“Who made you the phone police?” Mason asked him with a grin, but he put his phone away a minute later, before reaching behind me to tug at one of my braids, clearly trying to make me loosen up.
“Ow!” I said, and Jase started laughing. “I’m not in the mood for your crap, Mase. Seriously.”
He put both his hands up like he was under arrest. “My bad, Baker.”
God, boys were so annoying.
Music began to swell and I trained my eyes on the stage. “Shut it. It’s starting.”
In the dark of the auditorium, sandwiched between Mason and Jase, I could easily pretend that everything was fine—that I was just a normal girl at a school play with friends. But seeing Layla up onstage when there was a whole theater between us felt like a sign, or at least a metaphor: there was an impossible distance between us, a tear in the fabric of who we were to each other, a displacement of what and where we used to be. Things would never be as they were again.
When Layla came out onstage, I sat up a little straighter, and for almost an entire act, she was absolutely flawless. She flirted with Trey Parsons, the kid playing George Bailey, slapping him across the chest and fluttering her eyelashes. They sang a song and I could feel how surprised the audience was at the power and clarity of Layla’s voice.
“Damn, she’s good,” Jase whispered, and I didn’t know how to feel. Part of me was enjoying the show, and I couldn’t help but feel happy in the way you always do when you’re wrapped up in a story. Maybe a small part of me was proud of Layla too, despite our ongoing problems. But dark thoughts about the Chorus Girls and all that had happened between us snuck in and hovered over everything like a shadow. I crossed my arms and kept watching.
Layla stepped forward to deliver her next line.
“George Bailey, you are some t-t-t-t—t.”
She stuttered even though she was using her singsong, smooth-speech voice.
“Oh no,” I muttered. Sweat pricked along my spine and my heart picked up speed. She tried again.
“George Bailey, you sure are some ta-t-t-t-t—”
Then people started whispering, and it sounded like a soft wind sweeping through trees.
“Fuck” is what Mason whispered. He shoved his hands into his messy brown hair. “Fuck.”
Then Layla got blocked. “George Bailey, you are some—” she started, but her mouth just flopped open and shut like she was a beached fish. She was trying to talk, but her voice was stuck somewhere deep inside her throat, and when she got like this she had to relax in order to get her voice back.
But how do you relax under hot stage lights, in full makeup, with a hundred classmates and strangers staring at you?
“No,” I said again, and then, “Shit.” I wanted to do something because this was exactly what I’d wished on her. It was exactly what I’d feared. Jase shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
I didn’t think it could get any worse once she was standing there, frozen. But then it did. Someone in the audience shouted, “You sure are some t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t,” in a high, mean voice and a few people even laughed.
Layla’s eyes went wider than they already were—huge and round and frightened. She was a deer in headlights, a kid whose recurring nightmare was coming true. A moment later a teacher rushed down the side aisle looking for the culprit, and someone else said, “Shut up, asshole,” but the damage had already been done.
Trey Parsons cleared his throat and whispered something to Layla that shook her out of her frozen state. She took a step away from him, swiped a quick thumb under her eyes, and said, “George Bailey, you are some talker.”
She pretty much sang the whole sentence, though I was almost certain it was supposed to be a spoken line. Then Trey said, “It’s not just talk, Mary,” and they were back on track.
But my heart still skipped a beat every time she had to speak for the rest of the show. And whenever I looked over, I could see Mason gripping his armrest like it was the edge of a lifeboat.
* * *
—
I went looking for her after the show. I didn’t know if she wanted to be found, but I felt like I had to make sure she was okay. She probably hated me, but some things, like public humiliation on what’s supposed to be the best day of your life, were more important than everything else. Especially after what I’d said. I suddenly wanted her to know I hadn’t meant it. I needed to say I was sorry for that, if nothing else. I waved goodbye to Jase, and though Mason had flowers for Layla, I knew she wouldn’t be rushing into his arms anytime soon.
I found her exactly where I thought she’d be, in the very corner of the library where I went whenever I wanted to hide. She was sobbing and alone.
“Lay?” I said softly. I heard a faint buzzing, but I didn’t know where it was coming from. I leaned against the nearest shelf and kept some distance between us. “Are you—”
“Are you happy?” she hissed, cutting me off. “I bet you’re ec-c-cstatic right now.”
I frowned and shifted a little farther away. “Of course, I’m not happy, Layla. I was coming to apologize. And to make sure you’re okay.”
She stood up and swiped her sleeve across her eyes, smearing her makeup so much that she didn’t look like herself anymore. I heard the buzzing again and I wondered if there was someone else, one aisle over in the stacks, texting or getting a call.
“You’re apologizing now?” she asked.
“I wanted to do it sooner, but after Sloane…”
Layla crossed her arms. When she spoke again she mostly sounded exhausted. “But after Sloane wh-wh-wh-what, Cleo? You say that…that awful thing t-t-to me and then you say nothing else? For weeks?”
“You let Sloane and all those other girls say awful things to me!” I countered. “And you said nothing to me for weeks either! Not to mention all the stuff that happened before that. Leaving me behind. Leaving me out. You’ve been leaving me bit by bit for months. So don’t pretend this is all my fault. It isn’t, Layla. And you fucking know it.”
I was breathing heavily when I finished talking, my chest moving quickly up and down. I hadn’t planned to say all that, but once it was out, I realized it had been building for forever. And it was all true.
There was also so much about my life now that she didn’t even know. At this very moment, my father was unpacking boxes in a different apartment and it felt like nothing would ever be the same again with us or with my family. I hadn’t gotten into the Shakespeare program, and I felt inadequate in every way a person could. I was lost in my own life, and I didn’t know how to get found.