But—the happy times will have to wait until later. It’s almost show time.
I call Woody into his crate and he trots in happily.
“Be good, Wood—we’ll be home in a little while.”
He attacks the rubber goose chew toy Callie got for him last week, with a vengeance. The pain of losing Snoopy still lingers—we kept his ashes and they sit in a simple silver urn on the fireplace mantle. But like the grief of all losses, time and good memories make it easier to bear.
I hold out my hand to Callie and she slides hers into it. Then I kiss her cheek.
“Let’s go, sweetheart. Time for you to break a leg.”
~ ~ ~
A few weeks ago, David Burke’s plea deal was finalized. Me and Callie and Jerry Dorfman wrote letters to the prosecutor on his behalf. And they were literary masterpieces if I do say so myself, because the prosecutor agreed to let David plead as a youthful offender. If he stays out of trouble for the next two years, completes his probation and community service, his record will be expunged.
He was also allowed to come back home and return to school . . . contingent on the active participation and supervision of a legal guardian he could live with.
Anda oh man—he got a doozy of a foster parent.
She’s showing him how to tie his necktie right now . . . or trying to strangle him with it.
“No, Burke, the rabbit goes in the motherfucking hole! In!” Miss McCarthy yells at him. “Jesus, are you deaf?”
Yep, David lives with her now. It’s better than jail . . . though I bet some days he wonders.
He makes eye contact with me across the lobby outside the high school auditorium. And mouths help me over Miss McCarthy’s bent head.
I give him the thumbs-up.
“Pay attention, god damn it!”
The little punk rolls his eyes . . . and then he straightens up and pays attention.
~ ~ ~
After Callie heads backstage, I jog out to the Jeep and grab a few things from the back. Then I find David heading towards his seat in the auditorium. I grab his arm and pull him to the side. And I smack a bouquet of roses against his chest.
“Rule number one—when your girl’s in a play, you get her flowers. Every night. Got it?”
David looks down at the flowers. “Layla’s . . . not my girl.”
“Do you want her to be?”
Over the last few months, while David was in the Boy’s Home, Layla told Callie he would sneak out of his room to the pay phones, to call her after lights out.
Frigging stupid? Epically so.
Romantic? To a teenage girl . . . absolutely.
He glances at the still-curtained stage, like he half-expects Layla to be there. “Yeah, I do want her to be.”
I nod. “Flowers are a good start to making that happen. Keeping yourself the hell out of jail will go a long way too.”
He grins, rolling his eyes again, and taking the flowers. “Got it. Thanks, Coach D.”
“Anytime.”
David lifts his chin towards the other bouquet of roses in my hand. “Those for Miss Carpenter?”
I nod. “Damn straight.”
~ ~ ~
The show is fantastic—and I’m not just saying that because I’m doing the theater teacher. It’s genuinely good. The sets, the songs, the kids—they’re all so energetic . . . so awesome. By the time they take their curtain call, everyone in the auditorium is on their feet, clapping. When Callie appears center stage the applause get louder, I press my fingers to my lips and whistle.
She shines on that stage—looking so lovely—she was born to be there. And standing amongst the kids who gaze at her with adulation in their eyes, it’s even more true.
Afterwards, backstage, it’s all chatter and laughter as the kids change out of their costumes and take off their stage makeup. They talk about the cast party, make final plans on where they’re meeting up and what they’re going to do. Back in the day Callie and her theater friends used to drive down to the beach after a show, to watch the sun rise. She must’ve told them about it, because the kids’ plans tonight are the same.
“Don’t be idiots!” Callie calls after them, as the big, heavy school door closes behind the last one.
After he sweeps the stage, Callie sends Ray, the janitor, home, promising to lock up. And then it’s just the two of us—here, together, where it all began.
The auditorium lights are dark, and the overhead stage lights are dim—a soft, golden glow. It’s all quiet, peaceful, and still.
I hold out my hand to her. “Come on.”
Callie grasps the roses I gave her in one hand and takes my hand with the other. I lead her onto the stage, our shoes clicking on the old oak floor. My fingers slide across my phone, and I find the song I’m looking for. “Perfect” by Ed Sheeran pours clear and distinct from the speaker, filling the silence with the strumming guitar and meaningful words. Words about finding love when you’re just a kid, and not really realizing what you have until the second time around.