Starry-Eyed (20 page)

“Congratulations, Juliet.”

Then Landon went home to deal once again with the fact that he was a total fraud.

. . . . .

The thing was, Landon Avery wasn't an actor. He paid attention in acting class, watched Oscar-winning performances and noticed what people like Jack Nicholson and Meryl Streep did to capture the inner lives of their characters, and intended to major in theater in college. Usually he did his best, which was probably terrible. Deep down, he was sure he'd never done a day's acting in his life.

His real talent was far stranger than that.

He couldn't say whether he was born with it, or if it came to him later, or why he had it. All Landon knew for sure was that he'd become aware of his talent—and capable of consciously using it—just over a year ago, the summer between his sophomore and junior year. That was when his mother came home from choir practice and walked into his room at the exact moment he'd pulled up a full-screen naked picture of Michael Fassbender.

“What are you doing?” The hard edge of panic in her voice cut him to the quick. “Why are you looking at—
that
?”

It just came up on Google. Somebody sent it to me as a joke
. But the excuses wouldn't come out of his mouth. He could only gape at his mother, rolling over so at least she wouldn't see his pajama bottoms were tented out.

Didn't matter. She
knew
.

“Oh, my God. I don't believe this,” she said, and he didn't think she was talking about how good Michael Fassbender looked. It was the single most terrifying moment of his life. Landon had stared up at her, unable to speak, seeing only her pale face, the way she opened and closed her mouth, how her hands clasped together so hard the knuckles were white—

—don't
, he thought.
Don't hate me. Please, Mom. Just don't hate me—

—and he felt it. A soft
thump
against his chest, though he wasn't the one struck; he was the one striking out.

What it came down to was this: He wanted his mother to accept him. He
willed
her to do it. And she did.

“Oh, sweetheart, it's okay,” she said. A hollow smile came over her face, and her hands relaxed as color returned to her cheeks. All her shock seemed to have been emptied out. “You like boys, don't you? I understand.”

“You do?” Landon knew he'd done this, made her accept him, but he still didn't understand
how
. His heart was pounding so hard it felt as though it would break his ribs, cave him in. “Are you sure?”

“Of course I'm sure.” Mom patted his shoulder, like he'd just told her something . . . minor. “Maybe I should leave you alone for a bit.”

That night, Mom took it upon herself to tell Dad over dinner. By instinct, Landon had done it again,
thump
, and Dad's frown had vanished. “You're my boy, same as ever. Okay, Landon?”

“Okay,” Landon had said faintly. But his fork remained poised over his plate, touching nothing.

The next day, Landon had headed to the movie theater—the first place
he'd thought of where he might find a lot of people together that he didn't know. There he'd tried a few tests. He figured out that when he used this mysterious talent of his on someone, he could influence that person's emotions. No, not just influence:
control
. But his power went no further than that.

He couldn't make someone start dancing wildly in the lobby. He couldn't make the bored girl behind the concession stand start giving out free Raisinets. But he
could
make people think they were hungry, and then snack sales rose.

The Adam Sandler movie was just about the stupidest film Landon had ever seen, and the audience sat there in silent boredom—until he wished for them to find the jokes funnier, and funnier, feeling the
thump
in his chest each time he did it, until by the end they were applauding and wiping away tears of laughter. Other tests in other places over the next several weeks confirmed his conclusion: He couldn't control actions, but he could control emotions. People felt whatever Landon wanted them to feel. What they did about their feelings remained up to them.

Landon had ultimately decided that was a relief. Controlling people like puppets would be completely creepy. Even controlling their emotions was weird—he was a freak and now he knew it—but it wasn't, well,
evil
. Not if all he did was make sure his parents didn't hate him for being gay, or let people believe a bad movie was hilarious.

When he'd asked himself how he could use his talent in a way that wouldn't hurt anyone, immediately he'd realized the answer: acting.

His whole life, Landon had dreamed of being an actor. Most people who said they wanted to go into acting really just wanted to be famous. But Landon hoped to seriously pursue drama, to create characters from the inside out. When other little kids were watching cartoons, he'd been watching reruns of
Inside the Actors Studio
. But he'd never had the self-confidence to believe he could actually get up on a stage and convince other people he was this completely different person . . . until his strange new talent showed him a way in.

He threw himself into the drama department. Every time he auditioned, Mrs. K was blown away, and even the other students trying out for the same part said he should get the role. When he performed onstage, the audience came alive. If he wasn't
really
acting, he was at least using his natural talents, right? Just making people happy. That had to be okay.

There were other uses, as well. When Mitchell McLane and his thick-necked friends started coughing “fag” under their breath at him, Landon made them feel ashamed of themselves. After that, he noticed most of those guys became not only nicer to him, but also to the other kids in school believed to be gay. Emboldened, Landon came out. While some people still hated him for it, he made sure none of them felt like saying anything about it to his face. He used his talent for others, too: whenever Claire started looking worried about exams or auditions or anything else, he made sure she felt like everything would work out.

And now his parents were members of PFLAG. They proudly supported him no matter what. Only Landon wondered how deep their acceptance went, whether anything like love was behind their constant smiles. All he knew was that every time the subject came up, he instinctively used his talent again, felt the
thump
, and ensured that they'd think they still loved him . . . even if maybe, deep down, they didn't.

That was why Landon had never dated anyone, or even kissed another guy. What if he accidentally willed someone into liking him back? It was bad enough to not know if his parents really liked him anymore. Landon thought being alone forever couldn't be half as horrible as always having to wonder if the person you loved would love you back. Or if they had any choice.

. . . . .

Scotsville High was a pretty big school, and Landon didn't make a habit of attending swim meets, so he'd never actually seen Jesse Pearce except at a distance. The guy turned out to be even better looking close up, which
ought to have been impossible.

Jesse was tall—six feet or so. He had coal-black hair and eyes so dark they seemed to match. Swimming had given him broad shoulders, muscular arms, and a tapered waist. But he wasn't vain or loudmouthed like most of the jocks. He was, as Claire had whispered once, “the strong, silent type.”

Landon had never known that was his type. He knew now.

After the first read-through, Landon understood why Jesse had been cast. Mrs. K always liked to throw a small role to one of the nondrama students—
see, everyone can get involved!
—but Jesse had a quality of barely controlled power that just
worked
for Tybalt. Instead of playing his character as the stereotypical hothead, Jesse infused Tybalt with a kind of quiet menace.

As if he's angry
, Landon thought as he lay in the wings, his head pillowed on his balled-up jacket. Jesse stood onstage as Mrs. K blocked out his first scene.
Like there's this fury waiting to boil over, right beneath the surface—

“Someone's got a
cruuuu-uuush
,” Claire singsonged in his ear, softly enough that no one else would hear.

“I know it's hopeless. But I can look, can't I?”

“As long as I can look too.” She stretched on her belly beside him, miniskirt only kept decent by the black tights she wore. “But stop being so cold to Jesse, okay? You've spent the past three weeks trying so hard not to show how crushed out you are that you're
broadcasting
it. Like, the volume is up to eleven, Landon. Turn it down.”

“I'm not being unfriendly,” he protested, but she was right. While he hadn't been outright rude, he'd never joked around with Jesse, struck up conversations, or anything like that. “Not so he's noticed, anyway.”

“He's noticed. Sometimes I see him looking at you. Like he's wondering what's what.”

There had been other moments, ones Claire apparently hadn't seen. Jesse had asked Landon to interpret a couple Shakespearian phrases into modern-human-speak; they'd leaned together over the script, working out
what a “runagate” was, or why it was insulting to be called “goodman boy.” Jesse always asked nicely, always said thank you. The only reason anybody thought Jesse was stuck up was because he was so quiet, but that was just his way. He could be drawn out, probably, if you had the chance and the time. But whenever they spoke, Landon felt like he had to escape before he did something stupid.

Landon sighed. Jesse would never know that Landon was dodging him for his own protection. And he didn't see how he could spend much more time around Jesse and not wish for Jesse to want him back.

At the end of rehearsal, though, despite Landon's best efforts to steer clear, Jesse walked right up to him.

“Hi.” Jesse had a deeper voice than most guys. “Listen, I'd like to go over the fight scene sometime. You and me. Sean and I worked on it, but the early part, where you draw and we get started, it's tricky.”

“Yeah. It . . . definitely is.”
Oh, God, did he hear me talking to Claire? He didn't. Okay. But now he's talking to me, and I feel like I should run away. Or kiss him. Or kiss him and then run away
. How was he supposed to get out of this one?

But as Landon looked up at Jesse, the two of them together in a half-dark hallway behind the stage, everyone else in the world seemingly far in the distance, his resolve weakened.

Jesse's
straight.
Totally straight. It's not like I could make a straight guy fall for me, even if I tried, which I wouldn't
, Landon rationalized. He could affect emotions, not actions. Worst-case scenario, he might make Jesse . . . question himself, but not even his strange talent could make Jesse do something they'd both regret.
Besides, I need to stop broadcasting. Act natural
.

“Yeah. Let's do it.” Their eyes met, and Landon had to swallow hard before asking, “When?”

. . . . .

When
turned out to be Thursday night, and
where
turned out to be Jesse's house, which was only about a mile away from Landon's. Landon rode his bike over after class rather than ask for a ride from his mom. It was no big deal, just an extra rehearsal; Landon was proud of himself for not even changing clothes before heading over.

But that morning he'd been sure to put on the black T-shirt Claire always said made him look hot.

He had always assumed Jesse was one of the rich kids; most of the really popular people at Scotsville had money. But the Pearce house wasn't that different from Landon's own home, except for all of Jesse's trophies in the living room. Jesse's parents were out for the night—an unexpected bonus.

“Hey.” Jesse smiled, and only then did Landon realize how rare that smile was. “Glad you came. I wasn't sure you would.”

That had to be a reference to Landon's standoffishness. Landon decided it was best glossed over. “You're right. We should nail this scene. It's the most important one in the play.”

“More important than the balcony scene?”

“First rule of acting:
your
big scene is always the most important one, no matter who you're playing.” That made Jesse smile again, which made Landon feel witty, intelligent, and sort of like he might be melting inside. “Besides that,” Landon continued, “the fight between Mercutio and Tybalt is key. Before the fight,
Romeo and Juliet
is mostly a comedy, you know? You have to kill me before it turns into a tragedy.”

“Good point.”

It had occurred to Landon that if they really wanted to perfect this scene, they ought to have asked over the other actors who appeared in it. But neither of them had brought it up.

Jesse's room was almost scarily neat, with a lot of empty floor space they could use. His fat Siamese cat slept in the desk chair, which they sometimes rolled into place so that the cat could be Benvolio or Romeo as the moment demanded. They wound up using old Nerf bats as their swords,
but Landon didn't care. Not as long as he and Jesse were having fun.

“Okay, so, Mercutio is the one who starts it,” Landon said. “He's full of himself, and it's like he doesn't even get that swords can actually hurt people.”