That Way Madness Lies Read online

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  FOR MICAH,

  WHOSE STORIES ARE ONLY JUST BEGINNING

  INTRODUCTION

  William Shakespeare may well be the most widely read author of the Western world, which comes with incredible influence. His works have sparked countless adaptations, from films like Baz Luhrmann’s Romeo + Juliet and the Taming of the Shrew–based ’90s rom-com 10 Things I Hate About You to musicals like West Side Story and Kiss Me, Kate. He’s also the wordsmith behind a stunning number of phrases that remain in common parlance; for instance, if you ever say something is a “foregone conclusion,” you are pulling from Othello.

  Four hundred years after Shakespeare shuffled off this mortal coil (we owe that one to Hamlet), the stories and themes of his brilliant and evocative comedies, tragedies, histories, and late romances still resonate deeply, but as we’ve seen time and time again, so much is gained by giving them new settings, genres, and especially points of view.

  Shakespeare’s unique ability to craft characters with humor, pathos, and ambition combined with his ubiquity has given his stories a kind of power that has allowed for his work to define people for centuries. This includes both those whom he chose to portray and those he did not. Although most writers of his time were no different, to say Shakespeare did not do marginalized people any favors is an understatement; many of us still live with the effects of his caricatures and common story lines today.

  As in my prior anthology, His Hideous Heart: 13 of Edgar Allan Poe’s Most Unsettling Tales Reimagined, the authors here have deconstructed and reconstructed an inarguably brilliant but very white and very straight canon. I wanted to give authors the power to revisit and give new spirit to these narratives, much in the same way that I, as a Jewish author, eagerly anticipated remaking The Merchant of Venice to give the Shylock analogue considerably more agency.

  The result is a collection that explores different cultures, celebrates a variety of genders and forms of love, and addresses different kinds of emotional pain head-on.

  I hope you love the result as much as I do.

  —DAHLIA ADLER

  COMEDIES

  SEVERE WEATHER WARNING

  Inspired by The Tempest

  Emily Wibberley and Austin Siegemund-Broka

  Though with their high wrongs I am struck to th’ quick,

  Yet with my nobler reason ’gainst my fury

  Do I take part. The rarer action is

  In virtue than in vengeance.

  —ACT 5, SCENE 1

  O brave new world,

  That has such people in ’t!

  —ACT 5, SCENE 1

  I haul my sister’s luggage down the stairs, letting the suitcase strike every step. The noise reverberates into the house and joins with the echoes of thunder in a foreboding rhythm. Nevertheless, I feel a sliver of pleasure whenever I drop the wheels onto the undeserving hardwood.

  I’m angry, as angry as the storm outside. When I reach the entryway, I hear the screen door rattling, the hinges and mesh shaking while the wind whips past the porch. On the front table is the folder of documents Mom prepared this morning before hugging Patience goodbye and heading to work—my sister’s boarding pass, emergency contact information, the credit card Patience got special for this summerlong internship in New York. I’m seventeen—one year older than Patience—and even I don’t have a credit card. And I’m certainly not getting on a plane anytime soon. I’m stuck in Nowhere, Oklahoma, for the foreseeable future.

  “Patience,” I shout up the stairs. “We have to go.”

  There’s no reply except the storm, howling up the driveway and shaking the windowpanes. I check my phone. We should have been on the road twenty minutes ago. The reason we’re not is Patience’s boyfriend, who just had to drop in and say goodbye in person. For thirty minutes. In Patience’s bedroom. With the door closed.

  Patience has done everything before me. Credit card, job, trip out of Oklahoma—and boyfriend. The only thing I have on her is my driver’s license. Which right now just makes me my sister’s chauffeur.

  It’s the irony of our names. Patience has never had to practice patience in her entire life, what with how quickly everything comes to her. Whatever she wants, whenever she wants it. Whereas I, named Prosper—the whim of a mother who loves poetry—haven’t seen a whole lot of what passes for prosperity in high school. Not when it comes to internships or summer opportunities or homecoming dates who aren’t Netflix.

  I start back up the stairs, the wood groaning under me like it’s protesting its earlier mistreatment. Everything creaks in this house. Every cupboard, every door. Whenever there’s humidity or wind, everything makes noise, like the house carries on wordless conversations with itself.

  Presently, I’m hoping the wood speaks loud enough for Patience to hear. I doubt it will. I’m fully prepared to walk in on my younger sister having sex with Benjamin Campos.

  I knock once on the door. There’s no response.

  “You’re going to miss your flight,” I call out. Despite how jealous I am of her leaving, I want her to make her plane. It’s the one upside of her flying to New York today. I won’t have to see her this summer—won’t have to be reminded of what was stolen from me.

  When I knock for the second time, the door flies open.

  Patience doesn’t look short of breath, or flushed, or sweaty. She looks pale. Her skin’s practically porcelain white, her hair—auburn like mine—tucked behind her ears like she’s pushed it there compulsively.

  Behind her, Benjamin’s standing in the middle of the room, crying.

  “I’m ready now,” Patience says. Benjamin sniffles.

  I’m not sure if Patience cringes. Her hazel eyes remain unreadable. I’m stunned, watching this scene, uncomprehending. Is Benjamin this distraught my sister’s leaving? It’s not like Patience isn’t coming home, not like she’s being shipped off to some deserted island or exiled from Oklahoma permanently. Her internship is only six weeks. I feel bad for him, even if I can’t empathize with sadness at my sister’s absence.

  “Are you sure?” I ask.

  Patience doesn’t glance over her shoulder, doesn’t hesitate. “So sure. Let’s go.” She sounds like she’s leaving a boring party, not her bawling boyfriend.

  I peer past her. Benjamin doesn’t look like he’s noticed I’m even here. His eyes balefully roam my sister’s room, as if searching for solace in her furnishings or the random collection of items Patience has picked up throughout her effortlessly successful childhood. Trophies from kids’ soccer, photos of her playing with school orchestras, spelling bee ribbons. From their haphazard placement, I don’t even feel like she’s proud of them. She just needs places to put her accomplishments.

  I nod slightly in Benjamin’s direction. “Is he…?”

  “He’s fine,” Patience replies quickly. She grabs her backpack and walks past me out of the room.

  Benjamin, however, stays right where
he is. He has the gangly frame of a fifteen-year-old boy, and his slightly greasy hair hangs down his forehead like he has no idea how long hair should be. The crying helps none of it, wet streaks running down his light-brown cheeks. “Do you, um, need a ride?” I ask him.

  He looks up. Then he bursts into sobs. “My brother’s outside,” he chokes out.

  I stand in the doorway, hoping he’ll take the hint and leave Patience’s bedroom. Before he can, my phone starts emitting a siren. Benjamin’s starts up the next moment, followed by the echo of Patience’s downstairs.

  While the noise continues, I pull out my phone.

  It’s the worst possible time for what I know I’ll find. I read the words of the notification with frustrated dread. Tornado watch. I’ve lived in Oklahoma my entire life. I know to expect the occasional tornado. This one’s just spectacularly inconvenient.

  Over the asynchronous sounds of our phones, I hear Benjamin’s voice.

  “I told her I loved her,” he says, like he’s speaking mostly to himself, “and she broke up with me.”

  * * *

  Now dealing with three problems—a weeping boy, a sister who’s extremely late for her flight, and a tornado—I gently close the door of Patience’s bedroom and go interrogate my sister. When I reach the foot of the stairs, I find her packing the folder Mom prepared for her into her backpack. “You broke up with him?”

  Patience shrugs her backpack onto one shoulder. “Yeah, with the internship and everything, it was time.” She sounds like she’s commenting on the weather. Well, the weather on a normal day. Not this weather.

  “Wait,” I say when she reaches for the door. “What’re you doing?”

  “We should have been on the road by now,” she says seriously, like I’m the one who needs reminding. “We’ll have to hurry if I’m going to make my flight.”

  Her presumptuousness would piss me off if I weren’t worried about her walking into gale-force winds. “You’re joking,” I say.

  Patience looks at me quizzically. “It’s just a tornado watch. Look, it’s fine outside.”

  She walks to the front window and opens the curtains. It does not look fine outside. I knew it wouldn’t. While a tornado watch doesn’t mean a tornado’s happening, it means there are the right conditions for one. Out the window, black clouds blanket the day. It looks like night, and it’s two in the afternoon. The official recommendation for a tornado watch is to “have a plan.” I’m pretty certain a good plan doesn’t include driving to the airport.

  Before I can explain this to Patience, the front door opens. I jump, thinking the wind’s blown it open.

  It’s not the wind. It’s Sam Campos, who is dripping wet. His hair—darker and wavier than his brother’s—is plastered to his forehead, and rainwater runs down his long, straight nose. “Hey, Prosper. Can I, uh, wait in here?” he asks. “The storm is looking kind of intense.”

  “Of course,” I reply. I’m friendly enough with Sam. We kissed once in seventh grade. It was very awkward. We didn’t speak for three years, despite only having fifty people in our grade. Now, we’re going into senior year, and we still don’t really hang out. We mostly know each other from situations like this—shepherding our younger siblings on dates and to each other’s houses. We’re high school in-laws.

  Or we were.

  Sam steps farther into the room and pulls off his soaking raincoat, flinging a few drops onto Ariel—our cat, who was lounging on the heating vent, like he does. When the water hits his fur, he flees the room. Sam’s shirt sticks to his skin, revealing, one might say, other differences from his brother. The elder Campos sibling is not gangly. He’s a swimmer, and, well, he has the receipts.

  While I want desperately to look away, I can’t, and he notices. “Sorry,” he says, humor and no cockiness in his voice. “I had to walk up the drive, and the rain was practically horizontal.”

  “Oh, yeah. Totally—fine.” I congratulate myself on coming off cool and collected. “Do you, um, need a towel?”

  I dart into the bathroom where I pull one of the hand towels off the rack. When I return, Sam’s draped his dripping raincoat on the hooks next to the door. “You excited for your internship?” he asks Patience, mussing his hair with the towel I gave him. “Benjamin told me how competitive it was to get.”

  I ignore what the praise does to me. Not because it’s Sam but because I really don’t need to hear yet again how impressive my younger sister is.

  “Well, I’m going to miss it if we don’t leave.” Patience fires her words in my direction.

  Fed up, I take out my phone and search Patience’s flight number. “Look.” I wave the screen in her face. “Your flight’s delayed. Because of, you know, the tornado?”

  Patience’s eyes narrow, her gaze withering. “Eventually the storm will lift? And I’ll need to be at the airport?”

  I grimace. We’re at the passive-aggressive point where every statement is spoken as a question.

  “I want you to be on that flight more than anyone, but I’m not driving in this,” I say, folding my arms over my chest.

  Like the weather is listening, the pounding on the roof intensifies. “Hail,” Sam says. Out the front window, small chunks of ice patter the ground. Patience looks miserable and like she has nothing to say, which Sam notices. “Hey, at least this gives you and Ben some extra time together. Where is he, anyway?”

  He’s obviously trying to cheer her up, but Patience forces an uncomfortable smile. “I’m going to call the program coordinator from Mom’s room and explain the delay,” she says to me.

  She disappears down the hallway. I’m left with Sam, and I realize it’s my job to explain what my sister didn’t want to. He faces me, looking understandably confused. “Where is my brother?”

  “Upstairs. In Patience’s room,” I reply. Sam starts for the stairs. “Um. He might need some privacy.”

  “Oh god.” Sam pales. “Did you walk in on them? Is that what’s behind the weird vibe in here? One time I went into his room not knowing Patience was over … I’m really sorry if you had to see my brother’s butt. I know how traumatizing it is. He’s young, but hairier than one would expect—”

  “No!” I cut him off. “No. I didn’t walk in on them. They broke up.”

  His eyes widen. “No. No way. They’re, like, sickeningly in love.”

  I understand his disbelief, and in my head, I commend his perfect word choice. “Sickening” is exactly how I’d describe the one movie night where they didn’t know I knew what was going on under their blanket. Moulin Rouge will never be the same for me. “Benjamin is crying upstairs,” I inform his brother.

  His expression flattens. “Your sister dumped him?”

  “In fairness, I don’t know the full story. The decision could have been mutual,” I protest weakly. Sam gives me an unconvinced look. “Fine. She dumped him.”

  “He must be really upset. I have to check on him.” He starts up the stairs, his expression endearingly nervous.

  While his footsteps join with the sounds of the hail on the roof, I go to the window. The weather worsens with every minute. In the neighbors’ yard, the wind knocks over the plastic play structure, pushing it into the fence. The rain is incessant, and new clouds have gathered on the horizon.

  I know one thing for certain. We’re all trapped here—together—for a while.

  * * *

  “I’m so glad you’re not out on the roads,” Mom says over the phone. She speaks frankly and fast, and I’ve never known whether it’s just who she is or a product of her hectic job, keeping everything moving and everyone calm in the hospital where she’s a nurse.

  I’m in my room, idly counting the lights strung over my desk. “I know,” I say. “How’s the weather where you are?”

  Mom couldn’t get out of her shift to drive Patience to the airport. Her hospital is thirty minutes from our house on the edge of what could generously be called a small town. It feels more like an island, with miles and miles of straig
ht, dusty roads separating us from the rest of everything.

  “I already have a couple storm-chaser injuries. I don’t think I’ll be able to get out of here before tonight,” Mom says. “Will you guys be okay on your own?”

  “Don’t worry about us,” I reply. I’m used to Mom’s long hours, and I honestly don’t dislike the freedom it leaves me. “Benjamin and Sam are also here.”

  “Oh, fun. Tell them to stay until the tornado watch is over. No one should be on the road right now.”

  I don’t bother to dispel her idea of how “fun” it’ll be having Benjamin and Patience’s drama one room over. I glance out my open doorway to the other end of the hall, where my sister’s door is closed. Neither Ben nor Sam has emerged.

  “Of course,” I reply.

  “I’ve got to go, kiddo. Be gentle with your sister. I’m sure she’s upset about her flight,” Mom says, and I feel my mood darken like the clouds outside.

  “Right. Talk later.” I hang up, frustrated. Everything is about Patience’s feelings, her internship, and never what she did to me. At least I can thank this storm for making Patience’s life fractionally more difficult. Meteorological payback.

  Her door opens. Sam wanders into the hall, looking lost for a moment. His eyes find mine, and he smiles slightly. In just two steps of his swimmer’s legs, he’s sauntered up to my doorframe.

  “How is he?” I nod in the direction of Benjamin in Patience’s room.

  Sam walks into my room and closes the door. He surveys my walls for a few silent seconds. He’s never been in my room, and I find myself wondering what he thinks. I’ve put effort into my decorations—the lights over my desk, the cross-stitched sayings in frames on one wall, the shelves packed with used paperbacks from garage sales. I’m proud of my room. I figure if I’m stuck here, I want it to look nice.

  “He’s not great,” Sam says, not mincing words. “He wants to talk to her, but I convinced him it’s not a good idea while he’s so emotional. I hope I did, anyway. How’s Patience?”