A Season for Fireflies (11 page)

“Slurpee?” I say to Panda, and back away from the table.

As we head inside, Richard cries, “But if Han shoots first that makes him a cold-blooded killer!”

When we push inside, Carl, the manager, is counting money behind the counter.

“You kids need hobbies,” he says, and glances up quickly.

“My hobby is my intellect, Carl. Hey, I'm auditioning for another play, you gonna come see it? Lord knows my own parents won't.”

“Who says you'll get a part?”

“Oh come on, Carl. Have a little faith,” Panda says with mock hurt.

Carl raises an eyebrow. “Is it going to be another musical? It took me a month to get
Oklahoma
out of my head. And then I saw that . . .” He snaps his fingers, searching for the word with a roll of his hand, except clenched in his fingers is a wad of twenty-dollar bills.

“Oedipus Rex,”
Panda fills in for him.

“Oh god. The chorus with the masks!” he cries. I didn't realize that Panda and Carl knew one another in any other way than just surly 7-Eleven owner and customer. But the way they are talking, Carl seems more like a friend, a coach. I wonder if it's because Panda's relationship with his parents has gotten even worse in the past year. I wish I could have been there for him more than just that one day with his dad. Maybe we all go through stuff we don't want other people to know about. I'm just glad he has Carl. Even if Carl is kind of a grouch.

“No masks,” Panda says. “But it's Shakespeare! It's a classic.”

“If the Lightning Strike Girl is in it,” he grumbles, and motions to me, “maybe. You know,
if
I can clear my schedule.”

“How did you . . .” I begin, but he nods to the newspapers lining the front of his counter. The local papers have had front-page stories about me for days.

“You're a gentleman and a scholar, Carl,” Panda says, and follows me to the Slurpee machine. “And don't forget the recommendation you said you would write. For the job at OSTC this summer?”

“Only if you agree not to wear that T-shirt in here again,” Carl grumbles, motioning to Panda's Circle K shirt. I bet he wore it just to annoy Carl.

“I asked you for a 7-Eleven T-shirt, but you still haven't delivered.”

“Eleven ninety-nine,” Carl says, and gestures to the T-shirts displayed on the wall.

“Come on, Carl! The rec! You already said yes.”

“You know I will,” he grumbles, and licks his fingers to start counting again.

“You old softy,” he says, and follows me to the Slurpee machine.

Panda brings his hand to his chin and taps it with his index finger. “Hmmm,” he says. “Decisions, decisions.” I grab a medium cup and pour a Dr Pepper Slurpee.

“I would have pegged you for a Crystal Light girl,” Panda says, and pours a Raspberry Slurpee.

“I think there's a lot you don't know about me,” I say. “Maybe that's my fault.”

“Oh, I'm willing to bet you're right,” he says.

I'm looking at the Slurpee levers when I say, “I want to change. I'm trying. It's weird—not knowing who I've been. Maybe I've never been sure—even before the strike.”

“I know, Berne,” says Panda. “I told you. I'm here for you.”

I pay for both of our Slurpees and we head outside. When I place my bag down, something catches Panda's eye. He uses his index finger to widen the front pocket of my bag and peer inside.

Then he slips out a pack of cigarettes.

“What?” I say, and pull out the little pocket to see inside, except it's empty. “I don't smoke. I've never smoked.”

“Guess that's not true.”

We sit down on the curb in front of the store. I want to know if he has any updates on May, but I don't want to sound like I only came here for information. I also want the script. I guess wanting things from people and not giving anything back makes you kind of a jerk. I don't have anything to offer him.

“For fuck's sake,” Panda says. “At least give me a damn lighter if you're going to take forever to tell me what you came here for.” He swipes my bag and roots around, pulling out a bright green lighter. “Don't look at me all surprised,” he says. “It's
your
bag.” I ran through the various times I had used the bag over the last week or so. I would never think that I would have cigarettes in my possession. I
hate
smoking.

“Keep it,” I say, wondering how I even became a smoker in the first place. Gross.

I try to find a way to start this sure-to-be awkward conversation, and focus on the asphalt. Panda told me that morning he drove me to school that I keep my feelings from people. That I hide. I don't
feel
like I do. And if I do, I don't want to be that person anymore. “I was hoping you could make good on what you said,” I finally say. “About helping me?”

“What's up?”

“I fell down in the cafeteria because I had a hand spasm, and May walked me down the hall. It was all sorts of awkward. Our tutoring session was . . . weird.”

“Hey, who do you think convinced her to be your tutor?” He sips his Slurpee loudly and grins.

“You?”

“When the counselor asked her, she almost said no. I mean, she wanted to say no.” My heart drops. I sort of imagined in my head that she said yes because deep down, May
wanted
to be my tutor.

“What? You have a look on your face,” Panda says. “All I asked her was if the situation reversed, if she lost her memory and the only person she wanted to be with one-on-one was you, would she want you to show?”

I'm touched by his loyalty.

“I reminded her what you did for me too,” he adds.

“I wish I could remember.”

“You will, Berne,” he says with a heavy exhale of cigarette smoke. I decide to tell Panda what I heard tonight in the kitchen. It's safe here with the fireflies and lazy traffic pulling up and down Cowesett Road.

“Did you know my mom went to rehab?” I try to read his expression.

“Yeah,” he says. “Everyone knew. I don't think I ever heard you talk about it though.”

“Was that why I quit theater?”

“I don't know why you quit. None of us do. I mean, we figured it had to do with your mom, but you wouldn't say anything. And I guess May tried to confront you for lying, but you blew her off. Kylie would tell off anyone who pushed you too hard about it. You weren't the most approachable I've ever seen you.”

I shake my head at the parking lot and the endless number of fireflies in the air.

“What about Kylie? She said something about her car breaking down, but it doesn't explain the timeline.”

Carl comes out of the Sev with a flyswatter.

“Damn bugs are a menace,” he says, and bats at the fireflies.

“It's a fruitless endeavor,” Panda says. He tries to capture a bug between his thumb and index finger but misses.

A Channel Six news van pulls into the lot and the driver gets out to walk into the Sev.

“Seeing a lot of those bastards driving around chasing the bug story,” Panda says. “I heard my dad saying it. The two major universities are bringing in entomologists from all over the world.”

I bat one out of the way that bobs between Panda and me.

When we're alone again, he says, “I guess you helped Kylie when her old Corolla broke down. After that, you guys hung out all the time. I saw you at Tank's parties. You guys wore each other's clothes—it was weird. It was like you changed overnight. You stopped being super outgoing. Quiet even.”

“In that order?”

“Hell, I don't know!”

Carl knocks on the glass and motions for us to move.

“You love us, Carl!” Panda calls back. Carl rolls his eyes and goes back to cashing out the register. Instead, Panda lights up another cigarette.

“You were different all of a sudden,” he says. “Callous. Kind of icy. And before, you were—” He looks me up and down. “Well, kind of like how you are now.”

“Which is how?” I sit up straighter at this.

“Funny, loud, you're not afraid to jump into conversations. But you became really . . . weird. Like Kylie's icy, detached sidekick. You made fun of May at a party in front of Kylie's crew.”

I put my face in my hands and groan.

“Why would I do that?”

“Look, forget it,” Panda says, trying to backtrack. “Who needs details?”

“It doesn't even sound like me.”

Panda exhales and says, “It felt like it
wasn't
you.” He pauses.

“So why did you come out here tonight?” he asks. “Out with it.” He's right. We won't solve anything trying to hash out details that neither of us know.

“I want to audition for
Midsummer.
I went to look for some scripts at the end of the day but there weren't any left in the bin. I even emailed Taft but she didn't write me back.”

“Did you really think she would?”

“Well, yeah.”

“You quit the play during tech week. She made you sit with the headmaster for two days and tried to convince you not to walk out on the play so close to performance. You crushed little Taft's heart.”

I stand up, not wanting to hear any more. The urge to “fix my situation” overwhelms me as it has the last few days. Panda stands up too.

“I have to be in the play. It's the only way I can think of to prove to everyone I'm serious. Taft included. She sent me a card in the hospital. I think there's a chance she'll forgive me.”

Panda reaches into his back pocket, pulling out the script for
Midsummer
. He hands it over.

“We're not auditioning for the mechanicals until after the weekend,” he says. “Guess who I'm hoping for?”

“Bottom?” I say, speaking of the lovable character who is turned into a donkey.

“You know it,” he says, and tosses his finished Slurpee into the trash.

“Thank you,” I say, and hug Panda tight. I don't care that the figures still burn a little when he hugs me back. “And thank you for the card. The Flash. Lightning? I get it.”

“Aw, Berne,” he says while walking backward toward the picnic table. “You're still punny to me.”

I laugh, which makes me want to hug him to me once more. I don't, though, I let him join his friends. I slip the script into my back pocket and start the long walk home.

AUDITIONS ARE MEANT TO START AT FOUR THIRTY.
I stand just outside the double doors to the auditorium at three forty-five. Half an hour ago, the hall was noisy and packed. Now, it's completely silent as I work up the courage to go in early.

I don't care if I look overeager. I want Taft to know how serious I am about this. I spent all last night and today trying to memorize the scene I want to read for. It's one where I'm in a fight with my best friend. I didn't get to memorize all of the noble girls' lines, but I have some of the key ones down. I pull open the door and expect to see other people here as early as me. I'm alone. Honestly, I was hoping that Wes might be here, but the plus side is that I don't need to hide the limp. I'm also grateful
for the carpeting. It's not like people won't know I'm here, but it helps to muffle the uneven clip of my footsteps. I make my way down the aisle and grab a seat in the front row. I know what it takes to audition. Pretend no one is watching you, take a breath, and be the character. Be someone else. It's something I've never had a problem with.

I keep going over the lines while I wait, and ten minutes later voices echo from backstage. I close the pages of my script as Ms. Taft, Panda, and Richard come out to center stage.

“Of course I want her to audition. Let's just see if she actually sho—” Taft pauses when she sees me. Her frizzy curls are backlit by the stage lights, and her eyebrows shoot up.

“Penny!” Richard cries. Both he and Panda run down the steps to the front row. “Fancy meeting you here,” Richard says, sitting down on my left side. Panda scoots into the seat on my right, trailing the smell of salt and vinegar chips with him. Even though she's trying to hide it, Taft smiles when she sees me.

“I didn't expect to see you here,” she says, and cocks her head just a little. “Good to have you back.”

I meet her at the edge of the stage. She bends down to me.

“I emailed you for a script but Panda loaned me his.”

“I heard,” she says.

Behind me, the doors open and a handful of people come into the auditorium. They head down the center aisle and as the doors almost close, they open again. May, Karen, and Wes follow in a second group of people. We're almost all here—all my old friends.

“Can I audition?” I ask.

The tightness in my body makes my figures ache. I just want to sit down in the back of the room where it's dark.

“We'll need to talk,” she says.

“Sure. I mean yes,” I say.

“Which part are you auditioning for?” she asks.

“Helena or Hermia,” I say, and she nods, making a note on a piece of paper. I'm going for the two leads—it's all or nothing.

“All right. Go ahead and take a seat.” She eyes me warily.

I limp to a chair, making sure to use my left side to lower myself down.

Ms. Taft begins her speech about
Midsummer
, her intentions and plan for approach. Looks like we're doing it traditional, and even I have to chuckle with everyone else when there's a collective groan at this news.

Ms. Taft continues, “So we're going to design the stage so that we can move the trees to help dress either the woods or the city of Athens.” Taft explains the duality of
Midsummer
and how the theme of opposites is explored in the contrast between the city and the forest settings. Even though I'm nervous, I love this part: the anticipation of sets to be built, the passion of believing in a character's story, and the rush of moving an audience to tears.

She explains the thematic importance of doubles and how the actress cast as Titania will also play Hippolyta and the actor cast as Theseus will play the fairy king Oberon as well. My shoulders ease for the first time in weeks. I
know
her voice, I
know
this place, and I know who to be.

A few rows ahead, Karen scribbles on a small pad. I should be
taking notes or something. I want to dig in my bag for a pen but don't want to draw any more attention to myself.

“Okay, so everyone read over your lines one last time,” Taft says, looking at her watch. “We'll get started in a few minutes.”

I scoot down in the seat and read over the scene again. Okay, so this is the moment where Helena and Hermia are fighting because Lysander, Hermia's boyfriend, is under the influence of a love potion. He suddenly claims to love Helena, Hermia's best friend. Okay, I don't want to get confused as to who loves who, so I draw a little chart to get it straight. Classic love triangle. Demetrius is supposed to be with Helena and Lysander is supposed to be with Hermia but the love potion makes everyone love Helena. Got it.

“Okay, Penny and May, you'll go through this scene. Penny, why don't you try Helena, and May, I want to see you as Hermia. We'll just block it simply. In this scene, Helena, you don't believe that the guys, under the influence of the love potion, actually love you, and you're blaming your friend for planning this whole thing as a mean prank. So . . .” She looks to the script to decide. “Richard and Wes, you guys come up and remember, you're in love with Helena, so you want to be fighting it out in the background.”

The theater springs into action. I recite Helena's lines under my breath as I walk to the stage. “I pray you, though you mock me, gentlemen, let her not hurt me!” I try a few different inflections as I walk to the stage.

We all gather in the center of the stage. The mood is serious—no one is laughing or joking like at the rehearsals I remember
and I wonder if it's because of me.

Concentrate, Penny.

Find the emotion in the moment and make it realistic for yourself.
It's almost too easy considering how angry May has been with me.

“Action!”

“You juggler! You canker blossom!” May yells at me, and the room erupts into laughter. “You thief of love!” She points at me with a sneer and we continue through the scene, making up the blocking as we go along. As we get to the end, we circle each other.

When Hermia jumps at me, I grab Wes's waist and hide behind him. It feels weird to touch him again like this. It used to be second nature to nudge him or push him or rest my head on his shoulder. Now, it's like I'm looking for permission.

I look down at my script and try to focus.

“You perhaps may think, because she is something lower than myself, that I can match her!” I cry.

“Lower! Hark, again!” May cries back.

Richard is trying not to laugh, but covers it up by shoving Wes, fighting for me.

I am supposed to be reasoning with Hermia, so I plead the line, “Do not be so bitter with me.” But the next line after that is “I evermore did love you, Hermia.” The idea of saying “I love you” to May trips me up. I miss my cue. May repeats her last line.

“Lower? Hark, again!”

Her face at the library was
so
angry. Not the theatrical sneer she has here, but true anger. The kind that makes people seem
brittle and hard with the effort of containing it.

The back of my throat tickles like I'm about to cry.

“Good Hermia, do not be so bitter with me,” I whisper. “I evermore did love you, Hermia.” My voice cracks. A flush of heat sweeps my cheeks.

I hold in a sob and it makes my chest ache. I did love May. She was my best friend.

May breaks character and steps back from me. The way May looks at me, I feel like I'm on the verge of remembering something I'd buried. I clear my throat and continue, “Did ever keep your counsels . . .”

But none of that is true. I didn't keep her counsel; I made fun of her at a party. I kept secrets.

Ms. Taft and all the drama hopefuls watch me. I sniff, trying not to snot all over this audition.

“Never wronged you—” I say, and my bottom lip trembles. Because I know, in real life, I did.

Before me, standing in the center of the stage, are my friends, but they aren't. Not anymore.

A memory comes over me, so suddenly that I stumble:

May, Wes, and I lie on the center of the stage with an incredible constellation revolving on the ceiling above us. May loops her arm through mine and points at the revolving sky.

A hot tear rolls over my cheek and I quickly wipe it away.

I look down at the paper in my hand and read my line directly even though I have completely lost the character and the moment. The audience is silent.

“I mean—You see how simple?” My words come out thick.
“And how fond I am.” The script hangs lifeless in my hand.

“That's great, guys,” Taft says quickly. “That's all we need.”

I pretend to itch my nose but wipe a few tears from my cheeks.

“That was great. Why don't we all take five?” She's completely lying. That wasn't great. I broke character and cried in the middle of my scene. I ruined the audition, my big chance to get back to the life I know.

All eyes in the audience are on me. Karen whispers something to Panda. I can't believe I came here. People get up and stretch, but I make my way toward the door before anyone can say anything. I press my fat, numb toes into the bottom of my shoes and exit out to the hallway.

When I get outside to the parking lot, the rush of the audition scene ripples away into the early evening air. Mom and Dad are both out at work events, and the doctors say I'm still not allowed to drive on my own. That's right—I'm stuck here. I dial Bettie's number; it rings three times before she answers. I ask her to come early.

“I can't get there until seven, hon,” she says. I check my phone. It's only five o'clock. “I'm waiting with Maddie to finish up her dentist appointment.” Maddie is her youngest daughter.

“It's no problem,” I say. “I'll be waiting out front.”

She promises to try to get here as soon as she can. Regardless of what happens, I'm not going back in there. I'll just find another way to get my old life back.

I sit down on the curb and watch the fireflies weave through the parking lot. Thirty-six more hours . . . just thirty-six until I can “technically” drive again.

About a half hour later, I get a text. As I reach to take out my cell phone, I realize something: my mouth tastes totally normal. No weird metallic taste. I want to jump for joy. Then I see the text from Bettie.

BETTIE: Looks like the dentist can't see us until 6—don't want to make you sit any longer than you need. Can you get a ride from one of your friends?

Crap. Auditions are still going on, and I can't go back inside after that embarrassing performance.

I run through my options and scroll through my phone contacts—it strikes me now that I haven't done that yet. Lila, Eve, and Tank Anderson—I have
all
their numbers; they must have transferred automatically from my old phone. Technically we're friends, so why do I feel like I can't call them?

In a cruel moment of serendipity, the door behind me opens and Wes comes outside with his sketchbook under his arm.

I immediately hold my breath, smooth my leggings, and run a finger under my eyes to make sure my mascara isn't smeared from crying. Wes walks to the first line of cars and stops at a black Mustang. It's an older style but it's sleek. What happened to the ancient minivan? He unlocks the car as I pretend to scroll through my phone. There's a clank of keys as he sighs and his shoulders drop.

“Penny?” he says.

“Hey, yeah,” I say, and stand up. I walk toward his car. It's useless to pretend I don't want or need a ride at this point. This might even distract him from my super awesome audition.

“What are you still doing out here?”

“Just waiting
for a ride,” I say, but it takes me like four times to get the damn sentence out. I hate that I trip over my words.

His face softens, a little.

“You stutter when you're nervous, Berne. Good to see some things haven't changed.”

I manage a grin.

“I'm not allowed to drive until the end of the week. I've already had a shitty afternoon. Come on, don't make me say it.”

He seems like a stranger with his hand on the car door—he's actually debating if he should help me out or not.

“Fine,” I say with a sigh. “Wes, will you drive me home in your very fancy car which is not your mom's minivan?”

I note that even though he looks away from me, he smiles.

“Come on,” he finally says, and opens the passenger door for me.

There are discarded sketches, coffee mugs, and old candy wrappers scattered across the floor of the black Mustang. I see one sketch that looks a little like a tree for the
Midsummer
set, but not quite. My heart leaps as I realize what it looks like: the vines and branches that crawl across my stomach. The ones Wes saw the other day in the hall. I hope that it's not just a coincidence. We are silent as we drive out of the school parking lot and onto the road. The whole car smells like wood chips and sawdust.

I check him out as casually as I can. Wes has left just one too many buttons undone at the top of his shirt. It looks good. Kind of sexy.

He glances over at me and I jump into a conversation. I pick
up one of the sketches from the floor.

“You've gotten really good,” I say. “Um, stop me if I've already told you that, and forgot it along with everything else.”

“You haven't,” he says. I can't read his tone, but he lightly takes the sketch from my hand and tosses it into the backseat.

“Guess you don't want me to look at that?”

“It's just a sketch for
Midsummer
. It's no big deal.”

He licks his lips, which
I
know he does when
he's
nervous. Busted. It makes me feel a little better.

“Have you been doing a lot of the sets?” I ask.

In the amber light of the night falling over the sky, I can see that he's got some scruff that lines his jaw and cheek, like a beard he's not letting grow all the way in. It looks good on him. A lot has changed since we were friends. He swipes some of the blond hair out of his eyes.