Leah on the Offbeat
Page 5

“I wanted to fucking die,” Simon told me.
Pretty sure if my mom were on that tour, she’d be snickering in the back, rolling her eyes at all the other parents. She’d probably get hit on by frat dudes, too.
“Seriously, it’s fine.”
She smiles. “I really do think you should sign up for this, though. Let me just sort things out with work, and we can make a whole day of it. And actually, Wells has family in Athens, so—”
I laugh incredulously. “I’m not doing my college tour with Wells.”
She flicks my arm. “We can discuss this later. Do you want a yogurt?”
“Yeah.” I scrape my hair back. “Anyway, I’ll just see when Morgan’s going. I can pretend to be a Hirsch.”
“That’s an idea,” Mom says. “And you could wear a Tech jersey to mess with them.”
“Totally, Mom. I’ll be so popular on campus.”
My phone buzzes with a text from Simon. Fuck. My. Life. Leah. Oh God.
“Okay, I better go,” Mom says, setting my yogurt down. “Have fun today.”
I say good-bye to her and turn back to my phone. I can’t fuck your life, I’m monogamously fucking my own life.
Okay, that’s funny, Simon writes, but seriously.
What happened?
Three dots.
And then: My voice keeps cracking!
What?
When I sing.
That’s really cute. Emoji with heart eyes. I take a bite of yogurt.
LEAH, IT’S NOT CUTE. IT’S ALMOST OPENING NIGHT. THE SCHOOL PERFORMANCES ARE LIKE RIGHT NOW.
I think you’re nervous
YOUR nervous.
*You’re. Holy shit I can’t believe I just did that. And I capitalized it, ugh, don’t tell Bram AHHHHHHHHHHHH FUCK I’M DONE
Simon. You’re okay. I throw away my yogurt cup and toss my spoon into the sink. Eight fifteen. Time to get to the bus stop. Even though it’s mega cold. Even though my texting fingers are going to hate me.
Also he’s never heard me sing and he’s going to break up with me.
I laugh. Bram’s going to break up with you when he hears you sing?
Yes, Simon writes. I can picture him: pacing backstage, costume half assembled. The school performances are technically dress rehearsals, but everyone misses class to watch them. Seniors don’t even have to check into first period. I want to get there early to claim a seat in the front, where I can heckle Simon and Nick. But naturally, my bus is late. It happens every time it’s cold out.
He really hasn’t heard you sing? I write.
I DON’T SING. And, without missing a beat, he adds, But seriously, what if my voice cracks and everyone throws tomatoes and then they pull me off the stage with an old-timey hook??
If that happens, I write, I will film it.
Nora’s waiting for me when I step off the bus.
“Thank God you’re here. What are you doing right now?” She rakes a hand through her curls. I’ve honestly never seen her look so freaked out. And that includes the time classy eleven-year-old Simon molded brownies to look like actual shit and then proudly ate them in front of us.
I look at her. “What’s going on?”
“Martin Addison has a cold,” she says slowly, blinking like she can’t quite believe it.
“Noted. I won’t make out with him.”
I don’t even think she hears me. “So he’s staying home to rest his voice for tomorrow, but now we don’t have a Reuben, and we’re supposed to start, like, now. So I was wondering . . .”
“I can’t play Reuben.”
“Right.” She presses her lips together.
“I’m the worst singer, Nora. You know that.”
“Yeah, I know. I’m not . . . ugh.” She laughs nervously. “Cal’s filling in for Martin, so now I’m Cal, and I need you to be me.”
“To be you?”
“Assistant stage manager.”
“Oh.” I pause. “What does that mean?”
She starts walking, briskly, which is so unlike her. I have to hop to catch up. “Okay, well, I’m going to be on headset calling the cues,” she says. “So I need you to keep track of the actors and make sure everyone’s where they need to be, and help flip the sets, and just basically put out fires. You can do that, right? Just yell at people. You’ll be good at it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“But.” She stops short, appraising me. “Crap. Do you have anything black to wear? Or navy? Like a hoodie or something.”
“I . . . not with me.” I look down, taking in my outfit. Mint-green sundress, dark green cardigan, gray tights, and my gold combat boots. I mean, what else was I going to wear on Saint Patrick’s Day?
“Okay.” Nora rubs her cheek. “Okay, I’ll find something. Just head backstage for now, and somebody will set you up. Thank you so much for agreeing to do this.”
I’m not sure I did agree to do this. But Nora shoots off down the hallway again, and suddenly I’m standing outside the backstage door. So. Assistant stage manager. I guess this is happening.
I slip backstage, and it’s total chaos. I don’t know, maybe Cal’s secretly a hardcore strict mega bitch, because apparently shit falls apart when he’s off duty. There are freshmen battling with shepherds’ crooks from the prop table, which—I’m not going to lie—look exactly like the old-timey hooks from Simon’s nightmares. Two Hairy Ishmaelites are making out between the curtains, and Taylor’s sitting on the floor with her eyes closed. I think she might be meditating.
I peek through the curtains, and it’s a sea of bleary-eyed freshmen and seniors. Right away, I see my squad in the front row: Bram, Garrett, Morgan, and Anna. And an empty seat in the middle—clearly mine. I feel weirdly touched by that.
“Hey.” Nora appears, handing me an armload of fabric. “This is Garrett’s, so it should cover most of your dress. Sorry if it smells.”
I unbunch it slowly, holding it at arm’s length. It’s a navy hoodie with a tiny embroidered yellow jacket on the chest. A Georgia fucking Tech hoodie. But Garrett’s tall and bulky, so it actually fits me, and Nora’s right—it smells. But not badly. It just smells like Old Spice deodorant, which is how Garrett smells. And now I feel like some 1950s cheerleader wearing her boyfriend’s letter jacket. Like I’ve been claimed.
I try not to think about it. Instead, I weave through the backstage shitshow behind Nora, who has somehow become Badass Take-No-Prisoners Nora right before my eyes. This girl is normally such a little peanut, but wow. She’s throwing down the stink-eye and calling actors out, and people are actually starting to pull their shit together. Finally, Nora settles in at Cal’s usual desk in the wings, securing her headset and flipping through his binder. I watch her for a moment, and then I wander over to the prop table, where literally everything is out of place. There are sunglasses and handcuffs and all kinds of things on the floor, so I scoop them up and set them on the table.
“Five minutes, everyone,” Ms. Albright calls, poking her head around the curtain.
Simon appears beside me in the wings. “Leah, why are you wearing a Tech sweatshirt?”
“It’s Garrett’s.” His eyes get huge. “Yeah. Wow. Not what you’re thinking. Your sister’s making me wear it.”
“I’m so confused.”
“Don’t worry about it.” I smile at him. “Feeling any better?”
He shakes his head. “Nope.”
“Hey.”
He looks up.
“You’re going to be amazing, okay?”
For a minute, he just looks at me, like he doesn’t believe I just said that. God, am I that big of an asshole? He has to know I love him to pieces, right? But maybe I don’t say it enough. I don’t exactly walk around giving little earnest speeches about how deeply and sincerely I appreciate my friends. I’m not Abby. But I figured Simon knows how awesome I think he is. How could he not? I mean, I was half in love with that kid for most of middle school. True story. Those wolf T-shirts? Weirdly sexy.
He blinks and adjusts his glasses, and then he breaks into one of those face-lighting Simon grins. “I love you, Leah.”