JUNE 24
I get dressed for acting class, put my hair into a ponytail. I pick up the Willow pin, which I’ll have to give back to the Knights. I’ll tell them that they made a mistake and that they should pick someone else to go to Willow. I’ll have to text Léo and tell him I’m not coming and that we probably won’t get a chance to see each other again, because he’s leaving for France straight after Willow. He’ll want to know why, and I won’t have an answer. I’ll never get a chance to take the little train into that cave with him. I’ll never climb the stairs to the cathedral and look at the valley stretching out below, holding his hand, palm to palm in that old-fashioned way of his. Kids at the Globe will look at me like I’m the world’s biggest idiot; that I gave up an opportunity they would kill to have. I’ll be known as the girl who was too scared to go to Willow.
I pretend that it doesn’t matter. That Willow isn’t that great, that it’s probably a drag having to do those embarrassing acting exercises like pretending to be a potato and making dumb faces. That the scouts and agents and college recruiters won’t be interested in me. That the Knights make Willow sound cooler than it actually is. That Léo only wants a vacation girlfriend.
The Willow pin blurs in my vision, and then from nowhere I start crying hard. I put my hands over my mouth, but I can’t stop the sobs from finding their way out. My face is wet with tears, my nose is running; the sadness and shame are washing out of me in water and snot.
I want so bad for someone to be here, to put their arms around me, to tell me I’m not alone, that I’m not a horrible person. The only person who has ever been able to do that for me is Bea.
I don’t even realize that class has ended until Bea asks, “You need a ride home?”
“Actually, that’d be great. But can you give me a minute?”
“Sure!” she replies. “I’ll be out front.”
I watch her leave, dreading the conversation I have to have next. I go up to Mr. Knight and his wife, Tracy. “Hey, Tracy. Hi, Mr. Knight. Can I talk to you?”
“Camille! Just the young woman I was hoping to catch up with.” Mr. Knight moves a stack of scripts over and sits on the corner of his desk. “Have you chosen your monologue for Leave?” Every actor going to Willow does a special monologue for an event called To Take a Tedious Leave, which is a quote from The Merchant of Venice. I had planned on Helena’s monologue from A Midsummer Night’s Dream, but that’s shot now.
“Actually, I’ve decided not to go to Willow.” I take out the pin and set it on his desk.
Tracy looks at Mr. Knight and then at me. “This is a joke, right?” she says. “The camp is next week. Kiddo, you have to go. Willow is a huge honor and you deserve it.”
Mr. Knight shakes his head. “Camille—”
“Please don’t make me explain why,” I say quickly. “I’ve made my mind up, and I’m not going.”
“Nothing I can say will make you change your mind?” Mr. Knight says.
I stare at the ground and shake my head. Tracy takes the pin off the desk and then puts it back down. “I don’t understand.”
“I don’t want to act anymore; I want to do other things. Do I always have to be the same?”
“No, you don’t,” Mr. Knight says. “But we wouldn’t be doing our jobs if we didn’t try to convince you to go. Are you coming back to the Globe?”
“I don’t think there’s any point,” I whisper.
Mr. Knight reaches for the pin, turns it over in his fingers.
“I have to disagree,” Tracy says. “Students with talent like yours are the reasons why we do this job. You are an excellent actor, Camille.”
“I agree with Tracy,” Mr. Knight says. “You’re the best we have at the Globe right now. I think it bears saying that you have that extra something that other great actors have.”
I wish they would take the pin and stop talking. “Thank you for the opportunity.”
“I wish you the best, Camille.” Mr. Knight holds out his hand.
I take his hand and we shake. Tracy doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t even look at me. I pick up my bag and head for the door.
I leave the theater, and I don’t look back. All I want to do is go home, but I don’t know what I’ll do there. I spot Bea, and I really wish I hadn’t accepted a ride.
She clomps over in the sky-high cork wedges she loves so much. Her dark ponytail swings back and forth, and the beaded purse that I bought for her birthday last month hangs over her shoulder. My best friend of more than ten years, and she has no idea what I’m going through.
“You ready?” She sits down and eases her feet out of her wedges. She examines a blister on her foot. “Why do the cutest shoes always cause the ugliest blisters?” Bea eases her shoe back on and then pulls out a bag of Oreos from her purse. Bea has carried a bag of Oreos with her since we were in elementary school. We always share those cookies, but now the chocolate smell wafting from the baggie makes me nauseous. “Want one?”
“No, thanks,” I say. “Trying to lose some weight.”
Bea takes one out and bites into it. “Are you okay? You never say no to an Oreo,” she mumbles around the cookie.
It’s because the idea of eating one makes me want to barf. Because I’m pregnant. I nearly say it. I want to say it. Bea is looking at me in that kind and trusting way, like she always does. And something inside me collapses.
“I need to tell you something,” I blurt out before I can stop myself. “I had sex.” Saying the word sex out loud startles me. It sounds so foreign and odd, as if I made the word up on the spot like Shakespeare always did. Canker blossom, bodikins, flirt-gill.
“Very funny.” She bites into another cookie and starts crunching away.
“I’m not joking.” I can feel my thighs starting to burn. I should have put sunscreen on. I don’t know why I think this. Why should I care if my thighs get burned? I just told my best friend, who I know for a fact is a virgin and will be one until her wedding night, who is a teen youth minister at her church, who refuses to see an R-rated movie, who wears a silver purity ring, that I had sexual intercourse.
The crunching stops. “You had sex with Léo?” she whispers.
“No, not Léo. You don’t know him.”
“You had sex with someone I don’t know?”
I don’t respond, and she doesn’t say anything. Her hand rests in her lap, an Oreo clutched in her fingers, half-eaten.
“I think the condom must have broken or something,” I say finally.
“Condom,” Bea says, trying out the word.
I made my best friend say condom out loud. I just did that.
“And I’m…” I swallow. “I’m pregnant, Bea. I don’t know what to do. I—” Tears start to bubble up.
“Oh, Camille!” Bea drops the bag and the half-eaten cookie and throws her arms around me. I lean against her and cry, relieved that I’ve finally told someone, and that someone is my best friend. I clutch at her like she’s a life raft and I’ve been drifting at sea for days.
“Don’t worry, Camille. I won’t let anything awful happen to you, you know that.” She reaches for her purse, pulls out a tissue. She dabs at the tears on my face. “So you’re pregnant. You aren’t the first girl to get pregnant on accident. You shouldn’t have had sex, but you did. I promise you, I’ll be there for you every step of the way, okay?”
The knot in my chest unties itself for the first time in days. I had nothing to be afraid of after all. I should have known she wouldn’t judge me. I feel awful to have thought that. It will be okay. Bea will drive me to the clinic, hold my hand while I have the abortion, and then take me home after. She’ll be there with Oreos and Cokes, and we’ll watch dumb reality shows together. And then we’ll go back to the way things were.
“I’ll go to every appointment with you,” she says. “I’ll be your birthing coach, like you see on TV. I’ll tell you to breathe and hold your hand and all that stuff. We’ll figure it out together.”
I haven’t heard her right. “Bea … wait. I’m not having the baby.”
Bea looks like I slapped her. “What do you mean, you’re not having the baby?”
“I want to study theater like Annabelle. I don’t want to be a mother at seventeen. I would sooner die. I have an appointment next week.”
“To do what?”
“You know. Come on. Don’t make me say it, Bea.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You know!”
Bea is shaking her head. “You can’t. You can’t kill your baby.”
“Stop saying baby! It’s not a baby, and it never will be. I gave up Willow for this. I’ll never know Léo. So that tells you everything, okay?”
Bea won’t stop shaking her head.
Mateo pulls up in the parking lot, rolls the window down, and calls out to us. “Hey, ladies. Your chariot awaits.”
Bea whispers, “I don’t … I … Do your parents know?”
“No. And I’m not going to tell them. I don’t want anyone to know. Please don’t tell.” I reach out, but she shrugs me away and stands up.
“I won’t. I won’t tell.” She goes over to Mateo and stops in front of his car. Her arms are crossed and her shoulders are hunched forward. She’s crying.
I’m frozen solid, stuck to the bench like it’s a theater seat and I’m in the audience waiting for the next scene to unfold.
The door opens, and Mateo steps out of the car. He ducks down to make eye contact with her and brushes her tears away with his thumbs like an actor in a Nicholas Sparks movie. She says something, and he looks my way. I can’t see his expression, but he doesn’t wave me over. He talks to Bea. He hugs her. She shakes her head. He puts his arm around her, comforting her, and helps her in the car.
I stand up. I start toward the car, and then I stop. No one is looking at me. I wait, like a dog that’s been left behind, unable to understand that she’s been abandoned. I sit down again and watch the car, hoping Bea will get out and come back. I picture her running toward me with her arms outstretched, wanting to help, wanting to comfort me.
But she doesn’t, and the car pulls away.