A Season for Fireflies (3 page)

“I don't want to talk about it!” I snap. They both flinch. Wes digs his hands in his pockets with a nod to the floor. I glance out at the audience—everyone is looking at me. The chatter has stopped.

“What
do
you want to talk about?” he says. His eyes are on me. I want to ask him why he's been avoiding me. I want to ask him what he meant with the star projector.

When I glance behind me at the wings of the stage, Richard, dressed as Claudio, is watching us. He turns away and pretends
to be inspecting a thread on his costume.

What am I going to do? I don't know if I can call Bettie every
single
time. What if Bettie up and quits? Dad's at work most of the time and when he's home, he pretends everything is normal. I can't do this alone.

“Tell me,” May insists. “You have that look in your eye. Like you had a fight with your mom.”

She can tell just by looking at me? What if everyone can tell? What if I get up on stage and the whole audience knows? I have a
look in my eye
that gives away when I've had a fight
with Mom. I'm off the stage. I rush down the stairs to the carpeted aisle and up to the hallway.

“Penny!” Taft and May call nearly in unison.

“Where is she going?” Taft cries from up in the lighting booth.

I run down the hallway toward the exit. Once I get out of the double doors to the parking lot, I hear them slam open again and Wes's heavy footsteps following behind me.

I stop next to my car. I can't be on a stage, out there, exposed in front of everyone. The thought of telling them about Mom makes a burning hole in the center of my belly. I just want to hide, where my secret is safe, tucked under the muscles. Hurting only me.

I shake my head at the reflection in my car window. Wes walks up behind me.

“You are acting like a psycho,” Wes says. I turn to face him.

“Why did you ignore me this week?” I don't mean to blurt this, but it just rushes out.

He shoves his hands in his pockets and I know what this means.

I can feel the heat in my cheeks and there's a point in the center of my chest that's pinging. Tears make my nose tingle and I try to stop them by taking deep breaths.

“Berne, you're killing me,” he says, but I hate the tone in his voice that I can't identify.

“Why?”

“I didn't ignore you.”

“Then what's going on?”

“I've been trying to figure out a way . . .” Wes's voice trails off. I look up, waiting for him to say something, anything. Maybe I can tell him what's going on. He could dig deep, into my bones where my secrets are hiding, if he wanted. I might be able to pry myself open for Wes.

“I haven't wanted to be
just
friends for a long time, you know that,” he says quietly, and his blue eyes lift to mine.

But then I think, if we got together, he would come over much more often. Wes would see firsthand how bad it is. He'd feel sorry for me or worse—he'd agree with her. No way. It's too much.

“Say something,” he says.

“I gotta go,” I say quickly.

“Go?”

“I can't,” I say.

“Be with me?” he says.

“No, I mean—be in the play.”

I don't continue because May shoves her way out the doors
of school, in full costume, and rushes to us, her long black hair flying behind her.

I turn to open the door to my car, fumbling my keys. They drop with a hard
clang
to the ground. When I pick them up, May is next to us.

“Penny is apparently quitting the play,” Wes says with a shake of his head. His cheeks are flushed. “A week before opening night.”

“I just need to think this through,” I say.

“Are you on drugs?” May cries. “
You're
quitting the play. You
are
the play!”

“It's too much,” I say.

“Penny Berne. You've done theater since you were six years old. And now you're quitting. For
no
reason.” With sharp movements, she pulls her hair back in a long black ponytail. I've never seen May so furious. Her small features seem to transform when she's angry—they become hard angles. May always gets angry right away when something happens she can't control. But this is different. This is my problem
. I'm
the cause of the problem.

May crosses her arms over her chest. “Maybe you should actually tell someone what's wrong,” May says. “You're being really selfish, Penny. Keeping your secrets and acting like everything is fine. And then you come here like a complete freak—”

“May, stop,” Wes scolds.

“She's right,” I croak.

“You're damn right, I'm right! So keep your stupid secrets. Have fun telling Taft you're quitting a week before opening night. That should go over real well. Excuse me, I have to go
learn Beatrice's damn lines, so I can be your understudy.” May stalks away and my bottom lip trembles like I'm five so I turn away and get into my car. I don't look at Wes,
can't
look at Wes, so I get in my car and head home.

Dad's car is in the driveway right next to Mom's. It's dark in the kitchen; all the wine and remnants of Mom's spill have been cleaned up. I don't know when Bettie left, but it's clear she made it look nice in here.

“Penny.” Dad calls my name from the living room. I step across the kitchen to where he sits on the couch with a mug of coffee. He gestures to the love seat across from him. “Bettie told me what happened tonight.”

I wonder how much Bettie heard when Mom was yelling at me, but Dad continues, “I need you to sit down, kiddo.”

I do. I'm exhausted.

“What's going on?” I ask.

“I can't take it anymore, Pen. And neither can you. So,” he says, and takes a deep breath, “when your mom gets up, I'm going to take her to the hospital.”

“Is she okay? Did she fall?”

“Not that kind of hospital. Your mom needs to get herself better. The combination of the pills she takes and the alcohol she drinks make it dangerous for her to be left alone. Especially with you.”

“You always said there was nothing you can do.”

“It's not good for you to be in this environment,” Dad says, and it almost sounds rehearsed, like he's been practicing
this conversation. “I can't always be here with work, and Bettie shouldn't have to be responsible for Mom.”

I want to guess where he's going but I can't. “I'm going to insist that we bring Mom to a rehab facility.” Dad rests his elbows on his knees. That's how he sits during business calls.

Rehab facility.
The words settle in my head. I don't even know what it entails exactly, just that it's where people go when they need to get off drugs. I know things are bad, but I've never thought this might be real—that she could be an
alcoholic.

“She doesn't even drink all the time,” I say, and I hear myself making the same excuses Dad does whenever I bring up her drinking.

“I know, Pen, but it's enough.”

I swallow hard. My throat is sore from my fight with Wes and May. “She'll never agree.”

Dad exhales deeply and wipes his hand over his bald head. He cleans his glasses when he says, “She has to. If she wants to be a part of this family.”

“You'll just kick her out?” My voice breaks.

“Do you want her falling down? Hurting you?” He doesn't even know that this is my fault. She wouldn't be drinking if I wasn't so dramatic all the time, if I wasn't so endlessly demanding.

“Maybe I can help out with chores more? I quit the play, so I'll be around more. I can help Mom with some stuff around the house. I can get Bettie to take me to get clothes or supplies or whatever. I won't be as stressful.”

Dad shakes his head at his hands folded on his knees. His voice softens and he says in a low voice, “You think this has
anything to do with you?” I nod. “It's really important she gets help, hon. She's sick.”

“Arthur?” Mom's ragged, sleepy voice calls from upstairs. I don't want to be here to see this. I can't. Dad gets up to go to her. “Penny!” he calls, but I'm out the door.

I drive fast through the neighborhood just as the streetlamps pop on. They light the way like torches to my dock, the one I go to whenever I need a minute to get my head on straight. The summer air is thick and humid. I zip past the bait and tackle shops, the Greenwich Boat Company, and the broken and dismembered carcasses of motorboats in the yard. I finally turn onto Main Street faster than the speed limit, pull into a parking spot, and when I get out, I walk fast through town.

I walk a bit, breathing deeply. Someone has strewn twinkle lights across the top of the lampposts and they hang over the street. WELCOME SUMMER FESTIVAL posters are taped on each storefront window. Next to me is the Coffee Stop, which throws a hazy light onto the street. Inside, Kylie Castelli and her usual crew sit in the big red booth in the front. The table faces Main Street and they eat from a Make Your Own S'mores platter, laughing and dipping fruit and candy in the melted chocolate. Kylie wears a blue baseball hat backward and her blond hair falls in two long braids down her black tank top. She has gooey marshmallow on her fingers and waves them in the face of Eve Dennings, who I have never talked to and who I doubt would ever have a reason to talk to me. They seem happy.

My phone has been ringing off and on for the last hour.

I can't bring myself to answer.

I walk past the rowdy Fish Hook Tavern, to the marina where my dock waits. Some people relax on their boats; the bigger ones are on the A and B docks. Fireflies dot the sky and bob in the darkness of the trees in the woods across the water. My feet echo on the wooden planks down to the last dock, E. The one where Dad used to keep his boat before he got too busy and put it in storage.

When I get to the end, there are two posts about six feet high on either side that anchor the dock in place. The water laps against the underside and I sit down, running through the last few days in my head. After about half an hour, I hear footsteps coming down the dock.

Wes sits down next to me.

“I knew you'd come here eventually,” he says.

I look out at the shifting water and some of the fireflies that maneuver out in the woods across the harbor.

“I know you don't want to talk, but I had to make sure you were okay,” he says. He reaches for my hand and it's the first time he's ever reached for me like
this.
“I know what the news is saying about your mom's company. And I've seen your mom when she's being hard on you.”

I get up, dropping his hand, and take a step back to the pole behind me.

“Don't look at me like that, Penny,” he says, standing up too. “It's cool. She's always been nice to me.”

His honesty makes me cringe. How many times has he seen things, like May had, that I haven't wanted him to? That I thought I could cover up?

He takes a step to me and I can't back away any farther or I'll be in the water.

He lifts his hand to my cheek and one of my tears rolls over his fingers.

“It's not a secret. You don't have to hide it. Especially not from me.”

Now our chests are touching. My heart is pounding so hard, I'm surprised his shirt isn't vibrating from the force.

Wes slips his hand behind my head. He pulls me forward, just slightly, angling his head. I want to kiss him so badly that it makes my breath shudder. He hesitates before our lips touch. His eyes examine my face and I can barely see his blue eyes through the tears.

“I don't want the first time we kiss to be when you're crying, Penny,” he whispers. “Just tell me what's going on.”

“I'm sorry,” I say. I know this is for the best.

In my head, I invent a scenario where Mom is in the passenger seat of Dad's car with a small designer bag filled with some sweaters and a small bottle of perfume. She is going to the rehab facility where she won't know anyone. The nurses won't know she likes a half of grapefruit for breakfast. She likes honey and sugar on her grapefruit too but it has to be
just right
. She tells me that I'm the only one who gets the ratio just how she likes it. A surge of love for Mom overwhelms me.

Wes lets out a frustrated sigh. “You know, if you don't start telling people what's wrong, it'll eat you up. One day you'll be exactly like your mom,” he says. His words sting. I pull back and wipe a tear away.

“You don't know a damn thing about my mom,” I say.

He's hurt. “I didn't mean—”

“Just go.”

He says nothing further. Just walks up the dock to the street. I wish I could rewind this whole day, so I'm not angry with Wes too, but what he said is
exactly
why I can't say anything.

I can't tell him what he wants to hear, and he shouldn't have to pull the truth out of me. And the truth is that I don't want to be the person I've always been. I don't want to be the girl who leaps into a room and always gets the lead in every play, who comes alive when everyone is watching her. I don't feel like that girl anymore.

It's better here in a different kind of light—I look up to the moonlight shining down on the water and the dock. The stars twinkle above—far away and untouchable. My gut aches at the memory of Wes's planetarium. He wants to give me the stars, but I don't want people to try to fix me.

The truth is simple:

I want to be out of the spotlight.

For good.

A SURPRISING LATE-MORNING THUNDERSTORM IS
pouring rain down so thick that most people have pulled over to the side of the road. I made it from the track to my car in just a minute but am soaked through so my shorts and now the car seat are totally drenched. Steam rises from the hot asphalt and as I pull out of the parking lot, I'm reminded of a time on the beach with Mom and Dad. The clouds came up as fast as I'd ever seen them and the sky opened up, pouring down on people's lunches and towels. Didn't seem to bother the seagulls though, who ate all the leftover sandwiches and chips.

My phone is silent as I make my way home. In the past week, no one has reached out to me much. Not May, not
Panda, and definitely not Wes.

Again, I'm driving with just my permit. At this point, following the rules is pretty low on my list of stuff to care about. Dad has been in the office more than ever since Mom entered the rehab facility. The person I see most consistently is Bettie, who makes breakfast for Dad and me every morning. We can't see Mom for a few days but I've talked to her a couple of times on the phone. I never mention what she confessed that other night—why she drinks.

I take the long way home down Diamond Hill Road so I don't have to drive past school. It's the second night of
Much Ado About Nothing
. I know Wes, Panda, May, and Karen won't see me at the bottom of the hill but I haven't talked to my friends since the night I ran out of the theater, and I don't want to take any chances of running into them.

Not since I quit the play.

I grip the steering wheel harder. Taft made me meet with her; the school counselor, Ms. Winters; and Headmaster Lewis. It didn't change my mind. I felt better actually when I heard people in the halls raving about May's performance as Beatrice.

I said nothing about the other night when Mom was drunk. I haven't had to; the news has done a stellar job of running “Alice Berne Updates” and even did an “on-site” broadcast last night from in front of the rehab facility. It's not like Mom is a national celebrity, but here in Rhode Island, the smallest state ever—Mom is a socialite. She always has great clothes, impressive celebrity clients, and knows how to put on an incredible event.

I keep on down Diamond Hill Road, taking the turns slowly.
The rush of water hurls down the slope of the steep street. The road is a curvy S shape and when I get down to the bottom, next to the edge of the woods, a gray Toyota Corolla is parked, idling with steam coming from the hood. Kylie Castelli kicks at the car and screams but I can't hear her over the rain. I pull up and stop behind her car.

I get out, noting a bumper sticker that reads,
Well Behaved Women Rarely Make History.
Kylie always knows the trends before they happen; she's constantly papering the hallway with band names I've never heard of and stickers of shows she's been to over the weekend. She has like two hundred movie and concert tickets taped inside her locker.

Kylie is on her knees and it looks like she has on brown knee guards from all the mud. Her tire is shredded—completely gone. She got out the jack, which I'm somewhat surprised by, and she's trying to lift the car up to change the tire.

“What happened?” I ask, and then decide that question is stupid.

She doesn't answer and with a shriek she pushes as hard as she can on the jack. She pushes too hard, throwing her off balance and onto her butt. Mud splashes onto her backside and legs.

“Well, balls,” she says. I laugh and am surprised how strange it feels in my mouth. I haven't laughed, not for real anyway, since rehearsal. Her eyes lift up to mine and we're both smiling. Her usually perfectly tousled, messy-cool hair is matted on her forehead.

“Penny, right?” she says, and gets up.

We've been in Honors English together for two years, but I'm
still surprised she knows my name. We've never spoken outside of class.

“Where's your spare?” I ask.

“The spare?”

“The spare tire,” I clarify.

She shrugs. “Maybe the trunk?”

We stand at the back of the Toyota. I lift the trunk open and in between the gym clothes, EG Private track uniforms, and empty water bottles, there is no spare tire. I shut the trunk before everything in there gets soaked.

“You'll need to call a tow truck. Do you have the num—” I say, but I'm interrupted by an enormous crash of thunder.

“My cell died,” she yells.

I motion to my car. When we get in, I hand my cell over. She says thanks as she takes it and I wish I could cover the dumb stickers on my glove box:
Globe Theatre
,
Shakespeare Rocks!
,
Keep Calm and Go to the Theatre
. Kylie drips water all over the seat.

“Mom? I got a flat,” she says into the phone.

I can hear high-pitched squawking through the line.

“Yeah, give me a minute,” Kylie says to the person on the phone, and motions to me for a pen. I reach across her to dig in the glove box, throwing playbills, old scripts, disposable toothbrushes to the floor and on top of her mud-covered pink-manicured toes. I hand the pen over, feeling like an oaf.

“Thanks,” she says with a sigh, and hangs up. “My mother is a beast but she's calling Triple A for me.”

I want to tell her I know all about beasts, but Kylie leans back in the seat, crossing one dirty leg over the other, and says,
“God, I
hate
my car. Is this a Lexus?”

“Um, yeah. My mom's old car.”

“Jesus, you're lucky.”

“I'm not technically supposed to be driving for another week.”

“Are you a Cancer?” she says, and jumps in her seat a little.

“Yes?” I say after a moment of trying to keep up with her.

“Me too! June twenty-seventh.”

“Twenty-fourth,” I say. We're both driving when we shouldn't be, and smile.

“Aren't you going to get in trouble with Triple A for driving without a licensed driver?” I ask.

She ignores my question and continues to check out my car, flipping the visor up and down, and I keep thinking she'll get out eventually and go back to her car, but she doesn't. Instead, she plugs her cell phone into my car charger.

“Aren't you in the play or something?” she asks.

“I was. I . . .” I somehow think telling Kylie I quit anything is only going to make this more awkward.

“I used to be in theater,” she says. “When I was little. My mom took me to some of the plays you were in at Ocean State.” She means Ocean State Theater Company, where I first met May and Panda and was a kid actor in every free minute of my summers. I didn't meet Wes until eighth grade. “I wanted to
be
you,” she adds.

What? I laugh, tipping my head back. “Are you kidding?”

I'm pretty sure everyone wants to be Kylie Castelli. Head of radio broadcasting at our school, dance committee treasurer, most likely to achieve greatness with a perfect tan.

“Anyway, I thought you'd be with your usual gaggle,” she says.

“My gaggle? Don't
you
usually travel in a pack?”

She laughs. “Touché.” She leans forward and touches the Globe Theatre sticker on my dash with a fingertip. Her nails are a mess of chipped polish. “I went to the Globe in London,” she says. I must seem surprised. “What?” she says. “I like culture. I don't have to memorize lines like you do to love the theater. It's not my thing anymore, but it's still cool.” She lifts her eyes to me with a tiny smile. “Okay, my mom made me go when we went on a trip there. But I liked it!” she says through laughter.

Kylie texts something on her phone quickly. I look to my hands because I don't have anyone to text. I'm not sorry I quit the play. I'm sorry that I've been blowing off May and Panda and Wes's calls.

“Shit, did I offend you? Words fly out of my mouth. I'm always doing damage control,” Kylie says.

I shake my head. “No,” I say. “It's just . . .”

She looks over at me, waiting. Kylie isn't afraid of anything. She rolls her hand, gesturing for me to go on.

“I quit the play,” I admit.

“
You?
Miss I Do Monologues on Command in the Hallway?”

“Yeah . . . it hasn't been my best week.”

“Is it because your mom got sent to rehab?”

I drop my head. “Yep. That's part of it. Guess you know from the news.”

“Everyone knows. Fuck!” Kylie cries and the sound in the car echoes, even with the rain lightening up. “I am so tired of
this town!” She brings her feet up against the dash and slaps her hands against her wet legs. “Aren't you?”

I nod. Her energy is infectious and I want to scream and curse and put my feet up on the dash, too.

“Whatever happened,” she says gently, “I am sure you had your reasons.”

She's not going to push. She's not hawk-eyeing me and I again nod, but this time, I meet her eyes.

“You need cheering up, Penny Berne,” Kylie says, and raises an eyebrow.

“I do?”

“It's all over your face.” I immediately see Wes in my head.

“So I'm told.”

“That and you're like the loudest person in the hallway besides me,” she adds.

I haven't talked to Wes since the evening I quit, not even when he called thirteen times, texted, and then showed up at my house. Luckily, that day I was out running at the track. I needed to move, jog—do anything but sit around hearing Wes in my head saying that I'm going to end up like my mother one day.

A small red light revolves in the rearview mirror. AAA pulls past and parks in front of Kylie's Corolla. I grab at the seat belt, readying to leave.

“Thank
god
,” Kylie says, and I ignore the little voice in my head that tells me she wants nothing more than to get out of the car. She has her hand on the passenger door handle and gets out into the rain. I expect the slam of the car door, but instead she pops her head back in. “What are you doing tonight?”

“Me?”

“No. The other dope in the car.”

I laugh. I've been wrong about Kylie—completely,
completely
wrong.

“I don't think I'm doing anything,” I say even though I know I don't have plans. Wes and I probably would have gorged on popcorn at the movies or—wait, I forgot. It's the second night of the play.

“You need to come to a party with me,” Kylie says. “I'll pick you up. Text me your address,” she adds.

She reaches across the car to my cell sitting in a cup holder and types in her number.

She doesn't wait for me to say yes. She slams the door, runs to the woman getting out of the AAA van, and cries, “You're saving my life right now!”

The energy in my car is zinging. Kylie wants to take
me
to a party.

As I drive away, Kylie is jumping on the AAA mechanic. I don't need to sit inside alone. I don't have to explain myself to anyone. Kylie gets it. And I do need cheering up.

She is in the spotlight, not me. I can be the chorus and she can be the lead. That's perfect. Even if I'm not exactly sure what the parts will be or where I'm going to end up, with Kylie at the helm, I know with absolute certainty that it's going to be a wild ride.