Like It Never Happened (4 page)

“Oh?” said Charlie.

To the rest of us, Liane explained, “When Charlie and I were little, we lived in the same apartment complex, and I used to write plays.”

“Really?” I asked. “What about?”

Liane waved her hand. “Dumb stuff. The Oregon trail, Christmas miracles. But I used to hold auditions for the neighborhood kids, and since Charlie was my best friend—”

“
Was
your best friend?” Charlie interrupted.

Liane ignored him. “He took his auditions extra-seriously. He didn't want anyone to accuse me of nepotism.”

Embarrassingly, I had never actually had a best friend. Theater had taught me to love an audience—but ending up alone with another person could still make me nervous.

“Aw,” said Tim. “You guys go so far back, you're practically related.”

Charlie took a long drink of water. Liane appeared to be waiting for a cramp to pass.

Finally, Liane asked, “Tim, why did you start acting?” She was sitting perfectly straight in the wooden booth. Her flat-ironed hair was beginning to protest, curling near her temples. I was jealous of the bangles on her wrists and the metal rings on her fingers. I could never pull off stuff like that.

“Well!” said Tim brightly. “Last year in English, Ms. Kramer told me I have the best reading voice she has ever heard.” He paused to let us grasp the magnitude of this compliment. “She made me read aloud from
The Odyssey
for like three days straight, then told me I probably have the stamina to record audiobooks if I want. Sounds awesome, right? I thought theater would be good practice.”

“Awesome,” Liane confirmed.

When it was Tess's turn to answer the question, she drawled, “I don't know if you guys have noticed, but I
really
enjoy being looked at.”

I laughed with everybody else, because there was something about Tess and her deliberate sexiness that still appealed to me.

Then Charlie said, “Attention whore.”

And Tess said, “I'm not the only whore among us.”

She waggled her eyebrows at me. Of the five of us, only Tess ever joked about my old reputation, and I never knew how to react.

Charlie stood up from the table, tapping a fresh pack of American Spirits against his palm. “Anyone want a smoke?” he asked, nodding toward the parking lot.

Tess and Tim shook their heads. Biting her thumbnail, Liane stared at the syrup congealing on her plate.

“Rivers?” Charlie raised his eyebrows at me. Trying not to appear too eager, I followed him outside.

A cigarette was the last thing I wanted after so much food, but I took one anyway. At first we smoked in silence, exhaling toward Powell Boulevard. Charlie had that boyish, self-sufficient way of standing that made me feel unnecessary—until his lips curled into a smile.

“So if your parents hadn't forced you onstage, would you have discovered theater on your own?”

“Yes,” I said immediately, no doubt in my mind. “Maybe it would have taken a couple more years, but yes. I love it more than anything.”

Charlie stuck out his jaw and blew smoke at the sky. “I wish I felt that way.”

“About theater?”

“About something.”

“But you like acting,” I said, as if to convince him. He gave me a funny look. “I mean, you don't really do it just for your college applications, do you?” I made myself look him in the eye.

A grin stretched across Charlie's face. He ground the remainder of his cigarette against the diner's brick exterior. “No, Rivers. Not
just
for my college applications.”

I blushed, acknowledging what he meant—or what I thought he meant. Charlie was already holding open the door, letting damp air invade the hotcake house.

“Ready?” He cocked his head. I dropped my cigarette and followed him back to the half-circle booth, where our friends were inventing details about our director's personal life.

“Probably he lives in a fancy Pearl District condo,” Tim speculated. “With a French bulldog named, like, Nicholas.”

Charlie and I slid into place, eager to harp on a favorite subject.

I guess we were all fairly obsessed with Mr. McFadden, maybe because we knew nothing about him, while he knew practically everything about us. Backstage we never censored ourselves like we would have for a regular teacher. Our director was privy to Tess's sex obsession, to Charlie's constant bragging, and to Tim's tendency to sing in a high falsetto whenever he was bored. But Mr. McFadden never joined in, never offered any commentary of his own.

It hardly seemed fair of him, to hide so much.

Two nights later we opened
The Crucible
and it was almost flawless. An eleventh grader missed a cue, but Liane improvised such a smooth save, the audience probably didn't even notice. Backstage after curtain call we fell into a tangle of limbs. Liane said, “You were perfect,” and pressed her lips against my cheek.

Charlie had his arms around my waist. I leaned back against him so I could look into Liane's eyes. “So were you,” I said, stunned that I was even friends with such a beautiful person.

Breaking from the mob, Tim lifted Tess off the ground and spun her in a circle. Liane kicked off her colonial boots and threw one at Charlie, who caught it against his chest.

“That was amazing,” we kept saying.

“Can we go back out there?”

“Can we do it every night?”

“Does anything else feel this good?”

“Let's form our own company.”

“We could tour America.”

“We could tour Europe.”

“Is makeup melting all over my face?”

“Do you think they could tell I was sweating through my costume?”

“Did you hear me hiccup? I actually hiccupped.”

“Mr. McFadden was crying.”

“I've always wanted to make that asshole cry.”

“He's such a good director.”

“The best.”

“Can we go back out there?”

Killing the chaos, Charlie lifted a notebook above his head. “Let's make a pact,” he said.

We looked up from our various embraces.

“A pact?” Tim tilted his head.

“A pact,” said Charlie, “to never date each other.”

Most likely my eyes went wide.

“Why?” asked Tess. She lifted a lock of hair from her lipsticky mouth.

Charlie looked at me. Everyone followed his gaze. They waited for me to explain Charlie's perfect, terrible idea.

“Isn't it obvious?” My words drifted toward the ceiling. “It would ruin everything.”

After a second of silence, Tim agreed.

“It's not worth the risk,” added Liane.

Tess shrugged. “I didn't want to bone any of you anyway.”

Since Charlie wanted to be a lawyer, he basically wrote the pact himself.

We, the five essential members of the Thespian Troupe of Bickford Park Alternative School of the city of Portland, solemnly swear to never kiss, grope, fondle, lick, caress, court, woo, seduce, or otherwise date each other. Should any actor develop unseemly feelings for one of his/her four costars, he/she will sacrifice his/her desires for his/her love of the stage and for the collective artistic potential of Rebecca Rivers, Charlie Lamb, Tim Li, Tess Dunham, and Liane Gallagher. The foregoing pact is hereby consented to by the five essential members of the Thespian Troupe as evidenced by their signatures hereto.

I had still been wearing my costume, plus a week's worth of makeup, which somehow made it easier to sign my name.

D
uring my mother
'
s birthday dinner I accumulated seven text messages, all from Charlie, all insisting I call him immediately. Alone in my bedroom I waited for him to pick up, my heart racing unreasonably fast. I had seen Charlie every day since September, but something still shifted whenever we were alone—on the phone or in person. Sometimes it seemed clear that he shared my lawless feelings. And then I had to remember that outlawing those feelings had been his idea in the first place.

When he answered, he was infuriatingly nonchalant. “What's up, Rivers?”

“You sent me seven text messages.”

“Not seven,” he argued.

“Seven.”

“Well, you missed Slurpee day.”

“Mr. McFadden gave me a ride home,” I explained.

“Seriously?” Charlie's voice rose to an unlikely octave. “Did you listen to the sound track from
Sweeney Todd
? Did he tell you your movements were too stiff, your delivery inaudible?”

“He acted really normal. But his car was shitty.” I described the garbage on the floor and having to lift my butt up. I went ahead and claimed that Barbra Streisand
had
blared briefly from the stereo. It was satisfying to share even these exaggerated details about our director.

After a while, Charlie redirected the conversation. “So how many swimsuits are you bringing to the Shining Stars Summer Camp for Performing Arts? I don't want to suffer from that problem wherein I'm ready for a swim, but my shorts are already wet.”

“It's theater camp,” I said. “I don't know how much time we'll have for swimming.”

“Little kids have short attention spans,” argued Charlie. “I strongly advise you to bring, at minimum, your least conservative swimsuit. It will dry fast.”

Speechless, I pressed my forehead against the window. An ice-cream truck was stopped on the shoulder of Elliott Avenue.

“Are you worried about the pact getting broken?” asked Charlie casually.

“Excuse me?” I was alone in my room, but I felt my cheeks flare.

“Do you trust the three of them unsupervised all summer? If Liane doesn't wear down Tim, you-know-who will.”

In the street, kids were lined up for Mister Softee, waving their money in the air. “Right,” I managed, hope deflated. The idea of Liane needing to
wear down
anyone was laughable.

“Did you think I was talking about you and me?” Charlie asked innocently.

My heart was still pounding. “Nuh-uh.”

“I guess I'll see you on the bus,” said Charlie.

After we hung up, I watched Mister Softee serve the last ice-cream cone and shift into gear. I lowered myself to the floor and let my imagination slip briefly into dangerous territory: a lake at night, Charlie shirtless, me in my least conservative swimsuit. It took that stupid song crackling through Mister Softee's speakers to bring me back to reality.

Admittedly, I adored Charlie. Touching his skin—even by accident—was the best thing that happened on a regular basis. But most likely he only flirted with me because he knew he would never have to follow through.

The pact might have been Charlie's idea, but the rest of us had signed our names for a reason.

A
fter closing
The Crucible
in December
,
we had suffered two months of tenth grade without theater. Mr. McFadden had told us that the break between the fall and spring plays was a chance for us to catch up on schoolwork, which was nonsense. We spent half our nights that winter at the hotcake house, longing for new scripts. Finally we got to audition for
The Seagull
and Charlie and I were cast as Nina and Trigorin: Russian lovers. By then I was so crazy about Charlie, I didn't know if I wanted to rejoice or vomit at the prospect of kissing him onstage.

For the record, the kiss didn't break the pact. We had realized a long time ago that we would sometimes have to act out certain intimacies. Preserving the integrity of our performance was what the pact was all about. Kissing Charlie couldn't be wrong when I was Nina Mikhailovna Zarechnaya and he was Boris Alexeyevich Trigorin. Like how movie stars can be married but still have sex on camera—because the lights are so hot and there are so many people looming over you that it's more akin to being at the dentist.

Progressive as our school was, Mr. McFadden probably would have gotten in trouble for directing daily make-out scenes between students. Apparently there's a fine line between Chekov and pornography—at least when everyone involved is sixteen and fairly desperate. Which is why we didn't rehearse the kiss until a week before opening night.

Backstage, Liane was helping me with my English paper. I had begged Mr. Walker for an extension and he had complained about the thespian troupe thinking ourselves immune to academic standards. Ironic, given that Charlie was responsible for raising our school's standards so damn high in the first place.

And now the same Charlie was shuffling toward us, looking mildly nauseated and also very cute in his green corduroy pants. I wanted to bite his bottom lip.

“We have to kiss this time,” he said.

My whole body went numb. I did not want to bite his bottom lip, after all.

Liane said, “You do?” right as I said, “We do?”

I hadn't been expecting our mouths to touch until opening night. I was relying on my performance high to make it possible. It wouldn't be me up there; it would be Nina parting her lips for a brooding Russian author, the silence of the audience like the whole world holding its breath.

But I couldn't kiss Charlie in front of Mr. McFadden and the rest of the Essential Five. Not with my presently greasy hair, which Tess had tried to remedy with baby powder, and which now appeared to be molding.

I started praying for a power outage, or an after-hours fire drill.

“Mr. McFadden wants us to practice one time.” Horrified, Charlie splayed his fingers across his face and pulled at his skin until I could see the reds of his eyes. “He has to make sure our angles are right.”

“Our
angles
?
”
I said.

Liane bit down a smile. Charlie just stared at his feet. His shoes were the kind your mom makes you wear to a funeral, only they were adorably scuffed at the toes.

“Okay!” I passed my notebook to Liane. “Whatever! We will kiss. I mean, this was always going to happen. If we had a problem with it, we should have said something a long time ago. Tonight, next week—what's the difference?” A note of laughter came out like a bark.

Somehow, this insane speech cured Charlie of his fear. He smiled with just one corner of his perfect lips. His spine straightened.

“Calm down, Rivers.” His eyes darted from me to Liane and back. “It's just pretend.”

Hearing his cue, he turned and sauntered stageward. I hated him.

“Are you okay?” Liane's eyes were wide. “Can you do this?”

Panic tightened in my chest.

“Remember, you're a professional.” Liane gripped my shoulders. “Acting is what you want to do with your life, right?”

I nodded, barely.

“And you've kissed people before, right?”

Liane's assumption was understandable. Based on my reputation, any of my peers would have guessed I had a range of bodily fluid–based skills. This was hardly the time to correct her. I nodded again.

“Good, this will be easy. No feelings involved. You'll be fine.” Liane gave my shoulders a confident shake, like she actually believed what she was saying. Maybe she did.

Onstage, Charlie shouted my cue.

We delivered the lines we had practiced a hundred times. I, as Nina, declared I was abandoning my father for the love of theater. Charlie, as Trigorin, told me I was beautiful. He called me his darling. We promised to meet again in Moscow.

Charlie as Charlie radiated nervous heat.

I was in love with him. It was only my second kiss ever. I couldn't tell which was the bigger problem.

The script had described the embrace as prolonged, and my god, was it prolonged. Allegedly Mr. McFadden had directed Charlie to hold the pose for three seconds, but I would have sworn Charlie counted to thirty before unplugging his face from mine.

The curtain would have fallen, but this was only rehearsal.

“Uniquely unerotic,” observed Mr. McFadden.

I had been terrified he would make us do it again. But our director had waved his hand and dismissed us. We had scurried offstage—Charlie with his cheeks burning, and me, with all my burning secrets.