Don't Touch (16 page)

“I know, but . . . even a little touch burns.”

Nadia freezes me with her tiger stare. “I'd like you to give it a try.”

She turns back to the circle, fully expecting me to follow behind. I don't want to be difficult, but it's a lot that she's asking. Even if she doesn't know it.

When she sees I haven't followed, she turns back. The eyes of the circle turn with her, impatient. “We're not going to make you do anything you don't want to do,” she says in the reasonable voice of disappointed teachers everywhere. She means she can't make me do it. But she can silently judge me for not participating.

I have the gloves. I have long sleeves. The risk of somebody touching my skin is small, but choosing to take the risk feels like a betrayal. I'm not even sure what I'd be betraying. Mom and Dad aren't showing any signs of reconciliation.

I step into the circle between Peter and Drew. Their arms are longer than mine and should keep anybody from falling against me, even if I mess up.

Nadia beams. “Step in tight.”

Peter's shoulder presses in on one side, Drew's on the other. It's clothes touching clothes, nothing more.

Oscar steps into the circle, and it's all I can do to keep breathing at a normal pace as he starts falling first to one side, then the other, his arms crossed over his chest, eyes closed like a standing corpse with rigor mortis. As the circle gets into a rhythm, he rolls around the edges, passed from hand to hand. I hold back just enough, let Drew and Peter squeeze in so they don't need my hands at all.

One time as Oscar passes, Peter looks to me—he's noticed maybe that I hang back, but he doesn't say anything. He starts anticipating, stepping forward a bit to take the weight from Drew, basically skipping me as Oscar comes around.

It goes like that for four more people, and I keep my breath steady enough to stay blank. If Nadia could step inside my head and see how far away it all seems—there's a film between me and the rest of them, the wall of my bubble that keeps me from drowning—she'd take me out for safety.

“Caddie, step into the center,” Nadia commands.

Peter's hand touches my back, a slight push forward. The circle closes in. It's too late to sell that Peter caused me physical pain, but I cry out anyway. It's easy to make a small noise out of a giant fear.

Nadia twitches; then her mask comes back. She's already regretting casting me—such an odd, stressed out, untrusting girl.

“Are you all right?” she says.

“I can't do this.”

“We're here to catch you,” she says.

“No, I know. I'm just . . .”

“Have you ever been dipped? Like dancing?” someone says, popping the bubble, and they're all too close, too fast. A tug at my shoulder, and I'm spinning; someone yanks my arm, and I wheel into a chest.

Oscar.

He tips me, stupid, since I'm already falling, head over head over . . . I push away, hike my knee into his stomach so he goes “oof” and drops me, spins away.

My head hits the stage, rattling my teeth, and I find the floor under me. Breathe.

They want to know if I'm all right. They're standing back, giving me room.

Oscar's repeating, “Oh God, I'm so sorry, Caddie, I'm sorry. Wow. I'm sorry.”

I pull myself up, even though it hurts my head. Peter reaches out a hand, but I wave. “I'm fine, really, I'm fine. I just freaked out. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.”

“She's crying,” Mandy says, and crosses toward me. I wave her away, smile.

“I'm all right. Really, please, don't worry about me. I'm fine.”

“Take her to the office,” Nadia says.

“No, please, I want to stay. Can I just—can I sit in the audience for a second? I'm going to be fine.”

Nadia stares at me hard. “Fill out an accident report. Then come back if you can.”

She motions for Mandy to accompany me, and I have to smile big to keep Mandy from scooping me up in a fireman's carry. She looks that worried.

I make it back to practice, but Nadia doesn't use me at all.

“You might as well go on home if you're feeling bad,” she says, but I shake my head and watch from the audience.

She's demonstrating how Shakespeare uses punctuation to tell his actors when to breathe, when to build to a climax. When there are three single-syllable words in a row, we're supposed to slow down: Draaaaaaw. Theeeeem. Ouuuuuuut.

The rest of the cast sits on stage and practices lines when Nadia shows them a new rule.

I could sit on the stage without any problem, but no, I have to “rest.”

The distance between the audience and the stage is interstellar.

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..................................................................

Mom and I agreed that I would stay after school for rehearsal whether I got cast or not and tell her in person what happened. I must look pretty grim because she says, “Oh, dear,” before I even make it all the way into the car.

“No, Mom, it's good. I made it.”

“You were trying to trick me!” she says, and I nod, force a huge smile.

“Gotcha.”

Crying and laughing are so close, it's a tiny switch to trick even myself. And I'm so close to happy—

“I have a special announcement of my own,” Mom says, but she won't reveal it until we're all together for dinner.

Please let it be something good about Dad.
I can't help myself from wishing it.

Before dinner, Jordan leans in my doorway, says, “Congratulations,” and plays with the corner of the Ophelia picture on my wall. “I knew you would get it.”

“Yeah?” I say. “I wish you'd told
me
that.”

Jordan's actually smiling for once. “So, Mom's in a crazy-good mood,” he says. “Do you think something changed?”

“I don't know,” I say, but I hope, hope, hope.

At the table she says, “I want to make a toast,” and Jordan and I lift our glasses of sparkling grape juice.

“To Caddie,” she says, “for taking risks. You changed schools, put yourself out there; you worked hard, and it paid off. To Jordan—”

“What did I do?” he says.

“—for showing how responsible you can be, keeping up with sports practice and your schoolwork.”

Jordan makes a face—he doesn't like being patronized—but he has been acting better since Mom gave him the chance to try football.

“What's your news?” he asks.

“My news . . .” Jordan's holding his breath, I think, and that makes me hope harder she'll say something good about Dad. “Caddie's not the only one who's been challenging herself. I got a show! At the Goblet!”

She told me she submitted to them. I should have known.

“Mom . . . that's . . .”

I'm looking for the right words . . . fancy, fantastic, impressive, a big deal, but Jordan says the glaring truth before I get a chance: “That's bullshit!”

Mom's face falls, and I say, “Jordan!” even though I was thinking the same thing.

Jordan sets his glass down so hard that it sloshes onto the tablecloth, and he storms out.

Mom stares after him, so I go for the seltzer water in Dad's liquor cabinet—Mom doesn't drink any of that stuff, but maybe he thought it would be tacky to take it with him.

I put a kitchen towel under the tablecloth and pour onto the spill. Mom must be rattled if she's not taking over—cleaning is Mom's happy place.

“He thought . . . ,” she says.

“Yeah. I did too, or I hoped.”

“I messed up.”

I meet her eyes, but I'm not going to rub it in by nodding.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

I shrug. “I'm happy for you. If we hoped something else, that's our own stupid fault.”

And then Mom starts crying, harder than I've ever seen. I don't know what to do.

“I'm such an idiot,” she says.

“No . . .”

I try to pat her shoulder, but any second she's going to grab me, pull me into an octopus hug, wrap her hand around the back of my neck, press her cheek to my mine.

And I
want
that. I want to hold her and release this tight ball in my chest.

What if I hugged her right now? Said, screw it, and let it all go?

It would be selfish, taking comfort for myself but risking hurt for us all.

“I'm sorry, Mom,” I say, blotting the stain. “You should get to be happy. This is a happy thing.”

“I feel like I've had blinders on,” she says. “I mean, I've known this is affecting you, but I thought, what can I do about it? I've almost had my fingers in my ears going
lalala.
I've been trying to move forward.”

“That's what you
should
be doing,” I say. “It's okay.”

She shakes her head, mad at herself. I should find a way to comfort her, or go to Jordan, or bring Jordan back to talk to Mom, but instead, I go to my room with Ophelia.

It will be a relief to be her for a while instead of me.

Our first task for our character journals is to write down all the things said about us in the play—see what information we get from other points of view. Plus, I'm looking for clues.

I can't touch anyone, so my Ophelia will have to be that way too. If I can justify it for the character, then Nadia will have to stage it that way.

Luckily, Shakespeare never shows Hamlet and Ophelia together and happy—their relationship's all in the past. In Ophelia's first scene, her brother Laertes tells her not to trust Hamlet's affections, and her father spends a couple of pages saying the same thing and ordering her not to talk with Hamlet anymore.

Even though she's in love, Ophelia says, “I shall obey, my lord.”

My rules are ones I made up for myself, but I obey them just the same. I'm wary. I fear.

I start on my list of similarities. “Ophelia and I both follow the rules.”

And the rules tell us,
look but don't touch.

My phone sounds and I shudder, pulled back to myself.

It's from a number I don't recognize:

Ham has congrats present for O

It has to be Peter.

ME: O's not allowed to take presents from Ham

PETER: From P to C then

That's not allowed either, but I can't explain why.

PETER: Meet me in the library, first thing

I would love to talk to Mandy right about now, but she would ask for explanations too.

The best, safest answer is silence.

. . .

. . .

. . .

But I can't help myself. Ten minutes later, I text Peter back.

ME: C cannot wait

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

My heart beats faster than I'd like as I cross the library's threshold, but I focus on putting one foot in front of the other. There's no sign of Peter, and with no bodies filling the space, the library's chilly, gray and tired with no lights. I feel like an idiot. When Peter said “first thing,” he probably meant five minutes early, not fifty.

I settle into one of the big armchairs in the reading center of the library. I
should
finish my precalculus homework, but I pull out my character journal and open to a line that's been bothering me. Ophelia's father tells her, “Lord Hamlet is a prince, out of thy star.” He means “star” astrologically, like their love's not meant to be. But he's also saying Hamlet's out of her league.

Such a beautiful way to say an awful thing.

I used to like the idea of fate. It's comforting to think things happen the way they're supposed to, but what if your fate is a bad one, like Ophelia's?

What's a person supposed to do with that?

I must believe that my fate isn't set, or else why play my games?

Something loops down through my field of vision and slides across my neck. I go fight-or-flight, throw one hand up to catch whatever's there.

Don't touch.

I can't really feel what it is through my glove, but some kind of fabric is slipping away as I turn, grazing my neck as
Peter
reels it back in.

An empty shirtsleeve.

He slings the shirt over his shoulder, over a fraying T-shirt that . . . biceps. Peter has biceps.

“I startled you. Sorry,” he says. But he doesn't look sorry. He looks pleased with himself.

“That's all right. I thought . . . I don't know what I thought.”

“Hard at work on Ophelia?” he says with a grin, but he's not making fun. “Over here.” He waves for me to follow him into the stacks.

We're alone in a nearly abandoned building. The ridiculous thought pops in: His present is a kiss. He'll press me up against the shelves. Books will fall, and the building will crumble. The thrill-and-dread mix makes it hard to follow him without shaking, and I keep some space between us, just in case.

He leads me through a maze of shelves to a corner table where two rows of stacks meet. On the table, several books lie spread open. They're encyclopedias—one from each set the library has—and a couple of dictionaries, too. He closes a
Merriam-Webster
and hands it to me.

“Look up ‘asshole' in the dictionary,” he says.

“What?”

“Just do it.”

I open it and flip to “asshole.” There's a picture of Oscar smiling back at me.

I laugh for a second. Then I tug at the photo's corner. It sticks.

“You did this?”

He nods and gestures to the table, “The encyclopedia entries are longer, more detailed in listing his crimes.”

“Why?”

“I'm on a mission. Because he's an asshole. Because he dropped you.”

“He didn't mean to.”

“He was being his stupid self and he hurt you, and he's been harassing you since the first day of school. Anyone can see you don't like it.”