Page 15

Chapter Fifteen

I almost don’t show up at Zayne’s. My mind is still whirling after talking to my mom on the phone, so I’m not sure I’m in the right head space to run lines today. She reminded me I’m supposed to be focusing on college. But it’s getting harder to live the lie of pretending I want that, especially the more I practice for the play. It’s like there’s two sides of me that are at war with each other—the good daughter who keeps her promises, and the side of me I’ve been trying to find. The one that gets excited about something and looks forward to it the same way Beau does when he’s learning a new language.

I just wish I could somehow be both.

I knock on Zayne’s front door. When it comes down to it, he’s my best bet if I want to do well in the play. And much as I want to deny it…I like practicing with him.

“Hi, there.” An older woman greets me from the other side of the door. She’s shorter than me, with chin length dark curls and a wide smile. “You must be Dot! I’m Celia, Zayne’s grandma. But you can call me Mimi. Come on in.” She swings the door open wider.

“Hi, Mimi.” I lift my hand into an awkward wave. “Thanks for letting me come and rehearse with Zayne.”

“No problem. He’s in his room. Go on up.”

I make for the stairs but pause when I see Lenny sitting at the dining table, visible from the entryway. He’s hunched over a paperback with his finger against the page, moving as his eyes scan the words.

“Hi, Lenny!” I say. “What are you reading?”

He doesn’t glance up but answers me. “I’m trying to determine whether Mary Stuart losing her head was warranted.”

I blink. “Oh.”

“Did she conspire to steal England from Elizabeth, or should she have been on the throne from the start?” He looks at me over his paperback. “Opinions tend to vary.”

I laugh, warmth blossoming in my chest. He looks so serious, like the answer is a matter of life and death. “Let me know what you decide.”

He grimaces, turning back to his book, and I take that as my cue to go upstairs. Zayne’s door is closed, so I knock softly. He opens it at the same time. I clear my throat and take a step back. “I’m here,” I announce.

“I see that.” His mouth twitches in amusement.

I brush past him, tossing my backpack onto his bed. “Let’s start.”

We run through our scenes in chronological order, rehearsing the first few off book until I get through them without fumbling anymore. Half an hour later, Mimi comes in. “I made some ceviche,” she says.

Zayne brightens. “Thanks, Mimi.” He takes the tray from her, a bowl of fresh shrimp and avocado with a side of tortilla chips on top.

“Is the restaurant closed today?” I ask.

Mimi nods. “Yeah, we close early on Mondays, our least busy day. But still, it seems like I never stop cooking.” She shakes her head, her thick hair swinging with her face.

Zayne takes a bite of the food. The crunching of the chips makes my stomach growl, so I have some too. And just as I expect, it’s delicious. I also feel a little twinge in my chest because it makes me think of Mom’s cooking.

Mimi leaves us and the food, and Zayne and I spend a few minutes scarfing down the chips and shrimp salsa. The room is silent save for us eating, and when the food is all gone, I sigh and pat my tummy. “That was delicious. Your grandma seems nice.”

“Yeah, she’s great. My dad died when Lenny was a baby, so she’s been like a second parent to us all our lives.”

“I’m sorry about your dad.”

“Thanks.” Zayne puts the tray on his dresser top. “You’ll probably get to meet my mom, too. She’s grocery shopping, but she’ll be back soon.” He picks up his script off his bed. “In the meantime, let’s keep going.”

Excitement bubbles inside me. “Now?”

“Yes.”

And we do. We begin rehearsing again.

But while the first portion of running lines felt successful, something is different now. Maybe it’s that my mind is back on my own mom after seeing the easy exchange between Zayne and Mimi. It’s a reminder that Mom can’t be that for me right now. She can’t make snacks for me and my friends on her days off, can’t work at all, even. Can barely get out of bed because she’s in so much pain. Unless she takes the pills that have made her a slave to them.

“You okay?” Zayne frowns at me.

With a start, I realize I missed my line. “Um, yeah.” I pick up my script, looking for where we left off. But all the while, a knot forms in my throat. My eyes blur. And I can’t help it. I miss my mom. I miss her so much.

I take way too long, staring at my rehearsal script, swallowing back my tears. Zayne must catch on at some point because his next words come out softer than usual. “Hey, why don’t we take a break from all this? Have some fun instead?”

My eyes round as they move from the page to Zayne.

He frowns, his gaze darting around my face. “What? What’s wrong?”

“That word you just said. Fun. It sounded so strange coming out of your mouth.”

His expression clears. “Very funny.”

“I wasn’t aware you even knew the meaning.”

Zayne rolls his eyes. “Do you want to take a break from all this, or not?”

“Fine. Let’s go.”

I follow him downstairs, and on our way out, someone rounds the corner. Tall and slender, with an angular face and large brown eyes, she looks a lot like Zayne, but with longer eyelashes and a shaved head.

“Oh. Hi, Mom,” says Zayne. Over his shoulder, he points to me with his thumb. “This is Dot. We were running lines, but we’re going to take a break for a while.”

I extend my hand to her. “Hi, Mrs. Silverman.”

His mom grins at me. “Hi, Dot.” She reaches out and shakes my hand. “You can call me Gwen. Nice to meet you.”

“You too.” I smile back.

“Alright,” Zayne cuts in. “We’ll be back soon.”

“This is the coolest pumpkin patch I’ve ever seen,” I tell Zayne. “In fact, this may be the king of all pumpkin patches.”

He nods. “It really is.”

I park and shut off my GPS now that we’ve reached the destination Zayne typed into my phone. We get out of the car.

I gaze in awe at the corn-maze as tall as a building. The flashing Ferris wheel, the hot apple-cider stand. The pumpkins of various shapes and sizes. Funny, misshapen pumpkins in shades of not only orange, but green, white, and yellow. A group of children laughs as they launch small pumpkins at a target with a sling. A mom leads her toddler into a petting zoo with goats, sheep, and donkeys.

Beau would love this place.

Zayne buys us wristbands at the entrance, and I beam. “What do we do first?”

He nods toward the hot apple cider stand. “We get a hot drink, of course.” Pulling me forward by the hand, he leads me toward the stand. He orders us each a drink and I glance at the spot where his hand touched mine. He probably meant it as a friendly gesture, but I can’t help but stare at my skin like he burned it. Like by touching my hand, he marked me as his friend somehow.

He hands me the cider in a to-go mug, oblivious to my whirling thoughts. “This cider is the best money can buy.” His voice is serious, like he’s warning me about the dangers of sky-diving. “Not even Mimi can make it better.”

“Hurry up, then. Give me the cup, Silverman.” I take it gingerly. And as soon as the warm contents meet my lips, I realize he’s right. My senses cling to the undertone of spices, the creamy foam sitting on top, the sweetness balanced with the most minute tang. I lower the cup from my lips. “Ah.”

Zayne’s lips quirk into a crooked smile. “Told you.” He motions toward the petting zoo with his cup. “Shall we?”

“Actually, I want to launch a pumpkin at that scarecrow target,” I say. “Work out some aggression.”

He laughs. “What aggression?”

“Oh, you know.” I shrug as we make our way across the pumpkin patch toward the launching area and get in line. “Little Birdie constantly lying about me. Getting roped into playing the lead for a play at a new school. Hanging out with you. ”

Zayne smirks. “Come on. I’m not so bad. I introduced you to the world’s best pumpkin patch, remember? And this apple cider.”

I lift my mug in a toasting motion. “True.” When it’s our turn to launch pumpkins, I grab one and situate it atop the sling. “Watch how it’s done,” I tell Zayne before promptly launching the tiny pumpkin straight onto the ground no more than three feet from us.

Zayne chuckles. I shoot him a death glare, and he tries, unsuccessfully, to make his grin disappear. “Try again,” he says.

I put another pumpkin on the sling. Stretching it back as far as I can, I launch it clear past the target altogether this time. “I think this is rigged,” I state.

“Step aside, sunshine.” Zayne grabs a medium sized pumpkin off the stack of available ones to smash. I briefly wonder who determines what makes a pumpkin worth smashing or selling. Zayne stretches the sling back and aims for the target. When he lets go, I expect his pumpkin to fall on the ground like mine did. Maybe land a few feet from the target. But no. Of course, it smashes right into the bullseye, leaving me gaping in disbelief. He dusts his hands off before picking his mug of cider back up. “Yeah, you’re right. Most definitely rigged.”

“Not fair. You’ve probably practiced hitting that target a million times.”

He shrugs, a pleased smile still on his mouth. “Maybe. Maybe not. You’ll never know.”

An employee with a gold smile rakes our smashed pumpkin guts out of the way for the next people. He motions toward a shelf full of stuffed animals. “Go ahead and pick a prize,” he tells Zayne.

Zayne plucks a stuffed honeybee off the shelf. As he walks back, he hands me the bee and says, “Let’s ride the Ferris wheel.”

“Okay.” I stare at the stuffed animal and something in my chest expands. It’s a familiar feeling. One I used to experience every time I’d think about Carlton. It’s alarming that I’m having it again, but it feels too good to analyze in this moment.

We make our way over, standing in line briefly before stepping up to ride. A short guy with curly hair and glasses marks our wristbands with a black marker.

“Hey, Jude.” Zayne cocks his head at the boy.

He nods. “Zayne.”

We hop into the next seat and the ride begins. “You know him?”

“He goes to our school. He’s in the crew for drama club.”

“Ah. I should have known. Because apparently, every high schooler in Massachusetts goes to Fallbrook and cares about theater.”

He snorts in amusement at my sarcasm.

As the tiny car we’re sitting in rises up, the cool wind stings my cheeks. I stare at the landscape below. The sun is an orange haze, just beginning to dim near the horizon. The inside of the corn maze is visible from this high up, and I spy a few bloody-looking scarecrows tucked precariously throughout its random nooks and crannies.

I point to the maze. “Have you ever done that?”

Zayne blows out an amused laugh. “Oh, yeah. Plenty of times. My mom volunteered me and Lenny to work it one Halloween, even.”

“What?” I stifle a laugh. “Zayne and Lenny Silverman, undead brothers?” I grin. “I’m sure Lenny had a field day. Ha. Get it?”

Zayne closes his eyes, but a smile spreads across his lips. I can tell he doesn’t want to laugh. But my joke is so bad, it’s practically impossible. “He kept calling us ‘The Salvatore Brothers’ actually,” he says. “You know. From The Vampire Diaries ?”

I burst out laughing. “I bet Lenny was Stefan. He’s much too nice to be Damon.”

“I don’t remember who was who.”

“That’s such a lie!” I point my finger at him. “You’re lying.”

“I’ve chosen to forget all about it.”

“Well now that I know, I’m going to bring it up as often as I can. Come to think of it, I demand to see photos of this event.”

He shakes his head. “That’s nothing compared to the time Mom and Mimi made us dress up as cowboys and then forced us into a photo shoot.”

“Wait. I think I’ve seen that photo. It’s hanging on your wall.”

He nods with his lips pressed together. His shoulders slump. “Yes. Yes, it is.”

I turn away to hide my smile. The image comes back to me, of pre-teen Zayne in his cowboy outfit, matching his younger brother. The memory of it makes warmth expand inside my chest. But at the same time, it makes me sad. Because while this entire evening has been, let’s face it—amazing—I can’t help but acknowledge that it’s really nothing more than a distraction, from buckling down and running lines, and inevitably, the play.

Which Mom claims she will be here to see.

“Sorry about earlier,” I whisper. “I know I seemed distracted. And that’s because I was.”

His voice is soft beside me. “What’s on your mind?”

“My mom says she’s coming home to see the play.”

“Oh.” Zayne’s eyebrows narrow. “But that’s a good thing, right?”

“I don’t know. Part of me thinks she’s not really going to show up. What if I let myself get excited and then she doesn’t come? I’ll be…” I try to search for the right word. “Devastated.”

“That’s true,” he says. “But if she’s set on it, then try to have faith it will work out.”

“That’s not the only problem though. What if she does come, and I mess up on stage? In front of my mom and my dad and my brother? The entire school? I don’t know if I’m even ready for all this.” I squeeze the poor stuffed bumblebee with agitation.

“Dot.” He nudges my shoulder with his. The gesture is innocent. Sweet. “Stop worrying. Nerves are part of the process. You think I’m confident before every performance?”

“Well, you should be,” I say. “You’re the best actor in the whole school.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Was that another compliment I just heard?”

“You know it’s true.”

“The point is,” he continues, “even I get nervous I’m going to mess up, but I just give it my best effort and try to stay positive. That’s all you can do. Besides, you’re a much better actress than you think. You’re really good, actually.”

I try to find any traces of sarcasm in his face, but there are none. “You really think so?”

He nods. “Yep. I bet you even have a shot at getting into Underwood if you keep practicing.”

Zayne Silverman himself thinks I’m really good? My entire body feels light and fuzzy as the words float around in my brain. I try to hide how flattered I am by his compliment. “How unlucky for you, since there are only two spots.”

“You mean, how unlucky for Carlton, since apparently I’m the best actor in the whole school.”

I glare at him.

“Your words, not mine,” he reminds me, holding up his hands.

“Yeah,” I say quietly. I search his face, taking comfort in the teasing confidence I find. “Yeah, I guess that’s true.”

When we get back to Zayne’s house, no one else is home. Zayne tells me that everyone probably went for a nature walk—as Lenny calls it. “We go on them a couple times a week,” he explains. “We let Lenny tell us all sorts of random facts about the plants and flowers we see as we walk by. Sometimes he’ll pick some and hang them in his room.”

“That sounds nice.” Picturing the passionate way Lenny would talk about that kind of stuff makes my lips quirk up.

“It’s getting late,” Zayne says. “We can pick up where we left off tomorrow.” We’re standing at his front door. He hasn’t made a move to go inside, and I haven’t made for my car yet either. It feels like there’s something left unspoken between us that needs to be addressed before the night can be deemed over. But I’m not sure what it is, and neither, apparently, is Zayne.

“Okay,” I say. My feet remain planted on his doorstep despite my brain telling them to move, so I add, “Thank you. For taking me to smash pumpkins and drink apple cider.”

His serious expression melts a little as if without his permission, cracking into something warmer. “Anytime.”

There doesn’t seem to be anything else to say, so I wave. “Bye, Zayne.”

I turn and walk to my car. As I go, I hear his voice, so soft it could be mistaken for the wind. “Bye, Dot.”