Alex nodded. “Of course.” He was silent for a moment, watching Neill drum the table with both hands. “Is a tussie-mussie one of those fluffy things French maids carry around?”
“It’s a small floral arrangement.”
He considered this in silence. “Then that was a pretty obvious answer?”
“Yes,” I agreed, pleased he’d pointed this out.
“Do you think they’ll ask about that dirty book you told me to read?”
“I never—”
“Dangerous Liaisons,” he reminded me. “Because you’d be all over that one.”
“I’m not in this round,” I reminded him.
“Lucky for me.” He leaned closer, nudging me with his shoulder. “What was the guy’s name again?”
“Neill?”
“No. The one who wrote the book.”
“Choderlos de Laclos.”
“Say it slowly.”
“Cho-der-los de—” I broke off, realizing he was toying with me. “Shouldn’t you check on Phoebe?”
“Why?” He made a show of looking around. “Did someone give her one of those drinks?”
The innocent act was cut short by the end of the second round. The noise level jumped as teams and spectators began to move around the room, heatedly discussing the recent action.
“Excuse me,” said a voice from behind me. I tried to move out of the way, but the only place to go was closer to Alex. I mumbled an apology while bumping against him. The contact was only slightly more intimate than the time I’d measured him for a costume he didn’t want. When I looked to see whether whoever it was had enough room to get by, my eyes widened.
“Anjuli.” The last thing I’d expected was for her to seek me out, especially after looking right through me before—
Her arm jutted toward Alex. “Anjuli. From Psy Fry.”
“Team name,” I explained in response to his puzzled look.
Inching forward, she angled her body to block me from view. “Do you act?” She made a square with her hands, positioning it in front of his face like a viewfinder.
Alex looked from Anjuli to me. I thought I had schooled my expression, but whatever he read on my face made him turn back to Anjuli with a thin smile. It was not one of his patented charm offensives. “We’re kind of in the middle of something here.”
“You’re funny. How do you feel about surrealism?”
“Pretty much the same way Mary feels about me talking to her friends. It’s a hard pass, I’m afraid.”
“That’s okay.” Anjuli returned his regretful smile with a relieved one of her own. “We’ve grown apart lately anyway.”
I scoffed at the euphemistic phrasing.
“If you’re thinking I look familiar, it’s probably from the article in the school newspaper. ‘Rising Stars of Experimental Cinema.’ I suggested it to the editor.” Anjuli pressed a business card into his hand. “Let me know if you want to do a screen test.”
As she walked away my stomach roiled, a bitter stew of disappointment and cider vinegar.
The door to Mung’s swung open, ushering in a blast of cold air. It also brought Addie, whose face appeared both mustache-less and reasonably composed. Some of the tension in my spine dissipated. Now that she was here, everything could go back to normal. Someone (most likely Van) would tell Neill to shove off, and that would be that.
But as Addie approached, it was Van who stood, without acknowledging her twin. Turning her back on the team table, Van squeezed in beside Phoebe. It looked like they were sharing a chair, bodies pressed together from shoulder to hip. What was it about theater people and lack of personal boundaries? Always giving each other back rubs or flopping their legs onto someone’s lap or ... slowly drawing the pad of a thumb across the other person’s palm.
