Don't Touch (7 page)

“Oscar Morgan,” he says, swinging his tray of nachos over my head.

He braces his hands on the table to clamber over the back of the chair on my Drew-free side, rocking the table so hard Livia's juice sloshes out the top of her glass. He barely makes it over, nearly wiping the bottom of his sneaker on my face. Then, he plops down, face too close to mine, and beams like he planned it that way.

“And you are?”

“Caddie.”

He holds his hand out, so I shake, and it takes muscle to keep him from using the handshake to lean even closer. “I saw you in that movie,” I say.

“Ahh, yes,” he says. “Thanks.”

“She didn't say she liked it,” says Mandy.

“Oh,” he says. “Well, Caddie, did you like it?” But I get the sense he doesn't have a sliver of doubt what I thought.

“You were funny.”

“They cut my best scene,” he says. “There used to be a dramatic part where I cried.” I get the sense everybody else at the table has heard this many times over. “Mm-hm,” he says. “I can cry on command. It's how I booked my first commercial. ‘Band-Aids make it better.'”

He crumples his face, takes both my gloved hands in his, and just as Mandy says, “Not again,” he starts weeping, actually weeping, in front of me. If everyone at this school already knows how to cry on command, I'm done for.

“He's trying to impress you,” says Drew.

“Sensitivity is one thing,” Hank says, “but nobody wants a crybaby.”

Livia bangs her hands down on the table, making me jump, and says, “Impulse!”

Nobody else even looks at her.

“I'm not a crybaby,” Oscar says to Hank, feigning hurt. “Dude, that's acting. Maybe you should try it sometime.”

“You're just mad I don't find you attractive.”

“I am,” Oscar says, switching gears fast to play this new game. “Hank, you got me. I'm a mess about it. I cry myself to sleep.”

“That's not acting. It's a party trick,” says . . . Peter. He's standing across from Oscar, less than three feet away. Our eyes meet, and his smile falters for a second, then goes back to normal.

Is that surprise to find me sitting here? Good surprise, or disappointment?

“Hi, Jumpy,” he says.

Why should he care if I sit here or not? It's all in my head.

“Oh!” says Oscar, waving his arms in front of him like he's gearing up to wrestle. “Peter's looking for a smackdown. Tell us, then, oh enlightened one, what is acting?”

“Acting requires empathy,” Peter says, playing along, “some emotional engagement, listening to your partner.”

“Acting,” Oscar says, “requires doing what the director asks you to do
when
he asks so that you can get paid.”

“Or she,” Livia says. “Your director might be a she!”

“All right,” says Peter to Oscar. “Just don't let Nadia hear you say that.”

“I'm not an idiot,” Oscar says. “You know what else I won't do? I won't ask her to write me a check for every time that Band-Aid commercial ran either.”

“A hit, a very palpable hit!” Peter says, quoting
Hamlet.
He fakes like Oscar stabbed him and falls into the seat across from us.

“Nerd,” Mandy says.

“You've been studying,” says Oscar.

“Don't doubt it. So, Caddie,” Peter says. “First day, and you've landed here.” He shakes his head like I'm in trouble—the kind of trouble that leads to bear hugs? I contract with the teasing rush of that idea.

Do. Not. Touch.

“Let's all make her feel
welcome
,” Mandy says threateningly.

“Oh, she's
welcome
,” Peter says. “I feel sorry for her is all. Girl doesn't know what she's gotten herself into.”

“I do,” I say, feeling brave. Sure, he's teasing me, but that's part of belonging here. “I've gotten into an on-command-crying, impulse-following, Shakespeare-joke-making, puppet-sex-watching cult of theater nerds, and I'm actually pretty happy about it.”

Peter smiles at my verbal gymnastics. On the rare occasions when my brain lets me speak without thinking, it's one of my special skills.

Livia motions to me. “Are you coming to Bard?”

“Of course she is,” says Oscar.

“
If
I get cast.”

“But even if you don't, you can do a scene,” Livia says, like it's a given that any scene I might do would be good enough to make it. Maybe that
is
a given for anyone else here. “Hank and I placed second last year with
Romeo and Juliet.
”

“We were
lovers
,” he says dramatically. “I was very convincing.” Livia giggles and reaches up to stroke his hair. Hank pretends not to notice Livia's hand as it crawls across his cheek, and it turns into a game. Her fingers pet his lips as he mumbles through them, “What part do you want?”

I keep my eyes on Hank, but I swear I can feel Mandy's eyes on me. “I don't really care,” I lie. “I'd be happy with anything.”

Hank nods. “You should read for Ophelia.” Then he says to the table, “She looks like she could go crazy, doesn't she?”

He means well, but that's the last thing I need to hear.

“I bet Caddie wants Gertrude,” Mandy says. That's Hamlet's mother. She just married Claudius, her dead husband's brother and also—surprise—his murderer. It's a good part, but it's not Ophelia.

I lie. “Yeah, I'm not sure what part I want.”

“
You
could be a good Gertrude,” Mandy says to Livia, and it feels like she's taken Gertrude away from me as punishment for not going along.

“Give me devious,” Mandy says. Livia purses her lips and screws up her eyes.

“I think I want one of the man parts, though,” Livia says. “Or maybe Ophelia.”

Mandy's face stays cool. “I think you should go for the friend guy.” She makes it sound like a compliment that she thinks Livia could handle such a good part.

“Horatio,” I say. “Hamlet's friend?”

“Yeah, that guy,” Mandy says. “We should cast the whole thing right now and see how close we get!”

“Hey, what kind of a name is Caddie?” Oscar says. It's as if he's physically wrenched the conversation back in his direction, but I'm grateful for it.

“It's short for Cadence, family name.”

“Ah, I was thinking maybe your parents were golfers.” Oscar puts on his best country club voice, stands, thrusts his pelvis toward me, and says, “Hey, Caddie, want to carry my club?” He mimes gripping an optimistically large “club” and swings his hand around in the air between us.

Everybody laughs, more at his idiocy than at me, but still, they're all watching to see how I'll respond. I should say something clever, should
not
care. My face shouldn't be going hot.

Drew's sleepy smile taunts me—this wouldn't faze Mandy—while Peter leans in and says, “He can't help himself. He's not used to girls speaking to him. Mostly they just cry and run.”

Oscar's thigh knocks my shoulder.

“Could you give me some space?” I sound snobbish, restrained. I can't laugh like the rest of them do—it's on my face like a billboard, I'm certain, how odd I am.

Mandy still has her arm around Drew. She's letting me fend for myself. Why shouldn't she? If I can't handle her friends, maybe I'm not meant to be one of them.

“I'm sorry,” Oscar says, putting on another character, a lovelorn one, “I just want to be close to you,” and he comes in low, balancing his hands on my thigh.

It's not about me anymore. It's about Livia and Hank, who are giggling, Mandy and Drew, watching and waiting, and Peter, who isn't impressed enough yet with how far Oscar's willing to go for a laugh.

Oscar squeezes between me and the table, slides himself onto my lap so I'm pinned to my seat, and pushes me closer to Drew, who says, “Dude, watch out,” through laughter.

I can't let Oscar touch the places where clothes shift and fail.

Peter's exactly across from me. He looks annoyed, but everyone else is showing their teeth. It's hilarious—stupid, but hilarious. Hank snorts milk from his nose. Livia drops her face in her hands.

I'm a clenched fist trying to pass for an open palm. Smiling hurts. My teeth grind. Even the little muscles beside my ears feel tight.

“Wow,” Oscar says, “your thighs are really—hard. No, wait, sorry, that's something else!” He half-stands to straddle my thigh.

I'm supposed to say something funny to put Oscar in his place—that's what Mandy would do—but my brain's blank. Oscar rocks like a kid getting a pony ride, except that he groans and yips, “Giddy-yap!” and “Yee-haw!”

Livia gives a half-hearted, “Oscar, enough,” and Mandy finally speaks up.

“Oscar! Stop being a jackass!”

Without any input from my brain, my elbow jabs into his ribs and my free foot kicks at his leg. He curses and grabs my thigh to balance himself.

“Get
off
me!” comes out of my mouth before I can remember to be cool, to be one of them, and I shove at him.

Oscar grabs my hands, but the gloves twist in his grip, and one of the seams where the thumb meets the first finger tears. Like a burn, his thumb presses my skin.

I pull the other way, and he's small but he's strong and it's not enough.

Someone, Peter, yells, “Hey! Let her go!”

Oscar releases my hand, but before I can push him away, he catches my cheeks between his fingers and thumb, squeezing the flesh against my teeth. “That hurt,” he says. “I don't let guys or girls hurt me. Okay?”

I do not nod or speak. I bring my arms up between us, twist away. My hand pulses where he touched my skin, my cheeks hurt where he squeezed—the wave of panic threatens to choke me, spill out at my eyes, but I'm not about to cry in front of him.

Peter's come around to our side. He drags Oscar off my lap and says, “You're not as funny as you think you are.” He holds Oscar by his shirt, and Drew looks poised to come between them.

“Stop acting all Superman,” Mandy says to Peter. “Caddie can handle herself.”

Peter lets Oscar go and kneels down by me. “Are you okay?” he asks and reaches for the place between my finger and thumb where Oscar pressed—a splotch of red has flown up to the surface to see what's up here, what's going on? I yank the hand away. He's too helpful, too kind. He could be the kindest person in the world and I still couldn't let him touch me.

“I've got to go,” I say. Time's rushing forward. If I can wash Oscar's touch away, maybe whatever's set in motion will reverse itself. I
have
to believe that can work or else I've lost.

The table's gone quiet. My reaction to Oscar, the rawness of my voice when I pushed him, was over the top. He was just playing. That's what this group does. They play.

Drew looks amused, but in a secret way. His smile floats in the air. Mandy's annoyed, but I can't tell with whom. Maybe with all of us.

Oscar's rubbing his ribs where I elbowed him. Peter hovers. And my frenzied mind is telling me,
Get out of here, hurry, please hurry!

“You don't have to leave,” Peter says. “He can leave.”

I shake my head. I want to be part of their group, not split it up.

How many other tables are paying attention to my scene? The panic ripples, eager to swallow me.

“No, it's not—I just realized what time it is.” I stand and pick up my tray. “Y'all, thanks for letting me sit with you.” I smile at the table. “I'll try not to cause more than one scene a week.”

Livia smiles to reassure me. All of them laugh except Peter.

“Oscar,” I say, because I have to say something. The tension's too high to breathe if I don't. “I'm sorry if I hurt you, but that was too much.”

Drew does a Miss Piggy voice, “Hi-yah!” and karate chops the air.

Oscar looks at me like I'm an alien, but he nods and says, “Okay, yeah, sorry.” I think he's mostly sorry about getting in trouble with Peter, but he'll be keeping his distance at least.

“Okay, later. I'll see y'all in acting.” I've been avoiding Mandy's eyes, but I can't resist glancing at her before I leave.

She looks worried.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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

My eyes in the mirror look too far away, and the air seems to pulse in tandem with the blood in my temples, my wrists. Touching the wall, touching the faucet takes effort. If I stop thinking about breathing, I'll stop doing it.

This energy has to go somewhere. I could break the mirror, slam my hand against it, scream. I reach for the water instead and turn it as hot as it will go.

I used to do this all the time back in middle school when I'd lost one of my games and couldn't accept the consequences. I would wash away the game and my fears until my skin turned red and raw. Sometimes it would bleed.

The hot water burns, but that feels right.
Okay, it's okay.

I start with my hands, then move on to my face. Washing doesn't take away the sense of a seal being broken, of Pandora's box being opened and the monsters spilling out, but I have to believe it can help, or I'm lost.

I can't afford to start doing this again—it takes up a suspicious amount of time for one thing, and it shows. The cracked and bleeding skin made Mom and Dad take me to a doctor in sixth grade—for allergies, they thought, but I'm not allergic to anything.

“It's so strange,” Mom said. “What else could be causing it?”

I managed to change the game before they could figure it out, replacing the washing with silent thoughts up in my head—a prayer,
please, don't touch.

If the washing comes back, I'll know I've really lost control.