Don't Touch (33 page)

My throat tightens, and I swallow the pain welling up in my chest.

It doesn't matter.

Mom says we're going to “free ourselves from the pressure to have a traditional Thanksgiving.”

“It's going to feel strange without your dad no matter what we do,” she says, so we take Meemaw to a fancy hotel buffet and gorge ourselves on someone else's “home cooking.”

Meemaw keeps ordering mimosas and sneaking me sips. According to her, the national drinking age treads on states' rights, and if she wants to get her teenage granddaughter drunk, that's her own damned business.

The waiters here would probably bring me my own glass if Meemaw told them to, but it's fun to invent new ways of hiding my sips: a folded napkin barrier, a quickly dunked soup spoon. Mom flashes me warning looks, and Jordan keeps complaining that he should get some too, but neither of them can stop laughing.

After that, we watch a stack of rented movies—all thrillers and action, not a single romantic comedy or melodrama among them. Mom makes bowls of kettle corn, and it's actually fun.

Dad calls in the evening and says all the things he's supposed to say. He went to a grad student's house for Thanksgiving. The free cocktails were great, but the food wasn't as good as Mom's. He missed Jordan and me.

“See you in a couple of weeks,” he says, “for your play.”

I think again about disinviting him, but I promised Dr. Rice I wouldn't.

“Looking forward to it,” Dad says.

Over the long weekend, I try to obsess about the play rather than Peter, but it's no good. I can't stop thinking about our talk.

“He's so into you, Caddie,” Mandy says when I go to her house for a sleepover. “Don't stress it.”

“He thinks I'm crazy.”

“Of course you are,” she says.

I glare.

“Caddie, you won't let people touch your skin. That's crazy. But you've been that way since he met you—and he's into you.”

But Livia's more somber. “I don't know,” she says. “It's like you have a choice to make. Are you going to start something with him, or are you going to play it safe? I think Peter's starting to get scared that you're not going to choose him.”

We've circled our sleeping bags, a big bowl of popcorn in the middle. It's not so different from that seventh-grade slumber party at Mandy's, except this time I'm not hiding anything.

“I've chosen him,” I say. “I
want
to be with Peter.”

“Okay,” Livia says, but she sounds dubious.

“He knows how I feel.”

“Does he? Because sometimes you have to
show
it.”

She nibbles at a popcorn kernel demurely, taking the puffed part and leaving the shell. She's making a collection of them on her napkin—for an art project.

“It's not like I'm choosing to be afraid,” I say. “Peter knows if I weren't so afraid, I'd have my hands all over him.”

“Okay, but think of it like this,” Livia says. “What if a guy had to slay a dragon to be with you? How would you feel if he said, ‘Sorry, I can't, too afraid'?”

“That's fairy tale stuff.
And
it's sexist.”

“It's not necessarily sexist,” Livia says. “It's—”

Mandy cuts her off. “Livia, she's trying to distract you with feminism.” She turns to me and says, “Livia has a good point. Because it is a choice, right?”

“I'm not
choosing
to be afraid,” I say again.

“No, see, that's not the choice,” Livia says. “The
choice
is what you do
even though
you're afraid.”

I throw a popcorn kernel at her head.

She catches it in midair and starts dissecting it with her teeth, grinning at me all the while.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

Tech week begins on Monday with longer rehearsals focused less on acting and more on lights, sets, and sound. We're called every night this week until nine and won't even get a chance to run the show without stopping until Thursday.

That all makes me nervous but not as nervous as seeing Peter again does.

He approaches me casually at our lockers in the morning, says, “How you doing?”

“Okay. I'm a little stressed out about how we're supposed to do homework
and
prep for Ms. Avery's test on top of tech.”

“The academy strikes again. Hang in there,” he says, and rushes off even though we have plenty of time before first bell.

His voice was too light. It's as if instead of suggesting that I'm clinging to crazy, Peter asked whether my sniffles might be the first sign of a cold. And it's too friendly—even if we make up, what's waiting on the other side for us couldn't possibly be a kiss. We
might
be headed for a hug or a tousling of hair.

Peter's so genuine, I never thought things could feel this fake between us, but we're like two bad actors playing the part of friends.

Later in the week, I get up the nerve to approach him during a rehearsal break. He's doing the reading for history. “Are you mad?” I ask, low, and he looks up, holding his place.

He smiles. “I'm mad that I can't read more than two sentences before the words start blurring together.”

“I mean, are you mad
at me
?”

Peter closes the book. “Mad is not the right word.”

“But you're something.”

He sighs. “You weren't fair to me when we talked.”

“I know. I got defensive. You were trying to help.”

“Caddie, do you believe that I'm your friend?”

“Yes.”

“No matter what, I will be your friend. I may not understand everything you're going through, but I'm trying. I'm sorry if I've been acting weird. I wasn't sure if we were still fighting, or what we were even fighting about.”

“I know.”

“I'm sorry I suggested you were putting on an act for the play. That didn't come out right. I know it's more than that. I guess I was hoping—”

“It's okay. I'm sorry I got mad.”

He shakes off my apology. “I don't want to push you.”

Push me,
I want to say,
please, please, push me, and I'll fall into you.

But it's like Livia said—it has to be my choice to touch even though I'm afraid.

An hour before our first dress rehearsal, Livia and I sit in one of the tiny dressing rooms trying to figure out how to meet the “Nadia Hair Challenge.” Livia got a picture of a Ghanaian queen with her hair in huge twists supporting gold talismans. It looks regal but challenging. Mine is of a girl with so many twists and braids, her head looks like a maze.

“I don't think you can do that by yourself,” Livia says.

I run out of hair for my current braid, and it slips from my hand before I can pin it down. “I don't think I have enough hair anyway.”

Mandy swoops in, her face flushed.

“What's wrong?” I ask.

She crouches beside my chair and meets my eyes in the mirror.

“I need a pep talk.”

“What's going on?”

“It's Drew. We had another fight.”

“Oh, no,” says Livia, but Mandy shakes off her sympathy.

“It's nothing new. He's just begging me to dump him. I gave him an acting note
from Nadia
, and he called me a bitch, which he knows I
hate
, and I smacked him, which—not my proudest moment, I know—but then
he
said, ‘Walk away before I do something we'll both regret,' and I said, ‘What, like hit me? Dump me? Because I'm
this
close to dumping you,' and he said, ‘Just walk away. I'm too mad.'”

“So much drama,” says Livia.

“Right? I have to break up with him.”

“I'm so sorry, Mandy,” I say. I pet her shoulder, far from her neckline, but she meets my eyes in the mirror and smiles.

“Don't be sorry. It's for the best, right?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Yeah.” But she's making a doubtful face in the mirror. “I just keep thinking, if we could figure out how to not fight, or how to fight nicer, everything could be okay.”

She sighs and stands with her hands on her hips. “How goes it with Peter?”

“It doesn't,” I say, and start another braid. “I guess it's a little better. We sort of made up. I don't get why I can't let it go.” I shake my head. “Peter thinks I'm holding on to my fear to be better at playing Ophelia.”

Mandy looks at me in the mirror again. “That's dumb.”

“I know. She's like the opposite of me—she lets go of everything.”

“Except—”

“What?”

“Well, I don't think you're holding on to it to be better at playing Ophelia. And I don't think it's an act. Don't misunderstand.”

“But?”

“But I do think you're holding on to something. You're holding on so, so tight.”

I look to Livia, who's been focused on her hair in the mirror. She keeps working with her hair pick, but she nods. “It's in your face, Caddie. Relax your face for a second.”

I can't see what she means right away, but I take a breath, try to let all the tension go. My eyebrows are pinched, and I spread my fingers along them, try to make them relax. My eyes—there's the feel of a sigh at the corners; I have to blink them to keep them from tightening again. Another breath. And my mouth, I open it wide and gasp. It's like I'm drowning. All of a sudden I can't get enough air. I put my hands on the dressing table to hold myself steady, to push away that feeling of falling. I drop my head, hear myself make a whimpering sigh.

“Oh, God,” I say. I can't look at them.

“It's okay,” Livia says, and I feel her hand at my back before she touches me, not my skin, but she presses her palm to my shoulder blade. “It's going to be okay.”

I gasp again.

“Here, let it go. Breathe.”

I breathe out and take a shuddering breath in, trying to release the tension in my chest, shoulders, face. “I feel like I'm going to break apart into little pieces.”

“You won't,” Livia says. “You can't.”

“It's okay, Caddie,” says Mandy, my oldest friend. “We're here with you. You're not going anywhere.”

We sit like that for what feels like hours, me trying to breathe without squeezing my lungs in a vise, and the two of them waiting, Livia's hand a constant pressure at my back.

Footsteps make Mandy shift beside me.

“Is she . . . ?” It's a girl's voice, April.

“She's okay,” Mandy says. “She's just nervous.”

“I came to see if you need help with the hair.”

“We've got it,” Mandy says. “Thank you.”

There's a pause, and I can feel April looking at me with my head practically between my legs. “Caddie,” she says. “You're really good as Ophelia. It's normal to get nerves, but you don't have anything to worry about.”

The surprise allows me to pull it together. I lift my head. Already it's easier to breathe. “Thank you, April.” My voice sounds shaky, but it's a voice. “That's nice of you.”

“I'm not saying it to be nice,” she says. And she's gone.

The three of us hold still for a few seconds, testing the waters, and when I catch sight of them in the mirror, they both look concerned. Mandy's still crouched beside me looking ready to spring and catch me. Livia's hair is half out and half still in braids, a lopsided ‘fro. We all look completely bonkers, and at the same time we all bust out laughing.

Once we can keep straight faces again, I thank them, and Mandy swipes a pair of gloves for herself from the costume room—“If people see me, they'll think I caught your fashion trend”—and has my hair done in less than ten minutes. She goes for a curling iron to do the loose ends, but I say, “Thanks, I can do those myself if there's time. I have to make a phone call.”

“You've got less than half an hour till Nadia calls places, and you've still got to get dressed.”

“This won't take long.”

I grab my phone and jog through the downstairs halls, where a lot of the actors are already in costume. I pass Oscar and Hank going over the bit where they poison Laertes's sword. Hank is making a thing out of spreading the poison down the tip. “Caddie,” Oscar calls out as I pass, “can you help us get my sword wet?”

Normally Oscar's talk makes me anxious, but I'm full of abandon. Without slowing down I yell, “Sure can't, but I know where you can stick it!”

Hank's laugh bellows out and bounces after me. Mandy would be proud.

Most of the space below the theater is completely underground—no hope of getting a signal—but there's an exit at the back that leads to a small parking lot and the woods.

I'm afraid the door will lock behind me, so I kick off one of my sneakers and leave it as a doorstop. I must look ridiculous, hobbling with one sock foot in my jeans with my old-timey hair, but feeling ridiculous helps. A little crazy is right for this scene.

Dad doesn't usually pick up when I call, but I'll catch him off guard, calling when I'd normally be at rehearsal. He'll think there's some emergency. As it rings, over and over, I practice what I want to say: “You're making me feel crazy. I know you've said you're coming, but you never even pick up the phone when I call, so what am I supposed to think? I've been holding on to this idea that you might come back. I've been doing crazy things to make myself believe it, and I realize how stupid that is, that you're not coming back to live with us, but it's more than that. I'm not sure you're my dad anymore. Please show up and be my dad.”

Even as I'm rehearsing to scold him for failing to pick up the phone, I'm still surprised when he doesn't pick up. It still hurts.