Chapter 9 Stevie
Stevie
A car accident, everyone whispers in the hallways and in huddled groups at cafeteria tables. Lex went above and beyond to make the story seem true: he drove a different car to school today. A silver Tesla. He tells worried teachers his sports car is in the shop getting fixed.
Nobody questions it.
Only I am privy to the truth, and when he passes me in study hall that afternoon, the look he sends me when our eyes briefly meet says that I better hold on to that truth or else.
When classes let out, I make my way to the auditorium, Misty and Jameson trailing me on both sides. We’re going out for ice cream afterward.
I’m not looking forward to today’s run-through.
It’s the first intimate scene between Satine and Christian in the Elephant Room, where I mistake him for the Duke of Monroth, who is played by Jameson.
The bit is filled with playful and comedic moments, but my mood is more aligned with agitated and glum.
Granted, it will be a testament to my acting abilities—pretending to be smitten over the boy who trampled all over my heart last Friday like a herd of angry elephants.
Fitting, I suppose.
“I’m excited to watch this scene,” Misty says, pulling open the door for us as she smacks her gum between her teeth. “Lex should perform it naked. Kind of an avant-garde portrayal, you know?”
Jameson grumbles. “I don’t understand the appeal.”
“Lies.”
“The guy has no facial expressions or personality. How is that attractive?”
“Your standards are way too high.”
Their bantering is background noise as the stage looms before me.
Lex is already inside, sitting against the far wall with his crumpled script and veiled scars.
He doesn’t look up when we shuffle inside, even though the door booms shut and everyone else turns to watch us enter.
Mr. Hamlin sends me a noncommittal wave as he moves around the stage floor in his neon-red suspenders.
He’s already worn red, so I guess that means he’s starting over.
I lift my chin with faux confidence and strut down the aisle, tossing a quick goodbye over my shoulder to Misty as Jameson and I head to the front.
“Welcome,” Mr. Hamlin calls out to us, moving with his usual brand of chaotic pacing. “Join us.”
Lex stands, his back grazing the wall as he rises like it’s too much effort without something solid to support him.
I force a smile and climb the steps, my feet echoing through the sweeping room.
“Over here, Stevie.” Mr. Hamlin motions me into position, then points to the space across from me and snaps his fingers. “Lexington, right here.”
As much as I want to avoid eye contact, I need to maintain character, need to spin my anxiety into art, my pain into precision. This show is big, and it’s bigger than Lexington Hall and my bruised ego. My gaze flicks to Lex as he takes his place in front of me. He looks away.
“Hmm.” Our director massages his chin, drinking in our strange dynamic. “This energy won’t do. Maybe we should—”
Lex interrupts. “I’m ready to start.”
Mr. Hamlin studies Lex’s green-and-violet bruise, his butterfly bandage, his twitchy hands and unsettled eyes. “All right then,” he finally relents. “Take it from the top. Christian is led to the Elephant Room under the guise of the duke.” He takes a step back and gives us the stage.
My heartbeats fumble for a steady rhythm. Clearing my throat, I shoot off some lines, but they fall out stunted, lacking vibrancy.
“Again,” Mr. Hamlin says.
I try again. My pitch heightens, and my arms wave with added gusto, but it’s not enough. The words sound hollow. I notice Mr. Hamlin begins to step forward in my peripheral vision, and I’m about to start over, but Lex intervenes, moving into his follow-up lines.
His mood changes. Transforms. I see the light flicker back on as he closes in on me, slipping into character. “I’m not who you think I am,” he states, vulnerability lacing his words. There’s an underlying trace of something else too. A subtle desperation.
My character questions his identity with a gasp; he’s deceived the star courtesan.
Lex steps toe-to-toe with me. “I’m not the duke. I’m Christian,” he says, explaining that he’s a writer, here to tell me about his songs and poetry. I feign outrage. Then he repeats his previous line for some reason: “I’m not who you think I am.”
I blink at him, waiting for him to proceed into the next bit of dialogue, anxious for my cue, because it’s so much easier to be standing here in front of him with his gaze boring into me, with his bruises and cuts, when we’re pretending to be different people.
Inhaling a breath, Lex continues. “I came here to tell you…I’m sorry.”
“How charm—” It takes a beat for me to realize that was not the correct line. He’s supposed to profess his love to me, not apologize. Lex breaks character, but he doesn’t break eye contact as he stares at me with a thousand weights reflected in his eyes.
I peer over at Mr. Hamlin, his brows knitted with confusion as he watches us from afar. He says nothing, allowing us to finish the disjointed scene as he scratches at his silver-peppered beard.
“You’re…sorry,” I murmur on a soft breath, my gaze skating back to Lex.
“Yes.” Lex takes another step forward, steepling his hands together. “I’m sorry. You’re more than just a courtesan.”
Double meaning lurks within his tone.
My chest is heavy, my mind swirling.
I can’t remember my lines.
“You’re more than that. You’re inspiring, compelling, and you’re…” His eyes become hooded, jaw tensing. “You’re beautiful.” Lex leans in all the way, dipping his lips to the shell of my ear so only I can hear him now. “And I’m sorry.”
My eyelids flutter closed as I swallow hard and try to regroup. “You must be mistaken. I’m just a—”
“Cut.”
Lex flinches.
He pulls away from me as Mr. Hamlin strides over to us.
“As much as I appreciate the occasional improvising, now is not the time for ad-libbing. Let’s keep it to the script.” His focus is aimed at Lex. “This is an offbeat love confession, not an expression of remorse. I want to feel the zest, the buoyancy. This will lead into ‘Elephant Love Medley.’”
Lex nods, staring over my shoulder at nothing at all.
I clear my throat. “Sorry, Mr. Hamlin.”
“Do we need to take a quick break?”
“No,” Lex assures him, rolling his shoulders, cracking his neck. “I’m good.”
“Very well. Let’s start again.”
We go back to the beginning, and I redirect my emotions, forcing my skill to outshine my jitters. Lex infuses passion into his dialogue, sticking to the script this time, and I follow his lead, prancing along the stage, inflecting an air of mischief and quirkiness into every line.
We perform it decently. Mr. Hamlin doesn’t interrupt us again, and we finish out the bit with a tender moment, both of our characters acknowledging the budding connection.
An hour later, I’m seated at a high-top table, shoving spoonfuls of rainbow sherbet into my mouth while Misty grills me about the practice session.
“That was weird earlier,” she declares.
“What was weird?”
“The vibes. Lex. Something was just…off.”
Jameson adds his own unsolicited commentary. “Everything is off about that guy.”
She flicks her spoon at him. “What was he doing, going off-script like that?” Misty wonders, turning back to me. “Even Hamlin seemed flustered.”
Shrugging, I dismiss her probing. “I don’t know. Maybe the car accident had him rattled.”
Misty crinkles her nose and goes back to her chocolate ice cream. “Huh. I guess.”
Ice-cold sherbet dissolves on my tongue, along with the lie. I know exactly what he was doing: he was apologizing for the things he said on Friday.
But that doesn’t change anything.
At the end of the day, I’m the tragic artist in our real-life show.
And he’s the sparkling diamond.
***
The moon looks brighter tonight. It’s milky and aglow, draping soft light across the expanse of our farm.
I wrap my arms around my knees and glance skyward.
Stars twinkle from way up high, and I talk to them, whispering stories about my day.
I tell the most dazzling star, situated above the eastern tree line, that Jameson dropped his paper cup of ice cream in his lap, staining his white shorts with cookies and cream.
Misty laughed so hard, she snorted chocolate through her nose.
It made me laugh too, and I’m laughing again, here and now, until the laughter turns into tears because a huge piece of my heart is not here to laugh with me.
Sound breaks through my quiet whimpers, a shuffling of feet from below. I hear noises often—nighttime critters who prefer the stars over the sun, just like me. But these feet sound human, so I whip my gaze around the darkened property, squinting until a shadowy shape comes into focus.
I recognize the sweep of his shoulders, the tousle of hair, so I’m not afraid. “What are you doing here?”
Lex steps forward. His face is painted in amber lowlight spilling from my bedroom window. “You told me you come out here at night to look at the stars.”
“Yes,” I confirm. “But that doesn’t answer my question.”
He looks away for a moment, over his shoulder, like he’s making sure nobody followed him here. When he turns back to face me, he rakes a hand through his hair and shrugs. “You said I could join you if I couldn’t sleep.”
That was before.
Before he funneled his pain into anger and hurled it at me with the force of a dozen men.
But the look in his eyes has me softening. The bruise on his face has me forgetting. “There’s a ladder on the side of the house.”
Lex doesn’t waste any time fetching the ladder, positioning it against the corroded siding, and making the trek up to the roof. The rungs creak with each clunky step, the ladder wobbling precariously and causing my heart to stammer. “Be careful,” I whisper.
I don’t think Lex is a careful person. I think he’s reckless and impulsive, so it doesn’t surprise me that he ignores my warning and quickens his pace.