by Dani Jansen
I knocked on the open door to the drama room, waiting for Mr. Evans to look up from the script he was notating. The room was darker than usual. Mr. Evans was using his desk lamp instead of the overhead fluorescents that turned everyone’s skin sallow. I couldn’t blame him for choosing ambience over brightness. It was nice to escape the white-noise hum of the fluorescents. When Mr. Evans finally looked up, he smiled and asked, “What can I do for you, Alison?”
I entered the room and stood before his desk, hands clasped in front of me. Time to confess. “Mr. Evans, I have to tell you something. I’ve messed things up.” The knot in my chest eased a fraction more, though I held my breath as I waited for his reaction.
“Oh?” Mr. Evans cocked his head to the side, the warm light from his lamp gleaming on his bald spot and highlighting the red fringe around it like a ring of fire.
“I promised Jenny that she would have full control over her designs.” Mr. Evans opened his mouth to say something, but I rushed on before he could interrupt me. I needed to get this out. “I know I had no authority to tell her that. I thought I was doing the right thing for the show, but I know now that I should have spoken to you.”
“Yes, you should have.” Mr. Evans didn’t sound mad, but he didn’t sound happy either.
“I get that now. So instead of acting as a messenger between the two of you, I thought I should bring you together to talk.” I took a step closer to his desk.
“That sounds reasonable,” Mr. Evans said. “Let’s set something up. Maybe I should come to the production meeting on Wednesday.”
I cleared my throat and looked at the ground. “I think we should have the meeting today. You see, Jenny sort of quit, so she won’t exactly be at the production meeting on Wednesday.”
“Why didn’t you tell me our set painter quit?” Mr. Evans seemed genuinely confused at this point.
Time for some more honesty. I blushed as I admitted, “I was afraid you’d think I was doing a bad job if I told you she quit. I thought I could fix this on my own, but I can’t. I’m sorry.”
“Alison, I have worked with a lot of people in my many years in the theater. I know how fragile the egos of artists and actors can be.” Even in my depressed state, I couldn’t help but find the humor in this. Didn’t he think directors had egos too? “I would not have been disappointed in you if you’d told me the truth about what happened with Jenny. I would have used my experience to help you.”
I wanted to say something more, to tell Mr. Evans that I had learned my lesson and that I was sorry, but at that moment Annie and Jenny walked in. At first, Jenny looked puzzled, but when she saw me, her confusion turned to an angry scowl. “What’s going on?” she demanded.
“I was hoping—” I started to try to explain, but Jenny cut me off.
“I don’t care what you were hoping. I’m outta here.” Jenny spun around, but before she could leave the room, I got some unexpected backup.
“Give Alison a chance to explain,” Annie said, blocking the doorway.
“Why should I listen to anything she has to say?” Jenny asked Annie, pointing at me without deigning to look at me.
“Because she was acting on my behalf. I think you and I should speak,” Mr. Evans interrupted. He stood up from his desk and invited Jenny to come into the room. He pulled up a chair so she could sit down at his desk.
I could not have been more grateful to both Annie and Mr. Evans. They were trying to help me clean up my mess, even though they were both disappointed in me. I didn’t deserve their help, but they were giving it to me anyway. I knew I had endangered my chance at getting Mr. Evans’s vote for valedictorian, but that worry seemed petty in the face of the second chance I was being given.
“Annie and Alison, will you excuse us? Jenny and I are going to talk, one creative visionary to another.” Good ol’ Mr. Evans. He might be self-aggrandizing and delusional, but he was willing to try to fix my mistake. I only hoped he didn’t mention anything about Bollywood.
Annie and I left the room quietly. She checked the clock on her phone and started hurrying toward the front doors of the school. Without Becca to give us a lift, we needed to hurry to catch the bus. “Hey, Annie?”
“Yeah?” Annie didn’t slow down, which was just as well. It would be easier to say this to her back than to her face.
“Thanks for…you know. In there.” Yup, more evidence of my great eloquence.
Annie might have slowed a fraction before hitching her worn canvas backpack higher onto her shoulder. “No problem.”
CHAPTER 17
Walking into rehearsal the next day felt like walking onto a minefield of social awkwardness. (Though maybe I shouldn’t compare my First World problem to the horrific experience of trying to walk through a field of landmines. Like I needed to add “insensitive, privileged Westerner” to my list of character defects.)
I sat at my little producer’s desk in a quiet corner of the room. Under the cover of my bangs, while pretending to read texts, I tried to scan the space. (Still nothing from Becca.) Charlotte was nowhere to be seen, but she often entered at the last minute. She seemed to enjoy making an entrance. Jack was chatting with one of the other actors in the far corner. His back was to me, and I wondered if that was on purpose. He looked tense, his shoulder blades protruding sharply in his thin cardigan. I spotted Ben trying to flirt with a fairy who, judging by her smile, seemed to be enjoying the experience. No accounting for taste. Finally, I tried to use my peripheral vision to find Mr. Evans. There was too much hair in my way, so I attempted to blow some of the bangs out of my face. Instead, I managed to spit on my phone. Lovely. I wiped the screen on my jeans and looked up in time to see Mr. Evans giving me a funny look. Oh god! Had he seen me spit on my phone then wipe it on my jeans like some grimy toddler smearing a booger on her leg? Or was he wondering why I was even here? Did he think it was clear that I was fired? Should it have been clear? The easy breathing of the day before was replaced by a tight, rasping feeling that transported just enough oxygen to my brain to keep me from passing out.
Before I could figure out what to do, Charlotte breezed into the room, tossing her jean jacket on top of a pile of backpacks with a coordination and confidence I could only admire. She grinned at the room, and this somehow worked as a signal to the other actors, who all gathered in a circle. Mr. Evans joined them, but I hesitated. Mr. Evans had insisted I join the circle in past rehearsals, but would he want that now? Was this my chance, if I continued on as producer, to skip the circle? Or was it an opportunity to show Mr. Evans my commitment to producing the play? Did I want to join the circle or not? I looked down at my phone again, hoping for an answer. It was, as usual, totally unhelpful. Smartphone, my ass, I thought. You’re just as bad as that stupid binder.
“Alison, you know phones aren’t allowed in rehearsal. Put it away and join us.” Mr. Evans stepped back to make room for me to squeeze between him and Ben, who was standing beside him. I was so happy to know I was still part of the team that I didn’t mind his mild rebuke. I didn’t even mind having to stand next to Ben. At least, I didn’t mind standing next to him until I was accosted by his heavy cologne. Things got even worse when Mr. Evans asked us all to hold hands. Ben and I seemed to come to an unspoken agreement; we moved our hands so they hovered close to each other without actually touching.
“Now close your eyes. Listen to your breath.” The room was silent except for the sound of the prehistoric ventilation system rattling away above our heads. “Try to match your breathing to the people next to you. If we can breathe together, we can create art together.”
How could I match two different people’s breathing? I unintentionally held my breath while trying to listen to the breathing of my neighbors. The room gradually got louder as some people shifted uncomfortably and others tried to help those around them by inhaling and exhaling loudly. Mr. Evans either didn’t notice or didn’t mind. “Excellent
work! I can feel our energies coming into alignment.” Our energies coming into alignment felt a lot like a class of kids trying to suppress giggles, but who was I to judge? “Now open your eyes and find a partner for our warm-ups.”
Ben practically ran over to the fairy he’d been flirting with. I held back as I watched the other actors pair off. Even the freshmen seemed confident enough to make overtures to near-strangers. I chanced a glance in Jack’s direction, but he’d already found a partner. I hadn’t expected anything different, yet I still felt a pang. It looked like everyone else had paired off, and I was about to tell Mr. Evans that I would skip the rest of the warm-up when a pair of cool blue eyes froze me to the spot.
“Looks like we’re the odd ones out.” This close, I could see that one of Charlotte’s incisors protruded a little.
The nervous feeling from the fake date returned. This time, I couldn’t even swallow my own saliva. So this is a thing I do now, I thought. My saliva tasted acidic, like warm diet soda. I nodded at Charlotte, unable to think of anything else to do. I couldn’t speak, and it would be unutterably rude to just walk away. I was going to have to partner with Charlotte for whatever mad “game” Mr. Evans made us play next.
At a signal from Mr. Evans, all the actors sat on the ground. Charlotte sat cross-legged in a single, fluid move. I made my way down in increments, like my arthritic grandmother: First I bent my knees a little, then I put a hand down to balance myself, and finally I lowered myself all the way. At least I didn’t grunt or groan like an old person. Of course, that was probably only because I couldn’t make a sound unless I wanted to drool all over myself like some over-excited bulldog.
I craned my neck to look at Mr. Evans, pretending that I needed to see him to properly follow his directions. Charlotte’s Medusa-effect seemed to work only when I was looking directly at her, so I swallowed the saliva I’d been hoarding while gazing up at Mr. Evans.
“We’re warming up with a classic today. You’re going to act as mirrors. The job of the mirror is to reflect exactly what its partner is doing. The leader’s job is to make sure that the mirror can follow its movements. Use eye contact to help you communicate. This warm-up is about building bonds and paying attention to how we move. I’ll tell you when to change so that the mirror becomes the leader.” What was with these stupid warm-ups requiring people to make awkward eye contact? Theater people were baffling.
Mr. Evans switched on some weirdo spa music, and people shifted so that they were facing each other. It looked like the other pairs were staying seated on the floor, so I turned my body to face Charlotte and forced myself to look directly into her eyes. Her cool blue irises were outlined in midnight blue. They reminded me of coloring books I’d had when I was a little kid. I would follow the lines with my crayon, pressing down to create a satisfying dark outline, then I would lightly fill in the center.
“Want to be the leader first?” Charlotte offered. I shook my head no. “Okay. I’ll go first.”
Charlotte slowly raised her right arm, long fingers splayed in a languid hello. I tried to match her loose-limbed movements, but everything in me felt too tight. To an outsider, she must have looked like a cool ballerina, and I, a robotic facsimile of a human being.
Charlotte lowered her arm, and I followed her as she rested her hand on the floor. It was difficult to concentrate on the outer edges of my body. It felt like every atom of my being was drawn to the point where our eyes met. Charlotte smiled, and my brain reminded me, a beat too late, that I was supposed to do what she did. I smiled back, and her smile grew almost imperceptibly. Was it possible I had made Charlotte happy, even in some small way? I could now feel my heart as well as the hot point between us.
Charlotte reached her left hand forward, fingertips at the very edge of our imaginary boundary. I moved my own hand without thinking. In the periphery of my vision, I could see the contrast between my pale skin and her lightly tanned skin. Then she twitched her index finger forward, and every atom in my body rushed to that point of contact. Emptied of my atoms, I forgot to breathe. The next moment, she slid her hand up, as if it rested against the mirror between us. My entire palm was now pressed against hers. My fingers were shorter, and I wondered vaguely what it would feel like if she wrapped her hand around mine.
“Everyone up! Mirrors are the leaders now!” Mr. Evans’s peppy instructions jarred me out of my reverie.
When Charlotte stood up, I followed her, still attuned to her every action. I almost mirrored her raised eyebrows until I realized she was reminding me that it was my turn to lead. Though I wanted to touch her again, I couldn’t bring myself to be that forward. Instead, I modestly nodded my head yes. She followed, frowning. I panicked, thinking I had somehow disappointed her, but then it came to me: I must be frowning. Why would I be frowning? Did I normally frown? I made an effort to smile. Her lips turned up, but no protruding incisor. I told myself to smile big, and there it was. I took a deep breath, and so did she. So this is what it was like to breathe with someone. Maybe Mr. Evans had been on to something.
Mr. Evans clapped his hands together. I didn’t break eye contact with Charlotte until he instructed the actors to take their places for Act 1. At that point, I reluctantly made my way to the table. Only when I was seated did I notice I had somehow managed to swallow like a normal person during the mirror exercise. Miracle!
The rehearsal seemed to drag, probably because I had to ration my glimpses at Charlotte. I didn’t want to act like a stalker, so I made myself look at six other people before looking back at her. She was in character, which meant she seemed more regal and untouchable than ever. But I had touched her. My stomach clenched at the thought.
When Mr. Evans finally instructed the group to give themselves a round of applause, I thrilled at the sight of her walking toward me.
She stopped in front of my table. “You make me look much better than my mirror at home. Can you come to my house every morning to make me feel hot?” She laughed. Her laugh was a bit hiccup-y. I loved it. I wanted to hear more of it. “Sorry. That’s a terrible line.”
I smiled and considered flirting back. (She had to be flirting, right?) And then, with the worst possible timing, Mr. Evans interrupted. “Alison, can we speak?”
“Of course,” I said. The reality of the last few days came flooding back. I had to make sure things were okay with Mr. Evans. And when I was finished with that, I had to figure out how to get Becca and Jack to talk to me again.
I turned back to Charlotte, desperate to say something, anything, to let her know I was interested. “I’ll be sure to reflect on your offer.” It was a terrible pun, and I regretted it the second I said it, but then Charlotte laughed again. I sketched an awkward wave as I turned away from her and readied myself for producer work.
Mr. Evans rambled on about props and costumes, but I kept thinking about Charlotte. I wondered if she was gay. Then I wondered if she knew I was gay. Maybe I had imagined the heated moment between us when we were playing the mirror game. Maybe I was just seeing my desire reflected back at me. Maybe it had all been performance. But wasn’t all flirting a kind of performance? If that was true, then maybe I was a bad actor. Maybe I didn’t know the right cues, the subtle signs I was supposed to use to communicate my attraction and gayness to my audience.
I left rehearsal feeling out of place with myself.
CHAPTER 18
By some miracle, Mr. Evans—who had never before shown an understanding of teenagers—managed to talk Jenny into staying on as set painter. When I asked him how, all he said was, “I have my ways.” If Becca were still speaking to me, she would have said that his “ways” must have involved animal sacrifice or blackmail. I missed Becca. Her sarcasm helped keep things in perspective. She was the yin to my yang. But what was I was to her?
I took the late bus home, relieved that Mr. Evans was planning to keep me on as producer. I closed my eyes and rested my head back on the
hard bus bench, passing the time by reliving those amazing moments with Charlotte. I felt guilty for being happy when I still hadn’t made up with Jack or Becca. I was emotionally exhausted when I got home, but that didn’t make a difference to my sister. I was taking my shoes off in the entryway when Annie shouted down the stairs to me, “I am not taking the bus again tomorrow. Make up with Becca!”
I kicked my shoes off, plunked my backpack on the entryway bench, then stomped up the stairs.
“If I knew how to make up with Becca, I would have done it by now!” I shouted at Annie, even before I was through the door to her room. She was curled up in her comforter watching YouTube videos on her laptop. Without her school makeup, she looked younger, a little like the kid who used to follow me around.
“Whoa. Calm your horses, cowboy!” Annie joked in a bad southern drawl. She scooted over, and I sat on the edge of her bed. “Have you tried apologizing to Becca?”
I tried to keep the exasperation out of my voice. “Of course, I’ve tried apologizing! I sent her a text Friday, and she hasn’t responded.”
“Maybe this is one of those times when a phone call is better than a text?” Annie seemed genuinely unsure. She was always texting; I couldn’t remember the last time she’d used her phone to make an actual call. Not that I was much better. Phone calls just felt so intrusive. They felt a bit like waving your hands in someone’s face. A text, on the other hand, was like nodding at someone from across the room at a party. When they had time, they knew where to find you. A phone call was more personal than a text, though. And it allowed for more subtlety in delivery and tone. Of course, I wouldn’t have a chance to carefully edit my words, without which I had a tendency to say the wrong thing.
“Maybe.” I picked at a loose thread on Annie’s comforter. It was a crazy fuchsia color. I would never have picked bedding so bright. I would worry I’d get tired of it, but Annie didn’t worry about what might be. She focused instead on things that would make her happy now, like a colorful comforter.
