The Disenchantments (5 page)

When we finished our second run-through of the scene, Bev stood up from her seat in the middle of the theater and leaned back on the armrest. She consulted her clipboard and scribbled a note.

“Okay, Colby,” she said. “You need to channel something.”

She left her perch on the edge of a chair and walked up onto the stage where I was standing. It was a journey: past the chairs to the aisle, from the aisle to the steps, up the steps to the stage, across the stage to me. She looked at my face
and then up to the ceiling, searching for the cure to my bad acting.

“You shouldn’t be that funny,” she said. “The play should be funny, but Lorenzo doesn’t know that. Lorenzo’s serious. Lorenzo is in love. So imagine being in love and confessing it.”

She stepped to the edge of the stage.

I started:
“Tilly—my mother abandoned me at a sweetshop.”

That part was easy to say convincingly; the rest would be harder. The problem was that while I knew how it felt to be in love, I knew even better how it felt to hide it. Because Bev and I were best friends and that’s the way it had always been. Because every day at our school people broke up and cheated on each other and hooked up at parties and pretended not to remember anything about it the next day. Because I feared the unraveling of everything that we had become to one another from the time we were nine years old.

“Why are you telling me this?”
It was Tilly’s line, but as Meg spoke I found myself looking at Bev. Her blond hair falling over her left shoulder, stopping at the curve of one of her perfect small breasts. She waited for me to continue.

I said,
“Because—the heavens have cracked open—I suddenly want to tell you everything.”

The next line caught in my throat, but I turned to Meg, who was feigning Tilly’s alarm but rooting for me with her
focused brown eyes, and forced it out, quieter this time, without the armor of overacting.

“I think I’m in love with you, Tilly. They say that’s what happens when you fall in love. You want to tell people things. You especially want to tell them sad things. Hidden sad things from the past. Something like: I was abandoned at a sweetshop in an unspecified European country. Tilly.”

I had always found that last part strange. Her name: not a question but a statement. A one-word sentence. But when I said it right then, it made sense. Not,
Tilly?
As in,
Do you love me, too?
But,
Tilly.
As in,
Your name is all I that can manage to say.

Meg pranced across the stage to hug me, and I tried to recover from the feeling that I had just confessed my love for my best friend on the stage of our school theater with the drama teacher napping in the front row and the entire cast and crew watching from the seats.

There was a moment of silence when I thought for sure the world was ending.

Then Bev said, “That’s great. That was so much better.”

And we ran the scene again, from the beginning until the end.

Meg drives.

I sit by myself in the back bench seat and stare out the window. A piece of tape unsticks from the side of one of
Meg’s boxes. I push it back down, use her bass case as a pillow, and try to fall asleep. When I close my eyes I picture Bev’s small blue-walled room emptied of all of her stuff. Then I see mine, full of everything but her.

The bus is quiet for a long time, and then Meg’s playlist resumes, and after a while, they start to talk. I hear pages turning and Bev reading, “Voice and movement. Playwriting. Method acting.”

Meg says, “How will I choose!”

“Take playwriting,” Bev says. “I’m taking it first semester. Let’s write plays and produce them over the summer. We can cast each other.”

“Only if you direct me again,” Meg says. “You’re the best director I’ve ever worked with.”

I don’t want to hear Bev talking about this, getting so excited over the things that I thought neither of us were that into. So I sit up, assuming that they’ll move on to other topics of conversation if they don’t think that I’m sleeping.

I see Bev catch my reflection in the rearview mirror and she slips the catalog off her lap. For a while they talk about nothing, and then Meg stops talking altogether and focuses on the road.

Which is a good thing, because the drive gets a little perilous. The Northern California coast has to be the most amazing place I’ve ever seen but it’s also terrifying. One moment, I’m thinking
Oh my god: the cliffs, the ocean, the wildflowers, the hills—nothing could be better than this
. And
then the next, I’m wondering why there isn’t a rail on the side of the road, realizing that if Meg steered us a little too zealously around a curve, we would be plunging over the cliff, into the ocean, and that would be the end of all of us. I close my eyes and almost feel it: the denial and then the dread, falling away from the future I had every intention of reaching.

Eventually, the earth evens out, the road widens. We drive past Mendocino, a perfect postcard town overlooking the ocean, everything neat and colorful. And then, all of a sudden, the trees disappear, everything turns gray, and a sign welcomes us to Fort Bragg.

“Whoa,” Meg says. “What happened?”

Alexa says, “Maybe we’re just in the outskirts or something. I’m sure it will get better.”

Bev’s staring out the window, but in that spaced-out way that means she isn’t really looking at anything.

Maybe she’s changing her mind.

Alexa directs Meg off the main road, past a tattoo parlor and a few bars and an unfortunate number of boarded-up buildings. At the end of a block, we spot the red Bianchi Motel sign rising over the roofs of the surrounding stores and houses.

“This is kind of weird,” she says, “but we don’t actually check in at the motel. We check in at the store across the street.”

We get out of the bus. Across the street is another red
sign: Bianchi Market. Next to the motel is the Bianchi Laundromat. All three of the Bianchi’s businesses look a little rough. Bars on windows, peeling paint. Instead of flashing on and off, the neon vacancy sign above the motel winces and sparks.

Alexa frowns. “It looked okay on the website.”

“We didn’t expect luxury,” I say. “This’ll be fine.”

“Yeah,” Bev says. “It’s just a place to crash, right?”

Alexa nods, like she’s trying to convince herself. “And it’s close to the venue, The Basement. It’s just a few blocks away.”

We walk single-file into the market. An R & B song from before we were born crackles through boom-box speakers. Everything is coated in dust. An older woman with faded tattoos laughs loudly with a customer. Her name tag says Peggy, and I wonder if she’s a Bianchi.

Alexa strolls past Peggy, over to a girl at the far end of the counter.

“You checking in?” the girl asks, and Alexa says yes.

We crowd around the counter as the girl goes over the rules. She’s probably our age, maybe a year or two older, but it’s hard to tell because she looks nothing like us. She’s wearing baggy jeans and thick black eyeliner and her hair is pulled back into a ponytail so tight it must be painful.

She sets a laminated paper on the counter for us to read.

N
O SMOKING (THIS INCLUDES MARIJUANA!)

N
O GUESTS

N
O LOUD MUSIC AFTER
10
P.M.

N
O SHOUTING OR YELLING

T
HIS IS A FAMILY PLACE
. I
F YOU DISOBEY THE RULES WE WILL CALL THE POLICE!!!

“Okay,” Meg says, clearly offended. “Got it.” She turns to the rest of us. “We should unpack our stuff and then go somewhere.”

Alexa checks her watch. “We only have until eight before we have to check in for the show.”

“That leaves some time, though,” I say. “We should do something.”

Even though Fort Bragg doesn’t seem to be the most vibrant town, I don’t want to go sit around the motel room, trying to avoid eye contact with Bev. And this is our trip, the first trip any of us have ever taken on our own, with our own money and our own schedule to follow and our own decisions to make.

“So what is there to do around here?” Bev asks.

The girl shrugs. “J.T.’s doesn’t card. Or there’s Glass Beach.”

She looks around, sees the older woman still engrossed in her conversation, and says, “I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but I wouldn’t unpack if I were you. Your stuff’s definitely safer in the car.”

Meg raises her eyebrows.

“Okay,” she says. “Well, thanks for letting us know.”

We turn to leave and then I remember the photo plan
from this morning, when we were crossing the bridge and my future was still something recognizable. I stop halfway down an aisle—in front of a few dusty flashlights and a camouflage-print umbrella—and say, “Hey, we’re supposed to get a picture of her.”

Alexa looks back at the girl, then shakes her head. The bells on her headband chime and she smiles a tight, nervous smile that means she wants to leave.

“I don’t know if she likes us,”
she whispers.

Meg adds, “That list was kind of rude.”

“It wasn’t
her
list,” I say. “And sure she liked us. She warned us about the room.”

Bev has the camera around her arm, so Meg and Alexa look at her for the final decision.

“We’re taking photos of everyone, right?” I say.

She’s studying the girl, the surroundings, as if she’s imagining the way the photograph might turn out.

“Let’s go,” she finally says, and with this decision, abandons another good plan.

We drive by J.T.’s first. It’s on a side road and so shabby I would assume it was condemned if we hadn’t just been told to go there.

“That man has bad vibes,” Alexa says about a guy leaning up against the door. He sees us checking out the bar and sneers.

“Glass Beach, then,” I say, and everyone nods their assent.

So we drive a few blocks down the main road and turn where a small sign tells us to turn, and park the car and walk toward the water, Bev’s camera over her shoulder. Tall grasses and flowers grow through a barbed-wire fence on one side of the trail, and when the fence ends, the path opens to a rocky area above the water. We look over the edge. Not far below us, groups of people are spread out by the water, but instead of lying on towels and sitting in beach chairs, everyone is digging in the sand.

“What’s going on?” Meg asks. “This is weird.”

We hike down to find out. Once we’re with the rest of the people, we discover that the sand isn’t only sand. Instead, we stand on millions of smooth, small pieces of beach glass.

Alexa scoops a handful and holds the glass in her palm for us to see—brown, green, blue, and white.

“This is amazing. The pieces are everywhere.”

“Yeah,” Meg says. “But that’s not what everyone’s looking for.”

All around us, people are pushing the beach glass aside, searching for something buried deeper.

“I’ll find out,” Meg says, and takes a few steps over to where a little boy is hunched beside a rock with a red shovel.

“What is everyone digging for?” she asks him.

“Junk,” the kid says without looking up.

“Junk,” Meg tells us, as if this illuminates something.

Meanwhile, a short distance away, Alexa has started digging. Meg asks Bev to use the camera, and Bev takes it off of her shoulder, hands it over, and leaves to walk along the edge of the water, picking up pieces of driftwood. Soon she comes back toward me with her arms full.

“Can I have the keys?” she asks.

I hand them to her, and when she grabs them some wood falls out of her arms. I ignore her for a little while, but it takes too much effort to stare out at the water as if I don’t notice her picking up and dropping the wood, so I stop faking aloofness and take some wood out of her arms. We start up the path to the van together.

“This is perfect for carving,” she says.

Bev takes things from real life and makes them small. Three-inch-tall people, centimeter-long books, every detail precise and perfect. Her senior project was the whole school: every student, every teacher, every classroom. People were touched. For weeks they crowded around the display in the library, because there they were. Even if they had never even spoken to Bev, never even had a class with her, they were there somewhere, standing or sitting in their usual spots, looking like themselves in their signature glasses or boots, some small detail that made them recognizable. Our high school was different than other schools—no football team, no cheerleaders—but like any place there were kids who were noticed and kids who weren’t. Bev was definitely
noticed. And then, there was her project, sitting in the library, saying, Yes, I notice
you
, too.

As we walk up to the car Bev tries to talk to me as if everything’s fine. She tells me that driftwood is great for the bigger pieces because it’s so soft and because it’s gray, a color that works well for walls and floors.

“If I’d had this to make the theater out of, it would have been so much better,” she says. “I wouldn’t have made that gash in the side from digging too hard.”

In Bev’s version of the school’s theater, Alexa and Meg and a few other people were onstage, holding scripts. I was across campus in the drawing studio, standing at an easel. Bev was two classrooms away, working on a miniature version of her miniature campus.

I unlock the passenger door and we let the wood tumble out of our arms and onto the seat. Bev picks up a piece I was carrying.

“I’m gonna use this one to carve the bus,” she says.

She looks at me.

She waits. Probably to see if I’m going to talk about this with her. If I’m going to pretend that things are okay. But I don’t know how I can have a conversation with her about anything until I know why she lied to me for so many months.

“Do you want to tell me now?” I ask.

She shakes her head. No. We turn back to the water.

Meg runs up to greet us when we get back to the beach.

“We’re finding it!” she tells us.

“Finding what?” I ask.

“The junk,” she says. “It’s everywhere. Come look at my stash. Here’s your camera back. I got some good shots.”