Thanks for Listening by Molly Horan

Author:Molly Horan
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollinsPublishers
Published: 2024-08-27T00:00:00+00:00

Twelve

The night of A Christmas Carol is always my favorite of the school year and is only slightly marred this year by the fact that I keep needing to run to the bathroom to cry. I wouldn’t say I’m a terribly nostalgic person, it’s just when Abby asked for help getting her holly scrunchie on, I remembered making the first batch of Christmas ghost scrunchies freshman year, and how the first time I truly felt like I was part of the crew is when a bunch of us moving the Cratchits’ table the next day winced in unison when it dug into the fresh hot glue burns on our fingers. Or when Essie asked for more safety pins for her Christmas Yet to Come’s robes, and I started wondering who would be giving her safety pins for her costumes this time next year, and would they get the variety of sizes like I always did, or would she be stuck with gigantic pins popping open and stabbing her whenever she made a dramatic gesture? And so I would run to the single-stall bathroom and cry for just a little bit. I don’t believe in crying in public. For myself, that is. I think everyone should have the space to express whatever emotions they’re experiencing in front of everyone, and people bottling up emotion can lead to violent outbursts and bad screenplays. But crying in front of theater kids means having to explain your feelings, and that’s just not something there’s time for on opening night. Or something I’m interested in doing in general, opening night or not. I think I’m pretty self-aware, but that means I’m also self-aware enough to know I’m highly suggestible, and I don’t want anyone else weighing in on potential reasons or remedies for my feelings when I know I’ve already figured them out.

I take stock of myself in the mirror. Everyone’s eyes are a little bloodshot by opening night because of the whole crash-week lack of sleep, and I don’t wear any mascara that would run anyway, so all I have to do to remove all evidence of my escalating sense of nostalgia leaking out of my eyes is thoroughly dry my cheeks. Satisfied, I swing the door open and walk almost directly into Sadie.

“I’m ready for my Christmas education. Blessed be the mistletoe. That’s what you guys say, right? Hey, what’s wrong?” she asks, suddenly looking at me more intently.

“Nothing’s wrong. You should grab a seat—some of the parents like to come early and put down coats in whole sections to make sure they’re covered if an aunt from the West Coast does show up. And every year, the coats seem to get bigger.”

“Why were you crying?” Sadie asks, not taking the hint that I want to change the subject or looking away from my face. I almost say, “I wasn’t.” If Talley or Essie had asked, I would have said I wasn’t, and I wouldn’t have even thought of it as a lie. I always kind of thought of lies about your personal feelings as not actual lies.

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