Chapter Eight
On Sunday after church, my GPS helps me navigate from Cambridge to Boston. It’s embarrassing to rely so heavily on my phone for directions, but I literally still don’t know the streets of Boston, and city drivers scare me.
Still, it’s worth it if I get to see Carlton.
The excursion takes a grand total of ten minutes, and when I arrive, my eyes widen at the mini feast his parents have prepared for us, complete with a colorful charcuterie board, hot apple cider, fresh fruit, a vegetable platter, and caviar. Yes…caviar.
This has to be the day he asks me to be his girlfriend. The day he finally makes things official between us.
We’re seated in the heavily windowed dining room in stiff, beautifully upholstered provincial chairs. My legs tingle with numbness, so I swing them back and forth to keep my blood moving. The dining room, much like the rest of Carlton’s house, is overwhelming to look at, with grand, double-height ceilings, extravagant light fixtures, custom wainscoting, and Renaissance-style paintings and sculptures nearly everywhere I turn.
The lunch meat his mom sliced is fanned out on a thick wooden board like a deck of cards, topped with paper-thin lemon wedges and a sprinkle of parsley. I’m afraid to mess it up.
“Nigel Weathers reposted Fallbrook’s performance announcement. I saw it last night.” Mrs. Peters beams. Her eyes are full of warmth as she smiles at Carlton. “This is the year. I just know it.”
Carlton’s cheeks lift in response, but the smile is too tight for his face. “You would think so.”
“You’re not going to let us down this time, son,” his dad says. He says it like it’s a simple truth. Like he’s commenting on the fact that it’s foggy outside with a twenty percent chance of rain.
The words aren’t even directed me, but they send dread and sadness rocketing through me. When I glance at Carlton to see his response, his face is neutral. The only thing that gives him away is the way his hands are balled into fists on his legs.
“Even if he doesn’t get into Underwood Academy,” I say, ignoring Mrs. Peters’s eyes landing on me sharply, “I know he’ll give a great performance. And he could always just apply after high school, right?”
I’m not sure why I say it. Maybe because of the unbearable pressure his parents are putting him under. I can practically feel the tangible weight of it, and it’s not even directed at me.
“Hewillget into Underwood Academy.” Mr. Peters takes a sip of his hot cider. “It will be better for his future if he completes his high school education there while simultaneously earning college credits.” His statement indicates the subject is now closed, so I drop it.
“I just hope Nigel realizes his mistake from last year. He’s got a chance now to remedy it,” Mrs. Peters says. “Carlton was the best sophomore in the whole play.”
“Sophomore? I thought only juniors and seniors could get accepted to Underwood.” I sound exasperated, even to my ownears. How long has Carlton been trying to get into this school, anyway?
“Sophomores and even freshmen can get accepted,” says Mr. Peters. “But it’s pretty rare. Usually, the two lead actors are the ones chosen, and those roles are always given to upperclassmen.” He purses his lips. “But Carlton was better than both of them last year, even as a supporting role.”
Carlton’s shoulders relax. “Thanks, Mom.”
“It’s true. And if things get serious after you graduate from Underwood,” she says, “we’ll have to either move to Los Angeles or New York, depending on the path you want to take in your career.” She pats Carlton’s hand.
My brows draw together. “Path?”
His mom glances at me. “Film or Broadway. LA for film, New York for stage.” She scrunches her nose. “But so much filming is done in New York, it’s the best of both worlds, in my opinion.”
“Right.” I nod, like I knew that already, of course I did. “That makes sense.”
Carlton’s parents continue planning what he’ll do after he gets into Underwood. They discuss where he’ll stay, helping him with rent or even getting a second home there, and what kind of roles would best suit him. If this is what he wants, and he’s not just trying to please his parents like I am, then I’m happy for him. But one thing is clear: the future they’re discussing does not include me. And why should it? I’m not Carlton’s girlfriend. For all his parents know, I’m just another friend of his, like Rue, Meredith, or Mabel. Carlton fidgets in his seat as his parents go on, his eyes downcast beneath his furrowed brows.
After lunch, his parents announce they’re going to the club for a round of golf.
Carlton stretches his shoulders. “Dot and I should probably run lines together.” He’s not wrong. Carlton and I have plenty ofscenes together, but we still haven’t taken the time to rehearse alone yet.
“Hm. I don’t know.” Mr. Peters lingers, like he’s not sure if they should leave us in the house alone together, yet, but Mrs. Peters hurries him along. “They’re children, not criminals. Goodness.”
When they shut and lock the door behind them, silence echoes around the house. I hadn’t realized how much of the talking had been coming from them. Now it’s just me and Carlton, and I’m not sure what to say.
We get up from the table and he finally breaks the silence. “That was intense.” He rubs the back of his neck.
“Yeah. All that talk about film and Broadway…” I trail off, searching for the right way to phrase my thoughts.
“What about it?”
