But Lacie couldn’t do it without laughing. Looking so deeply into Leo’s eyes tripped her up. Or the violence did. Or me watching. Yes: me watching her kill undid her. Closer, I would say. Slower. Not that slow. Faster. Do it again. And she would giggle, or drop the knife; “Sorry, sorry,” she would say, stepping away and wiping her face.
Finally I said, “Let me do it.”
Silently she handed me the knife.
At this point in the play Adam thinks Eve is going to stay. He thinks he’s won. He is hiding the apple behind his back, and there’s a moment—I had explained this to them—when he realizes it’s too late, when his eyes register his mistake, but because he hesitates, she can get the knife in.
As I drew close, his chipped blue eyes sharpened. In his Chucks he was half a forehead taller than me, and his skin was an ivory white, with delicate blue veins underneath. He smelled of clove cigarettes, and, very faintly, the orange sherbet sold in the cafeteria.
I feinted. I stabbed. Up close his irises had a slow spoil of yellow. “Like that,” I said. “You’ve got to do it like that.”
There was fire in my palm. In that moment I had actually wanted him dead.
The night of the performance drew close. I kept asking about the costumes and Lacie kept saying “Don’t worry” in a way that made me think that I should. It occurred to me that I had never actually seen Lacie sew anything. We were six days away, and then four, and then two, and still nothing.
I was standing on the stage, going over the script with Nathan, a bored and pimply sophomore who had agreed to run the lights, when they emerged. Lacie was in a pale pink slip edged with lace; she looked like a Greek goddess, fierce and frilled. Leo, in black silk trousers, was simply debonair. How had she convinced him to go shirtless? Their feet were bare. They looked like refugees from a champagne lunch.
Staggering back, swooning, I cried, “Oh my God, Lacie, they’re beautiful, they’re awesome, how did you know? You’re a genius. When you picked out that fabric, I couldn’t see at all how—”
“You hated it.” Lacie smiled affectionately.
“Well, I was skeptical. But it’s perfect. And Leo—”
“Leo—”
He had wandered to the edge of the stage and now sat with his legs dangling, his dear bony spine curved. We exchanged knowing smirks.
“He’s perfect too,” I declared, and for once Lacie didn’t shrug off the compliment. Her whole face a rush of pleasure as together we looked at her boy.
* * *
—
Of the performance itself I remember very little, only the darkness of the auditorium and the blue-black stage coldly lit, the air smeary with the warm fuzz of listening bodies, and the way, when my play began, my heart dropped like a hanged man.
Never had I felt so violently in love with both of them. Sick with need, I watched, feeling something of what a gambler must feel watching his horse round the track, the soft, urgent moaning of Oh, please, the prayer: Dear God, just get it done.
And they did. They filled the bare, pockmarked stage with their long grace, and when they fought it was glorious: sneers and cruelties, Leo’s pale rib cage flashing as he yelled, and Lacie with her crown of braided hair, circling and circling, trying to find a way out.
When she stuck the knife in him, no one laughed. The woman beside me shook her head. Like the sea the audience flowed away from me. They had been on Eve’s side—they had thought her feisty, and laughed at her insults—but they hadn’t wanted Adam to die.
Afterward, when our principal was introducing me to a school-board member, distaste blinked across the man’s face before he blandly, warmly shook my hand. My sickness twisted; my jelly guts were exposed. Was this what it meant to write?
I wanted to see Lacie and Leo. I wanted to give them their flowers; I wanted to be swept up in their hugs. The school-board guy kept talking; then my mom wanted some pictures. By the time I escaped the clutch of grown-ups, I was frantic to find them.
They were at the end of the hall, back by the music classroom. Overjoyed, I hurried over, and even when I heard Leo say, “Why are you trying to cut off my balls, babe?” the sly jokiness in his voice stopped me from realizing what was going on.
“Guys!” I exclaimed. “You were amazing! So good!” I hugged each of them in turn, but their bodies were as stiff as boards. “Here, I brought you flowers.”
Their faces were shiny with cold cream, and stoic like masks; I pushed first one, then another bouquet of lilies into their hands, which they accepted without looking away from each other.
“Guys?” I said. “What’s going on?”
Darkly Lacie said, “Leo doesn’t want to go to the Art Night party.”
“Oh, no! Come!” I pleaded, and made a joke of pulling on his arm, but he shook me off without his eyes leaving Lacie’s, and that’s when I realized they were in deep.
“You always do this.” There was iron in his voice.
“I don’t ‘always’ do anything.” Something patient, long-suffering, in hers.
“Yes, you do.” He gestured angrily, and that’s when I really should have left, but I didn’t. “You just want me to be your stupid fucking doll!” he snapped.
“Oh, fuck off, Leo. Mr. Cowan wants everyone to come. I’m just trying to help you be polite.”
“No, you’re not, okay? You’re just trying to control me, just like your mother tries to control your dad, okay? And it’s fucking pathetic. You think I’m your little plaything.”
There was another beat as we all stood in stunned silence. A strange huffing sound filled the air—Lacie was trying not to cry. I put a hand on her back.
“Excuse me,” she gasped, shaking me off, and there was something touching in her formality, something poignant in her footsteps as she hurried down the hall. A weird power ticked through my veins. You think I’m your little plaything was a line from my play.
“Fuck!” he shouted at her retreating form. “She was my fucking ride!”
I stepped closer. There was no one else around. “I got you.”
When we reached Leo’s house Stevie Wonder was on the radio. I turned off the engine and together we listened to “Lovin’ Cup.” Tonight there was something obscene in the swerve of Stevie’s voice. Leo bounced his fingers off the car door.
After the song he thanked me for the ride. But he didn’t get out. I pictured the tiny huff of Lacie’s back as she left us. “Well, so are you happy?” he asked abruptly.