Walk down the street, steady as you can manage. Concentrate on the rhythm of the pavement, on the strain of putting one foot in front of the other, on how out of breath you are. Remember how many miles away the high school is and immediately pick up the pace.
Your goal right now should be punctuality; you do not want to be the last one in the building. The longer the tear-down goes past schedule, the more of the blame will go to you. Not that the cast will say anything, of course, but still. If you cannot be early (and you know now that you will not), be on time. If you cannot be on time, do your best not to be too late. You will have to work doubly hard to compensate.
With this in mind, do not stop when you feel your right finger spasm. Pain is only pain. Allow the paper towels wrapped around your pinky to do their work. You’ve stuck your hand in a plastic bag as well, to catch any runoff droplets, and this should tide you over until you make it to a bathroom. You will have to replace the components of your jury-rigged bandage when you arrive, but for now this will suffice.
Keep going. It’s a beautiful Sunday, the middle of April, and there’s a light breeze cresting through the trees. Focus on the positives: you are functional, you are self-sufficient, and you are managing. More importantly, you have somewhere you need to be. Let the knowledge that people are depending on you bolster you, pushing you forward past the next intersection.
When the car pulls alongside you, ignore it. Allow it to idle as you continue walking. The driver will call out to you, but you must not engage. Responding to him will not prove anything to anyone.
Looking down, you may notice that the paper towels are soaked through. That the blood has collected and pooled in the bottom of the bag, where it has begun to leak out in trickles. You will feel a little light-headed. This is normal. Keep the same pace, ignoring the trail of darkened dots littering the sidewalk behind you.
By this point the driver has begun to honk at you. Take a moment to consider three things: one, that he is making a scene. Already passing cars are slowing to see what the fuss is about. Two, that it is approaching ten o’ clock, and it will be faster to get a ride than to walk. Three, that it will likely be difficult to strike the set if you are bleeding all over it.
Resign yourself to the inevitable and stop where you are. Turn and get into the passenger seat of your father’s SUV.
Remove the paper towels and plastic bag from your hand. The gash is small, a flap of skin hanging off your pinky from where his car keys tore it open. Allow him to disinfect it with Purell. Grit your teeth and try not to swear.
Do not let him put a Band-Aid on your finger. You are a junior in high school, you can do that yourself. Protest when he takes it and wraps it up anyway. Not too much, though; you do not want the argument to resume where it left off. You’re running late enough as it is.
Once the Band-Aid is secure, he will pull out of his makeshift parking spot. Settle into the seat and flex your other hand. Be thankful that none of the blood has gotten on your clothes.
Do not look at him when he talks. It will be easier for everyone if you keep your gaze affixed to the window. He will tell you that it was an accident, that he was just trying to yank the keys back from you, that he didn’t mean to. That he’s sorry. Wonder if it’s easier or harder to know that he’s telling the truth.
Sit in silence. Tap your foot to the imaginary radio.
When you arrive, you are eighteen minutes late. Apologize to the director and realize that your voice is still hoarse. Shrug off any questions about your injury. Notice some of the cast staring at you. Go to the bathroom and splash water on your face three times. Test the Band-Aid; it’s holding fine. Dry your hands with a paper towel, a brown one this time, cheap and rough but unstained by any trace of red. Return to the auditorium. Pick up a screwdriver.
Spend the next three and a half hours ignoring your finger as you tear up floorboards, rip out nails, saw bedposts into segments and bash down makeshift walls, press power drills deep into stubborn screws, stack memories and wood into neat little piles, cart the unusable debris outside to the parking lot and fling it all into the dumpster. Think about the play and the set and nothing else.
Call your mom once you’re finished. In fifteen minutes she will pull into the front entrance. Climb in the back of the minivan. Neither of you will speak at first. When she asks how it went, say fine. Let her drive you home.