My Life After Now - By Jessica Verdi Page 0,2

of course.

“Whatever, Andre. Just admit that you gave her the role because you thought she would do a better job than I would.”

Silence. Andre stared straight ahead, his unfocused gaze resting on the cast doing warm-up exercises up on the stage.

“Please,” I said.

Andre sighed. “She gave a great audition…”

“Just say it.” I didn’t know why, but I needed to hear the words.

“Okay, fine.” He twisted his fingers around each other uneasily. “I gave her the role because I thought she would do a better job than you.”

And there it was. The honest truth. For all my hard work and preparation, I still wasn’t good enough.

Don’t get me wrong—I knew that I wasn’t going to get every role I ever auditioned for. I’d even lost roles to Elyse before, at theater camp. But this was different. This was my school, my drama club, my life. I’d always been the star of my own little corner of the world—landing all the best parts since freshman year, getting straight As even in my advanced classes, finding out that the first guy I ever really liked actually liked me back. But then Elyse came along, and in one fell swoop things suddenly weren’t so easy anymore.

And that was only my first problem.

2

Forget About the Boy

As I walked away from Andre, I made the split-second decision that I was going to convince everyone that I was fine—no, thrilled—with the way things turned out. No way was I going to give Elyse the satisfaction of knowing that she’d gotten under my skin.

So when Ty wrapped his arms tightly around me and whispered, “Are you okay?” in my ear, I gave a little laugh and assured him that I was actually glad to have a role that I could experiment with and truly make my own. I must have been really convincing because he kissed me and said, “Lucy, you are a true actor. Believe me, if I hadn’t gotten Romeo, I wouldn’t be nearly as understanding as you.” He ruffled my hair and then leapt up on the stage in one bound, taking his place in the read-through circle.

See, Andre? I thought bitterly, I am a good actor.

But soon even I was having trouble believing that. I’d only paid attention to Juliet’s part during the summer, and it felt wrong to suddenly be speaking Mercutio’s words. They were foreign to me and clunked around in my mouth like marbles. While Elyse breezed through the complicated Shakespearean language like it was her favorite song, I stumbled and fell over each line.

And, on top of everything else, she had taken to flirting with Ty. She wasn’t even discreet about it. Playful touches on his arm, whispers in his ear, giggling like a maniac every time he said anything even remotely amusing. Right in front of me. All afternoon.

If it hadn’t been clear that Ty was completely uninterested in her, I would have given up on my vow to remain upbeat. It was like she was on a mission to steal my life.

I got home that night to find that my dads had left a dozen pink roses waiting for me on the kitchen table. The card read: A rose by any other name…Congratulations, Lucy! I plunked myself down in a kitchen chair, the sweet aroma filling my nose, and couldn’t help but smile. My dads were probably the only two gay men in the world who knew nothing about theater. I knew the only reasons they’d chosen that line were because it had to do with flowers, which was one stereotypical gay interest they actually did subscribe to, and my middle name was Rose. But their well-meaning cluelessness actually cheered me up a little.

I went into the living room, where Dad and Papa were curled up on the sofa in their matching Snuggies, watching The West Wing on DVD. Mine were the only parents of anyone I knew who were not only still together, but actually still in love.

“Thanks for the flowers,” I said, squeezing in between them.

“So?” Papa said, passing me the popcorn bowl. “Are we looking at Eleanor Senior High’s new Juliet?”

“Alas, you are not,” I said.

Dad paused the TV. “What happened?”

“Elyse St. James happened.”

“Oh, honey. I’m so sorry,” Dad said. That’s another thing I loved about my parents. They may not have cared about theater, but they cared that I cared about theater. “What part did you get?”

“Mercutio.” I shrugged. “At least I still get to die onstage.”

• • •

The next morning, I got to