“O weary night,” Summer says, “O long and tedious night.”
We’re sitting in my living room running lines, practicing Summer’s part over and over again until it’s memorized.
It’s exciting to be so close to Summer while she’s acting. I’ve seen her from the wings, from the catwalk, even from the audience, but to have her three feet in front of me is amazing.
“Shine comforts from the east,” Summer says. “That I may back to Athens by daylight, from these that my poor company detest …”
She tries to remember the next line but can’t. She gets frustrated and punches herself in the thigh.
“Line,” she says.
“And sleep,” I say, reading from the script on my lap.
“That’s right,” she says. “And sleep, that sometimes shuts up sorrow’s eye …”
“Steal me awhile …,” I prompt.
“This is never going to work,” she says. “I need to have this all memorized and I don’t.”
“Just try it again,” I say. “Steal me awhile …”
“Steal me awhile from mine own company,” she says. “This is driving me crazy. It’s hard to memorize something when you don’t understand it.”
“What don’t you understand? Maybe we can figure it out together.”
“Okay, for instance, ‘Steal me awhile.’ What does that mean?”
“I think it’s like … Have you ever been so upset that you just want to sleep?”
“Like when things suck and all you want to do is escape.”
“Like that,” I say.
“Steal me awhile from mine own company. Turn off my brain for ten seconds.”
“Right.”
“Okay, check this out,” she says.
She flings herself down on the sofa.
“What if I lay down after that line, but I keep my eyes open like I can’t fall asleep. All I want to do is stop thinking, but I can’t.”
“Welcome to my life,” I say.
She laughs.
“I’ll go you one better,” I say. “We could hold the light cue for a couple seconds, like the play can’t continue until Helena sleeps, but she can’t sleep.”
“Can you do that?”
“If I were the lighting designer, I could. But that’s Derek’s territory.”
“You could ask him,” she says.
“No, I couldn’t.”
She sits up on the couch.
“Why not? He seems nice enough,” she says.
“I think that depends,” I say.
“On what?”
“On whether you have breasts.”
“A lion among ladies, is a most dreadful thing,” she says, quoting from the play.
“Are you talking about Derek?”
“More like a cat than a lion. But you get the idea,” she says.
“I’m surprised.”
“Girls aren’t stupid, you know. We see what’s going on.”
“But a lot of girls go out with him.”
“He’s good looking,” she says, like that explains everything.
“So if you’re good looking, you can be a jerk?”
“It’s not just that he’s good looking. He’s also a player. Which makes it kind of a challenge. You always think you’re the special one, you know, the one who is going to make someone change.”
“I never thought of that,” I say.
“It explains a lot of things. Girls who date jerks. Girls who go out with gay guys. You know all the types.”
“What type are you?”
She looks away, picks at some rough skin on her knee.
“That’s kind of personal, Ziggy.”
“What did you call me?”
“I don’t know. Ziggy? It just popped out.”
“Maybe it should pop back in.”
“Do you hate it?” she says.
“Not hate,” I say.
“That’s the thing about pet names. You can’t make them up. They have to occur spontaneously.”
I feel sweat pooling under my arms. I stand up and head for the thermostat.
“I’m going to turn on some AC,” I say.
“You can make up a pet name for me if it makes you feel better,” Summer calls after me.
“It’s kind of hard to make up a pet name for someone named Summer. I mean, the name is already perfect.”
“You think I’m perfect?” she says, teasing me. “I thought you had issues with my name.”
Before I can say anything, my phone starts to play “Jai Ho,” the song from Slumdog Millionaire.
I press Ignore.
“You like Indian music?” Summer says.
“It’s Reach,” I say. “I got a new phone a few months ago, and he demanded creative control of his ringtone.”
A shot of guilt goes through me. Reach hates when I press Ignore. And if he knew I ignored him because I had an actress over—
“I could use a break anyway,” Summer says. “My head is about to explode.”
“You want a soda?” I say as I head into the kitchen.
“Sure,” she says. “You have diet?”
I open the refrigerator and let the cold air blow over me. I’m sweating like a pig, scared to say the wrong thing, scared to say nothing at all. I grab two cans of Diet Pepsi and head back into the living room.
Summer is standing on the other side of the room looking at one of Dad’s paintings. It’s an abstract, three long panels with gaps between them, the color jumping across the gaps and continuing, like water falling off the side of a cliff.
“This is amazing,” she says.
“Yeah,” I say.
I crack open a soda, sip from it.
Summer leans into the corner of the painting, looking at the name there.
“Ziegler,” she says. “Did you paint this?”
“It was my dad.”
“That’s pretty cool to have a dad who’s an artist. My dad is a CPA.”
“He’s gone,” I say.
“Where did he go?” she says.
I study the Diet Pepsi can, look at the different shades of blue across the logo.
“He died,” I say.
“I’m so sorry. When did it happen?”
“Two years ago. A little less than two.”
She comes over and I hold out her soda. She takes it, but she doesn’t move away. “That’s not so long,” she says.
“Sometimes it feels like a long time. Sometimes like no time at all.”
“My dad’s gone, too,” she says. “Not like yours. I don’t mean to compare us at all. I can’t imagine what you—”
She stops herself.
“I sound like a jerk,” she says.
“It’s hard to talk about,” I say. “That’s why I usually don’t.”
“We can drop it,” she says.
“No. Tell me about your dad.”
“I just meant my dad’s there, but he’s gone. Like you call his name, and he doesn’t answer even though he’s sitting three feet away from you.”
“Like a ghost dad,” I say.
“Yeah, or Frankendad. From a horror movie or something. I love watching horror movies; I just don’t want my life to be one.”
“I like Broadway musicals,” I say.
“Really?”
“That sounds kind of gay, doesn’t it?”
“Well …,” Summer says. “Are you gay?”
“No.”
“So why does it have to be gay or straight? Can’t it just be, I don’t know, theater-iffic?”
“Theater-iffic?”
“It was the joke in my old school. We used ‘theater’ to describe everything. So stuff was theater-licious, theater-iffic, theater-ificent.”
“Or the opposite. Drama-trocious,” I say.
“Exactly!” she says.
“You have a nice smile,” I say.
She closes her mouth fast.
“I don’t like it,” she says.
“Why not?”
She leans in until her face is about a foot away.
“Look,” she says, and bites her lower lip with her teeth like a rabbit.
“You’re doing a Bugs Bunny impression?”
“My tooth.”
She points to her right tooth. There’s a little yellow line that runs diagonally across it.
“What is that?” I say.
“I had an accident when I was a kid. I fell and broke my tooth, and they had to glue it back on.”
“It doesn’t look bad,” I say.
“It’s just one of those things,” she says. “I think about it.”
“I think about my acne.”
“You have acne?”
“Very funny,” I say.
“I know you have it,” she says, “but I don’t see it.”
“What do you see?”
She studies my face for a second.
“I see you,” she says.
I hear the sound of keys in the front door. Mom calls out, “I’m home, sweetie pie!”
“Sweetie pie, huh?” Summer says.
“Oh, God.” I put my head in my hands.
Summer grins. “It looks like all the ladies in your life have pet names for you.”
Mom walks into the room.
“Oh,” Mom says. “You have company.”
She freezes, not knowing what to do.
“Not company,” I say. “Theater business. We’re working on a show.”
“Are you going to introduce us?” Mom says.
Summer extends a hand. “Hi, I’m Summer,” she says.
“I’m Adam’s mother. I apologize for being so surprised. Adam doesn’t usually have girls over.”
“Mom!” I say.
“It’s true,” Mom says.
“But you don’t have to say it. Keep the mystery alive.”
“You’re so beautiful,” Summer says to my mom.
Mom fights to get a loose piece of hair behind her ear.
“I’m a mess,” she says. “I just got out of work.”
“It doesn’t matter. You have great bone structure,” Summer says.
Mom laughs. “We’re keeping this girl around,” she says.
“It’s nice meeting you,” Summer says. “But it’s getting late.”
“Do you need a lift home?” Mom says.
“I can walk,” Summer says.
“Nonsense,” Mom says. “Why don’t I give you a ride?”
“It’s probably faster if she walks,” I say.
Mom gives me a dirty look.
“She’s not known for her driving prowess,” I say to Summer.
“I wouldn’t mind a ride,” Summer says. “If it’s not too much trouble.”
“No trouble at all,” Mom says, and they walk to the door, chatting like old friends.
I’m left standing in the living room, wondering what happened.
Mom says, “Are you coming, Adam?”
“Of course,” I say, and I follow them.
“It’s like he’s in a trance,” Mom says.
“He’s drunk on Shakespeare,” Summer says.
Mom says, “I don’t think it’s Shakespeare. I think it’s—”
“Mystery, Mom!” I say.
“All right, all right,” she says.
She and Summer giggle.