Page 90 of What They'll Say About Us

"Even Colton?" she teased.

"Stop. There's nothing there."

"You used to be a better liar, Tessa," she said as I grabbed my clothes and hurried into the bathroom.

I walked into the Cornerstone Theater a little after one o'clock on Saturday afternoon and stood for a moment in the dark at the back of the house, letting my eyes adjust to the dim lighting.

Onstage, the world of the play was coming to life, but it wasn't quite there. The set loomed in pieces: a doorframe standing free of any wall, a staircase that climbed into nothing, furniture wrapped in plastic, waiting to be unwrapped. Work lights burned white over all of it, the unforgiving light that theaters use when they want to see every flaw, and in the middle of it, alone on the apron with a script she probably wasn't supposed to need anymore, stood Carrie.

Carrie had graduated two years after me. She'd starred in the big spring play her senior year. After that, according to Morgan's research, she'd gone out to Los Angeles for four years where she had done a few commercials and had some small parts in some very small productions, but she'd spent more time working as a waitress and a front desk clerk at a spa than she had in front of a camera or on a stage. Three years ago, she'd returned to Chicago and had once again struggled to get parts. But she'd had a supporting role in a play last year and this year she'd finally been cast as the lead in my aunt's production, which, according to Jay, had come at Hale's request. Which meant at some point Carrie and Hale had reunited. And that reunion had created her biggest professional role ever. I wondered if there was something to that.

But Carrie seemed to be struggling, and Professor Hale was nowhere to be seen.

I slid into the back row and sat down where nobody would see me.

"Again, Carrie," Jay said, from the production table ten rows back from the stage. "From 'You were never going to tell me.'"

Carrie found her mark. Rolled her shoulders. Started.

She wasn't bad. She was almost there. But everyone in the theater could hear the distance between almost and there. Her voice hit the words and slid off them. Her mannerisms seemed weak and uncertain.

"Stop," Jay said abruptly. "Carrie. What does your character want in this line?"

"She wants to know what happened when he went to the bank."

"That's the plot point. What does she want? What is she feeling? What does she really need to know?"

"What happened at the bank."

"No! She needs the truth. She needs to know he won't lie to her." Jay's voice wasn't cruel. It was worse than cruel; it was exasperated, frustrated, and disappointed. "You need to take us on an emotional journey. We have to feel what you're feeling, and right now it's like you're just going through the motions."

"I'm doing it the way you told me to do it before," she snapped. "Where is Hale? Why isn't he here? He understands this play better than anyone."

At Carrie's words, Jay looked at Vivienne. Vivienne turned her gaze back to the stage.

"Carrie," my aunt said. "Robert isn't here. And you don't need him. You've been rehearsing this role for weeks, and you've been far better than you are today. What's going on?"

"I don't feel that you or Jay believe in me the way Professor Hale does."

"You're not performing for Robert or Jay or myself. You're performing for the audience. Don't look at us. Look at the seats. Imagine the people watching you, wanting you to take them on a journey. Robert convinced me to give you this part. And you told me you could do it. Now is the time to prove you were both right."

"I need a break."

"Let's take fifteen," my aunt said as Carrie walked off the stage, and the other actors dispersed.

The house lights came up to half. I was about to get up and walk down the aisle to talk to Jay and my aunt when I saw Carrie heading their way. Maybe I needed to let that conversation play out, so I didn't disrupt the production.

As I watched, Carrie surprised me by walking right past Jay and my aunt. She headed straight for me, and I got to my feet.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded. "Did you come to shake me up? Are you trying to make me mess up? What is it with you, Tessa? Can't you ever let anyone else be good, be the star?"

I could see frustrated, angry tears welling up in her eyes, and I didn't think this was just about me. "You are good," I told her. "You're close to being great. That's why they're pushing you hard. They know you can do better."

She stared back at me. "You think I'm good?"

"Yes, I do. But you have to believe it. You're acting with uncertainty, not confidence. Why? You're the star. Embrace it."

"I can't with you watching me, with the tornado you brought to town. Everyone is getting caught up in it. Robert told me you came to his office, that you were there with a police officer, accusing him of sleeping with Paige and killing her to keep her quiet."