Archive of Our Own

She eyes the stage critically, reciting lines in her head as they're spoken aloud, studying as feet slide over colored markings and step over taped cables, listening as pitch after pitch sails from their mouthes, tapping her finger at sound cues, watching Diane Lane trip over a piece of scenery that has only been there for the last three months. Good Lord. Next year, they're doing Timon of Athens and Diane will be Lavinia.

The mute.

“Sister Chantelle?”

She doesn't look away. “Uh-huh.”

“We can't find Peter and Jason?”

“Excuse me?”

“We can't find Peter and Jason,” Liam whispers nervously. “They're not backstage or in the wings or in the dressing room or the bathroom or—”

Glancing out at the stage, Sister Chantelle suddenly notices the stilled silence that has come upon the stage, the students looking at each other surreptitiously, waiting for Jason and Peter to enter. As they clearly aren't going to.

She knows exactly where the two are, and she almost thumps her head against the nearby wall in frustration. Honestly.

“I know where they are. Go hold up the show, Liam.”

The boy almost pees himself. “What? Me?”

“Yes, you,” she snaps. “Get on stage and make an announcement.”

“But what do I say?”

She rolls her eyes. “Tell 'em we're takin' a prayer break.”

Sister Chantelle raps on the door three times. “Makin' up or breakin' up—whatever's goin' on in there, y'all got ten seconds to get clothed before I come in,” she barks, planting her hands on her hips.

There is more noise, something thumps, and then the door swings open and Jason's face appears.

“It's, uh, just me and Peter in here,” he says.

She gives him a flat look. “I know.”

Jason's eyes widen and his head snaps around.

“It wasn't me!” she hears Peter protest. “I swear!”

“God did give me eyes, honey,” she says as gently as possible—which, considering the fact that these two star-crossed, hormonal idiots are holding up her show, isn't exactly gentle. “And your ten seconds are up. Let me in.”

With obvious reluctance, Jason pulls the door open all the way, revealing a room that, even for a teenage boy, is a disaster site. It takes her all of five seconds to see the clothes strewn everywhere, the absent laptop, and the suitcase open on the bed, and she puts together what's going on almost instantly.

For heaven's sake.

“Don't tell me you two fools are eloping.”

“We're not!” Jason protests, just as Peter demands, “So what if we are?”

The two stare at each other.

“I said no more hiding,” Peter mumbles at last, his eyes going down to the floor.

Jason looks as though he has several things to say to this, but he keeps his mouth shut. He turns back to her and says defiantly, “We're leaving.”

She stares at them for a second or two. Finally, she exhales.

“Sit.”

They sit.

“Together,” she elaborates exasperatedly, and Peter sheepishly gets up to join Jason on his bed. They sit shoulder-to-shoulder, Peter's hand sitting between them casually, as if he isn't very obviously hopeful that Jason will pick it up and hold it.

She glances at the clock that hangs on the wall, noting that she's already taken fifteen minutes.

“So,” she says at last, turning to the two boys. “You're running away. Where to?”

“Away from here,” Jason informs her, lifting his chin.

“Yes, I got that part,” she says dryly. “Where are you running away to?”

Jason glances at Peter, but it's obvious that neither one of them knows.

Sister Chantelle moves on, before they can actually start figuring it out. “And you're going to support yourselves? Without even a high school degree?”

“We'll get GEDs,” Jason answers quickly, but Peter's frowning quietly.

“And Notre Dame? Berkley?” she persists.

Peter bites his lip.

Jason's eyes go to the floor for a minute, then he shakes his head and meets her gaze. “I'd rather be wi—they can come later. We can defer enrollment.”

“And what about your families?” she prompts.

“Please,” Jason snorts. “My parents won't even notice I'm gone.”

There's no mistaking Peter's thoughts about this, though—his eyes are shining, and he's staring at the ground fixedly.

“What about Nadia?” Sister Chantelle asks gently.

“She—” Jason stops, and he plainly realizes that he's trapped. His eyes dart around the room, looking an out. “I... I'll call her. She'll understand.”

A tear is sliding down Peter's cheek.

“Peter?” Sister Chantelle inquires softly. “Do you feel the same way?”

Peter sobs, the tears spilling over.

Jason turns his head to look at him in surprise, and it's almost reflexive the way that he reaches out, the way that he pulls Peter towards him, the way that Peter buries his face into Jason's shoulder, the way that Jason is holding him—

“Hey, hey, hey,” Jason says softly, so much so that Sister Chantelle has to strain to hear.

Because yes, it is her business.

“What's the matter?” Jason asks gently, his hand stroking Peter's hair. “What?”

“I—” Peter chokes, and then slowly pulls back, his sobs quieting but tears still running down his face. “I don't want to go. My mom, and college, I want to go to college, too, and we can't just leave Nadia and what about Ivy? We can't—you can't—”

“We can't stay here, Peter,” Jason murmurs.

Sister Chantelle begs to differ, actually.

But she restrains herself and looks at the clock, which tells her that the audience has been waiting for nearly twenty minutes, now.

So much for her pay raise.

“Please,” Peter begs, taking Jason's hand in his. “It's only for one more week, and then—Jason, I'll transfer to Notre Dame. You can come to Berkley. We can go to some community college in Bumfuck, Arkansas, I don't care. Running away—it's messed up, and I—I can't do it.”

“Peter...” Jason's face is as broken as his voice.

“And what about Ivy?” Peter continues. “What about... Jason, that isn't fair. It's not.”

“I don't care,” Jason argues, taking his hand out of Peter's and placing it on Peter's forearm. “Just me and you, Peter—forever you and I, remember?”

Peter sniffles.

Sister Chantelle rolls her eyes.

“I don't want to hide,” Peter whispers.

Jason pulls Peter close, his eyes falling shut as he brings his head down. “I know.”

She watches the clock and lets them embrace for exactly thirty seconds, and then she clears her throat loudly.

Reluctantly, they pull apart and turn to look at her, Peter wiping his eyes and Jason's expression just daring her to say something.

“Well, I don't know how y'all plan on hiding that,” she says, because really, this is like watching Romeo and Juliet all over again, except instead of directing it she's sitting in the role of Friar Lawrence, who she's never liked anyway.

And good grief, they're still holding hands.

“But,” she continues, “but we can talk it over after the show. Get your costumes back on, Rochelle can touch up your makeup, and then we'll work this out afterwards.”

Jason frowns.

Sister Chantelle raises her hands. “No one's getting expelled, no one's in trouble, and no one's going to tell your parents or Father.”

“Okay,” Peter says in a small voice.

Jason looks down at him. “You're sure?”

Peter nods.

“Okay,” Jason agrees, turning to look at her. He nods his head. “Okay.”

“Good.” She stands up, straightens her robe, and then looks down at the pair. “Hurry up and change, we've held up the show long enough.”

They both look startled at this.

“You stopped the show?”

She glances at the clock, sees that a full twenty-five minutes have passed, and she sighs. “Get dressed. The audience is probably wondering if I'm making you do the whole rosary by now.”