Understudy

“On my front lawn?”

“Would it have been better if I texted?”

“If this screen wasn’t here, I’d punch you.”

“Shut up. You love me.”

Jason’s band mate hammers out a guitar solo and Margot and I go quiet for a moment to listen to it. With only my very tiny knowledge of rock music to go on, the guy is pretty good.

“If you want me to audition someone to take over my role, I can.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I say, grabbing the sides of the window and sliding it down until it clicks into place on the windowsill. I press my face to the glass so she can hear me. “Goodnight, jerk.”

When I wake up the next morning, I almost try to convince myself it had all been a dream and that Margot didn’t actually make my life a thousand times harder by quitting the play.

But the four apologizing texts from her on my phone confirm that I wasn’t dreaming. I’m glad she at least feels like shit for betraying me.

I eat a bowl of cereal while perched on a barstool in the kitchen, my worn copy of LOVE & SUICIDE pressed open with my elbow and the side of my cereal bowl. I’ve memorized every set and prop description and I know the exact time the lights need to switch. I’ve never bothered reading the character’s lines because until now they never pertained to me.

With Margot gone, and the play only three weeks away from opening night, her role of Mary needs to be filled immediately. As much as I hate the idea of actually filling my second responsibility as understudy… it’s looking like that’s my only option.

I find Mary’s lines in act two and am relieved to see that she only has three pages’ worth of stuff to say. I can memorize her lines and have enough time to direct the play from backstage in between Mary’s small time on stage.

I flip back three pages and begin reading the lines, imagining how I’ll act them out on stage. So far, Mary sounds stuck up and a bit neurotic—no wonder Aunt Barlow wrote the role specifically for Margot.

Mom walks in the kitchen as I begin reading the second page of act two. “Good morning,” she says with a yawn. She reaches for the coffee maker. I choke on my Cheerios.

“Jesus, what’s wrong, Wren?” Mom says as she watches me cough and gasp for breath.

I point to the lines on the page, the one that specifically has me on the verge of hyperventilating. Mom reads over my shoulder. “Mary grabs Jeremy by the collar of his shirt and furiously kisses him.” She shrugs and flips on the coffee maker. “Who’s Mary?”

I swallow. “Me. This sucks. Ricky plays Jeremy and he’s a total man whore creep.” I slap my hand to my forehead. “I can’t kiss him, Mom.”

Mom does a terrible job of suppressing a laugh. “Never thought I’d have to worry about my girl not wanting to make out with someone.”

I groan. “You’re not funny.”

Mom runs her fingers through my hair. “I thought you didn’t have a role?”

I tell her about how Margot ditched on me last night, and then I accidentally launch into a sob story about how I’d rather stick a dagger in my own eye than continue to direct this play. “And then the only stagehand that helps me got arrested so I’ll probably never see him again.”

Tears pool in my eyes and I try blinking them away. Mom gives me a hug, her hot coffee mug pressing lightly into my back. “You’ll be fine, sweetheart.” Under her breath she adds, “I told Sophie he would probably work out fine, even with his record. Sorry that didn’t happen.”

I sit up straight. “You knew about that?”

“She talked it over with me before she agreed to it. Apparently the principal gets state money for providing community service hours to minors. But his record wasn’t so terrible, so I told her to go for it.”

My jaw drops to the floor at the discovery that Mom has known about Derek’s past all along—even when she met him—and she never said anything.

“What crime did he commit?” I try to keep my voice casual so she doesn’t think I care. But I care. I care so much.

Mom sips her coffee and focuses on the ceiling for a moment. “I can’t remember, hun.” With an apathetic sigh, tops off her coffee and walks out of the room, leaving me ten shades of confused and curious.

That’s it. I’m tired of not being in the loop. With renewed determination, I march through the kitchen, in to the garage and up the stairs to Aunt Barlow’s apartment. I beat on the door. “Aunt Barlow, I need to talk to you.”

“Is the house on fire?” is her bored reply.

“No.”