A Season for Fireflies (13 page)

Kylie meets my eyes as we pass, but raises her chin. “Come on,” she says. “Let's hang the rest of these. Some of us aren't getting pity votes.”

It feels like a kick to the gut.

“Nice, Castelli,” May says. “You're a real gem of a person.”

“Mind your own business,” she snaps back. “You've got your bestie back.”

“Don't let her bother you,” May says quietly, linking her arm tighter through mine. I wince at the pressure on the figures. They've definitely eased but they're still there and they still hurt.

You've got your bestie back.

I fight with myself to turn around and see if Kylie is watching us walk away.

“She is so petty,” May says, and we turn into the hallway with the science classrooms. I tell May that I agree even though something in my gut tells me that she is wrong about Kylie.

As we walk, streamers hang in blue and gold from the ceiling; the school colors. Homecoming posters and pep rally reminders cover nearly every inch of the wall. But new posters, official school posters, have come up as well: FIREFLY SAFETY TIPS, followed by long lists of how we should close doors, turn off unnecessary outside lights, and do more to help hinder the “spread of the bug population.”

We have to walk through the hall where the woodworking studios are to get to the science labs and classrooms on the second floor, in the new wing of the building.

“You successfully dodged my question about homecoming,” May says. “I thought you were supposed to be getting better at that, per our agreement.” She raises an eyebrow. “Why do you think you were nominated?”

I shrug. “You heard Kylie. People feel sorry for me.”

“Maybe,”
she says, “but that seems kind of convenient. People like you. They always have. You were always fun to be around, always the life of the party. Even when you were going through your
Mean Girls
,
Invasion of the Body Snatchers
phase.”

I nudge her. “Stop.”

She laughs. “Sorry, but I don't think you should just assume that people are pitying you.”

We stop outside one of the woodworking rooms. I peek in the door. It's Wes. He's standing in the middle of the room, surrounded by a forest made of wood. Tall wooden trees tower over him, with branches stretching out in all directions. It takes me a second before it clicks: they look like the sketches of my Lichtenburg figures that I saw in Wes's car. They're a beech wood, light in color, and unfinished.

“I'll see you at lunch,” May says with a grin, and keeps walking down the hall. I'm going to be late to class, but I don't care. I knock but Wes doesn't seem to hear over the noise of the handsaw. He puts it down and runs a sander along one of the tree trunks. I step inside and hesitate.

“I didn't know you could do that,” I say. Wes yelps, jumping back.

“Penny.” He's breathless. “You scared me. I almost dropped the sander on my foot.”

“I tried knocking, but you were in the middle of . . . all that.”

His face softens. A few fireflies dart around the room; it's hard to see their pulsating lights under the bright fluorescent school bulbs. Wes follows my eyes.

“They're everywhere,” he says. “During the day too.”

“Did you see the news trucks outside the school this morning?” I say, and I'm grateful we can make small talk about something going on that's weirder than being struck by lightning and not remembering a whole year of your life.

I walk among the trees he's built.

“These are amazing,” I say.

“Thanks,” Wes says, and shoves his hands in his pockets. “Aren't you going to be late for class?”

“Aren't you?”

He raises an eyebrow. “I have a free period,” he says. He smiles just enough so the corner of his mouth lifts. A warmth spreads through me from my belly up to my chest. Wes uses a regular piece of sandpaper and his muscles strain as he pushes it against one of the branches. My heart betrays me. The damn thing slams. Longing feels like an old wound that's been reopened, just below the solar plexus.

Could what May told me be true? That he loved me, and I broke his heart?

I guess he's not going to bring up what happened the other night with my mom. It felt like we got somewhere closer, a place I could understand, and a place that I knew. Wes continues to work. I can't help myself.

“Thank
you
,” I say. “For my mom. For what you did.”

He doesn't say anything but keeps sanding. Maybe I just have to let it go. Maybe I've gotten May back in my life and that needs to be enough. I turn to leave when Wes says, “Homecoming nomination, huh?”

“Yeah.” I grin. “You should probably bow before me.”

Wes laughs. “Don't push your luck, dollface.” A rush rolls over me. A memory whispers at me in the back of my mind. I see Wes in my head in a white tunic and I know with certainty that this memory is from a rehearsal of
Much Ado
.

“Toots?” I say, and Wes pulls back.

“Honey?” he says.

“You're lucky you have access to power tools or I'd challenge you to a duel.”

“Do you remember?” he adds, and doesn't respond to my jab. “That day?”

He holds my eyes and the whisper of the memory evaporates as fast as it came.

“Not the whole thing.”

His eyes drop to my covered arms but he quickly busies himself with the last couple of tools and scattered pieces of sandpaper. He cleans up and it looks like he is heading out. If he asked, I would show him the figures.

“Are you going to the homecoming dance?” I ask, and the question has left my lips before I can think through if I should even be asking it.

“Oh, um.” Wes fumbles. “Yeah.”

“With that girl I saw you with the other day?” I know I'm fishing. Even though May told me he ended it, I want to hear it from him.

“Who?” he asks, and replaces the tool in a plastic safety box.

I try to be very casual. “You know, blond. Tall. Annoyingly high voice.”

Wes grins. “Were you spying on me, Berne?”

“What! No.” Busted.

He shakes his head and grabs his book bag. “No,” he says with emphasis and joins me at the door—we're so close our shoulders touch. “She told me she thought theater was boring.”

“Ouch,” I say. “You need better taste, Gumby.” He smiles but it's not to my face. He sticks his hands in his pockets. We hesitate, shoulder to shoulder at the door—only inches apart.

“You aren't her,” he whispers, and it feels like we're talking about something else entirely. It takes me a second to catch up.

“What?”

“You're not your mom. You know that, right? I need you to know. I didn't mean it.”

“Why do you sound like you're apologizing?”

He doesn't say anything else, but leaves the studio and lumbers, calmly, down the hall. Like the other night, I feel like I'm chipping away at the ice around him, though I can't be sure. Before I walk away, he glances back and I nearly call out to him. He nods just once before turning the corner.

A week later, when I'm about to lose my patience waiting for the cast list, someone screams just outside my math class. “The cast list is up!” I'm almost positive it's Karen.

I grab my books and limp to the door.

“Penny,” my teacher, Mr. McKenney, says, “class isn't over.”

I survey the dozens of eyes watching me and grip my books tighter. People are packing up because no matter how much Mr. McKenney wishes we could stay beyond class time, it's ridiculous. As I am about to make an excuse, the bell rings. He rolls his eyes and I head out to the hallway as quickly as I can, past the stage entrance to the auditorium, the radio broadcasting center, and finally the theater department office. A huge crowd has circled outside the bulletin board. I think I see May's
black hair in the middle of the group.

“Yes!” she cries with a jump. “I'm Helena!”

I could still be Hermia. Maybe Taft gave me the other noble part.

Richard sprints by and jumps at the edge of the crowd, trying to see over their heads.

“Will you bastards
move
!”
he cries. “Who am I, May?” he calls.

“Puck!” May's high voice calls back. She moves through the crowd and jumps into his arms. He swings her around and around in his purple button-down shirt and jeans. “I knew you would get it!” she cries.

“What
fools
these mortals be!” Richard's great stage voice echoes over the din of the hallway as he recites Puck's famous line
.
When he places her on the ground, May sees me, and her smile cracks just a bit. Disappointment hits me square in the chest. I had to expect that Taft wouldn't give me a lead role after what happened. Definitely not. Still, I'd been holding out hope.

“I didn't get a part, did I?” I say once I get close to them.

“Of course you did,” she says, and it's too chipper, too high. She's out of breath. “You're Hippolyta.”

“I am?” My heart soars. Taft let me in. I'm back. And I get to play the fairy queen! “So I'm Titania too, right? Taft said she would be using doubles for the roles of the human queen and the fairy queen. You know? To connect to the idea of opposites—city versus forest, yadda, yadda.”

May shakes her head. “It just says Hippolyta. Karen got Titania.”

“Oh,” I say, and now I'm the one whose voice is way high.
“That's awesome.” I know that Taft split up the parts when that wasn't her original vision. I'm not trusted to stick it out; why would she give me such a huge part?

“One more thing,” May says, and I notice the crowd is thinning out behind her.

“What?” I ask with a grimace. “Do I want to know?”

“There's an asterisk next to your name.”

“What?”

“You should go talk to her,” Richard says.

I squeeze through a couple of people—one girl is crying because she didn't get a part at all—and I do see a small blue asterisk next to my name. I look to the bottom of the list and an asterisk is there too, with the line:
See Ms. Taft ASAP for further instruction
BEFORE rehearsal begins
. I am the only one with an asterisk.

I rejoin my friends in the hallway as Panda struts by into the now barely there crowd. He's wearing a shirt with a fake tuxedo front and Wayfarer-style Ray Bans.

“Do I even have to guess?” I say, changing the subject away from me.

“Bottom,” we say in unison.

Panda joins our little circle and bows. “The most illustrious performer, Bottom, at your service.”

“I always knew you were an ass,” Richard says, and Panda kisses his cheek. I walk to the bulletin board again. Karen is, in fact, Titania, and Wes is King Theseus, Hippolyta's husband, and as Taft explained during auditions, he's also the fairy king, Oberon.

“I'm starved,” Panda says, and reaches into his back pocket for a small bag of potato chips. “Let's celebrate with Burrito Heaven for lunch.”

“Ooh, good idea,” May says.

“You can't, you're not a senior, remember?” Richard says gently.

“You think that will stop him?” May says just as Karen hurries from around the corner to the bulletin board. She hesitates, pulling back from the list, as curious as I am why Taft split the parts. When she sees me standing there, a smile immediately plasters on her face and she joins May, Panda, and Richard celebrating. They start heading down the hall to sign out at the main office.

“You coming?” Panda calls to me.

“I'm gonna go talk to Taft,” I say.

“Go get 'em!” May calls. She cackles in happy celebration. I exhale sharply, surprised by their support. They turn the corner, out of the hallway.

“You will not quit. You will not get a case of the nerves,” Taft says, pacing before me. She is holding a piece of paper in her hand with a large hand-drawn blue asterisk.

“No,” I say. Taft's eyes dagger at me. “I mean, no, I won't get the nerves. I really want this,” I say quickly. I sit in Taft's office chair and she walks back and forth again and again.

“You will not dodge phone calls or ignore your friends. You will not show up late even
once
,” she says.

“But!”

She holds up the asterisk and I immediately silence. After years of working every summer with this woman from fourth through tenth grade here at EG and at OSTC, I know she only thinks you're listening if you are looking at her directly in the eyes.

“Maybe it's the fireflies taking over the town and eating all my flowers, but I'm on edge, Berne.” She stops pacing and points at me. “I'm giving you a chance, Penny.
One
more chance.”

I open my mouth and she shakes the asterisk in my face and continues.

“You will
communicate
if you are still prohibited from driving and if someone else is going to make you late.” I don't want to meet her eyes but her expression momentarily softens. “You will use your cell phone to communicate if something is happening at home to make you late.” She jumps back into “drill sergeant” mode.

“As you are so wont to do—you will not complain about late rehearsals, itchy costumes, and you will not voice conflict of production approach. Do you agree to these terms?” She places her hands on her hips and I try not to focus on the dot of fresh mustard on her blouse. I can't help it and she looks down. “Oh hell,” she says, and snatches a tissue from her desk.

“Do you?” she asks again while dabbing at the spot.

“I do.”

With a toss of the soiled napkin, she opens the top drawer in her desk.

She takes out something small that she's able to conceal in her hand.

“Open your palm,” she says.

“Is this the part where you strike me with a ruler?”

She erupts into a loud, horsey laugh, but clears her throat immediately and frowns.