We reach the Quad too soon. I wish the walk had lasted for hours.
I pull out my phone and type out a message, then aim the too-bright screen at him, causing his eyes to squint as he reads it:
Thanks for escorting me, Clayton.
He scowls at me after reading, then plucks the phone right out of my hands and types on it for quite a while. I’m about to ask what’s taking so long when he finally hands the phone back to me. I read:
I gave you my number and took yours.
Hope that’s OK.
Text me sometime?
I feel my heart lift up into my throat. I can’t fight the dumb grin that happens on my face. I nod at him with a bit more enthusiasm than I intend.
“Good night, Dessie,” he murmurs, giving me the gift of his soft, velvety voice.
“Good night, Clayton,” I return, giving him the gift of my moving lips in silence, then slip into West Hall, the doors slamming behind me with a big boom.
DESSIE
I texted him to make sure he made it back safe.
When my phone buzzed with his reply, I giggled and cuddled the phone on my bed like a dumb, crush-obsessed teenager. The script for Our Town was long forgotten for the rest of the night as Clayton and I texted back and forth until one in the morning.
I learned what his favorite food is (teriyaki ribs), the name of his high school (Yellow Mills High), how horrible he is at math, that he’s an only child, how his mom’s a chain smoker and his dad’s a sex addict and somehow against all odds they’re still together, and how he had to take two semesters off because he couldn’t pay tuition during “a rough time” and that’s why he’s only starting his third year when he should be graduating this year.
I also got a detailed description of how he’d light the stage if he was given the chance for Our Town, with a clever idea or two for how he pictures the funeral and graveyard scene to look in the third and final act of the play. I grinned stupidly for hours and, lost in a digital world full of Clayton, already couldn’t wait until the next time I would get to see him.
When Sunday came, I had a quiet breakfast with Sam, who was all aflutter (read: almost undetectably less deadpan than usual) about a music composition project she’s been assigned by her Theory prof. I congratulated her absentmindedly, wondering how long I should wait before texting Clayton again.
It was in the afternoon that I finally caved and sent him a text. The phone rested on my lap while I studied Our Town on a bench by the Art building, memorizing Emily’s lines distractedly while shooting glances down at my lap to see if he’d responded yet.
He never did.
I went to sleep that night with a scowl on my face. Sam had gotten some cheap composition software for her ancient laptop and wanted my opinion on a song as I was lying in bed trying to go to sleep, and I pretended not to hear her, turned away toward the wall and staring at the blank screen of my phone, waiting for a reply that never came.
So after a miserable Sunday like that, why would I expect Monday to bring me anything good?
On my way into acting class, I see Victoria. She stands in front of the box office chatting with Eric at the window. They draw silent at my arrival. My stomach dances in the bad way at the sight of her. It’s the first time I’ve really seen her since the cast list was posted. How she’s managed to avoid me for this long is a total mystery, considering she lives directly across the hall from me.
“Hello,” she says coolly.
Between Clayton not answering my texts from yesterday and my own inner frustrations, I find myself in a state of having little to no patience. “Victoria.”
“Desdemona Lebeau,” she murmurs, crossing her tiny arms and tilting her head. “Daughter of Winona Lebeau, Broadway star and film actor, and Geoffrey Lebeau, world-renowned lighting designer.”
My heart stops. “Listen …” I try to say.
“It’s called Google, honey.” Victoria scoffs at me, shaking her head. “Unless you’re about to proclaim that there’s actually two Desdemona Lebeaus—”
“Please,” I beg her and Eric, rushing up to the window. “I didn’t mean to lie to anyone. I just didn’t want to be given any … special treatment, or … Listen, I just want to be another normal student, just like you guys, and—”
“Ugh, I feel so normal,” groans Victoria mockingly. “Don’t you feel that, Eric? Don’t you feel that sting of normalcy? Gosh, we’re so bloody normal.”
“Don’t tell anyone,” I beg her anyway, despite how quickly all trace of hope for her to respect my wishes is evaporating. “Please, Victoria … Eric …”