Chapter Four
Freshmen were generally discouraged from declaring a major too soon, but it didn’t feel like a choice to Rose.
The Christmas she turned twelve, she unwrapped a thick Folger’s edition of King Lear, the spine cracked just enough she knew someone in the bookstore had at least considered it before her father plucked it from the shelves.
“This was the first work of literature I fell in love with,” her dad said, eyes reflecting the white lights that circled the Douglas fir he’d felled in the acres of woods around their house.
“You know, I almost named you Cordelia. You’ll see why.
But in the end, I didn’t want to burden you with it.
You’ll see why, too.” She’d devoured it in two feverish days, whispering Cordelia’s lines, wishing there were more of them.
It was beautiful, if still something of a mystery to her, her life not yet measured from tragedy to tragedy.
When the time came to declare a major, Rose knew she would not hesitate.
English, like her dad. So, when Poppy invited her to a mixer for those brave souls thinking of a major in theater, of all things, the easy yes surprised her.
It wasn’t that Rose thought she would be swayed—at least, not consciously.
But she did think that the woman she was working to become was the type to say yes when opportunity presented itself.
A thin fog settled over the grass as they walked, the lingering warmth of the day colliding with the edge of a Vermont night. “Don’t be surprised if this gets weird,” Poppy warned her. Rose nearly lost her footing on a patch of uneven ground.
“Define weird.”
“You didn’t do any theater in high school? Like, not even stage crew or pit orchestra?”
Rose smiled to herself. After she’d plowed through most of Shakespeare’s tragedies, a chunk of his comedies, and a handful of his histories, she’d thought seriously about auditioning for her middle school’s production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
She stood in the kitchen with her dad, clutching the script like she might die if it fell out of her hands, trying to force the words out.
Her dad laid a hand on her shoulder that stopped her lip from quivering.
“You don’t have to do it all, kid,” he said.
“Be with these characters the way that feels best to you.”
“No,” Rose said. “Not even crew or orchestra.”
“Theater kids are fundamentally out of control,” said Poppy, adjusting the straps of the green shirt under her fleece so the silk cascaded artfully down her front like a waterfall.
“There’s a lot of repression and parent issues that a certain kind of person wants to express by becoming someone else.
And a lot of ego, obviously. They’ll be trying to feel us out, see if we’ll mesh with the group they’ve got—they can’t stop you from majoring, but they can make your life hell.
I would be shocked if there wasn’t some short-lived nudity, just for shock value. ”
Rose laughed. “Are you serious?”
“Don’t tell me you’re a prude.”
She’d never really been in the position to decide whether she was or not. “Thanks for the heads-up.”
Poppy stopped walking and grabbed both of Rose’s arms in her dainty, manicured hands.
“Just promise me one thing,” she said. “Promise you’ll make them believe that you’re actually considering this.
If I can help with the turnout, that gives me a leg up.
I’m going to steal lead roles right out from under these seniors’ noses, and I really want to make the right first impression. ”
“Sure,” said Rose, surprised that Poppy cared enough that she would show such deference, even if it was all an act. “Of course.”
Poppy took a long breath in and twirled Rose around. They stood in front of a tall brick building, green vines growing out of cracks in the stone that raised questions for Rose about just how recently the place had been deemed up to code.
“Is this…” Rose trailed off, confused by the dilapidated building at a school that exuded such wealth.
“The Annex,” said Poppy. “That’s what they call it. Doesn’t make heaps of sense, but that’s theater kids for you.”
Someone with a thick head of curly hair stuck their head out a window and placed their arm on a fire escape. “Password?” they called down. Rose had never seen Poppy even momentarily lose her cool, so it was somewhat astounding when Poppy’s face drained of color.
“Oh, I don’t—” Poppy began, but she was mercifully cut off.
“I’m messing with you,” they yelled down. “Your key card scans you in.”
Poppy gripped Rose’s arms harder. “Never mention this again.” Rose nodded and scanned her ID.
The room was washed with purple light, courtesy of no fewer than five lava lamps, and gauzy curtains drew the eye up floor-to-ceiling mirrors punctuated by long ballet barres.
A fainting couch and worn armchairs were arranged in circles, populated mostly by ethereal women and a small assortment of men—mostly short, mostly with noses a little too large for their faces.
“Poppy!” A gorgeous woman with bright green eyes and blond hair that fell halfway down her back floated off the couch and into Poppy’s arms, now stretched as wide as they could go.
“Marin!” Her waist was so small Poppy’s arms wrapped back around to her own. “My roommate, Rose,” Poppy said, nodding toward Rose, her voice muffled by Marin’s hair. Marin leisurely untangled herself.
“I should have known you would bring more recruits into the fold. You’re fucking magnetic. Isn’t she magnetic, Rose?”
They both were. Rose blushed, as though her thoughts had somehow been made public. “Yeah,” she said. “I got lucky.”
“Drinks,” Marin said, waving them toward a folding table covered in more alcohol than Rose had seen in her life. “You need drinks.”
“Our parents are friends,” Poppy said under her breath, by way of an explanation. “I love the girl, but—and take this to the grave—I think her work is a little overrated. She skates by on looks, but she doesn’t have the fire that comes from experiencing real pain, you know? The gut-wrenching kind.”
Was that what it took to be an actress—to have experienced great pain? Maybe that was why she hadn’t felt a calling when she was young, when the world was safe and warm. Rose wondered what would happen if she read Cordelia’s lines now.
“This red is smooth,” Marin said, slipping a plastic cup full of wine into Rose’s hand. “And assuming you drink, you’re going to need it for tonight.”
Rose could have made an easy, open-and-shut case for never touching the stuff, but by some miracle she’d been blessed by a brain that thrived on moderation.
On those rare occasions in high school when she’d ventured out of her shell and into packed basements, she’d learned just where her limits were.
She wouldn’t ever say out loud what a victory she thought that was. “I drink,” Rose said, taking the cup.
“You’re really not going to tell me?” Poppy pouted.
“I can’t be seen already giving you preferential treatment,” said Marin. “I’ve got a reputation to maintain.”
“Tell you what?” Rose asked, taking a slow, measured sip.
“Initiation,” Poppy said. “It’s different every year, but it’s always diabolical.”
Rose knitted her brows. “I thought tonight was just a mixer?”
“It is a mixer,” said Poppy. “With some light initiation.”
“I can neither confirm nor deny any of the above,” said Marin, topping off Rose’s already full cup. “All I’ll say is drink up.” She flitted off to greet the newest comers, and Rose grabbed Poppy’s hands.
“I’m not going to declare,” Rose said. “I thought this was just a party. I’m going to be an English major.”
“This is all harmless fun,” Poppy said.
“Initiation implies that I’m joining something.”
“I am begging you to live a little.”
“Poppy—”
“Just stay long enough to meet a few people.” Her blue eyes widened. “For me?”
Rose scanned the room, which had slowly filled with what had to be close to thirty people.
Still intimate, but not in a way that threatened to make her uncomfortable.
She could drift in and out of conversation without committing, make Poppy happy, and leave with enough time to tuck into the first DeLillo on the syllabus for American Lit.
Poppy correctly read her silence as a yes.
Rose had already stayed longer than she’d bargained with herself, wine and conversation flowing like they never had for her before.
“But what makes you sparkle?” asked Tina, the dark-haired woman who could play a porcelain doll and ended all her sentences like questions even when they weren’t. “What makes you just incandescently happy?”
“Incandescent,” Rose said. “I love that word.”
“It made you happy?” Nico pressed. He’d gone to an arts academy from sixth grade on and performed aerial acrobatics with some of the top circus performers in the world. Rose had never heard of any of them, but it didn’t make her any less impressed.
“Yes,” Rose said, realizing he’d supplied her answer. “It did.”
“You’re in good company,” Nico said, blowing a smoke ring that reminded Rose of the caterpillar from the movie Alice in Wonderland.
She and her father had watched it over and over until he’d finally pretended the VHS player had swallowed the tape whole, not a scrap to be found.
“A really good word just about makes me come.”
“Oh my God, you’re disgusting.” Tina slapped him lightly on the wrist.
“And you haven’t had enough to drink.” He tipped her drink back, and light pink liquid drizzled down her cheeks.
A buzz then a hush then a quiet fell over the room, and a woman with fiery red hair leaped onto a sturdy-looking coffee table.
“If I could get everyone’s attention!” she said, though every eye was already locked on her.
“All of you dazzling, beautiful people.” She smiled, and Rose was certain she’d never seen such a perfect mouth of teeth.
They were incandescent, really. Poppy materialized at her side and squeezed Rose’s hand.