Chapter 8
Seven and a half weeks until Opening Night
Rehearsal has put me in a bad mood. I’m annoyed with my dad.
I’m annoyed that I’m doing this stupid play.
I’m afraid that any faltering in my performance will unleash the wrath of the community.
I am terrified that I won’t be able to do theater again, that the old panic will rise and render me numb.
I push the fear down and focus on my anger.
Who does Will think he is, giving me advice?
But also, I like him. I can’t like him. I can’t get involved with someone in the play—that did not go well for me last time, and anyway, it was probably just the scene, so I have no reason to think he’s interested.
But why isn’t he interested in me? I’m hot and kind of famous!
Fuck. I feel a petulant need to storm off in a manner that can only be achieved by one’s old bicycle—vintage, yellow, wicker basket.
I drag it out of the shed and mount it: I will embark on an angry cycling montage through my hometown and scowl at my broken dreams as they flash by.
I make it maybe ten feet before I realize that no one has ridden this bike in at least fifteen years. I learn this when the front tire explodes and the chain falls off. I shudder to a stop and fall over. I lie there on the sidewalk for a moment and actively hate my life.
There’s nothing worse than having to walk said bike during said montage.
This is exactly when someone from high school is going to lean out a window and say, Wait, is that Miranda Belmont, famed actor, Walking a bike?
And then probably throw a slushy at me. My relevance in this world is vastly inflated in my head.
Still, the bike shop is a half-hour walk, right downtown, and I have literally nowhere to be until rehearsal tomorrow at noon, so I walk.
Downtown is a real mixed bag. There’s a bougie coffee shop called Has Beans, an even bougier yoga studio; I make a mental note to look into a summer pass.
There’s the same old gift shop that has been there my whole life, the same pub with the giant wooden booths where we all drank the second we turned nineteen.
There’s a bra shop I’ll never go to because I barely have boobs, a toy store, and five inexplicable credit unions.
There’re a lot of new restaurants—Indian, Thai, and shawarma.
They make me a little optimistic about the town diversifying a bit, finally, and also, they make me miss the city.
The guy at the bike shop tells me the bike is going to take a few days, which feels anticlimactic.
I can’t bear to pass back through all the misery of Main Street, so I take the longer route along the waterfront.
There’s a long multipurpose trail that passes the old train station, the water treatment plant, but then starts to wind toward the marina.
There’s lovely landscaping, a new playground, and a splash pad in the distance, and I am struck by the decline and rise of my hometown within two blocks.
The northern lake in question is Cedar Lake, the largest in the area and so big you can only barely see across it to the other side of town.
I hate swimming, and my family isn’t exactly outdoorsy.
My use of the lake has been limited to lakeside patio dining with my parents and, at the end of high school, partying on The Vessel, the large ferry boat turned nightclub, turned popular lunch spot.
I am rounding the corner when I am accosted by a stroller.
“Ohmigod, Miranda, Isthatyou?!” The wheels stop inches from my feet, and I immediately jump back in defense. I look up at the offending driver. Oh, fuck.
“Kelsie.” I am not a good enough actor to feign delight.
Kelsie Smith-Jones was the queen bee of my high school.
She was good at nothing except being hot, which, I am relieved to see, motherhood has taken down a notch.
Her hair is still very much a thing, blond, unnaturally shiny, and her tiny, pert body looks, well, like that of a woman in her mid-thirties who has borne—I count the inhabitants of the stroller—at least two humans.
I’m reaching; she looks great, and I hate it.
She pushes her sunglasses up on her head, her pale-blue eyes boring into me.
“I heard you were maybe back in town, but I figured you were busy with all your, you know, drama stuff.” She gestures vaguely.
“I never expected to run into you heeeere!” she all but squeals.
I want to point out that running into someone you know in the most popular place in town is hardly remarkable, but she launches into a whole monologue.
“We’ve all been watching your show, you know.
The girls and I used to make it a thing, every Wednesday, but, you know, kids, and then they bumped it to the early slot, which, you know, dinnertime.
” Pouty face. “It’s so cute you are helping your parents this summer.
I love that for you! I’m sure you have something super fun lined up for after, right?
I mean, who wants to work for their parents at, like, what are we?
What are you? Forty?” Highly invasive wink. “Shh, don’t worry, I won’t tell.”
“I’m thirty-four,” I say. “Same as you.”
She blinks as though I’ve told her the sun is pink.
Which it probably is, in her little world.
She blinks again and presses on. “Ohmigod, have you seen Theo? What a dreamboat! Who knew he was such a hottie?” Me, I want to say.
I knew. I always knew. “Don’t tell Mike, but I sort of have a tiny thing for him now, even though he’s—”
“Mike Bale?” It’s too good to be true. “You married him?” Mike Bale was our star hockey player, a stocky meathead type who was dumb as a brick, but the teachers loved him because he played rep hockey for the OHL and always seemed to get them tickets just as report cards were coming out.
“Thirteen years!” She beams.
She whips out her phone and shows me the screen.
A family photo: They are all dressed in white on a beach, trying to make North Lake look like Nantucket.
Mike Bale has gone bald and has a definite dad bod, which pleases me, but the worst thing is how happy they look.
I smile tightly and hand the phone back to Kelsie.
“Oh, no, it’s a whole shoot, scroll, scroll!”
I pretend to admire another forty-six photos while she rambles about her book club and her yoga studio and Mike’s landscaping business.
“Ohmigod!” I’m developing misophonia just standing next to her.
“I didn’t introduce you to the littles! This is Emereigh.
” She adjusts the blanket on the sleeping baby.
“And this is Brightley.” Brightley is an extremely sticky person who looks about three and, upon introduction, lets out a loud fart.
“I shit, Mama,” he says solemnly. Kelsie’s face drops.
“Mike taught him that,” she mutters. “Okay, babies, I think we need to, um, tidy up!”
“I shit in my pants.” He beams at me. “Shit is poop.”
I can’t help but smile back. I rarely enjoy children, but this one is growing on me.
“Oh my God. Okay.” For half a second, she seems like a real person. She pulls down her sunglasses and turns the stroller around. “Listen, Miranda, so good to see you! We should totally, like, do something!”
I would rather lie in Brightley’s shit than ever see her again, but it’s a small town, and who knows what report she is going to give to her band of bitches at book club.
“Totally!” My voice sounds weirdly high. “Come see our show!”
“Ohmigod, yes! Totally! I’m going to get tickets the absolute second I get home!
” She won’t, and that’s cool. “Byyyyyeeee!” She storms off, scolding Brightley the second she thinks I’m out of earshot.
She’s going in the direction I was going in.
I don’t want to follow her, and I don’t want to turn back.
That kind of sums everything up right now.
I sit on the nearest bench; I will wait until she is out of sight. I look around me. It’s a nice place, from this view: kids playing, a small line at the vegan ice-cream truck, sailboats out on the lake, a parasailer lifting off. I grew up here. This is my home. I wish it felt that way.
My phone pings. A text from Theo:
So, I’ve decided we aren’t playing cat and mouse all summer. We’re going to be friends. Put on something cute. We’re going out. Pick you up at 8.
In spite of myself, I smile for real. Who am I to argue? I reply:
How cute?
Then, another text comes through:
You’re right. I’m sorry. Come back.
Nick. I want to delete his number, but you should always have at least one celebrity on your contacts list. I don’t reply, though.