Page 6

Chapter Six

Dad makes it home in time to serve dinner. This is a rarity, considering he works two jobs. I can’t blame him though. He’s basically forced to shoulder the costs of our household all alone. Mom’s medical bills combined with Fallbrook’s tuition is practically the amount of a second mortgage.

Sometimes I feel guilty that he works so hard, but I couldn’t stop him if I tried. When we lost Mom’s income, he had to make the tough decision to stop homeschooling me and Beau so he could reenter the workforce. But because my brother and I were ahead academically, he wouldn’t send Beau anywhere but his advanced, private middle school, and he wouldn’t send me anywhere but Fallbrook. Even if it meant him working nonstop and hardly seeing us.

“You don’t have to waste money on sending me to a fancy prep school, Dad,” I remember telling him.

But he just shook his head, determined. “An education is never a waste of money.”

As soon as I got accepted, his role in my life shifted from warm and fun homeschool teacher to overworked TSA employee and food delivery driver. For him to make the same high salary mom did as a firefighter, he had to take the jobs in Boston. I know he misses our massive, sprawling colonial in Stockbridge, because sometimes, I can practically feel how unsatisfied he is by our modern but overpriced townhome in the heart of the city.

He works so hard, all to make sure Beau and I have the same privileged life we had when Mom was still here.

It’s part of the reason I’m so determined not to let him down. Going to an Ivy League college is the dream I said I wanted, after all, no matter how young and naive I was when I announced it to my family. The least I can do is stick to my word, even if doing so makes me feel like a bird with clipped wings.

I give him a kiss on the cheek before I sit down at the table. When we’re done saying grace, I ask, “How was work?”

He hands me a plate of green beans and half-burned meatloaf. “I’m just happy to be home.”

“I wish Mom could come home,” Beau murmurs.

My dad pats his shoulder before sitting down at the table himself, plate in hand. “Me too.” His shoulders sag. “But she’s doing the responsible thing. She’s getting better so she can keep being the mom you know and love.”

Beau uses his fork to carve patterns in his meatloaf. “I just don’t see why she couldn’t get better from home.”

“Addiction is ugly, son. And withdrawals are physical proof of it.”

I take a bite, chewing slowly through the solemn silence at the table. “I got the lead role in the school play.”

He removes his glasses so he can look at me. “You pulling my leg?”

I laugh. “No. I swear.”

“Whoever cast you should get their head checked,” Beau teases.

“Shut up.”

“I’m real proud of you, Bardot.” Dad tries to bite his smile back. “I’m going to have to see this play.”

“Don’t worry,” I say, more to myself than to either of them. “I’m sure you will. Along with everyone else.” My stomach swims at the thought.

The next day goes according to plan: I don’t fail my calculus quiz, I take diligent notes in Bible class, Carlton and I make it through lunch without talking about Zayne Silverman, and I fall asleep in history.

When school ends, Carlton walks with me to rehearsal. The rest of our group is already there, waiting in a seated circle on the floor. “Hi guys,” I say as we approach them.

“Hey, Dot.” Rue waves a paper in her hand. “Mr. Saltzman is making us learn some weird choreography.”

“Really?” I glance at the paper she’s holding.

“Well, not you,” she amends, “or even Zayne. But the rest of us, yeah.”

“What about me?” Carlton grabs the paper out of Rue’s hand. “And what is this, anyway?”

She shrugs. “The written form of the choreography. We’re supposed to be wuthering on the heights, as trees or something.”

Carlton snorts. “Who wrote this lame script?”

“And what does wuthering even mean, anyway?” Mabel mutters.

“Roaring,” someone says. We all glance up to find Zayne looming over us. “It means roaring. Basically.” He’s looking at me, which makes me shift my gaze to the floor. I hope he doesn’t bring up me going to his house last night to run lines. Especially since I insulted him before I all but stormed out and wasted both our time. He knows I lied to Carlton about being there, too. Talking about it now would be excellent revenge on his part.

Carlton crosses his arms as he regards Zayne. “What do you want?”

I stiffen, prepared for him to bring up last night. But he just points over his shoulder. “Mr. Saltzman wants us next door while everyone else learns the next scene.”

Carlton’s face reddens. “What about me? I’m playing the other love interest to Catherine. Shouldn’t I be there too?”

Zayne squints at him. “Like I said. He only wants me and Dot. Everyone else stays here.”

I glance at Carlton, but he won’t meet my gaze. With a sigh, I get up and follow Zayne, who is now walking away. Speed-walking, in fact. When I finally reach him, I snap, “You could have been nicer to him.”

Zayne stops walking to shoot me an incredulous look. “Because he’s the pinnacle of delight. Right?” He resumes pace.

“That’s not fair.” I catch up to him so he’s no longer walking ahead of me. “He’s going through a lot, what with you stealing his part.”

He snorts. “Right.”

“Besides, I’ve decided to offer you a truce.”

We’re back in the classroom we auditioned in. It’s dark inside, all the blinds shut, and Zayne walks around to open them. “A truce?”

“Yes.” It bothers me that he’s not totally paying attention to what I’m saying for some reason, and instead is more focused on opening all the windows. “A truce.” I wait until he’s done, until he’s standing right in front of me.

“What kind of truce, Dot?” He’s standing close enough that I can see my reflection in his eyes, flecked with hints of gold. I can smell the peppermint on his breath as he speaks. It makes me dizzy.

“I’ll stop wasting time and commit to the play once and for all on one condition.”

He arches a brow. “And what is that?”

“You have to promise to stop trying to sabotage Carlton. He really wants to get into Underwood Academy, and I can’t have you screwing things up for him.”

Zayne crosses his arms and scowls. “It’s not me you have to worry about.”

“I don’t know what you’re insinuating, but I’ve had enough of it.” It's bad enough Carlton's been in a bad mood because of Zayne. The last thing I need is for him to try to pit me and Carlton against each other.

Zayne sighs, rolling his shoulders to ease some of the tension. “If you say so.” He grabs his script from the desk he placed it on before he started opening the windows. Light streams into the classroom now in long rectangles, illuminating our faces. “Let’s get started.” He flips through his book until he finds our first scene together. He pauses on it, reading the first line to himself in a muted tone. Then to me, he explains, “You’re playing a ghost here, and you’re haunting me. So, I’m calling out to you for you to continue.”

Anticipation flutters in my stomach. “Okay.” And then I pause. “To continue? Why would you want me to keep haunting you?”

He blinks. “You’re the ghost of Cathy, Heathcliff’s love. Haven’t you read Wuthering Heights ?”

I shrug. “I’ve read the summary.”

“Alright.” Zayne sighs. “Just do like it says on the script then.”

I nod. He begins acting out the scene, and since I don’t have any lines yet, I just watch him.

“ Delightful company,” he mutters, as Heathcliff, to a character named Lockwood, even though he isn’t in the room with us. “ Take the candle, and go where you please. Away with you! I’ll come in two minutes!

I watch as he kneels and pantomimes opening a window. It’s pretty impressive, actually. Zayne arranges his features into that of pure, unadulterated anguish, and his eyes gloss over. For a moment, I’m alarmed, thinking he hurt himself when he kneeled down or something.

“ Come in! Come in! Cathy, do come, ” he sobs, and with a jolt, I realize he’s still in character.

He’s still acting, and I’m still staring, when I should be flitting across the room in front of him like a ghost.

“Sorry,” I stammer. “From the top?”

Zayne blinks several times. “What do you mean, ‘from the top?’ You don’t even have any lines in this scene!”

My cheeks burn. “I got distracted. I’m sorry.” Distracted by how good he is. By his ability to cry on command and then shut it off like it’s nothing. By how terrible I’m going to look in comparison while acting with him.

He searches my face before returning to his starting point. “Fine. From the top.”

He says his lines again, and this time, I remember to come in when I’m supposed to. And the more the scene goes on, the more impressed I am by Zayne’s ability to act so well. When we auditioned together, it was just a lighthearted scene from the middle of the play that we read. Nothing like the intense, emotional sequence I’m currently witnessing.

It bothers me that I’m so impressed.

It bothers me because I’m starting to see why Zayne got the part over Carlton.

He deserves it.

And if Mr. Saltzman deemed me worthy enough to be cast alongside him, there must be something in me that knows what I’m doing.

Knowing that feels good. Really good.

We run through the scene a few more times, until it starts to feel natural. Until my participation starts to feel less robotic, and more enthusiastic. Until I have the whole thing close to memorized and Mr. Saltzman comes in to witness it, looking more than impressed.

And all the while I’m overwhelmed, intimidated, and even a little inspired by Zayne Silverman.