7. Plate Movement
CHAPTER SEVEN
PLATE MOVEMENT
Ethan
I don’t hear Claire leave.
By the time I wake, she’s already on her way to the hospital to check on Heidi. She promised she’d be home for dinner. Her travel mug from yesterday waits beside the sink, unwashed, as if she plans to grab it again tomorrow.
The trip to the emergency room still weighs on me. I feel a flash of anger that this incident will occupy even more of Claire’s time. I think of the conversations that trail off mid-sentence when her phone buzzes. The way I’ve learned to read her schedule before I make plans of my own.
Across the kitchen, Ellie jams books into her backpack while struggling not to drop her granola bar. “Don’t forget,” she says with her mouth full, “the sign-up for play volunteers begins next week.”
“You’re not overjoyed at all, are you?” I say.
She does her best to appear unimpressed, but the smile she’s fighting betrays her. “Ms. Whitmore said we’re doing the full production this year and not the shortened version.”
It’s impossible to miss the enthusiasm in her voice whenever she talks about Brooke. Hearing her name also makes me smile.
My phone is full of texts from Brooke—questions about set design peppered with smiley faces. It started with one email about the set, and now we talk almost daily.
“Ms. Whitmore again, huh?”
Ellie rolls her eyes. “Dad, she’s the best.”
“Just making an observation.”
She dismisses me as she heads for the door. I watch her leave and realize summer is almost here.
Two weeks go by, and I’m working on a project with one of our junior architects when my office phone rings. It’s Ellie’s school.
Something shifts in my chest at the thought of talking with Brooke—a pull I haven’t felt in years. My hand tightens around my drink before I can stop it. I set the cup down harder than I mean to, the clatter drowning out the thought before it can finish forming.
“Ethan, I’m so sorry to call on short notice. It’s Brooke.”
“Everything okay?”
“Yes. Ellie’s fine. One of our parent chaperones has backed out of tomorrow’s field trip. Ellie mentioned your schedule is flexible. I’m hoping you might be available.”
“What kind of field trip?”
“We’re taking the seventh and eighth graders to the Pacific Coast Shakespeare Festival.”
And that’s how I find myself boarding a school bus with a group of overexcited students and other parents the next morning.
On the bus, Brooke navigates the chaos of thirty middle schoolers with a calm confidence.
She settles an argument over who dies in Romeo and Juliet with just a raised eyebrow.
At one point, she catches my eye over the tops of the seats and gives a small, conspiratorial smile.
I smile back, feeling less like a chaperone and more like her co-conspirator.
I glance at Ellie, lost in conversation with her friends. I realize she hasn’t looked back at me once, and the knowledge sits in my chest like something swallowed wrong.
The production itself is far better than I anticipate.
When Romeo and Juliet meet at the Capulet ball, even the students who complained during the bus ride are captivated.
Ellie remains engrossed throughout the performance.
Occasionally, she leans towards Mona to whisper something before catching herself and refocusing on the stage.
As the final curtain falls, I assume we’re heading out. But Brooke stands and addresses the students. “We’re going to take a brief break before we move on to the last segment of the afternoon.” A chorus of chatter fills the theater.
After the break, we’re led to a smaller rehearsal space where one actor from the performance is waiting for us. He explains that as part of our school’s visit, he’ll be conducting a short workshop on performance techniques.
“Hi everyone, I’m Alex and you probably recognize me as the character Tybalt from the play. One of the most fascinating things about Shakespeare is that there isn’t just one correct way to perform a scene. The same words can tell different stories depending on the choices an actor makes.”
Several students nod eagerly.
“We’re going to demonstrate.” His gaze lands on Brooke.
“Ms. Whitmore, would you mind helping us?” Brooke freezes, and the students erupt in cheers.
“Do it, Ms. Whitmore!”
“Come on!”
“There is a reason I direct school plays, and I’m not an actress,” she says, her eyes widening as she realizes what’s happening.
“No, no, no.” But she’s already walking toward the stage, covering her panic with a laugh that sounds slightly unhinged.
“This is a terrible idea. You know this is a terrible idea.” She climbs the steps anyway, shaking her head at herself. “I’m going to regret this.”
Alex flips through a script and scans the audience once more. “Okay, now we need one more volunteer.”
Before I can even process what’s happening, Ellie points at me. “My dad!”
The students join in.
“Mr. Bennett!”
“Ellie’s dad. Ellie’s dad.”
I look to Brooke for help. Unfortunately, she’s laughing too hard to offer any. “Oh no,” she says. “You’re not leaving me up here alone.” She points to the stage.
“Looks like the students have spoken.” I walk onto the stage to cheers as if I’d just won an award.
Alex hands us both a script. “We’re going to use a portion of the balcony scene.”
Immediate giggles ripple through the students.
“Oh, this is going to be good,” Mona announces from the front row.
Brooke casts a warning look at the group, which only intensifies their laughter. Alex waits for the noise to subside before giving instructions.
First, he asks us to read the scene naturally, without dramatic interpretation—just speaking the words.
To my surprise, it’s far less awkward than I brace for.
Brooke settles into the role, delivering Juliet’s lines with confidence and ease.
Whereas, I stumble through Romeo’s dialogue. When we finish, Alex nods approvingly.
“Good. Now let’s see how interpretation changes everything.”
Over the next thirty minutes, he has us perform the same scene in several ways: romantic, angry, suspicious, and overdramatic.
The overdramatic version breaks us. At one point, Brooke clutches her chest and staggers backward as if performing for the last row of a three-thousand-seat theater.
Before she can fall, Alex catches her, his hands settling on her waist.
At the sight, I have the strange urge to look away, which tells me more than I want to know.
The students’ laughter pulls me back to the stage before I can examine it too closely. I try to read my lines without sputtering, but Brooke keeps breaking character, her laughter echoing in the small auditorium. I keep losing my place in the script because I’m watching her instead of the page.
The workshop concludes with students crowding around to ask questions about auditions, stage fright, and memorizing lines.
As everyone gathers their belongings, Brooke collects paperwork and permission forms scattered across the front row. When she finally looks up, our eyes meet, and a smile spreads across her face.
“Thanks for being a good sport. I wouldn’t have wanted to act out that scene with anyone else.”
Her praise catches me off guard, warm in a way I wasn’t prepared for. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt wanted like this.
“You can thank Ellie. I’m pretty sure I was volunteered before I could object.”
A few minutes later, we all head to the bus. As I follow Ellie toward the exit, I glance over my shoulder. Brooke lingers at the back of the line listening to a student. I understand why Ellie is drawn to her, having spent time with her today.
When the bus pulls back into the middle school parking lot, the sun is beginning its slow descent toward the horizon. Students spill out in noisy clusters while parents wait along the curb. Ellie bounds down the bus steps, still talking about the day.
“I can’t believe you got up on stage, Dad.”
“I can’t believe my daughter volunteered me.”
“You were good.”
“I was traumatized.”
Her laugh is loud and unguarded, and I’m not ready for the day to end. I turn to her. “How do you feel about grabbing dinner before we head home?”
Her eyes light up. “Can we get burgers?”
“Why I bother pretending there are other food groups, I can’t say.” I snort.
We find a booth at The Hitching Post, each ordering a cheeseburger and sharing a basket of fries smothered in ketchup.
She tells me what I missed-that Mona was crying before the balcony scene even started, that the actor who knocked over the prop sword missed his cue, that she heard two of the chorus girls fighting backstage about someone named Derek.
She watches my face as she talks, checking that I’m following. I was there, I saw the play, but I didn’t see any of this. I love watching her as she animatedly relives the day.
Halfway through dinner, an idea occurs to me. “What if we bring your mom something?”
Ellie pauses with a French fry halfway to her mouth. “Do you think she’d like that?”
I know what she’s actually asking. You think she’d be happy to see us? “I think she’d love it. I’m sure she wants to hear all about the field trip. And she’s still at the office.” Before we’re done eating, we order Claire’s favorite chicken salad, an extra coffee, and a slice of lemon cake.
“Don’t text her,” she says as we exit the diner. “It has to be a surprise.”
As we pull into the parking lot at Juniper House, Ellie is vibrating with excitement.