“How would you know?”
He smiled, a trail of milk dribbling from the corner of his mouth. “We have our sources.”
I was still grappling with this revelation when two sets of footsteps presaged the arrival of the twins. Van swept through the door first, staggering dramatically toward a chair. “Bring some for me, will you?” she called after her twin, who had headed straight for the kitchen.
“Some what?” Addie asked without turning.
“Whatever you’re having. Toast is fine. With marmalade. And tea.”
Addie returned a moment later, setting down the butter dish with slightly more force than necessary.
“Late night?” I asked. Addie opened her mouth to answer, pausing when her twin yawned loudly.
“Exhausting,” Van groaned. “But productive. Some exciting new faces in the mix.”
I glanced at Addie, who had shifted as if about to speak. Then the kettle whistled, and she walked back into the kitchen instead.
“Did you make the final cast list?” It felt strange to have to ask. Usually I stayed until the bitter end, listening to the twins debate which actor fit this or that part, but yesterday I’d begged off so I could leave with my friends.
“We’re still pondering a few possibilities,” Van said, with what I suspected to be a deliberate air of mystery.
Addie walked back in from the kitchen carrying two mugs. “She likes the one with the hair and the”—she flapped a hand at her own torso—“bodysuit for Iago.” It was clear from Addie’s expression that this wasn’t a conviction she shared. The twins took a liberal view of cross-gender casting, so that couldn’t be the issue. A petty part of me enjoyed the thought that sheer physical attractiveness wasn’t enough to make up for what must have been an otherwise lackluster performance.
“Phoebe,” Van supplied, not even pretending to search for the name. I’d noticed Alex Ritter’s lady friend chatting with my sister during the break, listening with rapt attention to whatever Van was saying. It smacked of sucking up to me. I wondered if Alex had given her the idea. “But not for Iago. I’m thinking Desdemona.”
I could tell from the way she spoke that Van was uncertain of her twin’s approval.
“What? No.” Addie set one of the cups in front of Van before dropping into her own chair.
“Why not?” Van countered. “She looks the part.”
“It’s too much—the confidence. It feels showoffy. ‘Look at me, look at my body.’ When Iago starts casting aspersions, instead of thinking, ‘Oh no, poor maligned Desdemona,’ everyone’s going to say, ‘She is a bit of a wanton, isn’t she?’”
“I think it would be an interesting dynamic.” Van very carefully added two sugar cubes to her tea. “And why shouldn’t she express her sensuality? Phoebe trained as a dancer. Of course she’s comfortable with her body.”
That explained the way she held herself, shoulders wide and back as though she’d never heard the wordslouch,even when she was pressed to Alex Ritter’s side. Part of me had wondered what it would feel like to be her: an arm around my shoulders, rib cages touching, flirtatious banter. Not with someone infamous like him, of course, but a serious, responsible boyfriend, appropriate for a person like me.
“That’s great for Phoebe,” Addie said, eyeing the mug in her hands, “but should it be the first thing anyone notices about Desdemona?”
“What, you want her to walk around holding an astrolabe, so people know she’s smart? Or no, we’ll put her inglasses. That’ll be original.” Van was always at her most acidic when she felt threatened. “Anyway, Anton liked her too.”
“Anton wants to dress her,” Addie corrected. “It’s not the same thing.”
Van grabbed the box of cereal, frowning as she shook it. “This is empty.”
Jasper slurped the last of his milk straight from the bowl before grinning sloppily at her. “Now you can be a real starving artist.”
Van threw her head back, hands over her eyes as if she couldn’t bear to look at any of us. “Can we just stop for bagels on the way?”
“You asked for toast,” Addie reminded her. “Which I put in the toaster for you.”
Van jerked a hand at Jasper. “He can eat it.”
“Fine.” Addie stood, taking her mug with her as she departed. A few seconds later we heard it thud against the kitchen counter.
“Well,” said our father. Picking up his own mug, he attempted to drink. Finding it empty, he frowned before hoisting himself from the chair and heading for the kitchen, leaving all three empty cups behind.
Van glanced at the cuckoo clock on the wall as she gulped a few swallows of tea. I could tell her mind had already left the room, followed in short order by the rest of her.
