READ AN EXCERPT BELOW
Hallie Delos Santos left the small town of Bluehaven at the first opportunity she had. Five years later, she’s back.
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“Why are you so quiet, Hallie?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Because I can,” she replied.
After a full week working side by side, I started to feel soothed by Hallie’s presence. And sure, I could have worked from my workshop, but suddenly I grew tired of the boring stillness of my life. I wanted Hallie’s brand of silence; the defying kind. I liked the way it felt when she was around, how she carried herself and challenged me with just a look. I was happy not talking, but I also ached to hear her voice.
Like a switch, things changed between us when she realized I wanted her words. That’s when we started playing.
I knew it was a game just by reading her reactions. An annoyed flick on her earlobe when I stared too long. A bite on her bottom lip to hold her smile when a kid tripped on their words on stage. Hallie did all she could not to show herself to me, and by doing so, I understood more and more of her.
We heard gasps coming from the stage when a girl trying for Helena decided Shakespeare needed modernizing, “My mother wants me to marry; she’s a cunt,” she said in front of all teachers.
Hallie lowered her head to a bunch of fabric and groaned into it. I watched, baffled, as she pressed the fabric to her face to hide her laugh.
“Not even that deserves something?” I pressed.
Hallie raised her head and blinked.
“Really? Come on!” I protested, but laughed.
Still, she gave me nothing.
The next week, I talked non-stop.
“How’s your day going?”
“What’s your favorite color?”
“Do you want a ride home?”
She was very careful in giving me answers without giving me words. It was impressive to see. I became a specialist on her; I read her like a book.
“That can work, don’t you think? If I raise those panels? And maybe we can work with shadow and light to create the depth of the woods.”
Hallie nodded, pencil in her mouth, and thrusted a bunch of light material into my hands. “You think it’s better to do it with fabric than wood?” When she lifted a shoulder, I chuckled. “I am the woodwork teacher, Hallie.”
She rolled her eyes and went back to her own work. I took the fabric between my fingers, bringing it under the light to examine it better.
“Half-wood, half-fabric?” I offered.
Hallie arched an eyebrow, and I knew it was the right answer.
Anyone who heard me that week would have thought I was insane, but I was just fascinated. The girl didn’t take part in the land of the living. She was always surrounded by fabric, old and new, stitching or not; she was an island and it made me relentless to figure out what happened when she went to Bluehaven High.
They—the adults around while she was a teenager—told me she was bullied. But her body language, on the rare occasions she roamed the halls while school was still in session, gave me hints that what happened was worse than people were willing to accept. She had baggage; anyone could see it. It was selfish, but I became obsessed with discovering Hallie’s secrets.
Finally, the last day of casting arrived, and after a round of particularly terrible Pucks, our game was flying high. That afternoon, I tried to engage Hallie again. Coming close, I asked, “Isn’t it better to wait until casting so you can measure them?”
Hallie looked up and opened her mouth. I could almost taste her words. But as soon as she saw my smirk, it closed back with a snap.
“Almost gotcha.” I grinned.
She raised her chin up, twisting the needle in fabric and staring at me.
We both knew she was going to talk eventually, but it was fun to see how long she lasted. I was still smiling and almost missed when Helen came through the door, script in hands, distracted as she talked about the play, but I wasn’t interested. My eyes were glued on Hallie; she was nodding to Helen’s words but offered nothing. I smirked when, without taking her eyes off Helen, Hallie flicked her earlobe, demanding me to stop staring.
I shook my head just a little for her to see, and she wrinkled her nose and rubbed her thighs in reply. I liked too much that we had our own way to communicate. It was stupid as fuck, but made me feel worthy.
When Helen finally left, Hallie sliced me a look like we were in the middle of an argument.
“I’m like the Han Solo for your Chewbacca.”
And man, she did not like that.
