Claire has an upturned nose and a cloud of fuzzy red hair, and she favors a sweatshirt with a sequined unicorn on the front. She rises, unable to make eye contact with me as she steps forward, giggling uncontrollably.
Before she can reach the stage, however, Allie McAndrews slaps her aside. “I’ll take this one.”
I reach toward Claire, trying to help her up, but I’m yanked away by Allie, who pulls me into the center of the stage with the brute force of an ogre. She tosses her shining hair and looks up at me from beneath her lashes. “You ready?”
I toss a sympathetic glance toward poor Claire, who is still attempting to get up from where Allie shoved her, and then clear my throat. “ ‘If I profane with my unworthiest hand / This holy shrine,’ ” I say, “ ‘the gentle fine is this: / My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand / To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.’ ”
It figures. The most romantic scene in the most romantic play in all of literature, and my stage partner is Delilah’s worst nightmare.
I draw in my breath. For years, I acted as if I truly were in love with Seraphima. This can’t be any worse.
So I stare into Allie McAndrews’s eyes, and I imagine Delilah’s. I reach for Allie’s hand, and I pretend I am holding on to the love of my life.
“ ‘Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much / . . . which manly—’ ”
“Mannerly!” Ms. Pingree interrupts.
“ ‘Man . . . nerly,’ ” Allie repeats, “ ‘devotion shows in this; / for saints have hands that pilgrims hands do touch . . .’ ”
I raise the flat of my hand and press hers against it.
“ ‘And palm to palm,’ ” she says, transfixed, “ ‘is holy palmers’ kiss.’ ”
Stepping forward, I gently brush a strand of her hair away from her cheek. My voice drops to a whisper. “ ‘Have not saints lips? And holy palmers too?’ ”
Allie stares at me. Gaping.
“Line!” I call out.
Ms. Pingree reads, “ ‘Aye, Pilgrim . . .’ ”
“ ‘Aye, Pilgrim,’ ” Allie parrots. “ ‘Lips they must use in prayer.’ ”
I groan. “ ‘O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do; / They pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.’ ”
Her gaze is steady, luminous, hopeful. “ ‘Saints do not move, though grant for prayers’ sake.’ ”
I cup her face in my hands. “ ‘Then move not,’ ” I murmur, “ ‘while my prayer’s effect I take.’ ”
I lean in, close my eyes, and kiss her.
As our lips meet, the seal of the auditorium door opens, admitting a slice of light that immediately draws my attention. Standing there is Delilah, looking as if I have crushed her.
She turns around while Allie is still in my arms, and starts to run.
“Delilah!” I cry, and I jump off the stage to race after her.
I chase Delilah past the gym, out the back doors of the school, and into the deserted student parking lot before I manage to grasp her arm. “Just let me explain,” I say.
She rounds on me, furious. “No,” Delilah says. “This isn’t your book. You don’t get to close it and start over.”
“I was just reading lines. How is this any different from what I had to do every day with Seraphima, when I was part of the fairy tale?”
“Back then you had no choice. But this time, you could have said no.” Her eyes well up. I realize, with a pang, that I’ve never made Delilah cry before. “How could you do this to me? And withher?”
“I didn’t do anything to you. I was acting. She means nothing to me.”
“That’s not how it looked,” Delilah argues. “It might as well have been real.”
