Chapter 23
Theodore
It’s been a week since the accident with the ladder, and things have been oddly peaceful. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like we can spend too much time without teasing each other, but something’s obviously changed. For me, at least. Then all that has to happen for me to feel the insidious pang of resentment is Mr. Hackle telling her the way she delivered a line was perfect. She catches my eye then–she always does. And whatever she sees there puts a look on her face that shouldn’t be there, and I hate myself for it, but I also wonder if I’d ever be able to help it. There’s also the not-so-inconsequential fact I’ve told her about my deepest fear, proceeded to have a meltdown, and she didn’t even bat her eyes. Didn’t judge me for it, not outwardly, at least, which is probably basic decency, but coming from her, it has been making me feel all sorts of things. So yes, things are also rather … tricky.
I start taking my earbuds out and say, “You dropped this,” as I offer Dafne a bright pink sticky note, holding it between two fingers. She takes the note as she shoots me a glance, mouthing a thank you and probably hoping that’ll be that. But it’s me, so of course it won’t. I lean against the wall with one shoulder and casually cross my arms. “Act Five looks great, huh?”
“Because I’m quiet for most of it?”
Shite.
“I didn’t mean it like that–”
“Relax,” she snorts. “I was joking . Remember, joking?” she smirks as she starts to walk ahead, her hair swishing on her back. Her smile widens as she looks at me over her shoulder. I catch up with her in a couple of strides, and we start walking side by side through the hall. It’s not uncomfortable. I guess making out with someone daily takes the awkwardness away like that. I notice she’s wearing more makeup than usual, and while I’m trying to come up with a something nice to say, she suddenly speaks again.
“Have you had tea yet?” she shoots me a casual look.
I have. “No,” I blurt out. “You want to get some?” The words are out before I can even think them.
“Sure,” she raises one shoulder, without looking at me. We don’t say anything else as we walk to the nearest hot drinks vending machine, right next to the class where we have our Use of Voice lessons. I rummage through my pocket for the two pounds we’ll need for the tea, and immediately shove them in the coin slot. She opens her mouth to speak, but I say, “No more debts, remember? ”
She rolls her eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at her lips. I ask if she takes it with sugar, and she raises three fingers. “Someone’s got a sweet tooth,” I consider as I press the buttons.
“I don’t trust people who don’t,” she tilts her head as I chuckle, but my vision zeroes on the thumb she’s stroking on the back of the book she’s been carrying around. “What’s that?” I ask, nodding towards it, the machine whirring in the background.
“ The Power of the Actor, ” she explains.
“Ivana Chubbuck,” I muse. “Classic.”
“I suppose you might have heard of it,” she drawls, extending the contents in her arms to me to hold while she extracts the first white plastic cup of tea out of the shutter.
Naturally, I notice two things: one, she’s being sarcastic. I remember discussing chapter five of that book–interior objects–at length during one of our joined lessons last year. I remember it so clearly because she felt it necessary to specify the importance of the emotional value of the object we chose, as a metaphor for what our character wanted to achieve. I argued emotions were a double-edged sword, which is obviously still true.
Two, she had to lower herself just enough to retrieve her tea that her black square-neck shirt exposed the dip of her cleavage. And most of her clavicles. Since when am I attracted to bloody clavicles?
Christ. I shake my head subtly to get the image out of it, and if she notices I’m being weird, she gracefully doesn’t comment on it. I’m still holding her book and script when she takes the first sip, then passes her tongue over her bottom lip. Get a grip, Theo.
“Also,” I suddenly remember why I wanted to talk to her, besides making sure her head was still attached to her neck. “Ms. Eisner said we can use her class to practice the dance after lunch. Would that work for you?”
She’s about to answer when someone yells a Yoooo, Dafne somewhere to our left.
The howler approaches us and swings an arm around her shoulders. Ethan. “What’s up, babe?”
Babe? He’s known her for what, a week? It takes every ounce of strength I have in me not to roll my eyes and settle on a tight smile instead.
“I’m good, Ethan,” she grimaces, because he forgot, or doesn’t care, that even though she’s healed, her neck probably hurts when he weighs on her like a boulder. “I’d be better if you put your arm elsewhere, though.
“Also, please don’t call me babe?” she chuckles, and my head snaps towards her.
She has no business being this hot when she’s telling someone to essentially piss off–especially if that someone isn’t me.
Is this where it’s gotten? If I had a mean kink we’d be married by now. Alright, that’s not fair. She’s asser-tive, there’s a difference .
I find that apparently, despite myself, I’m into it.
“Oh, shit, sorry,” he says, removing his arm and placing a more careful hand on her shoulder instead. Is it just me, or is he already acting like she’s his property or something? He’s also completely ignored me, so I decide to change that.
“Photography, yeah?” I offer one hand, the other still holding Dafne’s belongings.
“Yeah, dude,” he shakes my hand, and even though I’m looking straight at him now, I can tell Dafne’s eyes are on me and not on this beach boy cliché.
“Can I call you Romeo?” he smiles broadly, and before I can say God no , he turns to Dafne again.
“I’ve got a class I’m already late to, but I’ll see you at the canteen for dinner? I’m having lunch with the boys.”
“I’ll see you, I’m sure,” she replies, not sounding ecstatic at the prospect, but of course, he doesn’t notice.
“Cool, later!” he plants a quick kiss on her cheek and flees down the hallway, his white sneakers nearly glowing. So they’re on a cheek kiss base. I have the pressing urge to sucker-punch the bloke.
“Your tea must be cold,” Dafne points out a tad stiffly, pulling lightly on her book and script I’m gripping with my right hand. I glance at the small cup, take it out, and drink it in a single gulp. Yes, it was in fact rather cold and gross. She lowers her head as if not to let me see the soft laugh that escapes her at the way I squint my eyes after drinking the tea. The plastic creaks under the pressure of my fingers, and I start, “Seems like–”
“What were you listening to? Before taking your earbuds out.”
I was not expecting that question.
“ Songbird ,” I reply, suddenly reminded of her Fleetwood Mac shirt. And our kiss. And all the ones after that, even if they weren’t real. Her eyes widen and her eyebrows shoot to her hairline.
“You’re not serious,” she laughs, like it’s a fact and not a question.
“Why would I not be serious about that?”
Her smile falters. “That’s my favorite song,” she says simply.
“It’s a lovely song,” I say, like the least slick person on planet Earth.
She takes on a thoughtful look, and I wish I could know what’s going through her mind, but then she says, “Let’s do that. Dance rehearsal, after lunch. Two-thirty?”
I nod wordlessly, and she leaves with a firm step. I find that I don’t enjoy watching her walk away from me.