by Gigi Blume
Will shifted in his seat, crossing his legs, and I noticed he held in a breath.
I snorted “I’m gonna go with ignore. Buh-bye.” I tried to step away but Caroline snagged my arm tight.
“That’s impossible,” she said. “We’re trapped indefinitely. We might have to choose who gets eaten and who gets to eat.”
Will let out the breath, but the rhythm of his breathing was shallow and erratic. This wasn’t Caroline’s first rodeo.
“Thank you, Mrs. Lovett,” I said, “but remember, actors always taste overdone.”
I saw Will relax at my joke as the corner of his lip curled ever so slightly. He caught the Sweeney Todd reference. That also surprised me.
“I can’t ignore Will,” blurted Caroline, disentangling her arm from mine and crossing to perch herself on the piano. She was working a sultry lounge singer vibe.
For some reason, I felt inclined to remain rooted in place, even considering the proximity to Will. Maybe it was the advantage I had in that position in regard to height. I was hardly ever able to look down on someone. It felt good. Especially when that someone was an arrogant misogynist.
“You can’t ignore a good man,” she cooed. Good heavens, now she was twirling her hair.
“A good man?” I snorted. “Less than a minute ago, you were considering mincing him into pie filling.”
Caroline just shrugged and twirled her hair some more.
I looked down at Will, narrowing my eyes into slits. “I guess you’re off the hook, dude.”
“No one is ever completely off the hook,” he said, swallowing hard. “Not by people who see the world as one big joke.”
“As opposed to people with no sense of humor at all?” I replied. “But, oh. I forgot you’re Mr. Perfect.”
“I’m far from perfect.” His strikingly blue eyes pinned me in place, crashing against my skin with a decisive sizzle. A succession of tiny shards of light pricked down by belly and for a split second, I didn’t care if his imposing glower was borne from hate or… something wholly, remarkably and deliciously wrong.
I swallowed it down. “Ah, false humility. You know pride comes before a fall, right?”
“I’m proud of a lot of things,” he replied coolly, straightening in his chair. “My work, my family, my position—lots of things. Pride is a virtue.”
“Are you done with your interrogation?” cried Caroline. “I’m bored.”
“He’s all yours, Caroline. Will the Virtuous has spoken.”
“Now you’re just putting words in my mouth,” he croaked, trying to regain his usual composure.
“Oh yeah? I’m willing to bet you’re one of those guys who walks around with no clue how you actually come off. You’re just soooo wonderful and everybody else is an idiot.”
He just shrugged, but he had a devilish smirk on his freaking gorgeous face. Honestly. His hotness should have been a crime.
“I’ll admit I have little patience for jerks.”
Jerks? That was ironic!
He went on. “I don’t have time for users or liars. I’m the king of holding grudges. Call me resentful or petty or whatever, but I don’t care. I have strong opinions about people and once they're on my Burnt List, they’re on there forever.”
“Oooh, I’m scared now,” I joked.
He shrugged and gave me a cool, calculated stare. “We all have our quirks, Elizabeth.”
“Like being the town misanthrope?” I said with a half-laugh.
“You tell me,” he said, standing to his full height, towering over me, “Since you seem to have it all figured out.”
The earth stood still, and for the length of a thousand heartbeats, all the reality around us fell away. He stood so close to me, my chest was a hair’s breadth away from brushing against his white Fruit of the Loom trailer-tank. His heat and fury bore down on me, and I shrank into myself, flushed from the inferno he diffused from his infuriatingly brawny figure. His entire presence was imposing, invading my senses with whatever scent that was. It was unique to him and mingled provocatively with the minty freshness of his toothpaste. It was intoxicating and almost threw off my guard. And I knew in that moment, he was trying to break me. Oh, he was good. He knew the effect he had on women, and I felt all the weight of his artifice. But I had an advantage over him because I could see right through him. I knew the type. Hunky Hollywood playboy, lots of money, and the power to crush someone’s career with a few carefully spread rumors. I wouldn’t play into his hands. I’d leave that to Caroline.
The piano interrupted our staring contest. Bing played remarkably well, which was a welcome distraction to everyone, but nobody quite as much as Caroline, who dripped her body all over the piano, cabaret style, while she sang song after song like a diva in a speakeasy. Bing seemed to know every song ever composed in the history of musical theatre. He only missed a few notes here or there, but his skill was beyond anyone in the room and probably the whole cast. It was little wonder why Will had taken him under his wing.
I returned to my sewing abomination, and Jane stretched out on the sofa, admiring Bing and his magic fingers flying over the keys. Every so often, I’d glance up and watch her drowsy, contented smiles, and my heart warmed to the sight. She was so smitten with him. I’d only seen her fall for a guy once before. He was the type of guy who’d write songs about her and serenaded her with his guitar. What girl wouldn’t go gaga over a guy like that? I was the only one who didn’t trust him, and I almost lost Jane’s friendship when I called him out on it. He hoodwinked her. Turned out Jane wasn’t his only muse for those beautiful songs and when she found out, she cried on my shoulder and watched Spanish telenovelas for days. I never once said I told you so, and I vowed to keep my opinions about her boyfriends to myself from then on. But Bing was different. I didn’t sense any danger for her where he was concerned.
Will once again took up his pen and journal he so secretly wrote in. Every so often, I’d catch him glowering at me then turn back to his writing when our eyes met. What could he have been writing, I wondered? Probably one hundred and one ways he hated Beth Bennet. I honestly couldn’t figure out any other reason why he’d glance my way so often. It couldn’t be that he found me at all attractive. I’m a Hobbit—not a tall bombshell like Caroline or a beautiful Swedish goddess like Jane. Still, I was at a loss why someone like him would waste any more energy than necessary in such contempt to warrant the stink eye. I went over our earlier conversation in my memory. He’d looked right at me when he spoke of his impatience with idiots and jerks. Was he referring to me when he told us about his Burnt List? What had I ever done to be on his Burnt List? For the record, I wouldn’t expect anything less crass from Will Darcy.
An energy bar flew in my direction and landed on the cutting table in front of me. I blinked at it like it had fallen from the sky.
“Are you allergic to peanuts?” Will was several feet away, far enough to keep a safe distance.
“Um… no,” I croaked.
He didn’t say another word and turned away from me, placing himself at the farthest end of the room. I looked up to find everyone else with a similar bar, devouring them like manna from heaven and Will taking his seat, fishing another one from his Mary Poppins messenger bag. He was an overachieving boy scout. Did he have any burritos in there by chance? The stubborn part of me didn’t want to accept anything from him. It was counterintuitive to the sinister joy I got from loathing him. But hunger won out, and I ripped into the package, grateful for anything other than the hot sauce packets in Ari’s mini fridge.
I finally made my bed out of layers of crinoline and nineteenth century wool coats (probably from previous productions of Oliver or Jekyll and Hyde) and drifted off to a restless sleep. Caroline likewise found some coats for a makeshift bed while Bing and Jane shared the sofa. Will, as far as I know, stayed up all night. Maybe he thought I might bludgeon him in his sleep and decided to stay on guard. All I know is each time I shifted from sleeplessness or got up to empty my bladder
, he was awake in his chair, reading or listening to music.
Somewhere after three in the morning, the tumult of what was arguably the worst day of my life caught up with me, and I fell into a hard and deep slumber. I only awoke when an abrupt jostling roused me from the weight of it and coming out of the haze of dreaming, I focused on the image of Charlotte shaking me like a sack of flour. Caroline, Jane, and Bing rose, having just awoken, and there in the threshold of that blasted door, stood the formidable Dame Stella Gardiner. She wore an amused grimace on her stoic features and leaned against the doorframe, fondling the keys on her forefinger. It took me a minute to register the scene before me, somewhat disoriented to my surroundings before a flood of realization washed over me, and the dreamy haze was replaced by a splitting headache.
Charlotte spoke, but I only caught a few phrases. Something about being worried I didn’t show up for work, not finding Jane or me at our apartment, and coming upon all our cars in the theatre parking lot. Stella must have been called at some point, but since it couldn’t be any later than six in the morning, I imagined she wasn’t amused by the early-hour disturbance.
And then I noticed with more interest than I cared to admit—and a good measure of relief—that Will Darcy was gone. He no doubt fled the moment Stella’s keys turned the lock.
7
Quetzalcoatl’s Hot Chocolate
Beth
The best part of Monday’s rehearsal was the absence of all the male members of our cast except for Bing. We were expected to learn the choreography for three pieces in the first act, which required only the Stanley Sisters and Frederic. I knew I couldn’t avoid Will entirely, but the reprieve of three days was like a mini vacation. At least it would have been if I didn't have to spend my every hour of freedom at the lodge. In consequence to missing my shift on Friday night, I was given the worst section in the restaurant and extra side work. I also had to pick up the Sunday Brunch shift nobody wanted. In short, I spent more on gas than I made on tips. Still, it was better than spending a weekend rationing energy bars between five people in a costume shop, two of which were Heathers to my Veronica Sawyer. I pondered whimsically who I could recruit for the character of Jason Dean.
All thought of poisoning aside, I did have to endure an entire day dancing with Caroline, but she was the lesser thorn in my side. In fact, I hardly noticed her presence. Of course, a day at rehearsal wasn’t complete without its weirder-than-fiction theatrics, and that came in the form of our replacement choreographer who was the most spectacular mixture of drill sergeant and drama queen on the planet. He was such an amusing study that I found myself watching him when I should have been dancing. He could easily put on a one-man show without even scripting it, and I’d probably pay to see it.
Stella introduced Colin Hunsford in the morning with a short announcement and quickly left the rehearsal studio. The man sashayed before us for a long, silent minute as if to survey what he had to work with. He didn’t seem pleased with what he saw until his eyes fell on Jane, and then only gave a little nod of approval. He spent the next three quarters of an hour showboating his accolades and why he was more qualified than our previous choreographer, or anyone else in his acquaintance for that matter, with the exception of his mentor whom he was sure to name-drop throughout the day whenever an opportunity arose. I’d never heard of her. A sneaky Google search on my phone while he ranted on came up with pages of information on Catherine de Bourgh, apparently a world-renowned dancer in her time and founder of the Rosings Institute of Dance. The most current photo I could find was of a majestic, slender woman in her sixties or seventies. Her silver hair was tied into a fierce, yet elegant bun, and she was celebrating the debut of one of her star students.
After some of the oddest warm-ups in the history of dance, Colin taught the choreography for Climbing Over Rocky Mountain. He pranced to the center of the room and flicked his hands in the direction he wanted us to go.
“All right!” he chirped with a clap. “We will start with a sashay from stage left, go into three pirouettes on pointe, and then I want you to break off into the lines which I will now place you in.”
“On pointe?” cried Caroline. “We’re dancing on pointe?”
Colin swooshed his long, flowy scarf and snapped his head over his shoulder sharply in her direction. It was quite fabulous in a Nathan Lane in Birdcage sort of way. “Dahhhling,” he oozed, “of course you’ll be on pointe. This song is a classic ballet showpiece. Haven’t you listened to the D’oyle Carte soundtrack? The flutes, the staccato trills. It begs for sissonne and temps levé sauté. In 1978 the great Fordyce Ballet Company performed a musical rendition of The Tempest entirely on pointe.”
He then waffled on for ten minutes about the Fordyce Ballet Company and how every dancer should study the principles of their training philosophy.
At length Holly spoke up. “But we didn’t audition on pointe.”
Colin’s perfectly sculpted eyebrows arched into his hairline. “What? That’s preposterous. No wonder the old choreographer was replaced.”
“He had a family emergency,” offered Lydia.
“And what is your name, love?” Colin asked with interest.
“Lettuce.”
Colin ran his eyes up and down over her body and strutted around her, making a complete circle. I found it a little amusing that Lydia calling herself Lettuce didn’t faze him one bit. Maybe he didn’t hear what she said? He stopped in front of her, resting one hand on his hip and the other on his chin.
“Hmmm,” he resounded. “You have a lovely long neck. Graceful arms.”
“Uh… Thank you?” she squeaked.
“I’m making you dance captain.”
Her mouth fell open. “But I’m not a ballerina.”
“You will be once I’m done with you,” he said as he strutted back to the front of the room. “I want everyone to bring pointe shoes tomorrow. Today we will make do with demi-pointe.”
More than a few groans and shared expressions of confusion followed. I was sure the only one trained on pointe was Jane, and she wasn’t even in this scene. I certainly didn’t own pointe shoes, and I was willing to bet Lydia didn’t either. I was already calculating how many sprained ankles there would be by the end of the week.
Colin shooed everyone back in place and pointed to Lydia to front the line. He assumed fifth position and demonstrated his most elegant port de bras. He counted and sashayed. Everything he said was in rhythm. “Ready? And, one two three four five six seven eight. Everybody, follow Lettuce.” (Apparently, he did hear her call herself Lettuce after all.) There were a few snickers from some of the girls. He sped through, ignoring them. “Sashay, sashay, and turn, turn, turn, relevé, don’t forget your port de bras. Again.”
And again and again and again. Poor Lydia was on the spot, and Colin lavished her in equal measures of fury and praise. Any time we couldn’t get a port de bras or jete perfectly, he’d scream, he’d cry, he’d use his scarf as a whip and smack us with it until we got it right. However, when we were on it, he’d fall to his knees and kiss the floor.
“If you had been wearing pointe shoes,” he said to Lydia, “I’d kiss your feet. As it is, I will defer my raptures until tomorrow and content myself with kissing the ground you walk on.”
This well-meant but slightly creepy compliment found Lydia, who loved attention from any human of the male variety, embarrassed. She shifted her wide eyes around the room and shrunk back into the folds of the other girls like a shy schoolgirl.
I overheard her tell Holly later that day that she wouldn’t be purchasing pointe shoes just to spite Colin and his overzealous foot fetish.
It was mid-day when we finally broke for lunch. Most everyone went to the juice bar down the street, but I had packed leftover mac-n-cheese that I shoveled in my face in forty-five seconds flat. With time left to spare, I wandered the scope of the theatre, inhaling its essence, letting the ghosts of shows past seep into my skin. A theatre was a magical place, and there was
nowhere else I felt more at home than within the dome of its shelter. I loved the smell, the texture, the sounds of the building itself even when it was resting from the bustle of performers.
The stragglers that stayed behind for lunch remained in the green room or the rehearsal studio, and since nobody was in the house, the theatre was dark. I felt like a voyeur, running my hands along the velvet-backed seats as I made my way down the aisle. How many patrons had sat in those seats over the years? What stories they could tell of entertainments long ago enjoyed, faded laughter and echoes of applause. Such history was etched within the walls, along the proscenium and upon that stage. Such a beautiful stage!
I glanced around the enormity of the theatre. Not a soul in sight, not on the stage, not in the tech booth high above the balcony, not in the orchestra pit. I was alone. Yet there was an awareness that tickled the back of my neck as I stepped onto the stage as if I were passing some invisible border. It wasn’t as though I was restricted to enter that magical realm—after all, I would be performing in a few, short weeks. But somehow, it was as if the stage were my lover, and I wasn’t to cross its virgin threshold until our wedding night. There was only one thing to do. Only one thing in answer to my fantastical little musings.
Tap dance.
If there’s one thing musical theatre performers can’t resist when presented with the broad, beautiful surface of a stage, it’s tap dancing. Flaps, shuffle off to Buffalo, pullbacks, time steps, you name it. We love to tap. It’s an addiction, like dollar slots for grandmas or Starbucks for basic white girls. I was always that annoying person, tapping down the aisles of the supermarket, at the DMV, at the museum—anywhere that had a floor that went click, click, click at my footfall. A stage? Well, that’s just tap Disneyland. The surface looked sooo satisfying—like protruding veins for nurses or clickable plaque for dental hygienists. I had to get my fix.
