Текст книги "My True Love Gave to Me: Twelve Holiday Stories"

Автор книги: Stephanie Perkins

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

So you do things that make them remember.

*   *   *

I kept my head down as I scooped the horse’s early holiday gift into a rusty wheelbarrow. It had seen its fair share of manure. The wheels squeaked, but it rolled just fine. The wooden handles were worn and sturdy. I shook the contents into the compost pile, turned the wheelbarrow up against the wall, and washed my hands in the utility sink backstage. I jumped when Gracie’s fingertips grazed my shoulder.

She was a toucher. I hadn’t noticed before.

“Why did you do it?” Gracie asked.

“Um, the displeasing aroma?” I yanked on the paper towels too hard, fifteen came off in my hand, and the roll detached from the holder. “Because all the church robes drag the ground? Because somebody had to?”

“You know what I mean. The firecrackers.”

I studied the paper towels, lining up the edges as I rolled them back onto the cardboard. “I do lots of things without a specific reason. I was bored. I wanted to see what would happen.”

“Experiments are why you take a chemistry class, not why you blow up a bunch of pigeons.”

“I wasn’t trying to blow them up.” I faced her. “I don’t abuse animals.”

“Hippity.” She raised one eyebrow. “Hop.”

“That wasn’t abuse. That was art. Unfortunate, six-year-old art. As for the birds, I just wanted to scare them out of the tree.”

“It worked.”

“And they all lived.”

Gracie took the roll of paper towels from my hands and hung it back up. “You still haven’t told me why you did it.”

Pointed questions were not part of my plan. My plan was to make it through the next two days and get a pass from the judge, not to reveal my longstanding crush or expose my deviously jealous ways. My mind raced, desperate for another way out besides the truth. “Okay. So have you ever seen Sherlock Holmes?”

Her eyes narrowed at what she assumed was a subject change. “Television or movies?”

“Either,” I said.

“Both,” she answered.

“You know how Sherlock sees things that shouldn’t go together on the surface, but once he makes all the connections, the answers become obvious to him? The camera always shows it as a fast pan from one subject to another.” I gestured for her to follow me back to the tangled lights.

“Ugh. That kind of camerawork makes me nauseated.” But she smiled and crossed her arms over her womb. “So, what you’re saying is that your mind works faster than everyone else’s.”

“I’m just saying … I’m good at seeing connections that could cause trouble.” I sat down on a wooden crate and took stock of our surroundings. “For example, lighting. I could change the directions of all the spotlights. Or I could switch up the tape on the stage that marks the places for the actors. Rearrange the props table or just hide it all together. Mixing up the angels’ wires could cause all kinds of interesting problems—not for the baby angels, of course, but for a free-swinging adult in wings? That sounds like a party.” And a little dirty.

“So, chaos. Is that your ultimate goal?”

“Those were examples, not intentions. Is it your goal to play Mary for the rest of your life?”

“Definitely not.” She stood. “But when your dad is a pastor … well, people have expectations.”

“I assume the flawless skin and baby blues kick it over the edge?”

Her nose crinkled at flawless. It was an expression I’d seen before, usually when someone paid her a compliment. “Maybe. But the real Mary was Middle Eastern. And closer to twelve. The real Joseph was probably thirty.”

“Gross.”

“The Wise Men were astronomers, and they didn’t show up until Jesus was around two, and no one knows how many there were. The manger was likely a cave.”

Gracie was getting fired up, speaking faster and gesturing with her whole body. “And I’m pretty sure Jesus cried,” she said. “He was a baby. It’s ridiculous that we have to keep perpetuating these myths because of people’s commercialized expectations.” She thumped back down on the wooden crate beside me.

“Then why do you participate?” I looked at her. “Because of your father?”

“You’d think it’s because he makes me. But he doesn’t.” She dropped her face into her hands, and then she peeked at me through splayed fingers. “You’re going to think I’m terrible.”

I paused, waiting for the middle school choir to pass. Once they were through, I said, “It’s impossible to think badly of you, Gracie Robinson.”

She sat up straighter. Maybe she blushed a little. I’d paid the compliment with too much admiration in my voice. “It’s just … sometimes it’s nice to be the one everyone pays attention to.”

I tilted my head to the side, all cocker spaniel. “You were homecoming queen.”

“That was a fluke. If Ashley Stewart and Hannah Gale hadn’t been suspended for breaking into the principal’s office and e-mailing all the teachers to tell them they were fired, I never would’ve won. They were the shoo-ins for the homecoming court.”

I took a moment to check out my cuticles.

Her eyes widened. “Vaughn.”

“I made a suggestion. Flippantly. And, possibly, handed over a skeleton key.” Sometimes it’s nice not to be the one everyone pays attention to.

She punched my arm. “Did you do that for me?”

I rubbed my bicep. “It wasn’t entirely coincidental.”

Her mouth dropped open, and her expression told me she was trying to figure out if she should yell at me or thank me. “I don’t need to be front and center. I know I’m loved, and that I shouldn’t seek out approval. But secretly?” She sighed and lowered her voice. “I suspect I tell myself that so I’m not sad when I don’t get noticed.”

“Do you want to be noticed or not? Because it sounds like you’re talking out of both sides of your mouth.” I dared to nudge her shoulder. “I’m not criticizing.”

Gracie didn’t move away. “When you’re a pastor’s daughter, guys tend to put you in the ‘untouchable’ category and never look at you again. I just like to feel special every now and then. You know?”

“Anytime you need to feel special, you come find me.” The words were out before I could stop them—a cartoon bubble over my head that wouldn’t burst.

Her brows pulled together in a frown. “Are you flirting with me?”

“I’m sorry.” I felt my face getting red. My face never got red. “Did I take it too far?”

“No. You took it exactly far enough.” The frown slipped into a grin. “I’m just trying to figure out the most effective way to flirt with you.”

A rush of adrenaline shot through my body. I didn’t know how to volley back, so I changed the subject. Because I was a chicken. “Speaking of flirting, where’s your husband?”

She blinked.

“Your fictional husband. Your real-life boyfriend.”

“My … you mean Shelby?” Gracie groaned. She slid her hands into her hair, clutching her head like it ached. “He is not my boyfriend.”

“Oh, really?” I crossed my arms and sat back to listen to this one.

“Have you ever seen us holding hands? On a date? A real, official date that wasn’t church-sanctioned or a school event? No, you haven’t. Because we’ve never been on one.”

“Then what’s the deal?”

“I’m a cover for Shelby’s real girlfriend.”

I almost fell out of my seat. “His real girlfriend?”

“She’s a very nice, liberal, feminist Christian named Ellie from New Jersey. They met at Bible camp two summers ago.”

“Do they make liberal feminist Christians?”

Gracie rolled her eyes. “They make all kinds.”

I understood why Shelby would need to use Gracie as an alibi. The father of a good old Southern boy would lose his mind if his son dated someone from New Jersey, let alone a liberal feminist from New Jersey.

“If you’re just a cover, why is he so protective? Protective to the point of being an ass”—I quickly corrected myself—“mean to anyone who looks at you?”

“He feels brotherly toward me, and my dad takes advantage.” She paused, watching a volunteer bedazzle the gift box that held the myrrh for baby Jesus. “What’s Shelby ever done to you, anyway? I know he’s a football player, but he’s not a stereotype. He’s not cornering you in the bathroom and giving you wedgies, is he?”

I shook my head.

“Does he stuff you in lockers? Duct tape you to flagpoles? Put Bengay in your jock … er … yeah. That kind of thing?”

I grinned. “You’re cute when you blush.”

“Don’t change the subject.” She was forcing herself to keep her eyes on mine. “Why don’t you like Shelby?”

The conversation had come this far, might as well see it through to the end. “The fact that he had you seemed like reason enough.”

“Oh.”

I stared at her foam belly. Unbelievably, it was the least embarrassing thing in the room. “I’m guessing if I asked you out, your father wouldn’t exactly be okay with that. I’m not a liberal feminist from New Jersey, but I can’t rate much higher.”

“Have you forgotten that Dad went to court for you?”

Look at the womb. Concentrate on the womb. “I haven’t forgotten. But there’s a big difference between bailing someone out of trouble and then letting your daughter date the troublemaker.”

“Give him some credit. He’s not like Shelby’s dad. I mean, I’m sure Dad and I would have a serious talk beforehand, but I’m smart enough to know right from wrong. Dad knows that, and he trusts me. As far as you go, he believes in what he does, and in second chances. He loves people. I’d go so far as to say he loves you.”

Loved me? “Why? I don’t follow the rules. Aren’t religious people into rules?”

“Rules make people feel safe. But they can turn into judgments. Condemnation is easy, Vaughn. The harder choice is love, and it’s one my dad makes every day.”

“He still wouldn’t let you spend time with someone like me,” I argued, mostly because I wanted her to convince me.

“You act like what I want doesn’t matter.” She didn’t sound pouty, she sounded strong. Certain.

My adrenaline was pulsing now. “Would you?” I stopped. Considered. Continued. “Ever want someone like me?”

Gracie leaned in. She smelled like … wood smoke. And fabric softener. “If you pulled fewer pranks and paid more attention, you’d know the answer to that.”

If she meant what I hoped she did, I’d never pull a prank again.

Probably.

The backstage door opened and closed with a bang. A cold wind rushed through the curtains, catching the pages of the director’s playbook. It held the prompts for every scene, the diagrams for all the stage markings, and possibly the location of the Holy Grail. We sprang to our feet to chase them down.

Gracie shivered, pulling the bathrobe tighter as she caught another flying page. “We’ll never find them all.”

“Sure we will. Then it’ll be as easy as putting them back in order.”

“I don’t think so.” She showed me the papers she’d grabbed. “No numbers. Mrs. Armstrong is going to freak out when she has to reorder them. It’ll disrupt her precious schedule.”

Mrs. Armstrong was proud of her director gig, and she made that clear with the laminated ID badge she wore around her neck. “Why wouldn’t she number her playbook?”

Gracie laughed. “Job security. If no one else knows exactly how the scenes are supposed to go, or where everyone is supposed to stand, or where the tape is placed on the stage, she’s necessary.”

I was on my knees, checking under the table of fabric. “Why would you need job security for a volunteer position?”

“To place yourself on the highest possible rung of the social ladder.”

“Church people are weird.” The moment I said it, I felt like a jerk. “Sorry. I have this blurt circuit that can’t be tamed. You might have noticed. Can we go back to when I wasn’t insulting?”

“That far?” she asked.

“How far?” I stood.

“Third grade.”

“What happened in third grade?” I pushed a box of halos aside to retrieve another wayward page.

“You broke all the pencils in your pencil box, and then told the teacher I did it. I had to write ‘Abraham Lincoln is on the penny’ five hundred times.”

I laughed. “I’m sorry.”

Gracie’s eyes sparkled. “So was I.”

The door opened again, and playbook sheets flew back into the air. Gracie ran to the right, lurching between the Dixie flag and a pile of scrolls. I ran to the left, onto the stage, dodging between hoop skirts and the trough that served as the manger. A horse—Confederate cap nestled between his ears—stood in the middle of the arena. He was flanked by General Robert E. Lee, who was in full Confederate regalia, down to his Smith & Wesson. There were five soldiers behind him, and they were in deep conversation with General Grant.

Pastor Robinson joined them with a smile. It melted like Frosty in the hothouse.

“Uh-oh,” I said.

“Uh-oh, what?” Gracie peeked around me, putting her hand on the small of my back. I focused on standing up straight and wondered where putting my arm around her would fall on the awkward scale.

“Why are they here?” she asked.

“I don’t know.” I leaned forward, trying to catch the tone of their conversation.

After a brief and heated discussion—during which Gracie’s delicate hand never left my back—her father climbed the stage steps. He was smiling, but it wasn’t a real smile. I sensed panic.

“The Rebel Yell has a show tonight,” he said.

Gracie handed me her pages and stepped into his line of vision. “We have a show tonight,” she disagreed.

“Mr. Baron never removed tonight’s Rebel Yell performance from the website, so people were still buying tickets online.” Pastor Robinson gestured for us to follow him, and we made a beeline for the box office. After a brief discussion with the attendant, he turned around. “Not only are we double booked, but the Rebel Yell is sold out. And every single ticket for the nativity was distributed last Sunday. I … I don’t know what to do. The show is supposed to start in two hours. What a catastrophe.” Pastor Robinson ran his hand over his face. He looked so defeated and only twenty minutes ago, he’d been laughing.

Guilt swallowed me whole. But it was followed by a chaser of hope.

“Sir?” I stepped closer to him, clutching the playbook in both hands. My voice was the pitch of a tiny, wide-eyed Disney mammal. “I think I can help.”

“Really?” he asked. “How?”

“Catastrophes are my specialty.”

*   *   *

“I can’t believe you did that.” Gracie’s awe could have powered me through a triathlon. “What now? You’re just gonna throw stuff out there and hope something takes?”

“Pretty much. It’s like that spaghetti thing—throwing it at the wall to see if it sticks.”

“I wonder if that’s real,” she mused, tapping her finger against her chin. “Like, do you think the Olive Garden has a spaghetti wall? Do you think the wait staff has to draw straws to see who has to peel it off at the end of the night?”

I grinned. “Get to work.”

Gracie made a list of the traditional media outlets, and I drafted an announcement for the social ones. “I’ll call the radio stations first,” she said. “HOTT FM is playing Christmas carols, so I’ll start with them.” She winked at me before she turned away.

They’d played nothing but Christmas carols since the day after Halloween, and I predicted most of the population had retreated to gangster rap to escape the merriment. But I didn’t contradict her. She looked so hopeful.

A voice interrupted my thoughts. “We can manage the crowd, but the parking is another story.”

Pastor Robinson was beside me, and I hadn’t even noticed. I was thankful Gracie was still wearing the purple bathrobe, or he’d have caught me checking out her departure.

“We’ll have to round up someone to direct traffic,” he said. “Maybe there are some orange cones … we could make signs for entrance and exits…” He trailed off as his eyes scoured the junk backstage, seeking solutions.

“You work all the time, don’t you, Pastor Robinson?” I asked.

“Dan. You can call me Dan,” he said.

No, I couldn’t.

Then he frowned. “I don’t have office hours on Friday or Saturday.”

“I mean … you’re always on. Things don’t filter through your brain by going in one ear and out the other. There’s always something to process.”

I could see him doing some processing right now. After a moment, he nodded thoughtfully. And then he gave me the kind of answer that adults usually avoid. An honest one. “I do quite a bit of reading, studying, counseling. Lots of speaking. I can put those things out of my mind, especially when it comes to Gracie. But you’re right. There are always people who need caring for, and I can never turn that off.”

I wanted to thank him for leaving it on for me, but I didn’t know how. “Gracie said you believe in what you do.”

“Yes, that’s true.”

“That’s … cool.” We looked at each other like we didn’t know where to take the conversation next.

I had questions, but I couldn’t drum up the nerve to ask them. Why had he chosen to be so kind to me after I’d screwed up his whole December? What made him arrange my second chance? Why did he have such an amazing daughter?

“Pastor Robinson!” The voice carried over the mayhem of the crowd. Rebel Yell versus Main Street Methodist. What were the odds? A woman holding three sets of angel wings and a fake golden brick waggled her foot in front of him to draw his attention. “We have a situation. It’s bad news/bad news.”

“Can we just pretend I know?” He rubbed his temples and closed his eyes. “Do you have to tell me?”

“Yep. Even though you can’t do anything about it. This one will need to be handled divinely.”

He opened his eyes. “Go ahead.”

“It’s snowing.”

There was a flurry of activity by the stage door, and it opened wide. Our town looked like a snow globe being shaken by a toddler. The flakes whirled in circles and spirals, but they were making solid landings. A layer of sparkling, icy white covered everything, including the road, and it was growing deeper by the second.

Winter had come early this year, and it had been unseasonably cold, but no one in our town had expected snow. The only time anyone worried about that kind of weather was if they were traveling. If this kept up, no one would move for days.

There wasn’t even time to hoard bread and milk. Or toilet paper.

“Hopefully … it will stop … soon,” Pastor Robinson said. He looked like he might face-plant at any moment.

“I don’t think so.” Gracie entered, sans womb, with her bathrobe open over her street clothes. “One hundred percent chance. Some sort of vortex situation. The meteorologists are ecstatic—you know how they love weather drama—and the kids are all mad since they’re already out of school.”

I felt a little giddy myself. As rare as it was, snow definitely created drama.

Kids in our town spent their childhoods perpetually frustrated by the pink radar line on weather forecasts that never dipped far enough south to bring snow, yet always included us in tornado warnings. I wasn’t far enough away from “kid” to subdue all my excitement, but I tried, thanks to the current situation.

“That’s not all.” Gracie approached her father and gently laid a hand on his arm. “The interstate north of us is already locked up, and the camels are stuck.”

“The camels.” His voice was dull, as if he’d just awoken from a nap. “Are stuck?”

“Yes, the camels,” Gracie continued. “And the sheep.”

“The … sheep?”

She broke the rest of the news quickly. “And the donkey and the ox. The traffic isn’t moving and neither are they. PETA will jump our ass—our literal ass—if we push for transport in this kind of weather.”

Everyone in Gracie’s general vicinity dropped chin. I didn’t know the church’s stance on alcohol, but Pastor Robinson looked like he could use a margarita. He took a deep breath, the kind that every teenager recognizes and fears. “Grace Elizabeth Robinson. I know that was a play on words, and your attempt at levity is noted, as is the time and the place you chose to attempt it. Now you owe the swear jar a dollar.”

Before she could reply, his phone rang. He answered, and the crowd around us broke up.

I stared at Gracie. “You just said ass.”

She shrugged. A grin followed. “I can usually get away with that one, since it’s in the Bible.”

“You said ass.”

“I’m aware of this.”

“You guys have a swear jar.”

She slid out her arms from the bathrobe, revealing a blue sweater that fit so well it deserved a vacation home in the Bahamas. “It’s an old pickle jar we keep on our kitchen counter. My mom made it mandatory for my dad when he was in seminary, and he made it mandatory for me.”

“Your father swears, too?”

“Not anymore. Last year, he emptied it to fund a trip to the Harry Potter theme park in Florida.” Her grin went full blown. I wanted to kiss it right off her face.

“You wicked girl. You’re not at all who I imagined you’d be.”

“Ditto.” She hung her robe on a wall hook. “How many days has it been since you pulled a prank? I had no idea you could behave for such an extended period of time.”

“Maybe I’m trying to change. I’ve managed a streak of good behavoir before.” I glanced at Pastor Robinson, who was pacing while he talked. “Remember the Good Citizenship Award in fourth grade? And how every single kid was supposed to get it?”

She nodded and leaned against the wall.

“I tried so hard. Everyone had been giving me crap, saying I’d never be good long enough to get it, but during the last month of school, I earned it. I proved that I could handle myself. And then Mr. Weekly passed me over at assembly. I know my name was on the list, but he said every name but mine. No one would believe me. That’s when I realized everyone had already made up their minds about me. Why disappoint them?”

“Why not work harder?”

“I was nine,” I said drily. “‘Work harder’ sounds like parental advice, and I didn’t have the kind of guidance that you did.”

“I’m of the opinion,” she said, tucking her arm around mine, “that if you let a single life event define you, then all you need to change things—if you want them to change—is another.”

I stared at her arm on mine. And then, when I looked up, she was staring at me.

A loud commotion erupted around Pastor Robinson.

Gracie turned her attention to him. “What now?”

Mrs. Armstrong had slipped on a set of icy stairs, and she was on her way to the hospital with a broken foot. The pageant had lost its director.

“How about that,” Gracie murmured. “Double-booked venue, freak snowstorm, trapped animals. And now no director. Things are getting worse by the second.” She clucked her tongue. “It would be easy to give up. No one would blame us. Or…”

“Or…?”

She let go of my arm, practically bouncing. “You know how to make things go wrong. You excel at it.” From anyone else, I’d have taken that personally. “Tell me you can’t figure out how to make tonight happen.”

“Are you trying to find a way to make your father accept me or something?” I didn’t think so, but I had to ask. “Are you trying to fix me?”

“Why? Are you broken?”

Gracie tilted her head.

Parts of me were. I felt like Gracie could see every single torn-up edge. I shrugged.

“You said you were trying to change,” she reminded me.

“I said maybe.”

I was glad she wasn’t holding my hand. My palms were a rain forest.

“You’re so blinded by negative expectations that you can’t see the truth. Pranks, jokes—they don’t make you bad.” She angled her body toward me. “They make you you. You have a lot to offer, Vaughn. And Christmas is about new beginnings.”

“What about you, Gracie? Since I have so much to offer, would you be willing to start something with me? Or are you afraid I’ll ruin your reputation?”

“What makes you think that I won’t ruin yours?”

I choked on my own spit.

Gracie gestured toward the chaos onstage. “So?”

I counted the people backstage, the props. Thought about the possibilities “Let’s make it happen.”

“Hell, yeah!”

“Another dollar,” Pastor Robinson hollered, before returning to his phone call.

I laughed. “Isn’t that one in the Bible, too?”

“He’s not been very forgiving lately,” she said through her smile, as she gave her father the thumbs-up. “I think he’s aiming for Hawaii next summer.”

I had a flash of Gracie in a bikini, followed by one of Pastor Robinson in Speedos. I shook my head in a reflex action to push both pictures out of my brain. “You should get into costume. Where’s your foam child?”

“One of the baby angels is using it for a pillow.” She grabbed my hand and pulled me toward her father. “Hey, Dad! Vaughn has an idea.”

*   *   *

Pastor Robinson agreed to go forward.

The traffic reports from the north of town were growing worse by the second. Things to the south weren’t much better, but the traffic was moving. Pastor Robinson’s phone lit up with calls from stranded cast members. Gracie and her dad were trying to figure out exactly which cast members were missing.

I was listening, but I was also thinking. Crazy-Sherlock thinking. Looking from the Civil War soldiers to the nativity costumes, from the arena to the stage.

Gracie watched me. “You’re doing it again, aren’t you? You’re doing your brain thing. Right now.”

I ignored her. “If the pageant is going to be short of players, and the Rebel Yell is, too, we could make a hybrid.”

Pastor Robinson frowned. “You mean like General Grant and General Lee and Santa should give the presents to the Christ child?”

I hadn’t meant that at all, but I stopped for a moment to picture it.

“No, Dad, the Wise Men costumes are here,” Gracie explained. “We could just get someone from the Rebel Yell to put them on.”

“That could work,” he said.

“And,” I was rolling now, “if both casts are down by half, maybe the audiences will be, too. We could combine the shows. And since your congregation can’t barrel race”—I looked to him for confirmation, and he shook his head—“then maybe we can get the Rebel Yell employees to volunteer for us.”

“I like that idea. I like it a lot. Let me feel them out.”

I didn’t mention that I was pretty sure I’d have to recruit waitresses to fill in for the missing angels. The baby angels. The waitresses would look more like prostitutes in their costumes.

At least we had shepherd’s hooks. If things got too scandalous, we could always pull them off the stage.

Gracie didn’t say I had to make a classy pageant happen. Just a pageant.

“Okay, what else?” She had a clipboard and a pencil. It was nice to see her taking my success so seriously, but the clipboard reminded me of a bigger problem.

“The playbook.” It still sat on the director’s stool, in complete disarray, pages sticking out everywhere. “We don’t know what order to put things in. The Rebel Yell people will need markers to know where to go.”

“I can help with that.”

The voice was deep, and it could only come from one person.

Shelby’s blond hair had grown out since his football season buzz cut, and it was sticking up everywhere. His face was unshaven, he had dark circles under his eyes, and his shirt wasn’t buttoned right. I’d never seen him look unkempt before.

“I’m sorry,” I said. In truth, I blurted it. I felt a little more kindly toward Shelby than usual.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m sorry I made those birds crap on your car.” I’d never apologized, and it felt right to do it now. “It wasn’t cool, and I didn’t have a reason. Not a valid one anyway.”

Gracie dropped the clipboard and stepped in front of me. “I told him about your girlfriend.”

“Did you tell him about the Mini Cooper?” Shelby asked, urgently.

Gracie shook her head. “That’s your issue.”

“Dude.” Shelby stepped around her and grabbed me, looking intently into my eyes. “I only drive the Mini Cooper because I have to. My dad gets weird ideas about things”—he jerked his head toward the lassos and clown wigs that were hanging on a nearby Peg-Board—“and that car is one of them. He surprised me with it, and he was so happy … I just wish you’d set it on fire instead of the church.”

“Relax, big boy. I didn’t mean to set anything on fire.”

Gracie stepped in front of me again and knocked off Shelby’s giant, sweaty hands from my shoulders. “But you forgive him, right?”

Shelby’s body was large, but his brain was quick. He looked from me to Gracie. “Seriously? You two?”

“Can you help with the book or not?” Her hands were on her hips. “Because I’m not having this conversation right now, but I will remind you that you owe me.”

“Very true.” Shelby dropped his head. “Fine, hand it over. I know I can put those stage markings in the right place. They’ve always looked like football plays to me.”

Gracie gave it to him, and he sat on the stool, heavily, as if he were exhausted. It creaked under his weight. “I’ll let you know when I’m done,” he called out. “And Gracie? We’ll be having a talk later.”

She waved him off and pulled me to the side of the stage. “That was an impressive apology from you. Unexpected.”

We were right beside a corner. A small, dark corner. A corner that wasn’t in her father’s line of vision. And she was impressed with me.

“Was it reward worthy?” I asked, looking from her to the corner and back again.

“You are cheeky.”

“I acknowledge advantageous situations.”

“Cheeky. And smart, too.” She grabbed the front of my shirt and pulled me into the darkness.

I was glad she hadn’t put her costume back on. It’s not like I had her pressed up against the wall or anything, but I was closer to her than I’d ever been. It exceeded expectations. Her hair smelled girly, like spring.

She still had my shirt wrapped around her fist.

“I know I’m trying to make better life choices,” I said, “but I’d commit a crime every day if it meant I got to do this.”

“That’s not logical.” She let go of my shirt. “If you committed daily crimes, the only time we’d have together would be an hour on Sundays.”

I wanted to make a conjugal visit joke, but I didn’t think we were there yet. “So you’re saying you want to spend time with me?”

She answered with a giggle. Gracie wasn’t a giggler.

“You’re nervous.”

“I’m … I’ve never … the only kiss I’ve ever had was with Milo Crutcher in sixth grade, and he stuck his whole tongue in my mouth. I understand his intentions now, but I didn’t then. So, I’ve just … sort of…” She gestured awkwardly with her hands. It was adorable. “I’ve avoided trying it again.”

She thought I was going to kiss her, and she wasn’t running away.

“That’s a shame.” I touched her face, ran my thumb along her cheekbone. “Although I’m glad he ruined it for you. I’ll be happy to be the one to set things right.”

“I b-bet you would.”

I removed my hand from her cheek. “Your teeth are chattering. I’m sorry—”

“Hey.” She grabbed my wrist. “I’m the one who made the move.”

“And I appreciate it.” I tipped up her chin with one finger. “But this probably isn’t the time or place for this, and maybe I want to buy you a steak first.”