Chapter 19
There is a lot swirling in me as we pull up to Nick’s cottage. We arrive two hours later than the invitation said, just to be cool. He said bring nothing, so I have brought an expensive bottle of wine that I know he hates as a sort of an elegant flex. He throws open the door.
“Well, hey there!” He is booming before he sees us, his greeting for all his new besties, but when he notices it’s us, he drops the act. He is dressed as Hamlet with a skull in his hand, a neon straw sticking out of it.
“Oh, hey. Jesus, Mira, you look amazing.” He looks between us. “Oh, oh, I know this, you’re, um, the ones who die.”
“Way to narrow it down,” I say, but Theo is friendlier.
“Yeah, Romeo and Juliet! Mira and I did this play the summer before college.”
Nick narrows his eyes. “Well. That’s adorable,” he says. “You wore a couples costume to my party.”
“We did.” I place a hand on Theo’s chest. “Theo and I have a lot of history.” Nick looks at Theo, scowling for a moment, sizing up his competition.
“I’m the skull dude!” He holds out the skull. “Vodka tonic?”
“Who’s your friend, Nick?” I ask, gesturing to the skull, which any theater person will tell you is Yorick the clown.
“Uh . . . Doug?” He laughs like this is a very clever name for a skull full of vodka.
Theo laughs awkwardly. A group of people arrive behind us, and Theo and I slip inside while Nick does his host routine.
Tempest puts up the visiting actors for the summer, but the accommodations are modest. Nick opted to rent out his own place.
It’s a spectacular cottage: five bedrooms, a built-in hot tub off a long wraparound deck facing the lake.
It’s set back from the road and surrounded by woods.
I heard him mention trails nearby. It’s beautiful but flashy, too much. It’s very Nick.
Theo and I make our way into the kitchen. The fairies are gathered around the punch bowl, dressed as the Weird Sisters from Macbeth. Even Ron.
“Oh, look, the star-cross’d lovers!” cries Glory.
“Glory gets it,” I say. “Have you seen Nick’s costume? He doesn’t know who Hamlet is.”
“Philistine,” snarls Peg, and for once I agree with her.
“Want some of our special brew, dearies?” warbles Barb.
“How special?” I don’t trust them. “I know how you roll, Barb.”
“Extra gin.”
“Then yes, please.” She hands me a cup.
“Barb, why is there a gummy worm in this?”
“We wanted something that resembled rats’ tails, for authenticity . . .”
“Ah. Of course.”
“And I made brownies!” Glory holds out a plate. “They’re vegan.” The brownies look a little iffy, but I take one to be polite and take a small bite.
“Oh, Glory, these are actually . . . these are really good!” I realize I haven’t eaten all day.
“Have another!” I do. “The secret is a whole bottle of vanilla.”
“Oh, wow, okay. So”—I lean in—“what’s the scoop. Are you lit, Barb?” I’m already feeling a little revived by a couple of brownies and Barb’s punch. Maybe it will be a good night after all.
“I’m not lit,” Barb says. “I decided to play it cool. I don’t want to arouse suspicion.”
“Oh, yes, four seniors dressed as witches circling a punch bowl with gummy rat tails is a super casual look,” I say.
“Sassy!” says Ron. He looks perpetually amused.
“Okay, top me up, I’m going to do a turn around the room,” I say. Barb adds extra worms to my glass, pats my ass, and sends me off into the party.
It is always a good idea to arrive two hours late to a party: People are in full swing and are usually already tipsy, so they don’t notice if you are socially awkward.
This is my thesis, anyway. There are a lot of people dressed as fairies, a predictable, easy costume, but all the glitter adds a certain sense of occasion.
Some people are dressed just vaguely Elizabethan.
The lighting guy is wearing the same South Park shirt he always wears.
I mingle a bit, making small talk. At least costume parties give you something to talk about.
Theo has already been absorbed by the room, and I am without an ally.
I glance back at the fairies, who are conspicuously staring right at me. Glory gives a very overt thumbs-up.
I make my way around the room, clocking my mother in the corner with Arthur, her hand on his knee, heads bent together.
They look like naughty children, whispering and giggling.
Weird. I don’t love the look of it. I pass by the open patio door and spot Theo and Max leaning against the edge of the deck, looking very flirty indeed.
I smile. I’m glad to see Theo happy. My dad is in another corner with two of the mechanicals, earnestly discussing which words Shakespeare added to the English language.
I stand there for a long time, listening to them.
Words, words . . . words. For some reason, my brain feels . . . slow.
I’ve only had the one drink, but it’s hitting me hard. I don’t realize that I’m dizzy until someone catches my arm.
“Hey there.” It’s Will. My heart leaps.
“What are you doing here?” He looks . . . good. He’s wearing jeans and a white button-down and a vest with aviators and . . . a Shakespeare wig. “Oh. Ha! I get it. Will is . . . Will.” Somehow even with a skullet, he looks . . . shiny.
“I mean, I’m still part of the show,” he says. “I was, you know, invited.” I look at him blankly. “Set builders are people too.”
“You just keep . . . being places.” I’m feeling a little fuzzy.
“That’s the thing about people.” He looks at me closely. “You good? You look a little . . .”
“I’m really hungry,” I say suddenly. “I need food.” I turn and leave for the kitchen, and he follows me. I haven’t seen him since the lake, the kiss . . . I don’t know how to be.
The fairies are still gathered in the kitchen.
“Oh, hey, have you met my fairies?” They chuckle and Barb winks at Will.
Cheeky. “Fairies, have you met my . . . cider man?” They look at each other, amused by something.
I don’t know what. I find a baked goat cheese and tuck in.
“This is amazing. Who made this? I need the recipe. Oh, no. I need to learn to cook.”
Peg and Barb exchange a glance. “Oh, hell!” cries Glory. “Shit balls. Now I’ve done it.”
“What?” I ask, but I’m not really listening. I’m pretty busy eating, and she seems very far away on the other side of the counter.
“Um,” says Glory, “the brownies.”
“What about the brownies?” asks Will.
“Glory uses a whole bottle of vanilla,” says Barb.
“Okay? I mean, that’s a little heavy-handed but . . . so?” Will keeps looking at me. Will likes me. I probably like him. I’m not allowed to like him.
Peg exhales heavily. “I gave Glory a bottle of my weed oil.”
“For my knees,” says Glory mournfully.
“As well as a bottle of my homemade vanilla extract.”
“We like to soak the bean pods in bourbon,” says Ron. “Gives a really rich flavor.” Peg looks at him sharply, and Ron sits back.
“And it would seem, well . . .”
“I mixed them up,” says Glory. “I lost my glasses, and I didn’t see the labels.”
“Mizzed what up?” I call over.
“Ah,” says Will. “So these are special brownies.”
“They really are!” I say, finishing off my third one. “I need the recipe of this too. Guys, should I be a cook?”
“Who gave you that?” Glory bats the last bite out of my hand. Rude.
“I found it on the plate.”
Glory covers her face with her hands. Now she has no face. Weird.
“Okay, okay,” says Will. “So, Glory, nothing wrong with weed brownies. I’m quite a fan. But let’s either label these or remove them?” He looks around. “Have a lot of people . . .”
“I made a double batch. These are all that’s left,” says Glory, waving her hands fretfully at the nearly empty plate. “Oh, now I’ve done it! Oh, Glory, you stupid, stupid . . .”
“Okay, okay,” says Barb. Glory has started to weep. “Let’s get Glory home, okay?”
“How much did you use?” Will asks.
“All of it! About a cup?” Glory looks at Peg, who nods.
“Whoa,” says Will. “I’m surprised they taste okay.”
“Well, we use bourbon for the weed oil also,” says Ron. “Kind of caramelizes—”
“For fuck’s sake, Ron!” Peg smacks his arm.
“Well, we do.” He is unfazed. He helps himself to a brownie.
“Will, how sober are you?” asks Barb.
“Not too bad.”
“Okay, try to stay that way? See if you can get Mira out of here?” she asks. He nods. “Good boy.”
“I’m going home to see if I can get a ritual going to undo this,” huffs Peg.
“You think you’re going to manifest the THC out of this poor girl’s bloodstream?” Barb shakes her head.
“What’s THC?” asks Glory. “That wasn’t in the recipe!”
“What girl?” I ask. “What happened to her?”
Will chuckles. “Somebody accidentally brought weed brownies to this party. And she ate . . . three of them?”
My eyes grow wide. Very wide. “That’s terrible!
I hope she’s okay! I never touch marijuana; for some reason, it makes me go completely blotto.
” “Blotto” is such a weird word. “Blotto. Blllllot. Ohhhhhhh.” I laugh.
Everyone is looking at me. “Glory, why are you crying?” I give her a hug.
“Oh, Glory, your sweater is so soft.” I stroke it.
It’s like she’s wearing a kitten. “Are you my little kitten?” Glory starts crying harder, and Barb leads her away.
Will puts his hands on my shoulders. I like his hands. I like it when they’re on my body. “I’m going to help Barb carry her cauldron out. Stay here, okay? I’ll be right back.”
“You’re touching me,” I say. I feel nice and tingly.
He pulls his hands back quickly. “Sorry!”
“I liked it. Do it again.”
He shakes his head with a little smile and points firmly at the stool next to me. “Sit.”
“I am your spaniel!” I shout. “It’s from the play,” I whisper to the person next to me, but it turns out there’s no one there.