Dreamers Often Lie Read online

  His silhouette leaned against the stair rail. One long leg bent to brace itself on the edge of a step. “What is the real problem?”

  “What just happened onstage is the problem. I’ve been resting and recovering and waiting, and still . . .” I flung out my hands, and one uneaten M&M clicked away into the shadows. “If I screw this up—this play, this rehearsal—Mr. Hall will give my part away. Everything I’ve been working for will be over.”

  “That’s not going to happen.”

  “What?” I said skeptically. “Why not?”

  “Because you’re really good.”

  I snorted. “How do you know?”

  “Because I watched your scene.” His silhouette turned slightly, folding its arms, and now I could see the long, angular lines of his profile. His features were hard and delicate at the same time, like a portrait done in black ink with a fine-point pen. “I was over on stage right, by the ropes.”

  “Why were you backstage?”

  “The counselors here strenuously recommended that I join an extracurricular activity. They knew I’d done other plays, so”—he gave a long, lazy shrug—“stage crew it is.” His head tilted, and I could tell he was looking down at me. “I’ve been part of enough school productions to know what lousy performances look like. And yours was not lousy.”

  “Well.” I twisted sideways, remembering—too late—to brush my hair over the scar. “Thanks.”

  Rob pushed himself away from the railing. He sat down on the step beside me, just far enough away that his sleeve didn’t touch mine.

  “Check it out.” He bowed his head.

  Even in the semidarkness, I could see a bumpy, two-inch scar buried in the roots of his hair.

  “Impressive,” I said. “What happened?”

  “I was a twelve-year-old idiot. I borrowed a neighbor’s skateboard without asking—”

  “So you stole it.”

  “I stole it temporarily. Which is really just unsupervised borrowing.”

  “Right. Unsupervised borrowing. Which is really just stealing.”

  “Exactly.” He straightened so the reddish light fell onto his face, and I could see that he was grinning. “This was when we were living in Denver. I’d never skateboarded before, but I decided that my very first attempt should be down this long, steep, highly trafficked city street.”

  “All kinds of good decision-making happening here.”

  Now he let out a laugh. “Good decision-making is my trademark. Anyway, I managed to stay upright for a while, which is kind of miraculous. I was probably going about forty miles an hour by the time a car shot out in front of me.”

  “Forty miles an hour? On a skateboard?”

  “Yeah. The record for a skateboarder going downhill is over eighty miles an hour.”

  I started to smile back. “You just happen to know this?”

  “I just happen to know all kinds of useless stuff.” He leaned back on one elbow. “The hippo’s closest relative is the dolphin.”

  “What?” I laughed. “Wait. Stop. We’re getting sidetracked. You were going downhill on a skateboard . . .”

  “Yeah. So, this car streaked out, I threw myself backward, hit my head, split my scalp open, and sustained a moderate concussion.”

  “Sounds painful.”

  “That’s the weird thing. I don’t remember it hurting. I don’t remember going to the hospital, getting stitches, any of that. I don’t remember anything after that red car. That’s really all I remember—the feeling of not being able to remember.”

  “I know,” I said. “I can’t even remember going on that skiing trip. I can’t remember hitting a tree, or hurting my head, or getting to the hospital . . . It’s like somebody else stole my body and screwed it up and then gave it back to me. I’m sorry—they ‘borrowed’ my body without supervision.”

  He laughed again and looked at me closely, smiling. Then he sat up straight again. “I was back to normal in a few days, but I still remember how that sucked. Not being able to trust my own brain.”

  “Exactly,” I said softly. “That’s the worst.”

  It was like he knew what I was thinking. But he wasn’t inside my head. This was real. This was actually, physically happening. I had the sudden urge to reach out and touch his arm, just for proof.

  I touched my own scar instead. The ache in my skull had boiled down to a simmer, but it was still there, ready to flare up with any fresh fuel.

  “Just so you know,” I said, after a beat, “I’m not usually such a freak. I mean, I don’t always stumble around accusing strangers of being characters from Shakespeare.”

  There was enough light on his face to see his widening smile. “It made for a more memorable first day than usual.”

  “‘Than usual’? How many first days have you had?”

  “I think this is my tenth school. Well—thirteenth, if you count expulsions.”

  “Expulsions? With an s at the end?”

  “Like I said: good decision-making. And we’ve moved around a lot.”

  I leaned back on the step behind us. The simmer had nearly stilled. “I’ve lived in the same city, in the same house, for my entire life.”

  His eyebrows went up. “Wow.”

  “Not wow. Yawn. Where else have you lived?”

  He took a breath, and I could see him running the list in his head. “Portland, Seattle, San Francisco, Denver, Chicago, Nashville, but that was really brief . . . Tacoma . . .” He paused. “And Boston and Atlanta. I think that’s it.”

  “God. I’m jealous. Which was your favorite?”

  “Probably Seattle.” He met my eyes. “But Minneapolis seems interesting so far.”

  I straightened up, pulling my gaze away. “It’s Rob, right?”

  “Right.”

  “See? I knew it wasn’t Romeo.” I patted the hair over my scar. “Not one hundred percent insane.”

  “And you’re Jaye Stuart.”

  “You’re correct.”

  He put out one hand with exaggerated formality. To take it, I had to turn toward him again. I watched my own fingers move toward his, my cold palm pressing against his larger, warmer one. His fingers closed around mine. Slightly rough. Familiar. “Pleased to meet you, Jaye Stuart.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Rob . . . Martin?”

  “Mason.”

  “I was close.”

  He didn’t let go of my hand. His voice seemed to murmur straight into my ear. “‘And palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss . . .’”

  I jerked. “What?”

  “What?”

  I put my hands behind my back, against the gritty chill of the stairs. “Did you say something else?”

  “Something besides my last name?”

  “Like . . . a quote. Something about hands . . .”

  Rob frowned slightly. “Maybe you heard somebody onstage.”

  Onstage.

  Oh my god. Onstage.

  I straightened up. “Oh, no. I probably missed my—”

  The stage door above us slammed open. Multiple sets of feet pounded down the staircase.

  “Jaye?”

  “Jaye!”

  “Here she is!” Hannah grabbed me by one arm and yanked me to my feet.

  Ayesha grabbed the other arm. “Geez, Jaye, you can’t just disappear like that.” She hauled me up the steps, toward the stage door. “Everyone thought you’d wandered out into the snow or something.”

  “What, like a dying wolf?”

  Ayesha ignored me.

  As the door swung shut behind us, I glanced over my shoulder. Rob had gotten to his feet too. He was watching us, one hand on the railing, but the red dimness washed away whatever I might have seen on his face.

  “Found her!” Hannah blared, leading me onto the stage.

  �
��Well, good.” Mr. Hall’s voice echoed through the house. “And only ten minutes wasted. Jaye, everything all right?”

  “Yes. Mr. Hall, I’m sorry. I just lost—”

  “Never mind.” His tone was brisk. “Are you able to continue?”

  “Yes. I’m fine. I’m able.”

  “Then let’s just move on. We’ll start from the top of scene two: Titania enters with her train.”

  I stepped back into the wings. A knot of fairies was waiting impatiently. A few of them shot me angry looks as I sidled into my place.

  “Okay,” Ayesha signaled us. “Go.”

  I tried to brush away the embarrassment. Titania wouldn’t be embarrassed. She would be graceful and regal and strong. I sailed out into the light, the fairies skipping and tittering around me.

  “Come, now a roundel and a fairy song. Then, for the third part of a minute, hence . . .” The words were there without me having to search for them, pulling one another like electric lights on a string. “Sing me now asleep; then to your offices and let me rest.”

  I sank down on the platform that was supposed to look like a mossy riverbank. Little wire-stemmed flowers sproinged around me as I lay back and shut my eyes.

  Other things tried to barge their way in, but I kept my mind locked on the stage. Just because I was asleep didn’t mean I could stop being Titania. The fairies sang their lullaby and pittered off into the distance. I kept still, conscious of my breathing, conscious of every little twitch of my face.

  The stage lights were warm, glowing red-gold through my eyelids. The velveteen grass tickled the back of my neck. What would a fairy queen dream about? Fairy dances. Flowers. Charms. Her Oberon. I turned my head slowly, drowsily, like someone stirring in her sleep—and even though I hadn’t opened my eyes, I could see the night-dark hospital room around me, the narrow bed with its plastic railings, the tubes threading out of my arm. I could see him, sitting in the chair beside me. His black hair. His blue eyes. Listening. Waiting.

  CHAPTER 10

  Everyone onstage for notes!” Mr. Hall’s voice called.

  The platform rolled backward as Nikki plopped down beside me.

  “Nice work,” she whispered, leaning back against the crinkly daisies.

  “Really?” I sat up. The house lights blinked on, turning the fairy forest back into the auditorium. “Was I okay?”

  “You were great. As always.”

  “Not at first. At first, I was crazy, quoting-the-wrong-play girl.”

  “Yeah, quoting another Shakespearean play. How unimpressive.” Nikki smacked my arm. “You know what? After two weeks in the hospital with a concussion, you’re allowed to mess up once. Just once, though. Any more and you’re fired.”

  “Fairies—quiet please,” Mr. Hall’s voice cut us off. “During the lullaby, we need two full circles around the platform, then reverse, then exit. Titania, you can take your time falling asleep. Listen and watch for a while, if you’d like. And Hermia, remember, when you wake up, you don’t realize Lysander is already gone, so make sure not to turn in his direction . . .”

  I scanned the stage while Mr. Hall went on. There was no sign of the new kid. He’d probably snuck out early. He wasn’t here because he wanted to be, anyway. Why would he wait around?

  But he had actually been here.

  He had been.

  I was pretty sure.

  “That’s it for tonight, everyone!” Mr. Hall shouted, throwing both hands in the air. “Get some rest, and we’ll see you all tomorrow!”

  Nikki pulled me to my feet. “Can you come out for coffee with me and Tom?”

  “Yes. You have to.” Tom skidded across the stage toward us. “We have three weeks to catch up on.”

  “I’m not allowed. No coffee. No fun. No out.”

  “Just say rehearsal ran late,” Tom suggested. “That’s what I always do.”

  “I can’t. If I get caught, my mom will pull me out of the show. And then she’ll strangle me with her super-strong yoga arms.”

  “Boo.” Nikki tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “Well, we can at least drive you home. Grab your stuff.”

  “I’m going to drive her,” said another voice.

  I whirled around.

  Pierce Caplan stood over my right shoulder.

  “You are?” I said stupidly.

  Pierce smiled in a way that made my rib cage buzz. “Yeah. It’s all arranged.”

  “Really?” Nikki’s eyes snapped from Pierce’s face to mine. “Because your sister thinks I’m bringing you home.”

  “I talked to Sadie in chemistry,” said Pierce, still looking at me instead of Nikki. “I’m taking her.” His hand brushed my back. A chain of sparks trailed up my spine. “So. Are you ready to go?”

  It would have been more comfortable to tumble into Nikki’s rusty old car between her and Tom, breathing the coconut air freshener and spilled coffee and the residue of Nikki’s hidden cigarettes. The prospect of riding with Pierce—being alone with him, away from everyone else—was like standing at the top of a snowy hill. Excitement and fear swept through me in freefall. Pierce Caplan.

  “Um . . . yeah. I’m ready.” I gave Tom and Nikki a quick wave. “Thanks anyway, guys. Talk to you later.”

  “Okay.” Nikki took a step backward. Her face was hard to read. “See you later.”

  Pierce guided me past her, down the stage steps, up the aisle. I didn’t look back. I didn’t want to know if Nikki and Tom were still watching us with those strange looks on their faces.

  Pierce led the way through the school doors and across the parking lot. Daylight had already drained from the sky. Just a few streaks of indigo seeped up from the horizon.

  I tried to remember the last time I’d been alone with Pierce—not counting the two awkward minutes in the greenroom before auditions, or the way he’d surprised me, puffy and unwashed, in my bedroom. It had been years, I knew that much. We’d started to veer apart in middle school, me turning toward plays and him toward sports. Still, every now and then on summer weekends, he’d call and we’d swim together in his family’s pool, splashing each other with diving toys, having breath-holding contests under the crystal green water. Or we’d take our bikes and explore new parts of the neighborhood, chasing each other through the alleyways. Dad was always so pleased when he heard I’d spent the day with Pierce. He didn’t like my new theater friends. He called Tom and Nikki the Spice Girls. Sad Spice and Scary Spice. I had to beg him not to do it to their faces.

  Now Pierce was guiding me toward a glossy black BMW. I didn’t recognize the car, which made me realize again how big the gap had grown. Once, I could have cataloged every T-shirt in Pierce’s drawers. Now something as huge as his car was totally unfamiliar to me.

  “Nice car,” I said lamely.

  “It’s my dad’s old one.” Pierce stopped. A stricken look crossed his face. “I mean, it’s not—”

  “No. I know.”

  The words hung between us in a puff of frozen breath. We both knew what had happened to his dad’s old car.

  Then the breath dissipated, and the words were gone, and we headed to the BMW’s opposite sides.

  Pierce unlocked the doors. I slid into the passenger seat. The instant I’d buckled the seat belt, a nervous, vibrating sensation nestled into the top of my chest. It beat harder as Pierce started the engine.

  We shot out of the parking lot.

  I pressed back against the leather seat. My fingers locked around the armrest on the door. That unfinished sentence had tainted everything. I didn’t want to be in this black BMW, this slightly newer version of the car that I’d seen, crumpled and bloodstained and surrounded by broken glass in our dark garage. My panicked face stared back at me from the side mirror.

  Calm. Cool. Elizabeth Taylor. Marlene Dietrich.

  Pierce paused at a stop sign, then str
eaked forward again. The icy road tugged at the tires. I felt the car skid slightly as we rounded a corner.

  He finally broke the silence. “So . . . overall, how was your first day back?”

  I swallowed. Cool. Steady. “It was okay. I wish I hadn’t screwed up in rehearsal, which was totally humiliating. But other than that . . . it was all right.” I swallowed again. My tongue was like paper. “How was your day?”

  “Not bad.”

  The BMW squealed around another corner. I gripped the armrest tighter. Days of slumping around like a slug might have messed up my internal speedometer, but I was pretty sure we were going too fast for these streets. Uncomfortably fast.

  Another realization hit me. Maybe Pierce was only driving me home as a favor. Maybe he couldn’t wait to get this over with. To get me out of his front seat and zoom off to whatever it was he actually wanted to do these days, with whoever he actually wanted to see. Maybe Sadie had even asked him to drive me home, thinking his car would be safer than Nikki’s rusty old Beetle. God, how embarrassing. How utterly pathetic.

  We hit a divot in the pavement. My skull thumped back against the headrest. I heard myself suck a breath through my teeth.

  Pierce’s jaw tightened.

  Of course. He was probably annoyed at having to chauffeur some ex-friend around. Some weird, awkward, injured ex-friend who couldn’t even make ten minutes of conversation. The scene I’d screwed up had been his scene too. He had plenty of reasons to be irritated.

  Before I could decide for sure, Pierce wrenched the wheel to the right, throwing me backward. The BMW skidded to the edge of the road and crunched to a stop.

  The pounding in my chest turned from a mallet into a sledgehammer.

  My father had done this once. In the exact same way, in almost the exact same place. Just over two years ago.

  We’d been halfway between the school and our house. Dad had been silent ever since we left the counselor’s office, his fingers clenching and unclenching the wheel, and I’d sunk so low in my seat that my chin rested on my sternum.

  Dad had let out a loud breath through his nose. Then, so abruptly it almost made me sit up straight, he veered to one side, nearly planting the front tires in a snowdrift. He jammed the car into park.