Chapter 19
Ezra
By the middle of February, I’ve gotten used to balancing basketball practices with helping out the drama club—something I never expected to like this much.
I’ve officially been fake-dating Rue for a little over a month.
And thanks to her, what started as punishment turned into the part of my week I look forward to most.
I try not to think too hard as I head into practice on Thursday afternoon.
The gym is already loud with shoes squeaking across the polished floor and basketballs pounding against hardwood.
Coach has us doing shooting drills, and Tucker falls into line beside me, bouncing the ball. “You coming to Gabe’s thing Friday?”
“What thing?”
He gives me a look. “The party, dude.”
“Oh.” I fake a yawn and take my shot. “Probably not.”
“Why not?”
I shrug. “I’m helping out with rehearsal, so I’ll be all burnt out after.”
Tucker laughs. “Still? Bro, I thought the whole theater punishment thing was basically over.”
“It’s not punishment anymore.” The words leave my mouth before I think better of them.
Tucker snorts. “Okay, then. Whatever you say.”
I overhear a few guys nearby talking about who’s bringing what to that party, whose brother can buy drinks, and whether Coach will hear about it if half the team shows up in photos online. The conversation bounces around me with enthusiasm, but I just don’t have it in me to care.
Maybe your friends aren’t as judgmental as you think, Ezra.
Maybe you just need to try again. The thought is full of hope, so as I dribble, I tell Tucker, “I’ve been playing this cool racing game where you play as a mushroom that changes color depending on what it touches. Want to come over and try it?”
Tucker just stares at me, but Gabe barks out a laugh. “A mushroom?”
“Yeah.” I glance down at the ball in my hands. “It’s actually pretty fun.”
Tucker smirks. “Man, you really are a nerd.”
Gabe grins. “Seriously, Davis. Every time you talk about games, it sounds like you’re speaking another language.”
The guys laugh. Not in a cruel way, but it’s clear I’m not part of their camaraderie. It’s the kind of laughter that makes me remember what it felt like to stand in the hallway in middle school and let people laugh at Rue because I wanted too badly to be liked.
The thought makes my stomach twist.
Coach blows his whistle and sends us into scrimmage. By the end of practice, sweat is soaking the back of my shirt, and my head is pounding from how badly I want to leave. When I grab my water bottle off the bench, Tucker nods toward the gym doors. “Your girl’s here.”
I look up so fast I nearly drop it.
Rue stands just inside the doorway with her bag over her shoulder and the giant binder holding her script hugged to her chest. Her gold skirt uniform sways around her knees, and the front curls of her hair are pinned back. She’s talking to Coach Dresden.
No, not talking. Laughing.
Coach says something else, and she shakes her head before glancing up and spotting me. Her whole face softens, and it hits me right in the ribs.
Tucker whistles under his breath. “Dude.”
“Shut up.”
But he’s grinning when I walk away from him.
The minute I get close enough, Rue looks me over and says, “You look like you need a drink of water.”
I grin, holding up my water bottle. “Good to see you too, Sullivan.”
Coach Dresden snorts and heads for his office.
A few guys still linger by the bleachers, grabbing duffel bags and pretending not to stare. Which means, whether we like it or not, we’re on.
I hold my arms out.
Rue narrows her eyes. “What?”
“Come here.”
“For what?”
“Because,” I say under my breath, “my teammates are all watching and you came to see me after practice like the world’s cutest girlfriend.”
She blushes so hard I almost laugh. Then she steps right in and lets me wrap my arms around her.
My body goes tight for one stupid second.
Not because this is new, but because every time I touch her lately, it feels less fake than the time before.
I hear Tucker make a gagging noise somewhere behind me.
Rue pats my back twice, like she’s rewarding a dog. “Okay,” she mutters in my ear. “Enough.”
I let her go, but not before dropping my hand to the small of her back and steering her toward the hallway.
Once we’re out of earshot, she glances sideways at me. “Your teammates are weird.”
I laugh. “That’s one word for it.”
“And one of them called you mushroom-boy.”
I groan. “You heard that? Great.”
Rue giggles. “Oh, stop. They’re the weird ones, not you. Remember?”
I look at her.
She shrugs, adjusting the binder against her chest. “I like that you’re not afraid to go after what you like, regardless of what people will think.”
The words hit hard. This is exactly what I mean when I think nobody else really gets me. Rue says things that land in the exact center of me.
I take the binder from her arms without asking. “This thing is huge. Is it really all notes for the show?”
“For the train wreck, yes.”
We make our way across campus toward the theater. The late afternoon air is cool enough to wake me up a little. When we reach the auditorium, Rue pauses before we go in.
“What?” I ask.
She hesitates, then says, “Can I tell you something without you making fun of me?”
“Maybe.”
She glares.
I lift a hand. “Fine. No making fun of you. Go.”
Rue exhales slowly. “I don’t miss being onstage as much as I thought I would.”
That gets my full attention.
She looks down at the binder in my arms, then at the dark auditorium doors ahead of us.
“I mean, I still love acting, but being in the sound booth…” She shakes her head a little, like she’s surprising herself.
“I don’t know. It’s different. I feel calmer up there.
More useful, maybe. Like I can actually see the whole story instead of just one part of it.
And it’s weird, because I always thought the stage was the one place I came alive.
But I think I like helping shape everything behind the scenes more. ”
A grin spreads across my face.
Rue notices immediately and frowns. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Because,” I say, pushing open the door for her, “that’s the most Rue Sullivan thing I’ve ever heard in my life.”
She blushes. “Stop.”
“No, seriously.” I follow her inside. “You don’t just want to be in the story. You want to fix it.”
She goes quiet, which for Rue usually means I’m right.
By the time we reach the sound booth, Mabel and Dot are already onstage doing vocal warm-ups.
Meredith and Carlton are running lines from opposite ends of the set like they’ve been ordered not to stand too close to each other, when they really just aren’t speaking.
Zayne is helping someone pin a costume hem in the wings, and Miss Fern is pacing with a pencil tucked behind one ear and the expression of a woman one moment away from having a mental breakdown.
Rue drops into her chair with a sigh. “This production is going to be a flop.” She holds her phone between us so I can see what she’s been typing.
On her screen is a list. As I scan it, I realize it’s full of her notes about the musical. She’s outlined all her complaints, as well as the fixes and rewrites she’d like to see.
I raise my eyebrows. “Wow, that’s a lot.”
She shrugs. “Even if she didn’t change everything, and she just had Carlton’s character uplift Meredith’s in the end instead of arguing with her, there would be a much better payoff between the two characters. Don’t you think?”
I glance from her phone to the stage. “Actually, yeah, I do. Why don’t you just tell Miss Fern?”
Rue snorts. “Because then I’d also have to tell her the problem I have with her lyrics in Meredith’s solo. And the reason Carlton’s lines in act one don’t work with the rest of the story. And she won’t listen to me. No one does.”
I lean back in the chair and study her for a second. Rue notices everything. Everything. Not just people, but also structure and what makes things work or not work. She gets why one choice onstage changes the emotional dynamic ten minutes later. But somehow she still thinks no one listens to her.
“That’s not true,” I say.
She rolls her eyes. “Ezra.”
“No, seriously.” I nod at the phone in her hand. “You’re basically rescuing this whole thing from one folding chair.”
Rue’s mouth twitches. “I wish that’s what would come of me saying something. It would be nice to be proud of this production, at least a little.”
“Okay, well, what’s the worst thing that will happen? She says no, and then her play sucks? Or she tells you yes, and then everything is better for it.”
“Hm.” Rue glances down at the list again. “Maybe.”
She reaches for the house light dimmers. The cast starts the first scene, and for a while we settle into silence as she works.
At one point, while Meredith is belting a painfully earnest solo about believing in herself through teamwork, I glance sideways at Rue.
She’s staring down at her phone, but her shoulders are too tight, and her mouth is set in a line.
A thought slips into my head before I can stop it. No. It’s not possible. But it still slips out before I can stop it. “Can I ask you something?”
Rue doesn’t look up. “Hm?”
“Are you Little Birdie?”
Her head snaps toward me so fast I almost laugh from sheer surprise. “What? Why would you ask me that?”
I shrug one shoulder, trying to act looser than I feel. “Because you’re observant. Because you always know more than you say. And because the person writing those posts sounds like someone who watches everything.”
Rue lets out one sharp, disbelieving laugh. “No. I’m not Little Birdie.”
I search her face. “Okay.”
Rue narrows her eyes. “Do you believe me?”
I hold her gaze for a long moment before nodding. “Yeah, I do.” Which is true. Mostly.
Miss Fern claps from the stage. “Pause! Pause, everybody. Carlton, less bitterness. Meredith, more yearning.”
Rue mutters, “That would require entirely new dialogue.”
I laugh, and just like that, the moment passes. Later, during a break, Rue ends up helping one of the tech kids with a mic pack that keeps slipping loose under a costume. She fixes it in thirty seconds flat, then adjusts another one without being asked.
I lean against the booth door and watch her. Not because she’s pretty, though she is, painfully. It’s because she’s so good at this.
And all at once it hits me that this is what I wanted all along. I don’t just want to make things up to her, or to fix the guilt I’ve carried around since middle school. I wanted to get her back because life is better when Rue Sullivan is in it.
When rehearsal finally ends, the cast starts packing up, and Rue stays in the booth, unplugging something near the console.
I wait until we’re alone before asking, “Need a ride?”
She glances up. “I rode the bus today, so sure.”
The walk to the parking lot is quiet, but not awkward. The sky is turning dusky, gray-blue, and the ride to her house is much too short.
When I pull up outside her house, neither of us moves right away. Rue turns toward me. “I was thinking, we should probably stay together a few weeks longer than originally planned.”
I blink. “Really? Why?”
She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “Little Birdie already posted about one breakup. If we suddenly ended things too, it would just give people more to talk about, you know?”
I try not to grin too hard. It sounds like she’s just making up excuses to keep our fake relationship going even longer, and I love it. “Yeah, that makes sense.”
Rue nods. “Good.” She reaches for the door, then pauses. “I meant what I said earlier…about not hating you anymore.”
Something warm and aching opens up in my chest.
“Good,” I say again, quieter this time. “Because I meant what I said too.”
Her eyes lift to mine.
For one reckless second, let my hand hover near her cheek.
I think about touching her face, about brushing my thumb over that little line that forms between her brows when she’s thinking too much.
I consider asking her what she’s really afraid of.
I fantasize about kissing her for real, just to see if it wrecks me again.
Instead I lower my hand and hold tight to the steering wheel.
Rue gives me a small smile, then slips out of the car. I wait until she’s safely inside before I drive away, and the whole way home, one thought keeps circling louder than everything else.
I don’t want to be her fake boyfriend anymore. I want to be the guy she dates just because she wants to.