Read My Lips(50)

Then, in a moment that’s so fast it startles me, he swipes the phone out of my grip, types on it, then shines the screen at me:



What was so bad in New York City

that u had to run all the way

down here?



His question makes me sit up, as if the words on the screen hit my face. I can hear Claudio screaming again. I see my sister’s disapproving look. I picture my mother filling another damn glass of chardonnay and ignoring me. I imagine the empty rows of seats in the theater, dreading the day they would be filled.

Then I think about the knot in my stomach that’s there because of the secret I’m keeping. The secret I’ve kept from every single person I’ve met so far. How can I make any real friends here if I can’t even be honest with any of them? I’m a liar. I was a liar the moment I stepped foot on campus.

Clayton is something of an outcast too, if even a hair of the rumors are true. We are both, in our own ways, running away from what people think—or could think—of us. I feel like there’s so much more about us that’s alike than I expected. I feel oddly safe.

“I want to tell you something,” I murmur, my eyes averted, “but … you can’t tell anyone.”

“Can’t tell anyone?” he asks, to be sure that’s what I said.

I meet his eyes sternly. “Yes. A secret.”

“Secret,” he echoes, his own eyes turning severe.

I press my lips together, then take his phone from his lap again. I type it all out. I mention my parents and who they are. I type that I got here because my dad knew someone in the department and pulled a string. I type that I feel embarrassed by it, that all I wanted was a normal college experience, no special treatment. I didn’t want anyone to know who my family was. After typing it out, I stare at the message for a solid minute, debating whether or not to delete the whole thing and not show him the screen.

Then, after a deep sigh, I clench shut my eyes and hand the phone back to him, looking away.

I dread his reaction so much. I don’t know why, but I feel like this little factoid about me could ruin everything. Sure, he wanted to know more about me, but maybe he’ll change his mind now. That, or things will start to get weird.

After too long a moment, I dare to open my eyes, peering at him. He seems to either still be reading, or rereading my mini-novel. After a second, he looks up, letting the phone drop to his lap.

“I’m sorry,” I blurt right away. “I wasn’t trying to lie to anyone. I just wanted to start fresh. I just—”

“Start fresh,” he echoes in a slurred murmur. “I wish … I wish I could start fresh.”

His words fall on the ears of all those misgivings inside me, rousing them. What isn’t Clayton telling me? What life, if any, do all those stupid rumors have? Why won’t anyone be upfront with me, least of all Clayton himself? I wish he would just volunteer the information, the same way I just did. Please, Clayton, don’t make me drag it out of you.

“I won’t tell anyone,” he says to me, his dark eyes locking with my worried ones. “Our secret.” Then he makes a fist and taps the thumb-side of it to his lips twice.

I repeat the sign back to him. “Secret?” I murmur.

“Secret,” he confirms.

I smile appreciatively, despite the worry that’s still doing somersaults in my belly.

“So,” he mumbles, “you’re … famous?”

I snort. “My mother is. Maybe my sister someday. Not me. I’m nothing. I’m nobody.”

“No,” he says, frowning. “You’re Dessie Lebeau.”

“Desdemona,” I say, overpronouncing the name. “That’s my full name.”

“Desermona,” he repeats slowly, though the word is shapeless in his mouth, the vowels bleeding together.

I type it quickly into his phone, then show it to him. “Desdemona,” I repeat when his eyes return to my lips. “Shakespeare’s Desdemona. From Othello.”

“Shakespeare, right,” he says, following.

“They named my sister Celia,” I go on. “You know, after Shakespeare’s As You Like It. So she’s named after a woman who falls in love and has a happy ending, and I’m named after a woman who’s smothered to death with a pillow. But, you know, of course I am.”

Though his eyes hover at my lips, I get the feeling he didn’t catch all that. He seems to be getting sleepy, or else the alcohol’s doing its number on him. The way he studies my lips, it makes me feel like he wants to kiss me again.

I’m one hundred percent positive that I would let him, and one hundred percent positive that it would lead to a second round of couch-wrestling that I’m quite sure I wouldn’t have the strength to resist.