A Season for Fireflies (10 page)

“I'm okay,” I say once I get inside.

“What happened?”

“A spasm,” I say, and I can't walk fast enough, especially with the weakness in my right foot. I use my heel to limp a bit more quickly.

“What was that on her skin?” I hear Eve say as the doors close.

Rattled and vibrating, my abs shake as I keep on down the hall.

May slows at my side, falling a few steps behind. I can't look her in the face either.

“Penny . . .” she says finally, falling behind. “Should I walk you?”

I'm so tired of pity.

“I'm fine,” I say, knowing I'm not going to the nurse's office. Nope. I'm going the only place where my life still makes a shred of sense.

THE DOOR TO THE AUDITORIUM CLOSES SLOWLY
behind me. I must have looked so stupid hobbling out of the outside cafeteria. What kind of person attempts to run when they have a limp that actually prevents them from moving with any kind of speed? I collapse down in a chair at the end of the last row. I throw my books to the floor so they slam and the sound echoes in the vacant and dark auditorium. There is a ghost light in the center of the stage. Taft does this whenever there is a show about to go up. It's a single light bulb on a stand to prevent anyone from falling in the dark. I pull my planner from last year out of my backpack. I flip it open even though my hand still throbs.

Wow.

Every event and date from May through August is color-coded. Blue for school commitments, green for extracurricular, and red for Kylie. I gave Kylie her own
color
? I flip back to the month of May. In nearly every box, I scheduled my day, and it's all the same: gym, track, and Kylie's house. If it's the summer it's gym, beach, and Kylie's house. The words “beach,” “pool,” and “party” are written everywhere in my unmistakable red print. When the hell did I become this anal? Nowhere, not even when I flip back to January, does it mention anything about Wes, May, or any play.

What. The. Hell. Happened?

I flip through the green and red sections, which seem to be the most common colors of the whole planner. I look through the pockets of the planner, check the notes, but the only thing I seemed to care about from May until now was going out with Kylie, parties, and occasional mentions of homecoming.

I flip to the last page of notes and stop. My Common App username and password are scribbled, and then beneath it:

    
1.
Bates

    
2.
Skidmore

    
3.
Bowdoin

In small letters at the bottom of the page is: NYU?

These can't be the schools I am applying to, can they? It's not possible. I would have chosen schools with a specialized theater conservatory. Sure, some of them have decent acting schools, but that's not their focus. All I've wanted to do my whole life is be an actress.

The door behind me opens.

“I think we're going to split the stage in half, at least initially.”

I scoot down in my seat and hold my breath. It's Wes.

“When did you get into set design?”

With a
girl.

“A couple of years ago I made a planetarium for a friend of mine. Taft saw it and asked me to start designing stuff for our plays.”

“You built a
planetarium
for someone? That's so sweet.”

Wow, I would have liked to see Wes make something like that. I wonder who he made it for, and part of me feels jealous that it wasn't for me.

He munches on an apple or something crunchy and they walk down the farthest aisle of the auditorium. I'm stuck in here now and there is no way in hell I'm letting them know I'm listening.

“That's where we're going to hang Titania's bower. Taft is nearly jumping up and down about that.”

The girl giggles. I'd like to slap her. “What's a bower?” she asks, and I roll my eyes. Wes is too good for this girl. Their feet echo on the stage and Wes points at the ceiling.

“It's like a private room, but it's up in a tree.” He laughs. “It sounds really stupid.”

“She's a fairy?” she asks.

“Yeah, but a powerful one.”

It's quiet for a second and I dare to scoot up in my seat to see what they are doing. The girl reaches for Wes's hand. She's
tall with long blond hair, and I don't recognize her, even though I can't exactly see, as her face is cast in shadow. I have to press on the armrest to get a good look. My hand is still sore from the incident outside. Wes takes her hand and because it's only ghost lighting, it's all shadows when she leans into his chest. Their profiles are highlighted against the scenery, and I think they might kiss. My stomach clenches. His face is tilted down toward hers. Ugh, I can't look away.

Everything is copper in my mouth. I lean hard against the auditorium seats. It makes my skin burn, but I don't stop.

Their faces meet with a kiss, just for a moment, but the girl laughs, so they pull apart.

“Want to see the set designs?” he asks, and he leads the girl backstage. I know there is a door on the other side of the theater that lets out into the hallway, near the gym. Not even the auditorium is a safe place for me anymore.

I get up and walk to the double doors at the top of the auditorium aisle. Before I step outside, I run through the last few days with my old friends. I've been going about this
all
wrong. I've been asking May to tutor me, hitching rides from Panda, and saying weak hellos in the hallway. I've been being all awkward and sneaky.

I turn to the hazy lit stage. In my head I am on that stage as Beatrice, I am with my friends, laughing and horsing around during rehearsals. I don't know why I didn't think of doing this earlier.

I am going to try out for
Midsummer
. To hell with saying sorry every other minute if no one is going to forgive me. If they
won't come to me
—fine.
I'll go to them.

I press my back against the auditorium door and enter the hallway. I stalk, as much as I can with a limp, down the hall, my jaw clenched. The buzz in my stomach keeps me going to Ms. Taft's office. I pass Kylie, Eve, Lila, and Tank in a small group by Kylie's locker.

I don't even look over.

“Penny, you okay?” Tank calls in his booming voice.

But I keep going around the corner.

There's usually a metal bin outside Taft's office with audition scripts, but it's empty now. I check the poster on the wall again—September 28th. That's tomorrow.

I knock on the door, but when I peek in the window, no one's at the desk. Damn it. I'll just have to try later in the day. With a glance down the hall, I see that Wes and the girl, who is nearly as tall as he is, are farther down the hallway. They turn a corner, I assume to walk to class. I want to know about Wes's life again. I hate that I'm jealous of her—I know him better than she does. And the only way I'm going to get near him with any kind of regularity is by doing what I love—acting.

I'm definitely coming back later.

Definitely.

I email Taft about getting a script for auditions, but when I check my phone on the way home from a neuro appointment after school, there's no word back. Bettie drives me home, and when she stops in the driveway there's another car I don't recognize next to my parents'. When I open the door, Mom's voice echoes
from the living room. I check for Bettie but she's heading down the road.

“Well, you know, it's actually been quite difficult. Even though the Alice Berne name is on the banner of most of our events, and while I trust my team endlessly, I've missed being the commander in chief,” Mom says.

I frown, stepping into the kitchen, catching the look on my face in the reflection of the oven. I shake my head to rid it of that terrible expression. Through the doorway and across the foyer is the living room, where a blond journalist nods. I think I've seen her before. She might be on TV but I can't be sure.

“But, you know,” Mom says with an exaggerated sigh, “when the Cenberry family saw Penny's story run in the news last week, they contacted me yesterday to see how she was, and one thing led to another and they asked me to plan their daughter's two-million-dollar wedding. So it looks like I've been rehired.”

I haven't heard Mom's business voice in a long time. A chill runs through me at her tone, and I press my back against the kitchen counter.

“Officially reinstated as commander in chief?” the journalist asks.

“Well, no, but I am in negotiations with my old team now.”

“Who wouldn't take an opportunity like that?” the journalist asks, and there's the clink of glassware.

I check for bottles; I peek at the wine fridge too—it's still empty. Mom's good tea from France is on the counter. It's barely three thirty, but that's never stopped her before.

I back toward the kitchen door, the way I came in.

“Now, I didn't want to mention this, Mrs. Berne, but I think the readers of
Rhode Island Magazine
will want to know about your side of the Best Of Rhode Island incident and your twelve-week stay at the Bellevue Rehab Facility.”

I grip the door handle. Rehab center?

“Of
course
,”
she says. “I am willing to admit that it was a very dark time for me.”

“Is all of this—
in the past
?” the journalist says, speaking in a concerned saccharine whisper.

“Oh yes. I had some soul-searching to do.”

“What about Penny? Has she helped you?”

“Oh, you know, she does. But Penny is . . . different. A dramatic child. She always loved the spotlight.”

“Is she back in the theater?” the journalist adds. I make a closed fist around my house keys. I'm almost at the kitchen door.

Mom went to rehab. That's horrible.

“Alice!” Dad calls from the basement. “If you want to meet with Laney at the restaurant, you should go in fifteen minutes. I'm almost out the door myself!”

“Of course, dear!” Mom calls back.

Of course, dear?

Mom launches into an explanation of Dad's newest invention.

With my back against the kitchen door, I close my eyes and exhale. In the darkness behind my closed eyes, an image flashes:

I am gripping a cell phone. An empty wine bottle rolls across the kitchen floor.

I gasp and my eyes fly open to a flickering vanilla candle on the stove. The image sifts away so it's not as clear as it was a
second ago. I know it's not entirely familiar, what I am seeing in my head, but I can still remember and
that's
something.

“Penny has shown real growth in the last year. Once she stopped acting, she became much more ambitious and serious about her studies. She was delightful onstage, such a star, but she's much more focused on her future now.”

Yeah, I was in the library all the time to get away from you.
The thought just rips through my head and I know it's absolutely true. If I was studying at Kylie's or in the library then I didn't have to be here.

My body seems to be reacting for my mind. I take out my cell and text Panda.

I'm going to try out for this play and not tell Mom a single thing.

Me: Where you at?

PANDA: Sev.

I edge the door closed behind me and step back outside.

My physical therapist would do leaps of happiness because I walk all the way to the 7-Eleven at the end of Cowesett Road, five whole blocks away. Despite the fact that the 7-Eleven claims to close at eleven, they actually close at twelve thirty. True to form, I find Panda smoking a cigarette outside.

He stands next to a picnic table with a group of guys I don't know very well, and when he sees me he waves and hangs up his cell phone. Richard sits in front of him at the table and leans on an elbow to speak more intently to Luke, one of the guys that hangs out in the computer lab a lot. I think he helped me with a document format one time freshman year. Through the smoke,
Panda waves me over. Once I step to his side, I can hear the conversation more clearly.

“I'm sorry but the special edition makes
sense
,” Richard says. He has on a button-down shirt like usual. His thick-framed glasses are dark red today. I'm happy to see he still changes out his glasses all the time.

“Han wouldn't have shot Greedo,” Panda says, and rests a hand on Richard's shoulder.

“Are you guys talking about . . .
Star Wars
?” I ask. At first, I think there are twinkle lights above the table, but it's dozens of fireflies batting about. Every once in a while someone has to swat a couple out of the way.

“Penny, Han Solo isn't a killer, he's got a conscience. Am I right?” Richard says, and I'm impressed he thinks I would know, which I do. Dad and I love those movies.

“He's a pirate,” I say. “He's motivated by money.”

This sends half of the table into an uproar and the other half applauds me. A guy I don't recognize says, “See! Even
Penny Berne
knows.”

I bristle. Even
Penny
knows—a girl like
me—
whoever that is.

“‘Smuggler' would be the appropriate term. Only Lando calls him a pirate,” says Thomas Weston, a guy I knew in middle school. I'm pretty sure he's rolling a joint.

“You've walked into dangerous territory, Penny,” Panda says.

“I actually came to talk to you,” I say lightly, pulling at his T-shirt, which tonight has a logo of the Circle K convenience store on it.

“Moi?”

“Oui,” I reply. “Want to get a Slurpee? My treat.”

“Hey, Penny!” Thomas calls. I turn. “We heard you have some tattoos or something. From the strike.” His eyes dart to his buddies at the table. Richard even twists to me. “Is it true?”

They don't seem grossed out and they aren't acting like Eve, who whispered about me when I walked by her today on the way to English class. Of course, Kylie said nothing in my defense. I push up one of the sleeves of my hoodie.

“They're called Lichtenberg figures,” I say.

“It's fucked up,” Richard whispers. “But they're awesome. What are they?”

As usual, I explain, “They're like bruises. From where the lightning hit the skin. They were supposed to go away right away, but they didn't. So I'm kind of a science experiment.”

“Wild!” Thomas says. He had stood up to get a look at my skin, but sits back down.

“You're like a piece of art,” Richard says.

I'm surprised how much I like the attention, but I came here for a purpose.