Chapter 49
When I grab breakfast the next morning, Dinah is sitting at the kitchen table, her knuckles pressed together like she's praying.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“I fucked up real bad the other night.”
I don't respond because I know I will trigger her. On the other hand, silence equally makes her unhinged. She explodes when she's fishing for sympathy and gets silence in return because she can't handle ambiguity.
“And don't act like you're so superior,” she erupts. “We're supposed to be a team. You dropped the ball, too.”
“Hey, I tried to tell you to stop!”
“You could have tried harder. And I suppose you knew that. Now I look unstable, and Clint thinks I'm in love with my ex.”
“It definitely seems like you are?”
“What do you know about anything?”
“You're right. I'm a dumbass, but even I can see that Clint stole your show and it's really unfair to you.”
To my utter shock and amazement, she nods in agreement.
“But he's really smart. He's the one who brings in the crowds, even though they think the show is called Dynamite, like the explosive, and not like me.
Listen, I can tell he's getting ready to dump me—just like every other guy. So stay out of my way for a while.”
“What about the podcast?” I ask.
“Like your stupid little musical, the show must go on.”
___________
In Spanish, Daisha avoids eye contact with me. She won't say a word. I feel the heat from her and decide to initiate contact.
“I'm very sorry about breaking our pact, but I had to win with Byron. It was my way of telling Felix he's close to losing me,” I say.
She doesn't respond at first, but after thirty seconds of contemplation, she breaks.
“So that's what's going on with you and Byron! You think that's gonna inspire Felix to like you more?”
“It's moving the needle. I can sense that much,” I say.
“And I can see a guy who's hurt that his friend is pushing him away.”
“It's not like he wasn't pushing me away first. He's the one who bailed on me so he could be with Roland. Why do I have to be the villain?”
The bell rings. Daisha gets up and gives me one long look in the eyes. “Good luck with your little project, Romeo,” she says.
Sra. Breedlove stops me at the door.
“Wade, are you still dead set against college?”
“Why wouldn't I be?”
“You should consider the Peace Corps. You have a talent for languages. You could go somewhere south, see the world, and improve your Spanish. I would write you a good rec letter.”
“Is that where I, like, sleep in the jungle and get malaria trying to build clean water pipes or something?” I ask. The thought of me trying to be a saint who goes out to “fix” the world is so cringey. “Besides, Texas is already a foreign country to me and I live here.”
“Listen to me,” she says carefully, looking around to make sure nobody can hear.
“Remember what I said in class last semester?
It's okay to not know what you're doing with your life.
I had a nervous breakdown my first year as an acting major.
I dropped out and was hospitalized after I told my parents I was going to jump off a bridge.
In the hospital, I saw a book on Arabic calligraphy and started teaching myself Arabic.
It was difficult and distracted me from everything else.
I learned about the Peace Corps and volunteered to work in Morocco.
It changed everything for me and gave me a sense of purpose.
You don't know what opportunities lay ahead, Wade.”
I'm shocked she told me something so personal, even more shocked that behind that sweetness is a story so dark. Even though I know she means well, she's still a stranger and doesn't get me. Her persistence is getting annoying.
“Are you going to fix me, Sra. Breedlove? Are you my savior?”
She slumps her shoulders and shakes her head wearily, then walks away. I nod awkwardly and leave the room. In the hallway I cross paths with Felix, who only gives me a lukewarm eyebrow raise.
On my walk to the community theater, Byron pulls up next to me in his Mercedes.
“Get in my car, asshole.” He breaks into a giggle. Before I can even close the door, he speeds off. I don't know what to talk about, so I keep my mouth shut. I'm already on thin ice with everybody else. Byron, on the other hand, seems to be warming up to me.
At a stoplight, Darren drives up next to us. The two of them stare each other down the entire red light until Darren tears forward at the first blink of green.
“I may or may not be paying the flyman a substantial number of Benjamins to drop his ass on the stage on opening night,” Byron tells me. “He has no idea what's coming. Glory to the bad bitches, baby.”
When we make a right turn, red and blue lights flash against the houses and churches along the road. There's smoke coming from the direction of the theater. My stomach drops.
“Oh hell no,” Byron says as he pulls into a spot across the street.
Three fire trucks are parked outside the community theater. Smoke curls from a blackened section of wall near the stage door. Ms. Easterling stands with Luis and some firefighters, her hands shaking as she gestures at the damage.
“Rehearsal's canceled, obviously,” Ms. Easterling says.
“The Sasquatch stuff,” I say, my throat tight. “They probably think we're trying to spread the gay vaccine through theater now.”
We get out and join the small crowd gathering on the sidewalk. The acrid smell of smoke burns my nose. Someone's spray-painted KILL BUNDY across the theater's front doors in sharp red letters.
“The fire was contained to the exterior wall,” a firefighter tells Ms. Easterling. “Building's still structurally sound. You'll be able to continue operations once we complete our investigation.”
“Marvelous,” Luis says, fanning the smoke out of his face.
Ms. Easterling's face is hard. “They're trying to intimidate us.”
It's not simply that, though. This is my fault. My stupid prank video started all this. And now it's not just online harassment or nasty comments—someone tried to burn down a building with real people inside. How long until someone gets hurt?
“We're still doing the show,” Ms. Easterling announces to the gathered crowd. “We're not letting these cretins scare us.”
Some people look nervously at the smoke damage.
I want to tell them I'm sorry, that this all started as a joke, that I never meant for any of this to happen.
Instead, I stand there with Byron's hand on my shoulder, watching the firefighters coil their hoses, wondering what else my Bigfoot video will inspire people to destroy.
Talk about unprecedented levels of irony. The musical is on because I did the stupid Sasquatch fundraiser. It's also in danger because I did the stupid Sasquatch fundraiser.
Back in Byron's car, he turns on the engine and sits there, contemplating.
“I don't want to go home right now,” he says.
“I never want to go home,” I say. We both laugh. “Actually, I know what we could do.”