8

“Thanks for texting, but I was on my way over anyway,” Lee told Rachel as he shouldered his way through the back doors to the auditorium. “I wanted to make sure the crew got the frames in the right positions.” He barely spared Rachel a glance, having eyes only for the set. “It’s really starting to look good.”

“Forget the set for a minute. That’s not what I want to talk to you about.”

Lee took the steps to the stage two at a time. “What’s up?”

Rachel tapped the wooden frame next to her. “Did you do this?” she asked. “For old time’s sake, maybe? It’s fine if you did, but I wanted to double check with you before I texted Yolanda Martinez. We’ve been having a bit of a graffiti problem, and I didn’t want to stir the administrative hornet’s nest unless I had to.”

Lee came over, pushed up his glasses, and peered at the writing. “Looks like poetry,” he shrugged. He read the stanzas, stepped back, and scratched the back of his neck. “So somebody wrote poetry on the back of the set. Why do you care? This’ll all be covered up by drywall anyway. We always used to sign our names and write all kinds of stuff backstage, and you never said anything. I mean, Andrew Larkson and I—” He cleared his throat. “Well, never mind.”

“I know all about you and Andrew Larkson and the many ‘Top Ten’ lists you two scrawled backstage, which is why I thought I’d check with you before I alerted Yolanda.” She started a text to Yolanda, attaching a photo she’d snapped of the graffiti. She wondered—not for the first time—what the big deal was. Graffiti at a school was annoying, yes, but why track photographic evidence?

When she finished the text and looked up at Lee, he had tipped back his head and stared at the ceiling, muttering to himself.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m counting to ten.”

“Why?”

He pointed a stiff finger toward the graffiti. “You think I wrote this?”

“Well—you always used to write backstage—”

“Along with Andrew Larkson, but I don’t see you accusing him—”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Yes, because I’m the one being ridiculous here.”

“And you write in tiny all-caps like this—”

“Yes, I’m the only one in the entire world who does that.” He snorted. “You think I have nothing better to do than sit around writing love poems on wooden beams just hoping against hope that you’ll see them. Is that it?”

His vehemence knocked her back a step. Now that he said it out loud, it did sound rather silly. But still. “You’re overreacting.”

“Let me tell you something, Miss Cooper. It’s been years since I was the type of person who would graffiti school property. I’ve moved past this kind of stuff. Not that you’ve noticed.” He huffed out an angry breath.

“Lee—wait. Listen—”

“And another thing. If I wanted to write you a love poem, I wouldn’t write it on a piece of wood and leave it where anyone could see it.”

“Now wait a minute. That’s not—”

“I mean, how stupid would I have to be?” His hollow laugh echoed in the darkened set. “You didn’t even want me to give you presents last year to cheer you up when you were having a hard time. You think I’m such an idiot that I would resort to something like this after all the stupidity and misunderstanding we were just now starting to get past?”

“Lee, calm down.”

“I will not calm down.” He thrust his hands furiously through his hair, leaving it standing on end.

“Lee—”

“Forget it.” His voice was low, furious. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a twist of paper. “Here. You keep this. I’m done.” As he stomped across the stage toward the steps, Rachel unrolled the paper and found herself staring down at the set diagrams.

Done with what? Done helping with the play? Done with her?

Rachel’s stomach heaved.

“Lee, wait—” she started after him, but he abruptly turned around to face her, stomping back. Rachel took two skipping steps backward, wobbly in her professional heels. She should never have ditched her sensible flats. She threw out her hands for balance as her stiff ankle protested.

“You really are the most infuriating person I’ve ever known,” Lee said through gritted teeth. Considering his mother, this was saying something. “Apparently, it doesn’t matter what anybody says or does: there’s only one way of seeing the world, and that’s the Rachel Cooper way.”

Rachel spluttered the beginnings of a defense, but he’d already barreled on.

“It’s such a waste. There’s more to you than that. At least, I’m assuming there’s more. I know there’s more to me than what you give me credit for. There’s more to practically everybody you know, but you insist on holding to these snap judgments and one-dimensional assumptions you’ve made. You have us stuffed into these little pigeonholes in your mind, and no matter how people change, you never open your eyes and see it.”

She couldn’t believe how the torrent poured from him. But he wasn’t finished yet. Apparently this had been building for some time. It seemed best to ride it out.

“It’s like we’re characters in your little mental drama, and that by figuring us out, you can make sense of what we do and say.”

She hated the way he was looking at her. The expression on his face slayed her. Unthinking, she reached out her hands.

Lee physically recoiled. “You know what? Don’t call me for a while.” He stepped backwards, perilously near the edge of the stage. “Don’t text, don’t call, don’t anything.”

“But Lee—”

“Just give me some space, Rachel, OK? I’m mad at you. Just for once, let me have a say in how things go.”

Rachel dropped her hands. “Fine.”

Lee pivoted on his heel and stomped down the steps and up the aisle. He slammed flattened palms against the rear door to the auditorium without looking back, leaving Rachel standing center stage with her arms hanging at her sides.

Rachel felt like crying. Lee’s rant had been so close to what she’d told Lynn the other night. Even standing alone center stage with no one in the audience to witness this moment, she still felt color building in her cheeks. She wasn’t embarrassed that Lee had yelled at her. Looking at things from his perspective, she pretty much deserved it. Her embarrassment stemmed from the fact that knowing her weakness didn’t seem to stop her from making the same mistakes over and over again.

Would she ever get it right?

~*~

Later that night, Rachel glared at her snapshot of the graffiti. Maybe by staring long enough, she’d recognize the handwriting. Something clicked in the back of her mind. Fingers flying, she switched over to her internet search page. She typed in the first few words of the poem. The rest of the phrase magically appeared as the auto-fill function took over.

For I shall have peace /As leafey trees are peaceful / When rain bends down the bough. / And I shall be more silent and cold hearted / Than you are now.

No wonder the words had sounded familiar. This was Sara Teasdale. But it wasn’t from one of her love poems.

Not exactly.

It was from the poem largely considered to be her suicide note.