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“You were the one who stood up for the sub that day,” he says.

“Oh.” Ugh. I look down, embarrassed. But since he’s shorter than I am, down is right at his face. “You remember that?”

“It was memorable.” He waggles his eyebrows, smiling that half smile again.

Yeah. One day in class, we had a sub. A new one, probably fresh out of college, and he stuttered. Badly. Since the class didn’t have assigned seating, he had to call roll. Which was painful. It took maybe ten minutes to call thirty names, but it seemed way longer because people were being so rude. He searched for C-C-Columbo and G-G-Guzman with everyone laughing at him. Well, almost everyone. I actually specifically noticed that Goose wasn’t. But he wasn’t telling his friends to shut up either.

When the sub reached the last name, Torres, his stutter made it come out Tit-tit-Torres, and everyone lost it, including the sub, who looked about to cry. It really bugs me when people make fun of someone who can’t help it, and I didn’t have any friends in that class anyway.

So I stood up. I had nothing to lose. I turned, faced the class, and just glared at everyone. And people actually stopped laughing, at least enough to hear me when I said, “What are you, four years old? I’m sure it’s soooo funny.”

Which is the bravest thing I’ve done since trying to kick the monkey off Mom.

And, for whatever reason, that shut everyone up. I knew people thought I was a bitch, but I sort of thought the same thing about them.

“It wasn’t a big deal,” I say. “I just wanted to get started with biology. I’m going to study nursing, so I need good grades in science.”

Goose shakes his head like my dad does when he knows I’m lying. “Don’t downplay how brave you were, standing up to a roomful of people. You weren’t the only person who was annoyed, just the only one who said anything. I didn’t. You were like a warrior.”

I shrug and look away so he can’t see my smile. Warrior. I like that.

“Serious badass. And you were brave just now, onstage.”

Glad to change the subject, I say, “
That’s
true. I was terrified. I’m probably the one person here who doesn’t want a lead. Hopefully, I won’t get it.” Now that it’s over, I’m backing off the fact that I really sort of want it.

“Oh, you’ll get it.” He points to my notebook. “So who’s J.P.? Your boyfriend?”

He’s looking at the writing on my notebook.

So. Embarrassing. I try to sneak my fingers on top of the writing.
“Um, actually, he’s a singer. Jonah Prince.” I realize this does not make me sound like a warrior-type. “It’s dumb. My friend, Laurel, and I are getting tickets for his concert in Orlando this summer, so I was, you know, being a fangirl.” I try not to look like someone who wrote three Tumblr posts about Jonah in the past week.

“Jonah Prince. That’s the guy with the dance moves, right?” Goose executes a Jonah Prince-like spin. “I’ve got some moves of my own.”

I stifle a giggle. He says, “It’s okay to laugh. I wasn’t being serious.”

“I guess we should go back in,” I say. “I think there’s a dance audition.” Which Laurel totally lied about.

“Wouldn’t want to miss that. As you can tell, I’m a brilliant dancer.”

That time, I do laugh. We head for the auditorium. Goose holds the door for me, then takes a seat with one of the better Nancy candidates. Another girl is onstage, singing “As Long as He Needs Me” off-key. I sit by Laurel.

The next day, when the cast list goes up, I’m Oliver. Goose Guzman is listed as the Artful Dodger, and he’s hugging the girl he was sitting with, who got Nancy.

“I’m someone named Charlotte, and chorus,” Laurel says. “We’ll never rehearse together.” But I can tell she’s thrilled she got a speaking part.

“Congratulations. Yes, we will. Oliver’s in almost every scene.”
Le sigh.
“I’ll be at your rehearsals and a bunch more. At least, it gets me away from Violet. And squee! Charlotte is a great part!”

“The beginning of a brilliant theater career,” Laurel agrees. And we jump up and down.

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That night, at dinner, I tell Dad and Violet about the play.

Despite a full-time lawyer job, Violet is an incredible cook. She scours food blogs and cookbooks and makes recipes that look like they should take hours, but still gets dinner on the table by seven. I think she stays up all night, chopping stuff. So, while normal kids are eating frozen breaded chicken breasts or even ramen, my family gets shrimp etouffee with grits or, tonight, beef Wellington.

God, how I wish we could eat frozen chicken breasts sometimes. I love frozen chicken breasts with barbecue sauce on them. It’s such a mom thing to make.

I miss my mom.

But I eat everything in hopes that it will make Violet hate me less. It doesn’t work.

“What’s this in the middle?” I ask, picking at my steak, which has been rolled in a crust like a pie and has something gray that looks like pureed mouse in the center.

“It’s really good.” Dad smiles at Violet and rubs her back. “You’re such a great cook. I don’t know how you have time for this.”

“We make time for those we love,” she says.

And then, he kisses her. On the lips. With tongue. Long pause while I throw up in my mouth.

“But what is it?” I start to scrape it off, figuring they won’t notice since they’re so busy sucking face.

“Darling, don’t do that. It’s pâté, okay? It’s delicious. It’s . . .”

Liver! Do you know they force feed the geese through a tube to make their livers more “buttery”?
But I don’t say it. I don’t use any unnecessary words with Violet. I try to stuff the liver into my mouth to keep the words from coming out.

“Mmm. You’re a great cook, Violet, um, Mom.” In the beginning, she’d asked me to call her Mom, but it had seemed wrong. But, as years went by and everyone else had a mother, I changed my mind. It wasn’t like Mom was going to know about it. And Violet was nice. Then.

Was nice.

She’d seemed happy about it. Dad said Violet had never had a good relationship with her own mother, a beautiful woman who’d joined us for Thanksgiving exactly once in the years Violet and Dad had been together, and who’d criticized the dry turkey (It was perfect, like everything Violet cooked) and left before dessert. I try to remember that when I get mad at Violet, but it’s not easy.

“So I’m going to be in the school musical,” I say, mostly to Dad. “
Oliver!
”

“Oh, that’s wonderful,” Violet says. “It’s always so much fun to be in the chorus.”

“Absolutely,” Dad says. “Violet did musicals in high school, and she was on the dance team.” He’s so pleased we have something in common.

“That’s so cool,” I say. “I suck at dance. What were you in?”

Violet is actually momentarily happy, talking about herself. “Senior year, we did
My Fair Lady
. I played the lead, Eliza. And junior year, I was Irene Molloy in
Hello, Dolly!
”

“She was breathtaking,” Dad says, and takes a big bite of his liver-y steak. “Just like this meal. I don’t know how one woman can be so good at everything.”

Almost like she’s a witch.

“So breathtaking you never gave me a second look,” Violet says. “You were busy looking elsewhere.”

Dad looks down at his plate. “Mmm.”

I know I have to tell them. “Actually, I’m not in the chorus. It’s kind of a funny story. They were looking for a short girl to play Oliver.”

“So you have the lead?” Dad says. “That’s wonderful.” Because he is just that clueless to how Violet will react.

She’s already frowning. I say, “It’s not really the lead. All the girls wanted Nancy.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Violet snaps. “The play’s called
Oliver!
not
Nancy!
”

“But I’m playing a boy. I’ll have to wear my hair in a cap and look ugly.” She should love that.

“Maybe you should cut it off, immerse yourself in the role of a London street urchin. When I played Eliza, I talked in a British accent 24/7.”

So weird.

“I don’t think that’s necessary,” Dad jokes. “Everyone can’t be as dedicated as you, Violet.”

I can tell he’s trying to help me, but it’s still annoying that he always takes her side. I chomp on my beef Wellington. “This is really incredible. You’re a great cook, Violet.” I chew real quick, like a rabbit, then take another bite. Dad and Violet are chewing too, which is better than tonguing each other.

“Anyway,” I say when I’ve eaten enough to leave, “I’ll probably have rehearsal most days. Laurel’s mom can drive me when Laurel’s rehearsing too, but otherwise, maybe you can pick me up on your way home?”

I’m looking at Dad, but Violet says, “Of course.”

“Thanks.” I take one last bite. “Mmm.” Chewing.

“You must have a very beautiful voice,” Violet says.

I can hear the jealousy tinging her own voice. But why would she be jealous? She’s beautiful and talented herself. Why hate me so much?

Because she’s a total wack job.

“I think it was more that no one wanted to be Oliver. They tried to talk this one short boy into it, but he refused. And the few girls who tried couldn’t sing the notes right.” I take another bite even though I don’t want it, then stand.

“I’m sure you’re being modest.” Violet’s stopped eating, watching me.

I sit back down, finish my bite, take another. When I’ve finished the whole gross, goose-torture experiment, I ask to be excused. “I have a lot of homework.”

Later, when I go to wash my face, the soap feels hot on my cheek. I throw it aside and rinse off the water.

An ugly red welt spreads across my face. When I go to bed an hour later, it’s even worse. I finally fall asleep with an icepack pressed against my cheek. I put on Jonah’s music to take my mind off it.

That night, I dream that Jonah and I are trapped in a burning
building. He rescues me and takes me away, away from everything.

The next morning, my face is normal, like nothing happened. Before I catch the bus, I look for Violet. Dad’s already left, and I want to remind her I’m sleeping over Laurel’s. Violet’s room is quiet. Maybe she left too.

The bedroom is carpeted, so my feet make no sound. A light shines from the bathroom. Violet’s there. I can see her sitting at her vanity. In her hand, she holds a mirror, a big, round, silver one with a long handle. It’s beautiful. There’s a mirror over the sink, of course. Maybe she’s trying to see the back of her hair. But no. As I stand there, staring, she speaks.

To the mirror.

“Mirror, mirror, in my hand, who is the fairest in the land?”

Who’s the most batshit crazy?

I bolt from the room, but not before I think I hear the mirror say something back.

Now who’s crazy?

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We have a read-through after school that day. The second Laurel and I reach the auditorium, Goose runs to meet us.

“Please, suh, can I have some maw?” he says in a British accent.

I recognize Oliver’s famous line and smile.

“Knew you’d be perfect for it,” he says. “I practically discovered you.”

“And how did you know that?” I try to give him some attitude—I’m a drama geek now.

“All right, you caught me. I threw you under the bus so I didn’t have to play a little kid. I hate playing kids.”

I nod. I get it. The same reason I hate playing princesses—typecasting.

“Anyway,” he says, “enough chitchat. When Connors calls roll,
say ‘chop’ instead of ‘here,’ okay? And pass it on.”

“Why?” Laurel says.

“Everyone’s going to do it.”

“That sounds like those bad antidrug videos they make us watch in homeroom.” Laurel puts on a stoner voice. “Hey, man, everyone’s doing it.”

“I’m sure this isn’t going to end with one of us OD-ing on pot brownies.” I look at Goose. “Right?”

“Right. So you’re in?” When we nod, he runs off to tell other people.

When Mrs. Connors calls the first name, the guy playing Fagin answers, “Chop.” Mrs. Connors looks a little uncomfortable but calls the next name, Willow something. The girl playing Nancy answers, “Chop.” Then me, Bill Sikes, Mr. Bumble, all the way down to the chorus.

As the last name is called, all the older drama students yell, “Timber!” and pretend to fall on the floor like trees. They pull us uninitiated people down too. Mrs. Connors rolls her eyes and looks right at Goose. He grins at her, and she starts laughing too.

After the read-through (during which my Cockney accent is roundly ridiculed in case I was getting too full of myself), Goose comes up to me again. “How’s J.P.?”

“Still unaware of my existence,” I say.
And my identity as his future bride.

“I heard one of his songs on the radio last night.”

“Oh, really?” I hold my breath. Guys just looove to say that Jonah sings like a girl. Obviously, they’re jealous, but it’s still annoying.

But Goose says, “That song, ‘Beautiful but Deadly,’ it’s pretty scathing social commentary about society’s attitudes about appearance. I wasn’t expecting that.”

“Yes! Exactly! Most people don’t get that. At least, most guys.” Is he making fun of me?

“Guys like to hate on rock stars because they get all the girls. Me, I’m more confident in myself.”

“I can see that.” I smile. “You should go to his concert. Lots of girls to choose from.”

“I’d probably get trampled by hundreds of screaming women. Not a bad way to go, though.”

Laurel interrupts. “My mom’s here. You ready?”

“Sure.” To Goose, I say, “Concert tickets go on sale tomorrow. You’d probably be the only guy there. Big advantage.”

“Good tip. By the way, if you need help with your accent—not that it’s bad or anything—you could come over after school. My mom likes this British soap called
EastEnders
, and sometimes, we all speak in Cockney at dinner, just for fun.”

“That
does
sound fun.” A lot more fun than watching my parents make out. “I may take you up on that.” Even though he obviously thinks my accent is bad.

“He’s really nice,” I tell Laurel as we leave.

“OMG,” Laurel says. “You didn’t actually buy that stuff he said about J.P. Guys do not listen to Jonah Prince. He’s either making fun of you, or he’s a total horndog and using Jonah to flirt. Like he’d be your type.”

I guess she means because I’m pretty and he’s short. Because, apparently, being beautiful automatically makes a person shallow. Like Violet.

“I don’t know that I have a type.” I don’t like what Laurel is implying. Plus, it seems like she’s judging Goose by his looks as much as people judge me by mine. I don’t like to think that’s true so I say, “Besides, I think he’s dating Willow.”

Goose has stopped to wait for her. I go back to him. “Say, Goose, what was your favorite part of the song you listened to?”

He thinks a second. “There were lots of parts I liked.”

Laurel’s nodding like,
sure.

“Well, what was one part?” I ask, testing him, hoping Laurel’s not right.

He thinks another second, then starts to sing:

If I could see you through your eyes;

And you could see me through mine;

The world would change for the better.

Only then could we feel love divine.

His voice is strong and mellow. He looks away as he sings, like he’s suddenly shy about it. For a second, it’s like Jonah’s there, singing to me.

When he finishes, we just stand there, silent. Then he coughs. “I don’t think I remember any more of the words—but I remember I liked it!”

I laughed. “It’s okay. That’s my favorite part too.”

Willow/Nancy comes up to us. “I didn’t know you were such a Jonah Prince fan.”

“I’m full of surprises,” Goose says. “You ready?”

“I am,” she says. “My mom says it’s fine if I come over on a school night, since I told her it was to watch
EastEnders
for the play.”

“Great.” He offers her his hand. “Your chariot awaits.”

Willow leans in and kisses him. Then they walk off together. I give Laurel a look, like,
See?
because Goose and Willow are obviously a couple. She’s also tall, at least six inches taller than I am, so they make an interesting one.

“See you guys Monday,” I say.

“Have fun buying tickets,” Goose says.

When I get to Laurel’s mom’s car, I text my dad to remind him I’m staying over. He doesn’t reply. He doesn’t care, of course, since it will give him more time to stay with his beloved, completely insane, Violet.