Exit Stage Left (13 page)

“This. Is. Awesome.” Harrison gazes at the plane taking off right in front of us. He’s got a new pair of sunglasses—the kind that fit over his regular glasses. At least he tried to dress the part for a change. I, for one, am in a white button-down, black pants, a cute black jacket I borrowed from Mom’s closet, and a hot-pink scarf. I pretty much look like I just flew a 747 in from Paris. Career as a pilot, here I come.

“Casey Fitzgerald and Gunther Kaelin?” an older man calls from inside the office behind us.

“Gunther.” I nudge Harrison and giggle. Mostly to annoy him.

“Harrison. I’m Harrison Kaelin.” He steps forward to shake the man’s hand.

“Harrison it is,” the man says as he makes a note on his clipboard. “I just need the signed release forms from your parents, all the other paperwork, and your fees.”

Convincing my mom to sign the release was a lot easier than I thought it would be. She just shook her head and asked me to please
not crash the plane. I pass over all the forms, and Harrison pulls out his wallet.

The man introduces himself as Lucky Reed. Lucky seems like an oddly appropriate name for someone who defies gravity on a regular basis.

“So the first part of this class is done on the ground,” Lucky says as he leads us into the hangar. “We’ll go over the controls, the preflight check, how to work the radio—” At this, Harrison mouths,
10-4, Roger that
to me. “And we’ll take the plane up. I run things a little differently around here, because I believe in trying everything the first time. So if you’re game, you’ll take the plane up and fly it. I’ll be next to you to take over, just in case.”

Harrison’s practically exploding with excitement as we walk toward the plane, and I’m definitely catching it. Our friends are going to be so insanely jealous. Theater looks so dull compared to
flying
.

“So, what do you major in at college to become a pilot?” I ask Lucky. After finding out whether I’m any good at piloting (which I have to be—I refuse to accept no for an answer), figuring out the right major is step two. Step three is hoping to every god in the known universe that said major actually exists at Holland Community College.

“It doesn’t really matter,” Lucky says. “But math and physics are always good choices.”

Let’s just say those aren’t exactly my strong suits. But maybe Amanda can do some intensive tutoring with me.

We follow Lucky around the plane as he explains a bunch of physics terms and then shows us everything to check on before even climbing
inside. Harrison’s got a notebook out and is actually taking notes, as if this is school. I pay attention—mostly—as Lucky describes proper tire inflation and how to check the fuel tanks. My brain is threatening to wander when he declares it’s time to get inside.

Finally! I follow Harrison up the steps and emerge into the tiniest plane cockpit ever. Seriously, it’s a good thing I’m not claustrophobic, because I’d already be climbing right back out the door. There are four seats total—two up front and two right behind them. The dashboard is covered in switches and buttons and dials.

“Just like your car,” Lucky says, “except a little more complicated.”

“Oh, I don’t have a license,” I tell him.

Harrison puts an arm around my shoulder (quite the feat since there’s barely enough room for the three of us in this space). “Casey refuses to learn to drive.”

Lucky removes the Colts cap from his graying hair and scratches his head. “You want a pilot’s license and you don’t even have a driver’s license? Well, if that don’t beat all.”

I shrug out of Harrison’s arm and perch on one of the backseats. “So? Statistics show that planes are much safer than cars. I know, I looked it up last night.” Only a crazy person would willingly drive a machine that has such a high chance of ending in death or serious injury. Plus, a car would take me only to boring places, like Indianapolis or Louisville. A plane, however . . . With a plane, I could fly myself to Honolulu for an impromptu luau, or to Tokyo for some fresh sushi, or to London, to see what’s opening in the West End. And finally see my dad, since it’s not like he can be bothered to come here
and see me.

Lucky’s already launched into an explanation of all the gadgets and gizmos on the dash. Harrison’s right up there with him, nodding and asking questions. I really should pay attention so that I know how to fly this thing when the time comes. Fresh sushi doesn’t wait for a slow plane. Or a crashed one.

“. . . since this is a 172, you don’t have to exercise the throttle before you get the engine started because the carburetor . . .”

Exercise. That’s something I could stand to do more of. If only Harrison had let me keep ice skating on the list. Maybe I can convince him to scrub poker for something more active, like Pilates. Is there a future in Pilates? There has to be, otherwise, why would all those formerly famous actors be hawking their own personal exercise videos? I could totally do that. I’d major in physical education (just not the kind that involves balls), and then I’d just need some decent Pilates outfits and a professional-grade video camera and the right lighting. I could book slots on the
Today Show
and
The View
to show the world
Absolutely Abs with Casey!

The engines roar to life, which makes me stop dreaming about whether I’d look better in yoga pants or knee-length running pants.

“All right, we’re clear to taxi on over to the runway. Who wants to take her up?” Lucky looks from me to Harrison.

“Rock, Paper, Scissors?” I suggest.

“How about Rock, Paper, Harrison paid for most of this?” He pulls those sunglasses down and gets comfortable in the front seat.

“Fine. Never mind that the whole thing was my idea,” I say under
my breath.

“Sorry, can’t hear you over the engine of
my
plane,” Harrison says as he holds out his phone and takes a selfie.

“All right, buckle up, everyone,” Lucky says. He passes us each these enormous headphones with a little mic attached. I put them on, and suddenly his voice is in my ears. He directs Harrison on how to steer the plane and we jerk forward toward the runway.

“A little smoother, please,” I say as I poke Harrison in the back of the neck. Maybe I’m just a tiny bit annoyed that I’m stuck in the back when I should be Amelia Earhart-ing it up in the front.

We stop when we reach the runway, and Lucky starts pointing to dials on the dash and talking about altitude and gyro and throttle and a bunch of other stuff that sounds like it’s straight from physics class. Physics is not exactly my favorite subject. If it wasn’t for Pre-calc, Physics would probably be my
least
favorite class. Although it might’ve come in useful here, so maybe I should’ve paid a little more attention. I’m definitely going to have to convince Amanda to tutor me. Maybe she can do long-distance tutoring when I’m in college-level physics at HCC and she’s off at NYU.

“Did you get that, Casey?” Lucky’s twisted around in his seat, looking at me.

I nod. “Yup, got it!” Sort of. Who knew flying a plane would be so technical and . . . physics?

“And we’re ready to go.” Lucky speaks some kind of plane gibberish to the guy on the radio, and he comes back with more plane gibberish, and then Harrison moves the plane forward. Lucky talks
about the flaps as I stare out the window.

It feels like it takes forever to drive the plane from the hangar to the runway. When I get my pilot’s license and brand-new plane, I’ll snag a hangar that’s a hell of a lot closer. If I got one all to myself, I could throw parties in it during my off time from flying my famous clients to photo shoots and stuff. And I could take my friends up for impromptu flights to South Beach. Amanda, for sure, except she’ll probably squick out over the fact that I don’t like to vacuum my plane 24/7. Maybe Kelly and . . . no, because she wouldn’t be able to sit still. So that leaves me with Chris, who’d insist on bringing an entire buffet with him, and Harrison, who’d demand to fly the plane himself. Maybe I should just ditch them all and find some hot senior to fly around in my plane. Although there is Oliver . . .

The ground moves into a blur as we speed up. I know I laugh at Harrison for having never flown before, but the truth is that I’ve been in a plane only twice in my entire life—both times to visit Dad when he was in New York. And that plane was about fifty times bigger than this one. And less bumpy. And Oh.My.God, is that the sky right in front of us?

The nose of the plane lifts up as Harrison shouts, “Woooo!”

My stomach drops as fast as the ground drops away below us.

“We’ll climb at about five hundred feet per minute,” Lucky says.

“Holy shit, this is awesome!” Harrison yells from the front seat.

I pull my eyes from the front of the plane and look out the side window. There’s a bird, right next to us. And the ground, waaaaay down below. My head swims and everything starts to move in front of
my eyes. I duck my face down to my knees and squeeze my eyes shut.

“Casey, you all right? Do you feel sick?” Lucky asks.

“Uhhhhh . . .” is all I can say.

“We won’t stay up long. Just keep your head down, and there’s a paper bag back there in case you need it,” Lucky says. He turns to Harrison and adds, “I’ve only ever had one other person throw up in this plane. A little boy, about five.”

Great. I have the stomach of a five-year-old. I grab that paper bag, just in case.

“She’s got a thing about heights,” Harrison says.

I peek up at him. He’s got one hand on the steering wheel–looking thing, like he’s too cool to drive the plane with both hands.

“Harrison, please put your other hand back. I don’t want to die,” I tell him.

“You’re not going to die,” he says, but he puts his right hand back on the wheel. “You’re just feeling sick.”

“First time in a plane?” Lucky asks me.

I’m looking at my knees again, but I shake my head no.

“Sometimes these small planes are harder on folks than commercial jets,” he says.

“Hey, so do you ever see another plane coming at you? What do you do if you see one?” Harrison asks.

Images of planes crashing and exploding into fireballs that light up the sky for miles and miles float through my head, and I grip that paper bag a little tighter.

After what seems like hours, Lucky announces that we’re going to
take the plane down. He walks Harrison through the landing procedure while I concentrate on staying very, very still and not puking.

The little plane bumps and rolls and turns, and then I feel the familiar
ba-bump-bump
of wheels hitting the ground. Wind rushes past the flaps and just as I’m sure Harrison is going to run us right into the control tower, the plane stops.

And I lose the contents of my stomach into that little paper bag.

Lucky asks if I’m okay (while he cranks the windows open), and Harrison pulls off his headphones and unbuckles his belt so he can check on me.

“Was I that bad at flying?” he asks.

“I’m okay, I think. And you did fine. Just maybe not so bumpy next time, all right?”

“You know, you didn’t throw up until after we landed,” Harrison says. “So you can’t really blame that on me.”

Lucky motions Harrison back up front and goes through how to shut the plane down.

I lean back in my seat and close my eyes. At this rate, I’m never going to figure out what to major in. So far, everything’s either made me sick, tried to kill me, or destroyed other people’s masterpieces. And, if I’m honest, there’s no way I could afford to take more flying lessons.

I suppose I should start learning how to brew the perfect pot of decaf, because right now, that’s exactly where I’m headed.

Kelly sits at the end of the back row of theater seats, pulling on one of her curls. It’s early. No one else is here yet for rehearsal. I should find something else to occupy my time, like figuring out how to find a band to join for the next item on The List, but I really need Harrison’s input on that. Kelly’s busy writing something as I climb over her legs to grab a seat.

“Hey. What do you think about caviar for the party?” Kelly looks down at the piece of paper in her lap.

“What party?”

“The cast party, of course. After the first show.”

“Oh yeah.” The cast party. I can’t believe I’d forgotten all about that, considering how much fun they usually are. “Caviar’s kind of expensive, isn’t it? And it sounds pretty gross, if you ask me.”

“Hmmm . . . maybe we should have barbeque instead. Go for a downhome kind of theme. You don’t think Amanda would mind having bales of hay in her house?” She looks at me expectantly.

“Hay? In Amanda’s house? Not in a million years.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Maybe just the barbeque then.” Kelly draws a line through caviar and writes barbeque on her list.

“Barbeque? For what?” Oliver stops next to Kelly and drops his bag onto the floor.

“The cast party,” Kelly says. “Hey! Do you like avocados?” She points her pen at him as if his answer will determine the fate of the entire party.

“Um, not really. It’s a texture thing.” He perches on the top of the seat in front of Kelly, anchoring himself with one worn-out Vans shoe against the armrest between me and her.

“I thought everyone from
California
liked avocados.” She says California like it’s someplace really exotic, like Monte Carlo or Dubai or Manhattan. Although I suppose any place looks exotic next to Holland, Indiana.

“Yeah, not me,” Oliver says.

Kelly crosses out avocados, and I wonder what she was planning to do with them anyway. Have a bowl of them, the way people keep bowls of apples on the table?

“So, are you like a fancy Hollywood person? Do you know Brad Pitt?” she asks.

Oliver laughs. “No, but I think he took a riding lesson from my mom once.”

Kelly’s mouth drops open. “Seriously? I want to know
all
about it.”

“There’s not much to tell,” he says. He quirks up the corner of his
mouth, and I know he’s putting her on.

“Kel, he’s kidding.” I push his foot off the armrest just to show him he can’t mess with my friends like that.

“I knew it was too good to be true.” She slides the menu into her bag. “I’m going to drop this in my car before rehearsal and grab a drink. You guys want anything?”

I shake my head. And when she’s gone, it’s just me and Oliver. He pulls himself onto the back of the seat catty-corner to me. Neither one of us says anything for a moment. I feel like I need to fill up the silence with
something
.

“So what
did
you do in California if you weren’t helping your mom teach celebrities how to ride?” I say at the exact same time he asks how my big plans went yesterday.

“You first,” I say.

“No, it’s ladies first, right?” He rests his feet on the seat next to mine and waits for me to answer.

“Fine. We went flying. It was awful. I threw up.”

“Wait, like in a plane?” When I nod, he says, “So, that’s what that explosion was yesterday.”

I shove his knee. “Not funny. I didn’t even get to fly the thing. It was all Harrison.”

“So what’s up next? Bowling?”

Hmm. I might actually be good at bowling. I need to remember that one. “You’ll see,” I say as coyly as possible.

“That sounds promising. Now I’m picturing burlesque.”

It’s a good thing I didn’t take Kelly up on her run to the Alcove
of Sin, because I’d be choking on my Diet Mountain Dew right now. “You did not just say that.”

“No? Belly dancing, then.”

“Seriously, I’m doing this stuff with Harrison. Picture that, okay?” Then I think he does, because his face kind of contorts, and then he starts laughing. It’s contagious, and I laugh until my stomach hurts.

“Your turn,” I say when I finally catch my breath. “What did you do out in California? Besides theater.”

He makes a face. “I’d rather talk about more things for you to try. I could come up with a whole list, you know.”

My face goes warm as I imagine what else would be on that list, and I nudge his knee again. “Nope. If you keep stalling, I’m going to assume you were into something really embarrassing. Like macramé with your grandmother. Or maybe you’re secretly creepy and you pinned dead butterflies to corkboard.”

He rubs his chin with his thumb and index finger, as if he’s giving serious thought to those possibilities. “Nah, nothing that interesting. Theater. Guitar. I dabbled in a dog-walking business last year—profitable but messy.”

I’m dying to ask if he had a girlfriend, but there isn’t exactly a non-awkward way to do that. Besides, who cares if he had one? Except even the thought makes me a little jealous, never mind that I’m supposed to be focusing on my future.

“My dad tried really hard to make me love basketball for years,” Oliver adds.

“A good skill to have around here. Indiana’s like the basketball
capital of the world.”

“Except I kind of sucked at it. Not playing was about the only good thing that came from my parents splitting up and Dad moving to London. Everything else has been more in the not-so-great column.”

“Like what?”

He pulls his lips into a thin line. “We didn’t just move here because Mom wanted to be closer to her sister. She couldn’t afford the house, or the barn out there. She held out for about a year, and then she just couldn’t do it anymore. We had to move somewhere more affordable. My aunt fronted the money for Happy Valley, and we found an apartment that costs like a tenth of what our mortgage was in San Francisco.”

“Doesn’t your dad help out at all?” Mine sends money every month. It’s part of the divorce agreement or something.

Oliver grips the top of the seat on either side of him. “I guess. But it’s not enough.”

“You’re really pissed at him, aren’t you?”

“Well, yeah, but not as much as I used to be, trust me. The only time I talked to him for a while afterward was to tell him exactly what I thought.” He loosens his grip on the seat and gives me that crooked smile.

“I get it. I don’t talk to my dad unless I have to.” I lean back and prop my shoes up against the back of the seat in front of me. “But not because he left us for broke.”

“Because he’s a sewer-sucking slimeball?”

If anyone else had said that, I would’ve been mad. But coming
from Oliver, it’s different. And true. I don’t know what it is about him that makes me actually want to talk about this stuff. “Exactly. I mean, who just up and leaves the freaking country for a job when he could’ve had his pick of jobs in any city near here? Sometimes I feel like he just wanted to get away from me and Eric. Like we remind him of something he’d rather not be reminded of.”

Instead of trying to reason with me or make me see Dad’s side of things—the way Mom always does—Oliver just nods. He slides over until he’s on the seat back right in front of me and puts one foot on each of my armrests.

“Responsibility. Being a fucking grown-up and taking care of your kids. Dealing with the choices you’ve made. Who knows. Probably all of it and more we haven’t even thought of.” He reaches his hands out to me, and I take them. They’re warm and strong, and now all I can think of is that moment at the barn where his hand rested on mine and the one at the Ice Cream Palace when we were so close I could barely breathe. And all this is much, much better than thinking about what a prick my dad is.

“You’re smart and talented and beautiful, and anyone who just walks out on you is not only a jerk, but should probably have their head examined,” he says softly. “Even if he does have really good taste in music.”

I smile a little. I want to say something like that to him, too. Oliver’s dad is an idiot, and I want him to know that, but I can’t find the words. Not when he’s tugging on my hands to pull me up and looking at me with those soft eyes. I give in and stand up, letting him pull me
closer, until I’m resting against his chest and he wraps his arms around me.

I close my eyes and breathe in the slight hay scent clinging to his clothes, slowly moving my arms to return the hug. He’s so different from Trevor. Everything about Trevor is familiar, from his broad shoulders to how he always tasted like chocolate chip cookies to the way we seemed to fit together like a puzzle. Oliver’s more angular and his hair’s too short to brush my face when he’s looking at me the way he is right now.

My heart trips as he moves a hand over my shoulder and up my neck to trace my jawline. My eyes close involuntarily, and while I can feel his breath on me, I completely forget how to breathe.

“You
can’t
miss the first tech rehearsal. Your family will just have to go to Disney without you, because if you go Ms. Sharp will kill you and then she’ll kill me because I knew about it!” Hannah Goldman’s shrill voice echoes through the theater.

I jump backward, falling into my seat. Oliver yanks his feet off the armrests and stands up. Danielle skips ahead of Hannah and waves at us, like she’s not at all bothered by being told she’s not allowed to go on vacation. Oliver clears his throat. He’s about to settle into the seat next to me when Hannah calls for him to go over some blocking changes in Act Two.

I pull my legs up and wrap my arms around them. And imagine what might’ve happened if no one had come bursting in through the doors. Maybe something new and different isn’t so bad at all.

“Really, Casey, it’s not that hard. If you actually studied, you might understand it,” Harrison says from across the table. I’ve dragged him to the library during lunch to get me up to speed for my pre-calc test tomorrow. And now I wish I’d asked Amanda instead. She would’ve actually explained it to me instead of insulting me.

“You’re supposed to be helping, not making me feel bad,” I remind him.

“I can’t possibly teach you six weeks’ worth of pre-calc in one thirty-minute lunch period.”

“You don’t have to teach me
all
of it. Just hit the highlights. Like, what’s this whole polynomial thing? And what do you do with these functions?” I tap the page with my pencil eraser and wait for Harrison to enlighten me.

Instead, he bangs his forehead on the table.

“So, hey, when I’ve got this stupid test behind me, I’m going to find us a band to join. What are your thoughts on jazz standards?” I can just see myself in a slinky midnight-blue gown, leaning against a piano, my hair falling in perfectly loose curls as I croon my way through some sexy ballad.

“No,” he says, his voice muffled by the table.

“Yeah, you’re right. It’s too similar to theater. We need something entirely different.”

Harrison turns his head sideways, making his glasses go crooked. “We could ask Oliver. He looks like he’s really into music.”

I flush and hope to God that Harrison doesn’t notice. I pull my pre-calc book closer, hoping to make sense out of what’s on the page,
but all I see is Oliver’s face.

“Polynomials?” a voice says over my shoulder. I freeze.

“Hey, Trevor,” I say, about an octave higher than usual. Out of the corner of my eye, Harrison shakes his head.

“That class is the worst. Make sure you take General Math Principles next year. It’s a snorefest, but impossible to fail.” Trevor pushes his hair out of his face.

“Okay. Thanks,” I say carefully. He must want something. Not me, obviously, but something I have or I can do for him. Well, he can ask all he likes, but I’m not giving him a thing.

“NYCPA doesn’t care what math you take after Algebra II,” Trevor goes on, as if I’m still able to ask for an audition there. He applied early decision to NYCPA last year, the way I’d planned to in January. He went up for an audition in spring, had his acceptance by midsummer, and could happily cross calculus off his list of senior-year classes. Thinking about NYCPA—and the imaginary life I’d planned there for us together—makes my heart ache a little.

“I’m pretty sure you would’ve gotten in even if you couldn’t add two and two,” I say. I pull up the side of my mouth the way I do when I tease him. I’m doing exactly what I told myself I would never do again—flirt with Trevor. I shut it down immediately, but way too late for him to un-notice it. Something flickers in his eyes—something I haven’t seen in a while—and then it’s gone.

“So,” I say, eyes back on my textbook, “why are you talking so much to me? Is Amanda ignoring you?”

“Since when do I need a reason to talk to you?”

“Since you hooked up with my best friend and acted like I don’t even exist.”

“What are you talking about?”

I glance up. He’s just standing there, arms crossed. And I’d forgotten. This is Trevor’s usual MO—deny, deny, deny.

Harrison fakes a cough, which is his way of reminding us he’s still there.

“Besides, I like to
talk
to you,” Trevor says, in a way that reminds me he likes to do more than just talk. He uncrosses his arms and leans against the nearest bookshelf, managing to look even hotter in a slouch than anyone has a right to. My irritation vanishes. It’s almost impossible to stay mad at him when he’s looking at me like that.

Harrison coughs so hard I’m afraid he’ll start choking.

“So, hey,” I finally say, searching my brain for the first random non-angry, non-flirtatious thing to say. “You know anything about being in a band? Like anyone we could talk to? Besides my brother, I mean.”

“A little, actually. Me, Johnny, and Steve-o were talking the other day, and we’re going to start one.”

I shudder at the mention of Johnny Grimaldi. I’ve been avoiding him like he’s a show doomed to close on opening night. “Really? I didn’t know you were into that.”

“I figure it’ll be a good side gig in New York next year.”

Harrison’s watching us, spinning his notebook on the table and frowning.

“What kind of music?” I ask Trevor, keeping myself focused on
my goal.

He shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe something like Eric’s band, but with less screaming, you know?”