She laughs and looks at me mischievously. “How haveyoubeen?”
A small black cloud appears over my head, knowing exactly what she’s alluding to, but I ignore it and laugh off her question. “Please, I’d much rather talk about you.”
Thankfully, Mary-Beth takes the hint and smiles cheekily. “I’ve been good, got married last year. You remember Hugo from prep school?”
I pause and try to conjure up a face. One finally appears: Mousy and awkward. “Wait, are you talking about Hugo fromdrama class?”
She confirms with a nod, then says, “I married his sister.”
She bursts out laughing, clearly tickled by her little misdirection, and I follow suit, barking out a laugh.
“Wow, congrats, I’m so happy for you,” I say genuinely while I ignore the selfish sting of being single. “Are you still acting? God, I miss theatre.”
My last comment is an afterthought, but one I realize is wholeheartedly true.
Idomiss theatre. Those were simpler days. Nothing like the shit show that is Hollywood.
“I am!” she explains with stars in her eyes, but then her smile drops. “Well, I mean I was — it’s such a shame that the Remi is closing down.”
“The Remington is closing down?” I parrot back with shock. The regional theatre has been an institution in the artsy Marsford Bay world for as long as I can remember. I spent plenty of summers interning and helping out with production, daydreaming about my future as a serious actor. “Since when?”
“Pretty much now,” Mary-Beth answers with a disappointed pout. “We closed out our last show back in November. They just haven’t found any buyers.”
My thoughts start racing. “So it’s for sale?”
She shrugs and nods. “Last I heard.” She looks down at herphone and then stands up. “Anyway, I’ve got to run.” She flashes me another smile, hopeful this time. “Call me, okay?”
I agree with promises of a longer catch-up and plenty of margaritas, giving her one last hug before she walks out the door. I slowly settle back into my chair, my mind reeling.
The Remington is for sale?
12
HUXLEY
“Huxley, can I talk to you before you go?”
I freeze midway through packing up my things. My first thought is that I’m in trouble. My second is to pretend I didn’t hear him.
Begrudgingly, I look up and find my woodworking teacher standing near my work table. He’s a gruff-looking dude who appears to be in his early forties and first introduced himself as Whitman, but everyone calls him Whit. I’ve been taking his classes for three weeks now, and after getting over my initial case of first-day nerves, I’ve been really enjoying it. Whit included.
Within a millisecond, I’ve analyzed his body language. It’s a skill I perfected in prison. I conclude that his demeanor is friendly. He’s sporting a backward cap and another one of his flannels, just standing there, smiling, waiting for me to answer.
I look back down and resume packing my things.
“Sure, what’s up?”
“Well,” he starts, and I feel him take a step closer to my bench. His tone is eager, as if excited about what he’s gearing up to say. “Since this is the last class before the holidays, I justwanted to tell you how great of a job you’ve been doing. You’re definitely a natural.”
I sneak him a glance from the corner of my eye. He’s still smiling, and it’s softening the look in his eyes, a proud expression on his face. Suddenly, I feel cornered—and incredibly awkward.
“Uh … thanks, I guess,” I croak, unable to look him in the eye.
“I hope to see you back in January,” he adds.
Zipping up my backpack, I throw it over one shoulder.
“Yup. See you in January,” I mutter and start for the door, barely giving him a final glance.
