyone, take five,” I said, gathering up my clipboard, notes, and headset. “So far so good, but I’d like to see Scene One again after the break.”
I heard groans from the cast and smiled a little to myself.
Most of the cast pushed through the backstage doors, no doubt in search of cold water, fresh air, and some free time to check e-mail and text messages. A few cast members simply collapsed in the auditorium seats behind me. I saw Valerie corner Amanda and demand a looser corset. Amanda waved her hands in surrender and started rummaging in her sewing kit for a pair of scissors. I shook my head. Valerie always got her way; she was a daunting person to cross. It was the main reason I had been reluctant to tell her about my plans for Emery.
“Hey,” Jason called softly. I turned to see him squatting on his haunches at the edge of the stage, his large hands resting on his knees. His eyes were in shadow, but the stage lights lined his hair with white fire. His shirt was open at the throat and I saw the glitter of sweat on his skin. I caught my breath at the sight of him. He looked like something primeval, something elemental. And he’s my boyfriend, I thought with a secret thrill.
A smile curved his lips. “C’mere,” he said, crooking a finger in my direction.
I set down my clipboard and headset. I pulled free the elastic that held my hair back and ran my fingers through my dark curls. I knew Jason liked my hair loose. He said when I wore it up, it made my face look pinched and stern. That was Jason, though—honest to a fault.
I sauntered over to the stage, leaned my elbows on the edge, and looked up at him, raising an eyebrow. “Are you sure we should be fraternizing like this? I mean . . . I am the assistant director, after all. And you’re the”—I wrinkled my nose in mock disgust—“stage crew.”
Now that I was closer I could see the stage lights reflected in his hazel eyes. He blinked in surprise. “I thought you liked it that I was on the stage crew.”
I swallowed a sigh. That was Jason, too—impossible to tease. “I do. I was just kidding around.”
“Oh,” he said, standing up. “Anyway, I wanted to show you something. Do you have a minute?”
“For you? Absolutely.” I reached up a hand and he bent down to pull me up on stage. “What is it?”
“It’s back here.” Jason kept hold of my hand as he led me backstage.
His hand was warm and slightly damp with sweat. His leather work gloves were tucked into the back pocket of his jeans. I suddenly felt a surge of irrational affection for those gloves. They looked like they had never been worn, but I knew that was just because Jason took such good care of them. The same way he took such good care of me.
I squeezed his hand, and when he looked back to smile at me, I felt a tingle of joy race along every nerve.
“Here.” Jason pushed back a black curtain to reveal the porch he had been working on during rehearsal. “Do you like it?” he whispered, though we were alone in the half-lit area.
Leonato’s house was the main set piece. The shop teacher, Mr. Frantz, had designed it to break into pieces and rotate so it could be used for both the interior and exterior scenes of the play. A partially finished porch ran along the entire front of the house, which had a simple roof of slanted slats in parallel rows. The design called for grapevines to be woven through the slats above the porch in honor of the play’s Italian setting, but, until opening night, they would remain bare.
“Wow. I didn’t think you guys were this far along. It looks great, Jas,” I said.
“I wanted to show you this.” Jason led me onto the porch. He pulled out a small flashlight from his tool belt and directed the white beam to a narrow corner of the wall.
I caught my breath. Carved into the wood a small butterfly floated next to the initials “AE.” Reaching out, I traced the curved lines of the delicate wings. “Oh, it’s beautiful.”
“I know you like them.” Jason ran his hand through his hair, exhaling with relief. “I know no one will see it, but I’ll know it’s there. And so will you. And we’re the only ones who need to know.”
My eyes couldn’t stop tracing the initials Jason had carved into the wood. “Thank you. It’s perfect.” I turned toward him and held his face with my hands. I ran my fingers along his jawline, then traced his eyebrows and the slope of his nose. “You’re perfect.”
He grinned and clasped his hands around the small of my back. “I know it’s early, but . . . happy birthday.”
He rested his forehead against mine, our noses touching.
I swallowed, closing my eyes, breathing in his smell. The smallest part of me dared to hope that he would kiss me on the lips.
Before we had started dating, Jason had told me that he thought we should date at least four months before we kissed. Those months would be up this Friday, our seventeenth birthday. That was Jason to his core—scheduling everything, even romantic interludes.
But this small carving was a side of Jason I hadn’t seen before. It was a side I liked.
I wanted to kiss him. I wanted him to kiss me back.
I shifted my weight forward ever so slightly, balancing on my toes, ready to close the distance between us and—
Jason stepped back. He hooked my hair behind my ears. “Tomorrow,” he whispered. “Don’t you want our first kiss to be special?”
This is special! I thought, leaning closer.
“We’ve made plans and everything.”
I sighed. “I know.” I leaned back on my heels and stepped out of the circle of his arms. “Listen, about tomorrow—”
“Where is everyone?” Dave’s voice suddenly crashed through the auditorium speakers. “I thought we were rehearsing a play! Abby! Abby, where are you? I thought I’d left you in charge.”
I grimaced. “Sounds like my cue.”
Jason caught my hand as I turned to leave. “I’m sorry. It’s just . . . see you tomorrow?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
“Abby! Where are you?” Dave, never the most organized person, had an edge of panic in his voice.
“Sorry. I gotta go.” I pulled free from Jason’s hand. A cold, clammy sweat coated my skin and a wave of frustration coursed through me as I walked away from him.
I’d known Jason almost my entire life, and he was still living his life according to routines and schedules. So why did I still expect him to be someone different? Someone romantic and passionate and spontaneous? I had thought maybe the carved butterfly was a signal that our relationship was changing. But honestly—skipping the perfect kiss because it wasn’t scheduled?
I sighed and pushed the troubling thoughts from my mind. What did it matter? Jason was my boyfriend. I’d known him forever. That had to count for something.
Didn’t it?
Chapt
er
3
I ripped back the curtain with probably more force than necessary. The cast and crew had returned from the break and I saw Valerie as Ursula practicing her lines with Lily as Hero.
Dave was flipping through my notes on the clipboard, muttering to himself.
“Sorry, Dave. Were you looking for me?”
“Abby! Where were you?” He didn’t wait for my reply; Dave never waited for anyone’s reply. “It doesn’t matter. I was just looking through your notes and, Abby, they are brilliant! You really have a gift. I am so impressed. I can’t tell you what a relief it is to come back and see how much you’ve accomplished. I thought for sure I’d find the whole lot of you lounging around, but instead—”
Dave paused to catch his breath and I seized the moment. I had learned early on to interrupt if I wanted any kind of conversation at all with Dave. “I’m glad you’re back. We were getting ready to run Scene One again. Do you want me to do it, or do you want to jump in?”
“Oh, you go right ahead. You’re doing fabulous with Act One. But maybe, if I could steal Benedick and Beatrice for a moment, we could rehearse the last scene in the play. We’ve been over it a thousand times but it’s still missing something. And, Abby, you know, it’s one of the most important scenes in the whole play. It’s the kiss—the ado the whole play is based on—and it’s just not working. I just don’t know what I’m going to do—” Dave stepped up on stage and clapped his hands for attention. “Isaac. Cassie. You’re with me. The rest of you—”
The main doors to the auditorium creaked open.
Dave whipped around, anger in his eyes. Everyone in the cast and crew knew how particular Dave was about his space. No one—and he meant no one —came to rehearsals without his permission. He claimed the invasion brought in a negative energy that interfered with the creative process.
A tall boy stood with one hand still on the door. He wore a heavy wool pea coat, a leather backpack slung casually over his shoulder. Snowflakes melted in his dark hair.
“This is a closed rehearsal,” Dave shouted, striding up the aisle and flapping his hands as though brushing away flies. “You’ll have to leave. Now.”
The boy let the door swing shut with a clang. “I’m sorry?” he said, a trace of an accent underscoring his words. It sounded familiar but I couldn’t quite place it.
“Closed rehearsal!” Dave said.
“I have a letter,” the boy said, holding out a scrap of paper like a peace offering. “I am sorry I am late.” His voice was low, sultry, and just the sound of it sparked a flash of heat at the base of my skull.
“What’s that now?” Dave accepted the slim paper and unfolded it with three sharp gestures. “Let’s see. Let’s see. Mmm-hmm. I see.”
I stole a glance at Valerie. She raised her eyebrows and edged closer to me.
“Well, well, well,” Dave said, all traces of annoyance gone from his voice. “This is unusual. But . . . come with me.”
“Who is it?” Valerie asked.
I shrugged, trying to get a better look without seeming like I was trying to get a better look.
Dave led the boy down the aisle and to the stage, talking nonstop. “We’re rehearsing Much Ado about Nothing. I assume you’re familiar with the play? But we’ve already cast all the speaking parts, so you’ll have to be one of the members of the court. Hmmm, we’ll have to make sure Amanda starts on your masquerade costume.” Dave snapped his fingers. “Though if you’d rather be on the crew, I suppose we could find a place for you there. Are you any good with your hands? Woodworking? Carpentry, perhaps? Or painting?”
The boy tugged at the sleeves of his coat, hiding his fingers from view. “I’m very good with my hands,” he said, the smallest of smiles curving his mouth. “But I will be happy to help in any way I can.” He avoided looking at all of us standing on stage and kept his attention focused on Dave. If he was uncomfortable with a crowd of strangers staring down at him, he didn’t show it.
“Excellent! Perhaps I can find a place for you yet.” Dave stopped, a frown furrowing his brow. “What did you say your name was?”
All the females in the cast seemed to lean forward to hear his response. I heard Lily catch her breath behind me. The quiet in the auditorium stretched for several long seconds.
“Dan, did you say? Dan Alexander?”
“It’s Dante, sir,” the boy said. “Like the poet.” That small smile made another appearance.
Dave swept his arm in a welcoming gesture over the cast. “Everyone, please meet Dante Alexander, foreign-exchange student from Italy.” Dave consulted the letter in his hands. “How long will you be staying with us?”
Dante hesitated, brushing his long hair away from his face. “I . . . I’m not sure,” he finally said.
“Well, let’s not waste any more time, then.” Dave clapped Dante on the back. “Drop your stuff and take your place. Abby, will you show our newest cast member his mark for Act One?”
Dante looked uncertain, but he obediently placed his backpack on a seat in the front row. He shrugged out of his heavy coat with one smooth, supple movement. I heard Lily murmur appreciatively to Sarah.
“Abby?” Dave asked again, Isaac and Cassie standing right behind him. “Can you handle Act One?”
Startled, I jumped, heat flooding my cheeks. I glanced at Jason, who frowned, and I felt another wave of embarrassment wash through me.
“Sorry.” I consulted my notes, flipping through my few handwritten pages until I found the beginning of the script. Why was I so flustered? “Um, Dante”—his name felt strange in my mouth—“would you follow me, please?”
I climbed the stairs to the stage and directed him to stand behind Leonato with the other random members of the court. “We’ll get you a costume later,” I told him. “For now, just stand there and pretend you’re hearing the news for the first time.”
“Grazie,” he said softly. “Far˜ mio meglio.”
I didn’t speak Italian, but I recognized Thanks, so I smiled and said, “You’re welcome. If you need anything, I’ll be right over there.” I pointed to the backstage curtains, stage left, where Isaac and Cassie were rehearsing their last scene with Dave.
“Grazie.”
“And . . . everyone ready?” I adjusted my headset. The cast snapped to attention. I scampered offstage. “Action!”
I’d seen Act One, Scene One, several times already today so I spent my time watching the new arrival instead: Dante Alexander from Italy. He wore his dark hair long, even in the front, and every few minutes or so, he had to reach up to sweep it away from his face with his long fingers. He had left his coat with his backpack but, oddly enough, he had kept his gloves on. They looked a little like motorcycle gloves, fingerless, but with longer cuffs. The sleek leather completely encased his wrists like bracers, the guards that archers sometimes wore.
He wore a fitted, plain white, long-sleeved shirt that not only complemented his olive skin but also showcased the lean muscles in his forearms and chest. He kept the sleeves of his shirt rolled down over his wrists despite the stuffiness of the auditorium.
But it was his eyes that I noticed the most. They were changeling gray—one moment they shimmered with the moon-white of reflected sunlight, the next they held the almost-blue edge of melting ice crystals, then they hardened to the shadowed gray of wet river stones. I wondered if they would stay gray in the sunshine, or if they would change color yet again.
But beyond his good looks and his amazing eyes, Dante had a stillness about him that I found intriguing.
He didn’t just watch the play; he paid attention. He listened to the lines with a focused, fierce attentiveness, his whole body taut and alert. At first I thought it was because Shakespeare could be hard enough to understand if English was your first language, let alone your second, but as I watched him watch the play, I realized that it was more than that. It was as though he drank in the words, gained sustenance and strength from them. The look on his face as he walked alo
ng the stage behind Leonato made me think he was coming home.
I kept telling myself I should look away, I shouldn’t be so obvious in my scrutiny, but then Dante turned and met my eyes as though he knew I had been watching him. Time seemed to slow down around me. I could taste the air on my tongue, stale and thick, as I inhaled. I could feel the touch of those gray eyes on my skin, like waves lapping at the shore, like dandelion seeds blown away at dusk. I felt like he looked right through me, right into me. Part of me wanted him to never look away.
That small smile curved his lips, slowly, so slowly, before he looked away again. Time seemed to snap back into place, rocking my senses. My heart tripped and stuttered for a few beats, stumbling as though I had run up a long flight of stairs.
Disoriented, I needed a moment to gain my bearings. A chill shivered just under my skin as I distinctly heard Dave say, “C’mon, people, it’s just a stage kiss. What is the problem?”
I looked up in time to see Dave making a beeline stage left, heading straight for me. I tried to step back, but my heel hit the wall and I almost dropped my clipboard.
Dave reached out, grabbed my shoulders, and yanked me forward. He pressed his lips to mine, held them for a second, then pulled away. He looked over his shoulder at Isaac and Cassie, who were staring at us in shock. “See?” Dave demanded. “It’s just a stage kiss. It doesn’t mean anything.” Dave released me and walked away without a second glance. “Now it’s your turn.” He waved his actors to step closer to each other.
The air in the auditorium pressed down on me. I couldn’t breathe. The clipboard shook in my hands. My lips tingled, warm and dry.
What had just happened?
Had I just had my first kiss? With . . . with Dave? No, it wasn’t supposed to be like this. First kisses were supposed to be special. They were supposed to mean something. They weren’t supposed to be . . . instructional.
I looked around wildly: Valerie, doubled over as far as her corset would allow, laughing and gasping for air; Jason, frowning, his hazel eyes dark and unhappy; Dante, with that same small smile on his exotic face; everyone in the cast staring, pointing. The whispering hissed around me like insect wings.