“He gets out in October, because he turns eighteen,” Jeremy says. “I haven’t seen him in a while, to tell you the truth. My parents don’t want to visit him and it’s hard to get out there without a car. It’s like they want to pretend he doesn’t exist.”
I think of my mom and her Rules for Joey and how my dad just walks through the house like a ghost at night. How my mom seems to think a list of rules will fix everything and my dad doesn’t even seem to want to deal.
“I guess we both know a little something about difficult brothers,” I say softly.
“I used to feel like I didn’t exist in the house, because everything was all about Luther,” Jeremy says, “but now that he’s gone, I’m still invisible. I thought that would be different. Does that make sense?”
A huge swell of relief floods through me. “Yes. Yes, I get that. So much.”
We smile at each other, but it’s not entirely out of happiness. More like something sad and resigned.
“My people! My thespians! Arise and greet the day!” Simon Stanley’s voice pulls everyone’s attention to the wings of the stage where he’s walking from, waving a small baton, wearing slippers.
“Are we really supposed to stand up?” I whisper to Jeremy.
“Yeah,” he says. “We do some exercises to get loose. Here.” He holds his hand out and pulls me up.
Simon Stanley closes his eyes and takes a giant breath. He spreads his arms out and raises them above his head. “Up!” he shouts.
Everyone goes quiet and raises their hands, so I do it, too. But I keep my eyes open.
“And down, shake it out,” Simon says, breathing out.
Everyone bends over, flapping their arms. The stage floor is scratchy and dusty. The dust tickles my nose. I did not expect exercise, arm-flapping, and dusty floors, to be honest.
“Aaaaannd, up.”
We all rise.
Mr. Stanley smiles at all of us. “If you’re new, my name is Simon Stanley. You can call me Mr. Stanley. You can call me Simon. You can call me Si. If you’re nervous because you’ve never done this, good! If you’re scared to be here, good! If you feel brave, bold, and ready to take on the world, go home! You scare me! Just kidding. All are welcome here. Understood?”
Everyone nods, but I’m kind of wishing I’d joined ceramics club after all. I definitely do not feel bold, brave, and ready to take on the world, whatever that means.
Simon Stanley’s face turns serious. “Now, before we really get to the nitty-gritty, I do want to take a moment of silence for our fellow troupe member Candace MontClair. Lucy, dear, is this too much? Should we stop?” He takes one of her hands. A couple of kids look over at me and Jeremy.
Oh, god. Jeremy and I both stiffen at the mention of Candy MontClair.
I never should have agreed to Drama Club. This is a whole group of her people.
In unison, Jeremy and I both look at our feet.
“Lucy?” Simon says.
“Yes,” she says. “I want to.”
Simon Stanley bows his head.
The stage gets so quiet that I’m sure people can hear how loud my heart is beating. I want to run off this stage and I would, if I could make it on my bad knee, but I’m stuck.
The longer it’s quiet, the deeper the quiet seems to get, making the stage seem like a spooky, weirdly special place.
I’m looking at the dusty stage floor and all I can think about is Candy and how pretty she looked the night of the party, even tearstained and with a ripped blouse. I liked her, too, and I was the last one to hear her breathing. Last spring she was walking on this very same stage.
I feel crushed and heavy inside and then I see wetness on the stage floor, dotting the dust.
Oh, god, I’m crying. I don’t want anyone to notice, because in some ways, I feel like I’m not allowed to cry. I wasn’t close to her, but I am the reason she was in the car.
Like, if I hadn’t said I’d give her a ride home, and if I hadn’t had two beers and let Luther drive, she might be here, right now, doing silly warm-up exercises.
I bite my lip, but I can’t stop the tears from falling.
Next to me, Jeremy touches my hand with his finger.
“It’s okay,” he whispers. His eyes are shiny behind his black horn-rims.
Finally, I hear shuffling. I wipe my face quickly and look up.
Simon Stanley starts walking around our circle on the stage, hands behind his back, wiggling the baton. Looking at each of us in turn, like he has something very, very important to say. He’s wearing a loose, tunic-like shirt, no buttons, and I don’t think I’ve ever realized how small and wiry he is. I had him freshman year, for advisory period, and we mostly watched clips from movie musicals, which meant “Seventy-Six Trombones” played on a loop in my head for months afterward.
When he gets to me, he pauses.
And touches the baton lightly on my shoulder.
You can do this, he mouths.
I’m not so sure, but I nod anyway.
Simon whirls away, to the center of the stage.
“Now, let’s talk about the thea-tuh,” he says.
* * *
—
Joey has a big grin on his face as I walk down the auditorium aisle toward him when we’re done.
“That was brutal,” he says. “When you guys started howling, I thought you might actually bail.”
Simon Stanley asked us to imagine being animals: first a horse, then a cat （we tiptoed around the stage, hands curled like paws at our chests, mewing）， then a coyote （heads thrown back, keening at the moon）。 I felt awkward and silly doing this, but a part of me also kind of liked it. At least I wasn’t sweating through my dance clothes and missing beats and getting frustrated looks from Tavi Dean, the dance coach.
“Shut up,” I tell him. “At least it wasn’t ceramics. Hard, wet things, remember?”
Joey’s smile dies as he stands up. Jeremy has come up to us. He looks sheepish.
“Hey, Joe.”
“Hey, Jeremy. Man, you look different. You grew.”
“I had a growth spurt this summer, I guess. My mom’s mad because she had to buy me new clothes.”
“Moms.”
“Yeah.”
A giant, sad silence seems to wrap around all of us.
Finally, Jeremy says, “I don’t really know what to say.”
“Me neither.” Joey’s voice is quiet.
Luther Leonard spent more time than not at our house for years. Swimming in the pool with Joey. Playing video games with Joey. In the attic with Joey. They were inseparable. Like me and Liza were for years.
Jeremy says, “Well, see you tomorrow, Emory. You did really good today. I swear it will get less weird. Later, Joe.”
“Later.”
We watch him leave the auditorium, hiking his frayed backpack over his shoulders.
“At least today is over, right?” Joey sighs.
“Let me see,” I say. “I have no friends, I got yelled at in the cafeteria, there was a rebellion in lit, everywhere I went people were whispering about me, and I had to howl like a wolf. This semester is going to last forever.”
Joey grimaces. “All my teachers made me sit in the front row, Noah and Chris tried to get me to smoke pot by the ball field, and I had a small lecture from the principal about pulling up my bootstraps and putting in the work.”