Lex tells us he has two goals for the next four weeks. “Learn everything I can from Willa Culver and have a hot summer romance.” I see him blush and sneak a hopeful glance at Jude. “Like Sandy in Grease.” He’s grinning when he says it, but there’s something almost sad underneath that mischievous sparkle in his blue eyes, and I wonder what his story is.

Then they’re all looking at me. Waiting. So I take my turn handing out the scraps of myself that I’ve deliberately chosen. I live with my dad. It’s just the two of us. My mom died when I was little. Acting is so deep a part of me that I can’t even imagine my life without the theatre. I don’t have a boyfriend right now. Or a girlfriend. I miss my cat. And I’m glad to be out of Texas for a few weeks. Because of the heat.

I hold up those pieces of me like it’s show-and-tell. But there are other pieces I keep hidden. Truths I stuff down into my pockets. Secrets I choke on like seawater. At least for now.

I don’t admit that I came here searching for something.

For someone.

Or that I’ve been here before. I don’t mean to Connecticut. I mean right here. To this exact spot.

And I definitely don’t tell them that this is where I died.

ACT I: SCENE 2

“To new friends,” Lex says, and he lifts his beer in a toast before handing it to Jude. Fingers touch. Flirty smiles. The wordless exchange of the slick bottle. Lip to lip.

“To summer,” Val chimes in, and we all drink to that.

“To George,” Jude adds, and everyone looks confused. “He’s the one who bought the beer.”

“Who’s George?” Lex demands.

“The Whisper Cove caretaker,” Jude explains. “He gets paid extra to keep an eye on things at night. But if you slip him a little weed, he’s happy to look the other way.”

“To George, then,” Val says.

A chorus of gratitude and bottles clinking. “To George!” More laughter.

Then it’s my turn. I feel the space they’ve left open for me.

“To the stage,” I offer. And they all applaud. Drink again.

“You ready for auditions tomorrow, Avril?” Val’s face is relaxed. She’s sifting sand through her fingers, but there’s an edge under her words that I recognize. Sure, we can be friends, it says, but don’t forget that we’re also competitors. Because auditions tomorrow night will determine what role each of us gets in the play we’ll be working on together.

Willa Culver’s play. The one that made her famous.

“Yeah,” I say. “I think I’m ready.” But suddenly I don’t feel so confident.