“But Macbeth still made certain choices that led to that end, right? I mean, he had the power to change if not what happened, at least the way it did. There’s no way you think that free will is nonexistent and that the universe dictates everything, like we’re puppets.”
I shrug. “All I know is there are signs littered throughout the text that makes it read as if fate is running the show, not Macbeth. So.” I flip open the notebook we brought up with us. “I think you should start by arguing that—”
I feel my phone buzz, and I reach into the pocket of Dom’s sweatshirt to grab it. “Sorry,” I say. “It’s probably my mom.”
I ignore her call. Then I ignore the next one. By the third time it starts to vibrate, I realize she won’t stop unless I answer, but I try silencing it one last time. Dom gets curious. He leans over and tries to look at my screen. “Excuse you,” I say to him. I push the phone back into the pocket of the sweatshirt.
“Something important?” Dom asks. And I shake my head. I swallow and look back at the notebook, but I’ve forgotten what we were talking about or why I’m even holding the pen. I know I’ll have a fight waiting for me when I get home because I’m technically still “grounded.” Dom scoots his café chair forward, and the noise of it scraping the floor slices through the silence. When I look up he’s much closer to the table. Much closer to me. The scents of soap and incense are stronger.
“I read somewhere that for every lie someone tells they get a freckle,” he says, and I know he’s teasing, trying to make me laugh, but I still reach up and cover my speckled face with my hands.
“Shut up,” I say. “You know you’ve never heard that before.” I peek at him through my fingers. He’s grinning, and I want to forget about my mom’s calls. I want to forget about this stupid Shakespeare paper and just talk to Dom for the rest of the night about anything we want. But then my phone starts buzzing again.
When I pick up, my Mom says, “Where are you, Cleo?”
I don’t want to tell her. I don’t want her to know that I’m on a chilly rooftop with a nearly perfect boy, who is smart and funny and who likes to cook and read. I don’t want to tell her that tonight is the first time I’ve felt genuinely happy in weeks.
“I’m on my way home now,” I say, instead of a single word of truth. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
I hang up and look at Dom. I jot down a few quick notes based on what we talked about, and then I thrust the notebook at him. “Sorry, I have to go. Text me if you have questions, though, okay?”
I start walking toward the door that leads back into the house.
“You were wrong about the stars,” he calls after me. I look back at him, even though my mother is waiting. I don’t want to go home, so it isn’t difficult for me to let Dom’s voice hold me in place.
“I get it,” I say. “Our will governs our fate. Macbeth’s ambition ruined him, not the prophecy, right? We’ll have to agree to disagree. But I want to read your paper when it’s done. I hope you don’t have to stay up all night.” I turn to leave again.
“Nah, Cleo. I’m not talking about that.” He stands up and takes a few steps forward, closing the space between us. He reaches out and touches the tips of his fingers to a few random places on my face: above my left eyebrow, atop my right cheekbone, just below my bottom lip. I know he’s pointing to some of my darkest freckles. I slap his hand away, and he laughs.
“These are the pretty little lies,” he says. “Not the stars.” His eyes leave mine and seem to land on the lower part of my face, close to what can only be my mouth. My lips part, and so do his.
“I gotta go,” I say, and I run down his stairs and out of his house as quickly as I can.
PRICELESS PEOPLE
When I get home, my mom is waiting up for me. She calls me into her bedroom and grills me about school and why I didn’t come home right away. I settle on the bed beside her to tell her about tutoring. She’s instantly less angry. Maybe even impressed.
“Well, I asked you to take an active interest in your future and you really came through.” She grips my chin and wiggles my head a little, and that small gesture warms me to her. “I know you have it in you; that’s why it drives me so crazy anytime you do something that doesn’t live up to your potential.”
She takes a deep breath and sits up a little straighter. “I had a long talk with your father,” she says.
I hold my breath, nervous about what she’ll say next. I look through her dark window and listen to the growing and fading siren of an ambulance as it approaches and passes our building. Whenever she talks about Daddy, her eyes get so sad.
“He told me that you’ve been having a hard time at school because of something that happened between you and Layla?”
I study my fingers—the rings I’m wearing and my chipped nail polish—instead of looking up at her. “Yeah. We’re not really friends anymore,” I say simply. I somehow manage to keep most of the pain—and rage—out of my voice. “And I don’t really want to get into the details of why. I just want to move on with my life. And get over it.”
But I can’t when I’m going to have to tutor her, I suddenly realize. I can’t erase someone who insists on writing all over my life in ink. And I feel that weight settle on my chest again. I feel powerless against the stars and how they continue to thrust Layla and me together.
Mom puts her hand on one of my knees and I flare my nostrils to keep the onslaught of tears I feel building at bay. The gesture is so gentle and honest that it makes me want to call her Mommy, like I did when I was little, because even though we fight all the time she can always tell when I’m close to crying. For a second, I want to tell her everything.
“I know what it’s like,” she says too softly, “to lose your best friend.” And her voice has a familiar darkness to it. I know she’s talking about Daddy.
“Do you think it’s worth it,” I say a little hesitantly, because I haven’t talked to Mom, really talked to her, in forever, and this isn’t even a question I’ve allowed myself to entertain inside my own head. She closes the laptop that had been open in her lap this whole time, so I know she’s really listening. “Do you think it’s worth it to try to make things right? I was reading all this stuff over the weekend about apologies, and friendship dissolution, shame, and vulnerability, and it all seems so overwhelming. So overly complicated.”
She lets out a heavy sigh.
“You’re a smart girl, Cleo, but sometimes you rely too much on your head instead of your heart. This may not be something a book will help you navigate.”