He leaned back, his shoulders sloping, and Abigail caught a glimpse of what he was going to look like in his extreme old age.
Abigail almost began the conversation about Bruce resurrecting the Boxgrove Theatre with his own money, but it didn’t seem the right time. She’d decided before the weekend that that was a conversation for after the wedding. Instead, she said, “Have you thought about couples counseling?”
He shrugged. “It all costs money, and I don’t think it would make a difference. Abby, I think you should be focused on your own nuptials and not your mother and me. We’re not a project for you.”
“Ha.”
“You remember the campaign?”
“Of course I do.”
It was her father’s favorite story from her childhood. When Abigail was eleven, she’d overheard her parents talking about how ticket sales were down that summer. Without telling them, she’d created an ad campaign, handwriting flyers to advertise each of that summer’s shows, and handing them out from a table she set up on their front lawn. She’d worn a beret she’d found in the theater’s costume department because it looked “right for the occasion,”
she’d said.
“You were such a fighter. I couldn’t believe it.”
“Did it do any good? You think I sold a single ticket?”
“I know you did. Pam Hutchinson from across the street told us she bought a ticket because of you. Unfortunately, it was for Lips Together, Teeth Apart and she never looked at us the same way again.”
“And I sold a ticket—two tickets, I think—to The Winter’s Tale.”
“You have a good memory.”
They both sat silent for a moment, Abigail wondering if she did have a good memory, or if it was just the repeated telling of the story that had lodged it in her mind. Her dad said, “We didn’t know where you’d come from. I mean, your mother and I were ambitious to a certain degree, but neither of us was a salesperson. You were a firecracker. We always used to say, ‘At least we don’t have to worry about her. Abby’ll be fine.’ And you are.”
“Dad, are you a little drunk?”
“A little bit. Just sentimental now that I’m in the winter of my years.”
Lying in her old bedroom that night, staring up at the stick-on stars that she’d put up on her ceiling years ago, Abigail kept thinking about what her father had said about her being a firecracker. The proof was right on her ceiling, where she’d spelled out her own name in the midst of the galaxy. Had she been that self-centered, or was it just confidence about her place in the world? She had had confidence for most of middle school and some of high school. She remembered being fearless, always up for a fight. That was how she and Zoe had become such good friends, despite how different they were in so many ways. Max Rafferty had spread a rumor about Zoe giving him a hand job after the seventh-grade dance, and the next day Abigail had snuck up behind Max while he was in line at the cafeteria, tugging down his pants, snagging his underwear along for the ride. She’d been friends with Zoe then, but not best friends. After that, they were inseparable.
And that wasn’t the only time she’d gotten revenge.
Freshman year of high school Abigail heard that a former friend, Kaitlyn Austin, had been going around saying that Abigail’s parents were the town perverts and that they loved to put on disgusting plays. This was after a production of Spring Awakening that had caused a brief ripple through the more conservative elements of the Boxgrove community. Kaitlyn Austin told everyone that she’d heard that the Baskins only put on the musical so that they could cast young actors to have sex with. She said that every year there were orgies at the Boxgrove Theatre, an idea so ludicrous that Abigail was initially more amused than pissed off.
But the rumors spread through their small regional high school.
It was around this time, too, that Abigail had discovered thrift store shopping, dressing one day in a poodle skirt from the 1950s, and the next in a fringed leather jacket. Kaitlyn began calling Abigail “the freak,” and it was a nickname that stuck around for at least a year. Part of her didn’t even care that much about being called a name, but it was the fact that the name had originated with Kaitlyn that stung. Abigail became consumed with the idea of getting revenge. She did, eventually, but not until senior year.
Knowing that Kaitlyn and her family were away for the Columbus Day weekend, she’d walked across town just before midnight and broken into their house through a window they’d left open. She’d gone straight to Kaitlyn’s room and searched it, stealing a stack of her diaries. On the way out, she’d slashed all the tires on Kaitlyn’s Subaru. She could still remember the feel of the knife puncturing the rubber, the hiss of air as the tires slumped.