Do You Want A Ride?

A lot of people are going to blame Romeo and Juliet. Even more are going to blame Rachel—God, she’s already been through enough. I can see her in the front of the cathedral, her pale white cheeks wet with fresh tears. She’s struggling through a couple of Bible quotes, something about forgiveness. I can’t hear her—the melancholy music is much too loud. So, I can only imagine what she's actually saying, but instead, I'm remembering the phantom whispers of the theater department from weeks past. When those vultures so vocally prayed for her downfall. None of them are here now.

—

They’re like a real-life Romeo and Juliet was their usual joke in the wings of rehearsal. She’s barely older than him, for Christ’s sake! Sure, a senior-sophomore coupling may look bad, but he’s sixteen, he can make his own decisions—or, at least, he was sixteen. Regardless, who gives a shit? No one actually thought it was “problematic” like they claimed. They’re just a bunch of jealous assholes, and I get the part about being jealous, but still….

Rico was the school’s starlet when he first came in last year, though I didn’t care too much at the time. I had my own stuff going on, like AP bio and keeping close to the closet. All I knew was that he was some super crazy soccer stud; he got to play varsity for the semi-finals or something. That, and he looked good. God, did he look good. His dark, sun-blessed skin and lithe body made him a sight to behold in the cafeteria. But, more importantly, he had this smile. I only saw glimpses of it before—I was a sophomore, and we seldom ran into one another—but when he joined theater it was the only thing I could think about for a while. It’s the only thing I can think about now to be honest.

—

My eyes flutter between the crying girlfriend and this cute picture of him at the beach. I can barely make it out from how far away I am, but I can imagine it crisply in my mind. It’s a sweet image, something taken by his Instagram-obsessed mom when they were on vacation. It’s a shame that they couldn’t do an open-casket funeral—his body must have been too mangled. Even if it weren’t, no embalmer could capture his energy, his lust for life, or anything even close to his smile.

Rachel stutters between tears, the piano player having finally lightened up on his playing. The Lord is close to, um—sorry, is close to the broken hearted… and I am still tortured about his smile after his first performance of Romeo. He looked so happy then—a beautiful dumb grin that seemed to scream: we did it!

I get up from the pews when Rachel finishes that verse and walk out. My skin is cold and tight and my heart is beating fast. The second I’m out of sight I run into the men’s room; I start washing my face. The water’s cold and feels like a jolt of energy, and for a second, I’m not anxious, just surprised. Then the wave comes over me again.

—

Thank God you weren’t in that car! my mom said on some lazy Sunday night while hugging me tight. It had been two days since Romeo & Juliet ended, and, like every post-show weekend, it had been a dull hell—no friends, no rehearsal, just long boredom. Then we learned that Rico died. A bleak Instagram post of him mid-kick at last year’s semi-finals was all we had for condolences. I cried into my mother’s wool sweater, my eyes burning from her perfume.

We didn’t know if he was doing anything while he was driving—if he was on anything. Rico used to vape outside his truck when Rachel wasn’t with him. I’d see him far out of the parking lot as I waited for my mom to pick me up. It was strange to see him smoke in the Texas fall heat, the smoke tower climbing upwards. I remember always wanting to ask him why he was so nonchalant about smoking—he could very well get in trouble for being caught—but I never could bring myself to approach. Sometimes, in the dressing room, he’d be talking to Mark, the guy who played Benvolio, about a hangout he and his friends did where they smoked so much weed while watching the stars that he thought they were angels. Again, it was strange, because it all seemed counter to his whole playing soccer thing. Then again, so was theater.

Everyone joked about the decision to do Romeo and Juliet; it was too generic, wildly hard to memorize, and cursed. The rumor was as old as the school, something bad will always happen during any given performance of Shakespeare. When our school first put on Midsummer's Night Dream, a family of opossums were found in the theater mid-performance, then the sound system stopped working, and, oh yeah, an actor was diagnosed with leukemia. Of course, it’s all just another theater superstition, coincidences stacking onto one another in a large overcoat: same as saying Macbeth. Regardless, that rumored curse was in full swing when Rico was cast as Romeo—a soccer kid doing Shakespeare, truly a scandal for the ages. Generally, the whole cast was a little unorthodox; a ton of seniors were given minor roles while I, a habitual ensemble member, was tasked to play Mercutio. I was absolutely thrilled, but not because of my role.

—

I’m drying my face with paper towels and Mark tumbles in. He looks nice as usual, his black suit ironed out thoroughly, but then I see his face. There are these deep bags under his red, puffy eyes. I notice that small scar along his forehead, a long-ago cut from one of the stage swords during early rehearsals: a thin, dark line running along his already black skin. He rushes into a stall and I hear him make this pained, almost animal noise—a mixture of gags, sobs, and contorted laughs that mutated together in the bathroom’s echo.

I leave the restroom, hurried and embarrassed, but I refuse to move any closer to the ceremony. Instead, my head leans against the wall. My eyes close. Blood rushes into my ears and my heartbeat sounds louder than Mark’s panic attack. I start counting breaths, as my counselor taught me. It doesn’t work, because now my breathing is manual, and I can’t decide between either hyperventilating or suffocating. So, I start thinking about God, as my mother taught me. A small part of me starts to shrivel at the thought of Him. So, I start balling my fists, like my father taught me, harder and harder, as if I want my nails to break skin, and I calm for a moment. I take a deep breath. Now, my best technique: quietly forgetting my existence.

—

I was hoping to at least befriend Rico, always scheming for us to talk. He was new to theater, so I hoped that maybe I could help him rehearse lines or something. Maybe we could do scenes at his house. These daydreams were wild nothings, of course. Rico already knew Mark—he was a senior and great friends with Rachel anyways. They spent all of rehearsal together, and whenever I was in a scene they just went along with the script. Sometimes we’d have fun, make a small connection, but most of the time I was simply tolerated. I wasn’t annoying; I was just there. A junior who could empathize with neither the jaded sophomore outlook or the chill senior vibe. In general, I would just hang out with my old friends in the ensemble, sometimes sneaking a glance or eavesdropping on whatever Rico and Mark were talking about. The best thing I think I ever overheard was when Rico was talking about how good of an actor I was. He said that it was impressive how well I could convey Shakespearean emotion—it’s like he actually talks like that! I think I wore a smile for the rest of that rehearsal.

—

When I come back from the bathroom, my heart still pounding but slightly slowing, I’m just in time for Rico’s dad to start his eulogy. I don’t know why God took my son. Maybe He mistook him for Jesus. He says this with a charming smile and thick accent. He has rich dark skin and gray thinning hair. After a moment’s pause, the audience laughs. A moment of brevity amidst the darkness. No. Rico was no Jesus, for Jesus was a shepherd. My son was no shepherd; he was a football player. He swallows. When I watched him play the game I saw something so, so fierce and amazing. He would run so quickly, play so well, and when we’d get in the car I’d tell him, “you did good son!” And then I’d hear him complain. Oh my Lord! Another ripple of laughter. He would complain that he missed a kick here or missed a kick there. He’d be all in his head about it even though he was the best player there. So dedicated, so strong. Even if he couldn’t feel it for himself, all I knew was pride…

—

Once I asked him, when we were alone in the dressing room, why he was doing theater. I can see it clearly now, less a memory but miraculous time-travel. He was laying on the countertop, leaning against the wall, and I saw him tilt his head in thought.

“I had to do something,” he paused, “I think I’d go crazy if I wasn’t doing anything.” His eyes then sort of glazed over, as if he were looking out onto a nonexistent horizon. I saw something solemn in those eyes. He broke his ankle over the summer, but he barely talked about that. He was still on the team, just on JV. Sometimes I wondered if he ever got that memo—he always sat with the varsity boys at lunch, talked about rehearsals like it were practice, and always wore his jersey during varsity games. “What about you?” he asked, snapping back to reality.

“Oh, um, I don’t know,” I said sheepishly.

“Don’t give me that!” His voice was cheery and like sunshine. “No one does this without having a reason.”

“Um…” I thought for a moment. “I like playing characters. It makes me relax. I don’t have to stress about my own shit and stuff. I can just… relax.”

He nodded his head and gave a slight chuckle. “I could never imagine this being relaxing. All the memorizing and the pretending—it’s why I don’t get Halloween. Why would anyone not want to be themselves?”

—

I nod my head as Rachel breaks down. We’re outside of the cathedral sitting on a bench as everyone else is milling around inside. After the service I had to get a moment of fresh air. I walked around the cathedral. I saw her as she vaped in the church garden, her face dry. She looked beautiful, a conservative black dress and her blonde hair tied in a bun, the flora behind her softly flowing in the breeze. No wonder Rico was always making out with her after practice. I asked how she was doing and: 

I’m just such a fucking idiot! How could I—why did I—I mean, I mean, we made up and everything, but, but—I’m such a fucking bitch. Why was I even arguing with him? Why did I even give a shit about the kissing and shit. He’d never cheat on me. I’m such a dumbass… and the ranting continues. I don’t know if I truly understand it but my arms open wide. I’m holding her as snot runs down my funeral attire. I see roses in the garden.

—

Even now I can’t help but imagine what may have happened if I took his offer. If, after the cast party at IHOP, I let him drive me home. Probably nothing. There wouldn’t have been a kiss, no rom com ending, and, most importantly, no car crash. He wouldn’t have been bored, I guess. He wouldn’t have been driving out so late; maybe he would’ve gone to bed early. 

But maybe we would strike up a conversation and he’d like me—like really like me. I’d sit on the hood of his car staring at the stars as we smoked weed. He’d be somewhere far off telling me some story, any story, with the same grace and splendor as he did on stage. A spectacular personal performance that makes me laugh or cry, as the THC takes effect and stars turn bizarre—twisting, like long ropey threads in some cosmic unraveling, whispering of acting and triumph and Rico.

Or maybe the curse is real, and I’d be crumbled into nothingness. We’d both be in matching coffins, half our pieces a red mess on the roadway. I can see it happening, the funeral parade, but also the time before it. I accept his proposal and it's awkward. It’s quiet then it isn’t, because Rico’s charming and he’ll always start talking. He compliments me—I hide my blush—and I compliment him. Another awkward pause and I ask about soccer. One second, I’m listening to him, sitting in his car that smells of blueberry vape as it goes 50 in my neighborhood’s 30, nodding my head dumbly—my stupid heart pining after him—and a bright light rushes over both of us. Angel light, hood lights, last light basking over me. It’d be only a moment before it ended, before metal scraped metal, but I’d still know what it meant. I would, in that moment, be free, be open, and have the confidence to say something to him. Anything to him.

God… why wasn’t I in that car?