Like It Never Happened (28 page)

O
ver winter break
,
a series of taxing discussions with my parents ended in the decision that I would not return to Bickford Park Alternative School. They agreed to let me transfer to a similar school across the river, with the same academic standards and student-teacher ratio. Starting in January, I would be a west-sider.

I was happy, if slightly terrified, that the new school's website advertised their performing arts program. I had decided that I wanted to get back onstage as soon as possible. Next year was my last year of high school, and I needed to add as many performances to my résumé
as possible before applying to college. I had this idea
that I would view my new costars as colleagues. Their friendship, if it even existed, would be secondary to my passion for the stage.

Of course, I had told myself that before.

On the last day of the year, I met Mary and Jeffrey at a Thai restaurant on Hawthorne Boulevard. Jeffrey didn't say a lot during dinner, but he seemed amused enough listening to Mary and me banter like sisters. On my way home, I stopped at the Lucky Stars Mart for Rolos.

And, of course, he couldn't have been
trying
to run into me. It wasn't like I went to the Lucky Stars Mart at every available moment. The chances were actually very slim that we would go at the same time.

But also, he obviously wasn't trying to avoid me either.

I recognized him from behind. He was standing at the counter paying for a gallon of wiper fluid. My heart raced—from excitement or fear, from love or attraction, or just because he was the only person on earth I was forbidden to see. And I was definitely seeing him.

I moved slowly toward the candy aisle, giving him plenty of time to turn and notice me. I was sure that he had, but when I got in line behind him, he just kept punching numbers into the debit machine.

Was this the extent of his plan? Was he going to ignore me? I felt suddenly like the entire course of my life depended on this moment. Like his inattention might actually break my heart in some permanent way. It didn't even make sense.

Turning on his heel, Mr. McFadden faced me. “I am moving to Tacoma,” he announced, like we were in the middle of a conversation. “That's in Washington.”

“I know where Tacoma is,” I said.

“I am going to be”—he winced dramatically—“the choir director.”

“I didn't know you could sing.” I blushed. Why would I know whether he could or could not sing? Why would I know anything about him? He was my teacher.

“For the record . . .” He looked around nervously, like the old man behind the counter might actually care what we were saying.

There were questions I thought he might answer. Like what if I had been older and he had been younger? Or if I had been smarter and he had been straight? Or maybe, if he had to pick a student with whom to have a completely made-up affair, wouldn't he have picked me?

Of course, he didn't answer any of those. “You were the best Blanche DuBois I have ever seen,” he finished.

And then he pushed through the doors. Cold air rushed in to replace him. For a second I stood frozen, imagining a scene ten years from now: Mr. McFadden in New York City, waiting in line beneath a marquee flashing—

“Can I help you?” The shopkeeper looked concerned. I still hadn't paid for the candy in my hand.

“Yeah.” I smiled like a crazy person, and delivered Blanche DuBois's final line: “I've always depended on the kindness of strangers.”

I would like to thank my agent, Susan Ginsburg, for her encouragement and expertise, and for always knowing what to do; my wonderful editor, Namrata Tripathi, for lending her insight and sense of humor to this story; and Stacy Testa of Writers House, for working so tirelessly, and answering all my questions, all the time.

I am also grateful to my parents, Robert and Ellen Adrian, and to my parents-in-law, Lori Finsterwald and Peter Schillinger, for their love and support.

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