A Season for Fireflies (2 page)

MY MOTHER IS ON THE SCREEN. SHE'S IN THE
glittering
dress she wore to the Best Of party. She steps from the curb with her assistant, Lacey, and she stumbles onto the street, nearly headfirst. Lacey tries to pick her up from under her arm but she shoves Lacey and falls into the car.

I flinch, wanting to reach out and catch her.

The news runs the story about Mom for two or three days. During class on Monday, May asked if I wanted to talk about it, but I quickly changed the subject to rehearsal. Panda brought it up at rehearsal, but I spotted Richard across the parking lot and called him over, abruptly ending our conversation.

I've been trying to focus on other things.

“I'm telling you. He's been avoiding me since Tuesday,” I say. I'm on the phone with May on Saturday, days later. It's finally the start of tech week. I snatch up pants, T-shirts, and some toothpaste so I can brush my teeth before scenes. I shove them into a duffel bag to bring to school. Rehearsal started ten minutes ago.

“You're opposite one another in the play. How can he avoid you?” May asks.

“You know what I mean,” I say. “Ever since the planetarium light show, he's been all weird. He's conveniently missing during breaks and I haven't seen him at lunch.”

“Well, get your ass here. Taft is freaking out about you being late,” May says, and I can tell she's brushing her teeth backstage—her pre-rehearsal ritual—because her words are garbled.

“My dad is still at work. I need to get my mom to drive me,” I say. “I'm almost out the door.”

May inhales like she is going to ask me something, but she doesn't.

“Two weeks until I am free from permit land.” I say quickly and lift the heavy duffel with a groan. “Gotta go. See you soon.” I hang up before May can ask if Mom is okay to drive. I don't even know if she's okay. She hasn't left the house in a week. I walk into the kitchen.

“Mom!” I call.

Out of habit, I check Mom's work calendar that hangs in the kitchen above the messy counter. Bettie always cleans up the empty wine bottles Mom leaves lying around, but today she left at four, so there are two. There's a bottle of white in the sink
that's empty, and one on the counter that's half-finished. Mom's not going anywhere tonight.

Maybe I can drive myself. I only have my permit, but our town is small and if I drive carefully, I should be fine. I can't ask Wes to come pick me up. He can't see Mom like this. Sure, he's seen her glassy-eyed, but Mom's always been dressed up in her pearls and hiding her sadness behind designer clothes. It's when the doors are closed, the events are over, and the house is empty that a dark room is her favorite place to be. Since she's been fired, that's the new normal.

When I'm at the kitchen table, zipping up my bag, my cell goes off a few more times: May, Panda, and Taft, asking where I am. The last is a text from Wes.

WES: Should I get u?

I look around at the empty kitchen, the quiet house. Mom must be up in her room. Maybe if Wes comes to get me there's a chance he won't see her. My fingers hover over the phone, but then Mom comes into the room, holding her cell phone and a wineglass. That's the same blouse and pants she was wearing yesterday. Third time this week that she hasn't changed clothes.

“Mom?” I say. “Are you okay?”

She hip checks the island and places the phone and glass down, messily, so the base of the wineglass rocks back and forth. I reach out to keep it from falling to the floor. I could tell Wes he can't come in, that I'll meet him outside. That would be awkward too and he would want to know why.

Mom moves to grab the second bottle. It glugs as she pours a big glass.

“Are you sure you want more?” I ask. I try to choose my words really carefully. No judgment.

“I'll decide when I've—” she starts, and rests her hand on the island but slips on a puddle of wine on the counter. I run to help her, but she catches herself on her elbow with a smack. Her eyes are heavy, but open. I should call Bettie. I can't leave her like this and go to rehearsal. She can't be alone.

Mom tries to stand. She reaches for the wine bottle and glass, but I move them out of her way. “Mom, stop it. You can barely walk.”

“I'm fine!” She snatches the bottle.

“No, you're not!” I cry, and grab for it. Her fingers let go easily. She doesn't fight me on it, just takes the glass she just poured, which I didn't think to grab in time.

She makes her way out of the kitchen with the glass in her hand, and what sucks is that I have to let her. If I don't, she could get all the way upstairs, realize she wants some wine, and try to come back downstairs—and she is
not
in good enough shape for that
.
I fight the urge to help her, because she seems so intent on doing it herself. She's moving too fast, her shoulder hits the doorframe, her head ricochets, and it all seems to happen before I can react. There's a hard
thud
and she falls, smacking the back of her head on the floor. The glass clatters and rolls away, the wine spilling everywhere. At least the glass doesn't shatter.

“Aw,” she moans. “Ow . . .”

I pick up my cell to call Bettie, but see May's name on the screen calling me instead.

“Penny. Where
are
you?” May hisses. “What's going on? Is it
your mom? Penny, is it?”

Mom drools on herself a little, so some white syrup spit-up dribbles onto her blouse. I pull her up from the floor by her elbow. “I'll be there soon, May. I'm sorry. Tell Taft.”

I hang up and dial Bettie's number. I wish Dad were here. Mom isn't as bad when Dad is home.

“Come on, Mom,” I say, and try to help her stand as the phone rings on the other end. She does stand a little, relieving her body weight from my arms. “You can do it.”

Mom's legs slip, but with my help she pulls herself up and stumbles to the stairs. She struggles against me. “Stop!” she yells. “Give me my wine.” Her eyes focus, her eyebrows are angular and V-shaped.

Bettie's voice barely touches the air when I cut her off. “Bettie. It's my mom. She's—”

“I'm coming. I'm coming,” she says, and hangs up.

“My drink. Where is it?” Mom says, though it's slurred.

“Sorry, but there isn't any left,” I lie, and we make our way up the stairs. Mom leans on me, but I push her forward so she doesn't fall back.

“
You
broke the bottle . . .” Mom starts, but doesn't finish. When we get to her bedroom she collapses onto the bed and crawls on all fours toward her pillows.

“You're so
difficult
,” Mom says as she slumps against them. She's frowning, her eyes are unfocused. She always says I'm difficult. “You're too much” is her favorite expression.

“
The stress of your endless
demands
.” Some spit flies out of her mouth into an arc in the air.

“What are you talking about?” I say.

“Always so
demanding
.”

There's that word again.

“
Relentless.
You just
need
me all the time.”

“I have rehearsal,” I say, trying to stop her tirade. I back away toward the stair landing.

“Fired because of
you
. Drink because of
you
.” A little spittle flies out again. “If you weren't so difficult, I wouldn't have to relax. I just need five minutes to myself,” she mumbles. I want to defend myself—want to tell her she's wrong. But then I think about how each time we fight about something stupid—clothes I need for school, rehearsal schedules—she gets a headache and has to go lie down. She always grabs a bottle of wine on her way. Is it me? Did I really drive her to this?

Somewhere inside my head, a voice whispers . . .
yes
.

“Penny?” Bettie's voice rings out from the kitchen.

Mom's eyes are already closed and she's curled her knees to her chest. She's mumbling but I can't hear it, thank god.

I pass Bettie on the stairs. She stops me with a strong hand on my shoulder.

I don't want to look at her watery blue eyes or her unkempt, off-hours hair. I really don't want her to see me right now. “Is she okay?” she asks.

I search the fibers in the carpet beneath my feet to try to answer that question.

“I have rehearsal,” is all I get out. Bettie reaches out to me, but I pull away. “Is it okay that I go?” She answers me with an “Of course,” and I will thank her for this help, not at all in her
job description, in my usual way. A small note and doing extra chores.

I walk to my car and place my theater bag in the passenger seat.

If you weren't so difficult.

I illegally drive the 2.1 miles to school.

Because of you.

It's warm out and twilight threatens the sunny Saturday afternoon as I walk into the theater.

“Penny!” May calls from the stage.

“We're saved!” Panda cries, and everyone laughs. I search for Wes briefly but I don't see him. Everyone is in costume.

Taft flies down the aisle at me, curls bouncing.

“Hallway,” she says, and points at the door I came through.

When we're on the other side of the door, Taft crosses her arms. “What is going on?”

There are crisscrosses in the pattern of the linoleum beneath my feet.

“What happened? This isn't like you, I'm worried,” she presses. “We've all seen the news. Is everything okay at home?”

I look up into her eyes, but don't have the words to say what's happened. I am glad Bettie's helping to pick up the pieces now. But it won't end there. It will still be tech week, then performance, and Mom will still think I am demanding. She'll come to the performance drunk. Panic rushes through me and I take a rattled breath but don't want to explain.

“Well, I can't make you talk. But you need to keep me posted, Penny. Especially if you are going to—” Ms. Taft pauses and
seems to choose her words carefully. “If you can't make it here on time.”

I just need five minutes to myself.

“Forget the costume for right now, let's run it through the Beatrice and Benedick scene from yesterday.”

A few moments later I stand onstage. May, as Hero, has just exited the stage and stands down at the first row of seats. Mr. Hill, our physics teacher and resident tailor, fixes something at the elbow of her costume. She's frowning at me because I haven't told her what's wrong, even though she basically already knows, just like everyone else.

“Okay, places,” Taft instructs.

I close my eyes, try to steel myself for the love I'm meant to feel in this scene. As Beatrice, I have to let the audience know that, even while I come off as cold and disdainful, it's all just an act so no one will know the truth, that deep down I love Benedick.

“Ready with the spotlight, Panda?” Taft calls.

“I've got a faulty switch up here,” he calls back. “We need to get to the fuse box.”

Taft sighs. “It's always something,” she says, and her heels clip on the stage as she makes her way up to the light booth.

I stay on my spike mark because I know Taft needs me to be in position for the spotlight. I cross my arms over my chest. In a few minutes, I'm supposed to dance and skip around the stage—in love.

Wes stands in the wings. He's got on a flowy white shirt as part of his costume but Taft has let him wear his jeans instead of the tights and breeches.

Our eyes meet.

I imagine myself on the stage, in front of everyone as Beatrice, skipping and crying out, “Benedick, love on; I will requite thee, taming my wild heart to thy loving hand!”

We share a smile, one that I put on for his benefit. When I look away to the empty auditorium, I whisper a different one of Beatrice's lines instead:

“For truly, I love none.”

The Elizabethan English feels forced. I don't want to be on a stage right now
.
I don't want anyone to look at me. To guess how I am feeling or what might be happening at home.

“Penny.”

Wes is next to me.

“You okay?” His voice is full of concern. I don't say anything when he steps closer to me. Instead, I focus on his lips. They're beautiful, actually. I suppose if I let myself, and we were alone, I could lean over, kiss him, and then I wouldn't have to think of something to say. He would know how I feel.

He wipes his mouth. “Is there something on my face?”

I shake my head and pull back.

“Penny, say something. It's not like you to be quiet,” he says. I'm grateful for the loud chatter from the cast in the background, filling the silence.

I clear my throat. “I'm just tired.”

May comes up the stairs to the stage too and has to lift the heavy material and hem of the skirt. “What's going on?”

“Nothing.”

May rolls her eyes.

My cheeks warm. I don't want to have to tell them how bad it's gotten and the terrible truth Mom confessed tonight. My friends have always joked with me, called me “drama queen” or “intense.” I thought we were just kidding around, but maybe—maybe they were right. Maybe Mom is right.

“What happened tonight? And don't tell me that everything is fine when we both know it isn't,” May says. “I've seen the news. We all have.”

Even though it's air-conditioned in here, I'm burning up.

“Is it the play?” May says.

“Is it your lines?” Wes counters.

She's not talking.

Why isn't she talking?

I don't know.

You look like you've been crying. Have you been crying?

They ask me question after question but none of them are the right one. I'm afraid if I open my mouth to answer even one of them, I'll break down. And that would be the worst possible thing. I'm an actress so I
don't
have to show people the real me.