Page 14 of Safety Net
I lay on my bed, my legs stretched out over the headboard, and my gaze focused on the script in my notes app.
I’d written down everything I needed to say for the next time I spoke to Lincoln. It’d been a week since my initial failed attempt. Once Naomi heard about it, she decided we needed to come up with a game plan. We practiced a couple of hours each day for the entire week. She played the role of Lincoln, which allowed me to smooth out any kinks in my delivery. There seemed to be more issues popping up the longer we went on.
“Yeah, one second. I need to figure out a better transition from ‘hi’ to ‘will you be my assistant director for two months, even though you can count on one hand the number of one-on-one conversations we’ve had alone.”
Naomi nodded. “Valid. By the way, Finn’s on his way to pick me up. I could get him to be Lincoln. It’ll feel more realistic. Especially since you two can also count on one hand how many times you’ve spoken to one another alone.”
I almost dropped my phone on my face. “I can’t do this with Finn.”
Naomi pulled her attention away from what she’d dubbed a retro gamer’s dream. The bed dipped underneath her weight as she climbed on.
“He won’t mind if you stumble on your words. He does the same thing all the time.” She grabbed my phone, holding it out of reach when I stretched for it. “You don’t need the script anymore. You have it memorized from top to bottom.”
“You know what?” I sat up, lightheaded, my ears buzzing from the abrupt movement. “I think that’s enough practice for today.”
“Celeste,” Naomi said firmly. “You only have a few more days left to confirm what you’re going to do. Have you even asked your cousin about the casting?”
“I have.” I perked up, proud to have done something right. “He’s in and he’s working on convincing his skating partner to play the lead. Which is perfect because that means they’ll already have chemistry.”
“Great.” Naomi nodded. “Now, tell me, do you plan on doing all the prep, set design, and rehearsals by yourself?”
I made a face. “No.”
Her phone buzzed as if the universe heard a predetermined cue. Naomi raised a brow, seeking permission. She wouldn’t force me, kicking and screaming.
“He can come up,” I said. “But ask him first, please. I don’t want him to feel like he has no choice.”
“He’ll be more than happy to help.” Naomi smiled, gave me back my phone, and then hurried off to let her boyfriend in.
It didn’t take long for her to bring him up. Finn was a solid guy. Literally and metaphorically. He was large and quiet, with dark, curly hair and pale skin that burned a deep, tomato-red whenever Naomi flirted with him. His skin was that shade now,but there was no amusement in his eyes. Naomi once told me she thought he was shy. Shyness made Finn appear hard and mysterious. His quiet drew people closer, a lighthouse of sorts.
My shyness made people think I was rude. Uppity. It repelled people, warning them of something strange within. I wondered if it was his maleness, whiteness, athleticism, or a mix of all three that made his quietness more accepted.
I was in elementary school when I learned being quiet wouldn’t always work in my favor. At home, silence helped me avoid the verbal sparring my brothers and parents found joy in. Disagreements, even the teasing kind, left me anxious and confused. My nervous system regulated when I didn’t have to share opinions and thoughts that would ultimately be picked apart until there was nothing left but scraps.
But in a bright, colorful classroom, my teachers found silence a damning fault. One in which they responded with threats of lower grades (to this day, the mere mention of the phrase “participation score” sent my stomach turning) and limited opportunities. Once upon a time, I had worked my way up to being in the highest-level reading class. I reveled in the status symbol and shiny ‘I am a reader’ pin.
That all came crashing down when I got demoted to the lowest level. My reading teacher could never convince me to do the dreaded, throat-tightening, vomit-inducing, hand-raise. I preferred to redo all the assignments I finished that year instead of answering a question out loud.
“Hey,” Finn greeted. His expression was stoic. Without Naomi’s footnotes, I would insist he didn’t like me. And maybe even hated me on principle.
“Hi.” To “meet” his gaze, I used my trick of staring at a person’s forehead to feign eye contact. Baby steps toward participation marks. Baby steps.
“Alright, remember,” Naomi said as she sat on the edge of my bed. “You’re Lincoln. Be Lincoln.”
Finn frowned. “How does one be Lincoln?”
“Loose, bold, unfinished,” she said. “An ellipsis.”
“What does that mean?” I wondered while Finn simultaneously said, “I feel like I’m going to need a little more time to adjust, considering I’m clearly a question mark.”
Something passed between them, and I felt like an intruder in my own room.
Couples were cute when they were coupling in their own space—conceptual, theoretical couples. Couples too far away to remind you you were probably going to end up in a house by the sea alone…though honestly, that didn’t sound too bad. I couldn’t imagine myself entangled with someone long enough to want to share a house by the sea with them. So, knowing deep down that I couldn’t envision being someone’s “other half,” witnessing romantic love firmly placed it on my list of awkward social experiences I preferred to avoid.
“You’re right.” Naomi got up from the bed. “A question mark through and through. New plan.”
“New plan?” I clasped my hands together, massaging out the nerves running through my veins. I was still struggling to accept the old one.
