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  To the kids still figuring out who they are

  1

  SAM

  A whole lot of my personal success is riding on my ex-boyfriend right now.

  The front room at Flannery’s is even more crowded than usual. It’s an artsy college town coffee shop, the kind that sells indie zines and has free lollipops at the register like it’s a doctor’s office. It hosts local musicians or poets or other events from time to time, and it has a stage set up in one corner specifically for that purpose. Right now, Flannery’s is hosting me. Chairs and tables have been pushed together and clustered around the small stage to form something like an audience. The usual café chatter is gone, except for the occasional hiss from the espresso machine or the ting of the outdated cash register. I’m standing in what could loosely be called the wings, which is really just a few haphazardly draped curtains lined against one wall, watching Christian stumble through the monologue I wrote him like it’s the hardest thing he’s ever done. It almost hurts to watch.

  This play is, hands down, one of the most ambitious things I’ve taken on in all three years of high school. The acting and playwriting side of things is familiar, but actually producing a show is completely new territory. It required a lot more work than I first thought. Mom used to joke over the phone that she should have gone into producing instead of acting, since “that’s where the money is,” and now I kind of see her point. Still, there’s something really satisfying about having my hands on every part of the project—of taking the steps to make it come to life, instead of only joining up when most of the work is already done. I wrote the play, secured the venue, organized the cast, bribed one of the techs from school to run the sound and lights, and did the marketing and made the programs. We even rehearsed over Christmas break, and now, with school finally back in for January, I’m bringing this thing to life. You can say what you want, but this project is mine, from start to finish, and I might actually die if it doesn’t go perfectly.

  I’m pitching this play as a true story—or at least based on one, since doing a whole play as myself would be a little narcissistic, even for me. Especially with my playing the main character. So instead of Sam, the main character is a girl named Sara. Her lifelong dream is to get out of her boring existence in Toledo, Ohio, and make something important of herself. She’s smart, passionate, driven—everything a small town doesn’t deserve. She wants out, but the people in her life keep holding her back.

  Christian, of course, had to be one of the main characters. His doppelgänger, Chris, is Sara’s well-meaning but hopelessly average boyfriend. He likes Toledo and doesn’t see the point in leaving. Sara loves him, but the two of them get into it fairly often over the course of the play. (That’s an exaggeration on my part. Christian’s and my relationship was never as juicy as that. Still, what’s a good story without some heavy drama?)

  Finally, a break comes for Sara—admission to a prestigious art school in New York. It’s the last nail in the coffin for her and Chris. They get into one big argument, where Sara lets out her feelings about him, and then she leaves to start her new life.

  So now, technically, my part of the show is done. All I have to do is watch as Christian and my other friend Aria carry out the last scene. Somehow, this is even more scary than being onstage. I don’t like having to rely on other people to make sure things go well.

  CHRISTIAN

  There’s something special about Sam that gives her the power to drag me into the craziest things.

  To be honest, we haven’t actually known each other that long. We’ve been going to the same schools since third grade, same classes, some shared friends, but it didn’t go further than that for a long time. We officially met in the second semester of sophomore year, when she decided to ask me out. I said yes—because why wouldn’t I? She’s gorgeous, smart, and surprisingly persuasive. Ever since, it’s been one ridiculous scheme after another. Like roping me into this show, for example.

  Theater and art, in general, have never been my thing. I’ve played soccer since I was five, and that’s pretty much been my life ever since. Most of my friends are from the team, too. Sam was the outlier—more creative than me, more outgoing, and so completely far out of my league that I was shocked she ever showed me any interest.

  Even now that we’re just friends, that interest hasn’t gone away. It’s just changed direction. Now it’s more like she’s my sister or my guidance counselor. She could have picked any of the theater guys to play my character, but she insisted it had to be me. “I based the character on you,” she said with the usual stubbornness that I’ve learned is baked into Sam’s personality. “What’s the point of choosing someone else?”

  Sometimes, I think she has bigger dreams for me than my parents do, and that’s saying something. I hope I don’t let her down.

  The play is almost over. It’s the last scene, after Sam’s character leaves Toledo without really saying goodbye. It’s only me and another actor onstage now, Sam’s friend and fellow theater kid Aria. But I can feel Sam watching me from the sidelines, and it’s starting to make me nervous.

  “Why would she leave you behind?” the other girl asks me.

  “She said I was holding her back.” I resist the urge to glance back at Sam. Instead, I look out over the crowd. My mom’s out there, sitting in the middle of the crowd. Sam’s grandma, Nana Bea, is right up front, and she grins and gives me a thumbs-up. I swallow hard. “I’ve been trying to keep up with her for so long, trying so hard to be what she wanted, but in the end, I couldn’t.”

  “Did she at least say goodbye?”

  “She came to see me. But there wasn’t a real goodbye. That wouldn’t be like her. She sent me a letter instead. Only one sentence.”

  Aria raises an eyebrow. “What did it say?”

  I have to remind myself to pause. This is it: the last line of the play. Sam told me to give it “gravitas,” let it hang in the air for a minute to make the moment more significant. Still, I’m eager for this thing to be over. Right as I open my mouth, though, a noise from the audience distracts me. It sounds like crinkling paper. My eyes shoot toward the source.

  Sam drilled me over and over about not getting distracted during the performance. “It’s not going to be as quiet as a regular theater,” she said. “There’s going to be noise and people talking. You have to tune it out.” I did okay with that during the rehearsals, but this is different. This time it’s not just Sam and Aria watching me, and as much faith as Sam puts in me, I’m still not much of an actor. So yeah, when somebody pulls a sucker out of their pocket and unwraps it as loudly as they possibly can, that’s probably going to throw me off. I catch the flash of colorful paper in the hands of someone near the front and stare at it for a second before realizing that I’m still in a play. That’s almost enough to make me recover, too … until I see the person holding it.

  It’s a girl around my age, with long brown hair and a bl
ack sweater. Her dark eyelashes almost completely hide her eyes from this angle, and the lights shining in my face don’t exactly help. But even from here, I can tell she’s gorgeous.

  She crumples the wrapper up in her fist, lifting the sucker to her mouth, and then, for whatever reason, she locks eyes with me.

  The rest of the world phases out.

  I can’t explain it much better than that. I’m still talking; I know I am, because I can hear myself saying my last line—or at least something close to it. But suddenly all thoughts about acting or getting this right or even Sam don’t feel that important anymore.

  My vision tunnels and focuses on her face, on her, and who cares about some play? Why would I care about literally anything else, right at this moment, other than the fact that this girl is looking at me?

  Maybe Sam’s got a point. Sometimes it feels really good to be the center of someone’s attention.

  ROS

  As nice as this job is going to look on my résumé, it’s times like these when I wish I were getting paid. Art Pulse isn’t a big magazine—more the indie type, perfect for an area like Worcester—and it pretty much covers only smaller local events. Official Broadway tours or appearances by big-name artists don’t interest Art Pulse. They’d rather talk about community theater productions, concerts by little hipster bands no one has heard of, and installations by unknown artists. I’m all for supporting the arts, obviously, and as one of Art Pulse’s theater critics, I might not get paid, but I do get to see amazing pieces of work.

  This, though? Isn’t one of them.

  I look back down at the program. A foreword on one of the inside pages mentions something about this play being “based on the experiences of the playwright,” which is just a fancy way of saying this is an autobiography with different people’s names slapped on for flavor. Still, something tells me that very little about this play is real. It’s all I can do not to actually roll my eyes when the main character—a two-dimensional cutout of someone’s idea of a “strong female character,” played by a girl who looks like she wishes she were halfway to Hollywood already—has the nerve to say anything about her “dreams.”

  Honestly, this girl’s dreams are the only thing we really know about her. Her personality can be boiled down to a few basic aspects: driven, ambitious, and determined, which are all different ways to say the exact same thing. The actual plot of this play (what little there is) isn’t bad, and the acting is surprisingly well-rounded for what is basically a high school play, but this main character is just … a walking piece of ambition. No flaws, no insecurities, nothing. If this girl were anything like the girl she’s playing, then she would be the most boring person in the world.

  The actress’s name, Sam Dickson, is all over this program: “Written by,” “Directed by,” “Produced by,” and “Starring.” There isn’t a single part of this play this girl hasn’t had her hands in. Maybe she’s more like this character than I thought.

  I force my attention back to the stage. Of all the people in this play, the male lead’s acting is definitely the weakest. I think I recognize him—he goes to Northeastern High School with me, but we’ve never talked. His name’s Christian. He seems like one of the athletic types, and they aren’t the kind to stop and speak to someone like me. Not that I’d want them to. I’m happy over here in my own little corner, with my books and my unpaid internship at an overly pretentious indie art zine. I’ve never doubted that I’m going to end up a hermit academic like my dad one day, and the closer I get to graduation, the more sure of it I am. He would say that that’s not necessarily a good thing, but why not? The life of a hermit academic sounds a whole lot more appealing than being surrounded by superficial people, talking about superficial things, never bothering to get to know one another beyond the surface level. I’ve lived through two and a half years of high school already, thanks. I’d rather not keep doing that for the rest of my life.

  The girl playing the main character leaves the stage after some sort of argument, and internally I breathe a sigh of relief. That has to be her final exit, right? It’s only a one-act, and we’re coming up on an hour. It’s the homestretch, then. I adjust the notebook on my lap. I pride myself on taking fairly detailed notes, and even something like this is no exception. I’m taking this gig as seriously as I can, and with any luck, I can be home and completely roasting this whole play within the hour.

  The play keeps going, though. Apparently, there’s more the esteemed playwright has to say.

  I resist the urge to sigh loudly. This has to be wrapping up soon. I fiddle with the lining of my coat. There’s something hard in one of the pockets, and desperate for some distraction from what’s in front of me, I pull it out. It’s a lollipop, I realize. I grabbed one from a little bowl up at the register when I got my coffee.

  Might as well. I unwrap it and pop it into my mouth, letting the artificial, oversweetened taste cover my tongue.

  Come to think of it, I’ve never really liked this coffee shop, either. It’s marketed to appeal to all the cool, hipster kids from the local high school and universities, but the music is too loud, and the decorations are so busy they make my eyes hurt. The people are weird, too, constantly acting like they have something to prove just by being there or looking at you sideways like they’re trying to figure out if you belong there.

  Like right now.

  Because this guy onstage will not stop staring at me.

  2

  SAM

  Okay, that definitely wasn’t part of the script.

  I know what I wrote. The last line was supposed to be “So long, sweetheart.” It was Sara’s final, poignant farewell to Chris, a nod to her old feelings for him while still acknowledging that she had to move on. I agonized for days over the writing of it. Except the line that left Christian’s mouth isn’t what I wrote.

  What was that?

  He’s just stopped, staring at some girl near the front. I recognize her: Rosalyn Shew—Ros for short—one of the pretentious faux intellectuals at Northeastern. She’s got a reputation for being ruthlessly smart and nearly impossible to impress. I’ve also heard she’s a critic for a local arts magazine. That can’t be a coincidence. She’s here to review my play, and Christian’s staring at her, and now she thinks I wrote that completely ridiculous last line.

  Maybe I can still save this. Maybe Aria will say something else or Christian will realize his mistake and fix it. Maybe I won’t have to look like a complete screwup in front of everyone who came to see my play. Turns out, though, nobody gets the chance, because at least one person here knows how to do their job. The tech guy, hearing something close enough to the last line to make it count, brings the lights onstage down, and the music that usually plays in the background of the café cranks up. That’s our cue for the curtain call. I jump onto the tiny stage as the audience starts to applaud. I hear Nana Bea’s signature hoarse whistle and shoot her a grin as I join hands with the others for the bows. Maybe I squeeze Christian’s hand a little too tight, but that’s beside the point.

  As the audience starts to rise and filter away, I head off to the side with the rest of the cast.

  Aria gives me a hug. “Great job, lady.”

  “You too. Thanks so much for agreeing to do this.”

  She winks at me. “Not like Mr. Campbell was gonna cast me in anything.”

  “Well, he’s a racist prick and we know it. And as your promised payment for your hard work, you get coffee on me until the end of the semester.”

  “Sounds great. I’m gonna catch up with my parents now, but I’ll see you later, okay?”

  With one last wave, she breaks away and vanishes into the crowd. I watch her go for a second, then turn back to Christian. I’m expecting—I’m hoping for—some sort of apology or explanation, but I don’t get one. Instead, he’s staring off into the crowd of people heading for the door, craning his neck like he’s looking for someone specific.

  I shove him. “Seriously?”

  He
jumps. “What?”

  “‘So long, dum-dum’?”

  He frowns at me for a second and then goes pale. “I … is that what I said?”

  “Take a wild guess.”

  Christian flinches. “I’m sorry, Sam. A girl in the audience unwrapped a lollipop or something, and it completely threw me off. I didn’t even realize I’d said it.”

  “What are you, five? Nobody says dum-dum anymore, Christian. You might have even gotten away with ‘sucker,’ but apparently, pretty girls turn your brain into soup or something.”

  “I said I’m sorry!”

  I really don’t have the energy for this right now. Performing takes a lot out of me, and I can feel the adrenaline starting to wear off already. The show is over, and there’s nothing I can do now to change how it went. Better to just go home and forget about it.

  I shake my head. “Never mind. Thanks for doing this, but I’m going home. Have fun with Lollipop Girl.”

  Christian blushes bright red. “I really didn’t mean to space out like that, Sam. I’m sorry. Was it that noticeable?”

  “It was enough. Look, it doesn’t matter now. The show went fine. I’ll see you on Monday, all right?”

  He’s still only half listening to me. He keeps glancing around the rest of the café, like maybe Ros stuck around to talk to my leading man. No such luck—I don’t see her anywhere.

  “Yeah, see you Monday,” he says absently. “You did really well, Sam.”

  “You too, Chris.” And he did actually do pretty well, I guess. Except for the flub at the end.

  He waves a distracted goodbye, and I let him wander off into the crowd. No sooner is he gone than Nana manages to find me, fighting past a group of people loitering in front of the stage and grinning from ear to ear. “That was fantastic, sweet pea,” she says, wrapping me up in a huge hug that smells like laundry detergent and her favorite Dior perfume.