I suppose I should clarify something else, speaking of losing. Most people think I hate Tabitha because of Beck. Because there was this rumor he slept with her while he was dating me. But I don’t believe that crap, because Beck told me it wasn’t true. No, I hate Tabitha because of what happened sophomore year with the play.
(Not everything is about a boy, you know. We’re made up of more than the sum of their parts.)
It was A Streetcar Named Desire. Of course I was going to be Blanche—everyone knows I’m a good actress, and I’ve been the lead in, like, every play at Coldcliff Heights. It was important to me, being good at that. Pretty much everyone thinks I’ll do acting professionally someday, but I’m not so sure anymore.
So the auditions were on a Tuesday. The usual girls who tried out every year were there—Gina Forsyth and Julia Petersen and Tara Waters and Lexie Roth, who looks horrible with blond hair (I think she was trying to copy me, and just—honey, no). I overheard Tara saying she couldn’t remember the lines to her monologue, and Lexie telling her she was planning to “just wing it.” I had smiled because I knew none of them were any competition.
Then Tabitha showed up in the auditorium. She looked like white trash, all ripped tights and dark eyeliner and clunky Doc Martens, like she was from the nineties or something.
“What are you doing here?” I asked. Maybe I didn’t say it very nicely. Maybe I don’t care about being nice.
“Auditioning. My parents want me to get more involved.” She popped a bubble with her gum. “Hey, you’re always really good in these things. Any tips?”
These things. Like the plays were amateurish, not worthy of her time. She diminished me with those two words, whether she meant to or not. And I think she meant to.
I had prepared one of Blanche’s monologues—from Scene Four—He acts like an animal, has an animal’s habits! It was some of my best work. As soon as I got onstage, my confidence came back. Fuck Tabitha Cousins. She’ll never get a leading role, I thought.
I didn’t see her audition—they’re private, just in front of Mr. Mancini, who directed the play, and Mrs. McDougall, who just kind of, like, bosses people around. But when they announced the parts, my name wasn’t beside Blanche. Hers was. I was Stella.
So I got a bit pissed off and told a few people she must have done something for Mr. Mancini to get the role. That rumor gained traction for a while, and the infuriating part was that Tabitha never even denied it. I think she liked it.
(By the way, she sucked as Blanche. She barely showed up for rehearsals. It was like she only wanted it because I did. She only ever wants what other people have. And to this day, the name Stella makes me want to scream.)
Anyway, when we were getting our stage makeup done on closing night, Tabby leaned over and whispered something: “I heard there’s some kind of scout in the audience.”
That made me snap to attention. “Scout? How do you know?”
Tabby smiled, like she really enjoyed having a piece of information I didn’t. “I heard her talking to Mancini. She has bright red hair. You can’t miss her.”
My whole body basically thundered. I never get nervous when I act—it wasn’t like that. I was electrified. I knew I had to give my best performance yet, even though I wasn’t Blanche. I needed to be the one everybody saw first.
Oh my God, I acted the hell out of that role. I was Stella. And I don’t know if it was the adrenaline or heightened emotions or just pure bravery, but after the show, when I saw a red-haired woman with Mr. Mancini backstage, I went up and introduced myself.
“I’m Louisa Chamberlain,” I said. “I hope you liked the play.”
“You were terrific,” she said, clutching her program. “I was just telling Bruce how wonderful the entire show was.”
I could have just moved on and left it at that, but I’m not a girl who just leaves an opportunity. So I gave her my biggest smile. “I really believe acting is my future. If you have the time, I’d love to talk to you about what that might look like.”
It was super bold, but it just felt right. Until she looked at me, then at Mr. Mancini, with this totally confused expression. Ugh—I still see it so clearly. It’s, like, permanent decor in my brain. A shameful throw rug.
“Um—” she started, but Mr. Mancini cut in, placing his hand over hers.
“Louisa,” he said. “This is my wife, Melinda.”
His wife. His wife. And if that’s not horrifying enough for you, picture the rest of the cast scattered around, within earshot, trying really hard not to laugh. And picture Tabby, beaming.
“You told me she was a scout,” I hissed later, when Tabby was sitting on a bench, pulling on her Docs.
“Sorry,” she said. “It was a different red-haired woman I saw. She must have left.”
What a little liar! Bravo, Tabby. That was your best performance. Until now.
“That was beyond embarrassing,” I said. “Everyone thinks I’m a joke.” Closing night was supposed to be a celebration—we always went out and partied. But I wasn’t going anywhere but home. Tabby took away what I had achieved and replaced it with the hot burn of humiliation.
“Oh, come on,” she said. “It wasn’t so bad. Besides, there are worse things than people talking about you.”
“Like what?” I put my foot on the bench, resisting the urge to kick her with it.
“Like when they aren’t.” She stood up so we were face-to-face. Then she actually winked.
I suppose I played right into her trap, and I should have known better. No matter how ugly the rumor is, she doesn’t care, as long as people are talking about her.
Maybe you think karma caught up with me. Maybe you think I’m the bitch, or the petty one. I’m not denying I’m a bit of both. But Tabitha is something worse. She’s a taker. And something to know about takers is that they never have enough.
12
BRIDGET
TABBY YANKS A BRUSH through my hair. “I didn’t do anything wrong. This is so fucking typical. Everyone always believes the guy. I hate living in this world.”
As if there was another option.
I’m going to school today—it’s the second week back, and the first day of cross-country practice—so Tabby got up early to put my hair in two French braids, the same way she did it last year, when I was a freshman. I’m superstitious like that, especially since last year was my big moment. She has so much potential, Coach Taylor told Dad at my first meet—I won a silver medal I barely had to work for. She could go far. I wasn’t used to the attention, but I liked it.
She liked the attention. Some anonymous classmate said that about my sister. The video ripped through the internet like wildfire. Reporters have been calling our landline—I have no idea how they got the phone number, but they want to talk to Tabby. At least, they say they want to talk to Tabby, but really they just want to talk about her. About her temper, suddenly legendary.
“I’m sorry,” I say as her fingers work methodically in my hair. “This isn’t fair.”
“Life’s never fair for us.” She yanks just hard enough to hurt. “You’ll tell me what they say, right?”