In Broken Places (8 page)

The tryout scene I’d selected was Lewis’s declaration of love to Joy. I’d been a victim of enough misguided declarations in my life that I knew just how complicated and awkward the practice could be, and I figured I should set the bar high for this first face-to-face scene between wannabe Lewises and potential Joys. In the script, Joy eventually forces the issue by saying, “Back where I come from, there’s this quaint old custom. When a guy makes up his mind to marry a girl, he asks her. It’s called proposing. . . . Did I miss it?” But a sadistic streak that scared me just a little had made me deviate from the script on this afternoon and instruct the students to spontaneously make up their own proposal, in keeping with
C. S. Lewis’s character. And to push the meanness just a little bit further, I had announced that all the actors would have to submit to the torturous scene, not just the ones trying out for lead roles.

Oh, the sheer entertainment of watching teenagers trying to be at once intensely romantic and casually credible. The attempts ran the gamut from gut-wrenching to sidesplitting. One actor seemed to be doing an imitation of a British Rocky Balboa, all emotionally battered by philosophical cogitating, begging his beloved to marry him as if some sort of horrendous physical harm would befall him if she were to say no. Another less dramatic young man opted for a more lighthearted approach and simply mimed clubbing Joy into unconsciousness before slinging her over his shoulder and carrying her off to his . . . Oxfordian den?

My personal favorite, however, was the scene between Seth and a young lady called Kate. Seth was a senior and she was just a sophomore, so there was a good chance neither of them had really spoken to the other before. Still, I thought they might be a good match. There was a bit of a rebellious edge to Kate, the kind of countenance and carriage that said, “Your welcome only extends so far.” And Seth’s response to her defiance was an expression and body language that were at once awkward and curious. The pairing looked promising, and I gave them the signal to start. I should have known something noteworthy was in the offing when Seth took a moment to gather his thoughts before stepping onstage. The other actors hadn’t so much as marked a pause before launching into the scene. Kate, on the other hand, walked onto the stage with her usual purposeful stride and struck a stance that reminded me more of a wrestler than of fortysomething Joy.

They moved to sit on the make-believe bench we’d fashioned out of three chairs, and then, for seconds that stretched to the breaking point, neither of them said anything. Seth sat in hunched
bewilderment, and the eyes he turned on Kate spoke of such reluctance and yearning that the air between them grew taut. She returned his gaze with a sort of competitive defiance and provocation that seemed to shrink him for a moment even as it grew her into an imposing presence.

Seth looked away, wiped sweaty palms on his pant legs, then gathered the courage to meet her gaze again. Only this time, there was something of a challenge in his eyes, and the bravado that had masked Kate’s frailty yielded to a femininity that instantly softened her lines and gentled her carriage. Their eyes held as a blush crept up Seth’s neck. He reached toward her, his hand visibly shaking, then withdrew it. When he turned to face away from her, there were protests from the students watching the scene unfold. Kate hardened a little again, though there were cracks in the armor this time, and just as she stood to leave the stage, Seth whispered, “Will you marry me?”

It was so quietly uttered that I wondered if I’d imagined it, but a Korean girl in the front row let out the kind of heartfelt “Aw” that confirmed how real and stirring the moment had been.

I didn’t know much about play directing, but I did know that the kind of improvised acting I’d just witnessed was rare—even more so at a high school level. If truth be told, I’d felt a little pang of envy at the scene, and I knew enough to jot down two names next to the parts of Lewis and Joy. It may not have been true love I’d seen on that stage, but it was something worth exploring further.

I was hurrying to Gus and Bev’s at the end of the session when a figure in shorts and a torn sweatshirt emerged from an alleyway at a dead run. Night was falling and the street was deserted, so I stepped off the curb to change sidewalks and avoid the oncoming runner. I knew this was Germany, where the odds of being stampeded by a herd of cows were probably higher than being attacked
by a jogger, but survival instincts and a college self-defense class propelled me across the street nonetheless. I hadn’t gone two steps when the runner slowed his pace and, coming to a full stop, said my name. I was so surprised that I didn’t respond immediately, and the jogger walked up to me and peered more closely at my face. “It’s Shelby, right?”

“Uh . . . yes. Yes, it is.” I took a deep breath and covered my heart with my hand to muffle the beating I suspected Scott could hear.

“Sorry—didn’t mean to jump out at you like that.”

“Oh, it’s okay. I was just a little startled, that’s all.”

“Hey, it’s getting dark out here. Would you like me to walk you home?”

Fierce independence reared its ugly head. “Oh, no. Thanks, though. I’m just going as far as the Johnsons’ to pick Shayla up.”

“I’ll walk with you.”

“Uh . . . You know, that’s really kind of you, but it’s only a little bit farther and it’s still kind of light out and I really enjoy the time to think before I pick Shayla up.”

“Hey, that’s fine. No problem.” He used his sweatshirt to wipe his face and stood there a moment longer. “I haven’t seen you around since you got here.”

“Well, you know, you live in the gym.” I attempted some humor to cover my awkwardness and send him on his way. I failed. All he did was scrunch up an eye in confusion. “I don’t do gyms,” I clarified. “They give me the heebie-jeebies. Too many jumping jacks when I was a kid.”

He grinned at that and wiped his forehead with his arm. “So you’re not into sports.”

“I’m into fork lifting. I hold the world record. But only when cheesecake is on the fork and there’s a glass of milk nearby. Otherwise I stick to stepping on my scale once a day for exercise.”
Being funny was exhausting. But his chuckle was gratifying, so I attempted one more zinger. “Besides, I have this rare medical affliction that makes me yodel if I sweat, so . . .” Yup. No reaction. One zinger too far. “I’ll see you later then,” I said into the lengthening silence. The streetlights came on and I saw a sparkle in his eyes. He was laughing on the inside—I was sure of it. “So, uh . . . enjoy the rest of your run!” It was a cheerful dismissal, which he was kind enough to obey.

“Thanks, Shelby,” he said with laughter in his voice, and he took off down the street yodeling like a maniac.

My father was singing. Which was a frightening thing. It was frightening for two basic reasons. One, he had the musical ear and sensitivity of a foghorn. Two, it meant he was happy—chipper, if such a word could apply to someone like him. And the higher the high, the harder the fall. So it was a walking-on-eggshells kind of day again.

My mom was so solicitous over breakfast that I knew she was bracing us all for the worst. It was an unspoken language between us, a sort of codependent shorthand Trey and I had PhDs in—when Mom made chocolate chip pancakes and beat up real whipped cream to go with the chocolate sauce, we knew there was something unpleasant on the way. And by unpleasant, we meant out of control, out of proportion, and completely out of his gourd. My dad, that is.

Dad joined us late for pancakes. He’d been singing while shaving, which always made the process take longer. But he liked the resonance in the bathroom and I think he imagined the whole neighborhood was listening in rapt attention. His face was never smoother than on a day when he’d been singing.

My dad was the only man I knew who wore a tie to mow the
lawn, and he was wearing one today. It was that kind of professionalism that had propelled him so quickly to the top position in the first investment firm he’d worked for, then allowed him to start his own firm two towns over from where we lived. We weren’t poor, but you’d never know it. Dad believed in making money, not spending it, and he was perfectly content living in my grandmother’s old house with squeaky floorboards, water-stained ceilings, and decades-old wallpaper on every square inch in sight.

My dad took his place at the head of the table. To be honest, the table was pretty much square, so there was no geometric head. But it seemed to make him happy to think there was one, so we all played along and made him feel important. He stacked four pancakes on his plate, and Mom poured so much chocolate syrup over them that I half expected them to float off the edge of the plate and onto the floor. Which might have caused the outburst we all feared. So I sat in front of my own melted-cream-saturated pancakes and willed his to stay in place.
Please, God, let them not make like a barge and flow downstream.

“Thermos, Shelby,” he said. Which was my dad’s way of saying, “May I please have the thermos of coffee, my beautiful daughter?” I liked his voice better in my head. I watched him spoon enough sugar into his coffee that it should have permanently sweetened his countenance, but life wasn’t fair that way. After all, this man who was devouring four pancakes and already eyeing the ones coming off the griddle, this man who could order two McDonald’s meals without blinking, this man to whom oversweetening was a culinary habit, not a character trait, this very same man was so thin that seeing him without a shirt on made me want to feed him butter. I, on the other hand, seemed to be wearing my butter—mostly around my hips and chest. And at the ripe old age of thirteen, it felt not only ugly, but icky in a can’t-I-just-be-a-skinny-man kind of way.

“Got practice before the game?” he asked Trey. There was a game
that afternoon, and Trey’s team was so riddled with incompetent newcomers to the sport that they often resorted to pregame scrimmages to try to get their act together.

Trey nodded yes. Then he went back to eating.

It had become something of a hobby trying to imagine the subtext of conversations that happened on my dad’s happy days. Under normal circumstances, there would have been no subtext needed. He would have hit us right between the eyes with his personal brand of overt insult and not-so-subtle disdain. But on his happy days?

“They’re lucky to have you,” he said. Translation:
Anyone says anything bad about my son and I’ll have their head. Insulting you is my job.

“Thanks, Dad.” Translation:
I hate it when you’re happy—makes me squeamish.
Trey gulped some orange juice and caught my eye-rolling. His eyes crinkled. I liked making him smile.

“Cleats still feeling okay?” Translation:
You should be kissing my feet for spending so much money on your cleats, young man. I’m a wonderful dad.

“Yup. Fine.” Translation:
I’d rather kiss Sonya Roland than say thanks to you, and she’s got zits and braces.

“Well, try to score one for the old man.” Translation:
I’ve got a belt and I’m not afraid to use it. You stink, you sting. That’s the rule.

“Sure, Dad.” Translation:
Like I’m ever going to put any effort into making you happy, you pompous bag of bones.

I wanted to play too. “It’s too bad you hurt your ankle skateboarding,” I said. “Maybe you’ll be able to play anyway, though.” Translation:
Let’s see if we can make Dad crazy by letting him think you might not get to play.

“What’s wrong with your ankle?” He put his fork down and narrowed his eyes. Translation:
How stupid have you been, Son?

“It’s fine, Dad.” Translation:
Please don’t get mad, please don’t
get mad, please don’t get mad.
Trey sent me an are-you-nuts? glare and swallowed a too-large bite of pancake.

“What’s with the ankle, Son?” The distant sound of thunder was in his voice.

“Nothing,” Trey answered, an almost imperceptible tremor weakening his words. I knew it meant fear, but to my dad, it sounded like guilt.

He leaned across the kitchen table, the napkin he’d stuck in his collar brushing the chocolate syrup on his plate. “What—did—you—do?” Strange that a minute before his face had looked clean-shaven. Now, with the blotchy red creeping up from his collar and the dirtiness of his scorn flaking out from his eyes, it looked like a kind of threatening stubble was growing out of his skin.

Trey saw it too. “I didn’t . . .”

My dad pushed away from the table with so much force that a couple of plates went flying and the milk container tipped over. Mom, who had been standing frozen at the counter, rushed in with a dish towel and mopped up the milk before it spilled onto the floor along with more of Dad’s wrath.

“Dad, I didn’t mean—”

His hand came down so hard on the top of my head that I bit my tongue and felt my jaw go weird. He pressed his fingers into my skull like it was a watermelon he was trying to crush. I felt his pancake breath wetting my ear when he hissed, right next to it, “Shut up, Shell.”