by Gigi Blume
“Sorry, but I agree with Edith,” chirped Lydia from the backseat. “Everyone knows The Pirate King is a dirtbag. Nobody in the cast likes him.”
Jane was still getting used to Lydia’s quirky habit of calling every cast member by their character name. It took her a minute to realize Lydia was referring to Will. I twisted in my seat to address Lydia behind me. “I wonder why Gilbert and Sullivan never gave The Pirate King a name,” I said diplomatically. “We should give him a name to simplify things. How about… oh, I don’t know… Will Darcy?”
“If he is the evil villain Jorge paints him to be,” continued Jane, “why would Bing think so highly of him? I know Bing. His friendship with Will is genuine, and I don’t see how he could be so close with someone so inherently rotten. Jorge’s probably exaggerating.”
“Bing sees the world through rose-colored glasses, Jane,” I replied. “I can more easily believe that Bing is too nice to see the truth, than that Jorge is exaggerating. I could see the very painful memory in his eyes…”
“Blue, blue eyes!” interjected Lydia dreamily.
“…and he wasn’t exaggerating.”
There was a length of silence after I spoke, and Jane drove on, concentrating on the road, but after a long pause, she sighed and said, “Well, it’s hard to know what to think.”
“Excuse me,” I exclaimed, “but I know exactly what to think.”
But she was no longer listening, and I couldn’t help but wonder for the remainder of the ride, whether she was just as deceived as Bing to Will Darcy’s true colors.
Another day of choreography without the men was on the schedule, but I didn’t feel confident we wouldn’t be ‘graced’ with another appearance of Will. A small part of me secretly hoped to run into him like the day before, and this time I’d be armed with a few carefully rehearsed words instead of gushing over Beauty and the Beast like a nine-year-old girl. It wasn’t my fault I was caught unaware. It also wasn’t my fault he was ninja trained to make women swoon with his brooding glower. I was sure there was a Hollywood Masterclass for that. Smoldering for the Camera 101 and A.P. Bedroom Eyes. I was both relieved and dampened to find no trace of him for the course of the day.
When I casually brought up the subject to Jorge, he grinned smugly and said, “He’s the one who should be avoiding me. I have every right to be here.” Of course I would never suggest Jorge not come to work, so I don’t know where that came from. Perhaps he felt threatened by Will’s influence over Stella. He certainly spent enough time in her office.
I concluded my visit to the scene shop with an invitation to my parents’ house for barbecue on Sunday. I quickly amended that it wasn’t a date or a ‘meet the parents’ kind of situation.
“My mom just wants to see what you look like with your clothes on,” I joked. Casting my eyes over his shirtless torso, I added, “And so do I, for that matter.” To ease him of any possible apprehension, I informed him I’d invited a few other friends and that Sunday barbecues at my house were totally casual.
“My dad marinates the tri-tip all weekend,” I said in an attempt to allure him. “And my mom buys cheap prosecco.”
“How could I resist?” He grinned, brushing my chin with his thumb. “And it’s not because of the free food.”
My toes curled at the contact. This was a guy who didn’t need to take a Bedroom Eyes Masterclass. He was a natural, and I was afraid I’d be in big trouble if I wasn’t careful. I had to protect the friend zone at all costs.
“Stop by the rehearsal studio later on,” I said as I walked away. “You’re gonna love our new choreographer.”
He did come to watch our dance rehearsal in the afternoon, but he didn’t stay for long. If he was looking for a laugh, Colin wasn’t one to disappoint. I just wished Jorge could have stuck around a little longer to experience the drama. But after only a few minutes, he bristled at something Colin said (probably all his bragging about Rosings Institute of Dance) and abruptly left.
It turned out I was the only one to bring pointe shoes. I begged Jane to let me take hers, even though they were too big for me.
“I won’t even put them on,” I pleaded. “I just want to bring them with me. Like show and tell.”
I didn’t know how to dance in pointe shoes per se, but that wasn’t even on Colin’s radar. He was too busy throwing a fit about everybody else’s unpreparedness.
“Never have I ever,” he spat, “in all my years at Rosings Institute of Dance under the patronage of Catherine de Bourgh…” (he loved to name drop and quite often) “have I seen such incompetence. Did I not instruct you all to bring pointe shoes today?”
Holly timidly raised her hand as if she were in grade school. “None of us are trained on point. We could get injured.”
He narrowed his eyes on her. I imagined if he were a Sith Lord, she’d be dead by now. But he growled and with a flip of his chiffon scarf, stormed out of the rehearsal studio.
“That’s why they call this the cry room,” chirped Lydia from behind my shoulder.
“What?”
“The cry room,” she repeated. “There have been many a tear shed in this room, from firing actors I suppose.”
“I’ve never heard that before.” I laughed. “You're making this up.”
She nodded her little head with energy, but Holly disputed her. “No, no, Lettuce. They call this the cry room because someone actually died in here and now, it’s haunted. Sometimes, late at night, a melancholy wailing can be heard coming from this room, but when theatre staff come to investigate it, the lights flicker, and the crying person cannot be found.”
She shuddered at the idea and crossed herself even though she wasn’t Catholic.
“You two are being ridiculous,” I exclaimed. “No one’s getting fired, and there are no ghosts.”
“Actually…” a girl spoke up, one of the altos I didn’t know very well. “All theatres are haunted.” Her name, I believe, was Mariah, and I sometimes would see her with Caroline—whenever Caroline wasn’t hanging all over Will. Since there was no Will today, it was Caroline and Mariah for the win.
Yay.
Lydia, who hated Caroline, didn’t seem to have a problem with Mariah and nodded in agreement. “That’s actually true,” she said. “The Majestic on Broadway is haunted. That’s a fact. And all the actors at Her Majesty’s Theatre in London confirm the ghost that lives there will sometimes tap someone on the shoulder.”
“A ghost that taps people on the shoulder?” I rolled my eyes. “Lydia—I mean Lettuce—both those theatres house Phantom of the Opera. It’s a publicity gimmick having an Opera Ghost in real life—or death, depending on how you look at it.”
Holly, Lydia, and Mariah all grumbled at my disbelief and agreed amongst themselves to ask Stella when they saw her next. Surely, Stella would have heard the Wailing Ghost, as they now called it, and she’d settle this dispute.
Colin’s return saved me from any more kooky stories. He was calmer but still had unrest simmering beneath the surface. “We shall dance on demi-pointe today,” he said through his teeth. “But I want to see those relevés high.”
For the rest of the day, we were treated to more of his tantrums whereby he would drill the choreography into us until we begged for mercy, pout if we asked for a bathroom break, and waste an immeasurable amount of time bragging about his accomplishments at Rosings or lecturing the philosophies of the Fordyce Ballet Company. He spent a half hour straight preaching on the virtues of a wide turnout. Then he showered all the girls with compliments, admitting he’d taken the time to rehearse a few lines of delicate flattery so we might feel encouraged to dance better. He batted his eyes as he said this, and I noticed his lids were brushed with a hint of dramatic gold eyeshadow. It seemed to me he was going for that stage makeup look. I’d have to ask him for some advice on contouring when we got closer to dress rehearsals.
“Have any celebrities worth talking about gone to eat at the lodge lately?” Mom asked on Sunday. We were gathered
on the deck in the backyard where Dad had built an area for outdoor entertaining. It was normally used in summer, but it was warm for a November afternoon, and the large farmhouse table fit seven of us better than the dining room table would have. I was able to convince Jane to invite Bing, and I was a little giddy at the arrival of Jorge. I could hardly believe this gorgeous man was at my parents’ doorstep, looking for me. He’d brought a bottle of Argentinian Malbec from the Mendoza region. Dad loved it. I didn’t know why that made me so proud. I didn’t make the wine. I didn’t even bring the wine. I supposed I was responsible for inviting the man who’d brought the wine, so I claimed a little pat on the back.
Presently, Mom made small talk, but I was sure she was fishing for more information on Will Darcy. I’d told her a little about his arrogance, how we clearly didn’t get along, and about our adventure in the costume shop. I didn’t, however, tell her about Jorge’s relationship with him and the Darcy family. She’d heard enough of my aversion to the man and decided to be offended on my behalf. But with the presence of Bing at her house, she dropped subtle hints, trying for any morsel of intelligence about Martin Darcy, what the house must look like, or if there was anything Bing could slip in his pocket for her that Martin might have touched. Bing was too naive to understand her meaning. And so, she brought the subject around to Lucas Lodge where she lived vicariously through my brush with the rich and famous and their eating quirks. The truth was, I didn’t pay much attention to celebrities, most of them producers or screenwriters who I wouldn’t recognize just by their order of the Windsor Castle Club Sandwich and a Perrier. But there was one celebrity I did recognize, and thankfully, he didn’t sit in my section. Will came alone to the lodge on Saturday, and he took a table in the far corner. It was a fair distance from my section, but there were a few openings through the arches separating the two dining halls where I had a clear view of where he sat. A couple of times, I caught him glaring at me. What he was doing there, I couldn’t tell. It certainly wasn’t for the fine cuisine. I could only surmise he was looking for some fault in me, perhaps because he’d seen me with Jorge, and he wanted to ruin me as he’d done to him. Maybe he hoped to get me fired. In any case, I didn’t consider that worth talking about at my mother’s indelicate prompt, and so I simply said, “No. Not really.”
It was more or less a pleasant afternoon. Dad made his famous tri-tip and mashed potatoes, which everyone praised. I was sure Bing had a generous second helping of everything, and Dad polished off the Malbec almost single-handedly. We all laughed on the subject of Mom finding Jorge naked in my shower, which I noted embarrassed my poor little sister Mary. She was a senior in high school and as polar opposite of me as she could possibly be. She was generally quiet and never caught without a book in her possession; She didn’t have a large social circle and was usually clammy in nature. She was a little shy of Jorge and Bing at first, but Jorge couldn’t have been more polite and sweet with her, even bordering on charming. It gave me the warm fuzzies when she opened up to Jorge, becoming more chatty than usual, and a little pink faced. He was entirely attentive to her and even spent twenty minutes discussing her favorite books.
At the mention of the shower story, however, Mary buried her nose at once in the book she’d brought to the table. Even though books and devices weren’t allowed.
“I must apologize,” Mom said to Jorge. We all thought she was referring to barging in on his shower, but she’d changed the subject without warning. “You must not be used to this kind of food. I should have insisted we serve Mexican, but my husband wanted to make his all-American barbecue. Next time you visit, we’ll have something from your culture.”
Words couldn’t describe the mortification I felt in that moment. I wanted to throw a burlap bag over Mom’s head and pretend the racial faux pas we’d just heard came from a sack of potatoes.
“He’s from Burbank, Mom,” I said. “I’m sure they have barbecue in Burbank.” I turned my eyes to Jorge with as much I’m sorry for the existence of my mother in my expression as I could communicate silently, but he wasn’t fazed at all and was rather pleasant in his reply.
He gently placed his powerful hand on my forearm and chuckled, “It’s okay.” He turned to Mom and responded, “Actually, I don’t have any Mexican heritage. My mother’s family is from Costa Rica. It’s a common misconception.”
“Every culture chars meat on the fire, Marie,” Dad growled with a mouthful of steak. He was a man of few words, and those few words were usually sarcastic.
I could almost hear the thoughts turning over in my mother’s head. She was most likely wondering if there was any difference between Mexicans and Costa Ricans. I wouldn’t be surprised if she thought Costa Rica was actually Southern Mexico. For my part, I knew the geographical and even perhaps the cultural differences, but I’d be ashamed to admit I had no clue about the cuisine of Costa Rica. Lots of fish maybe? Thankfully for Bing and his innocent inquisitiveness, he asked for me.
“What would you say is a traditional dish from Costa Rica? I’d love to visit someday.”
“Black beans and fried plantains are the staple for almost any meal,” Jorge shared whimsically. He had that glassy look to his eyes, traced with a shade of sadness, as if he were remembering his mother’s cooking and heartsick for his loss. “A traditional Costa Rican meal is called casado. It literally means married. It’s usually a combination of meats or fish on a plate with beans and rice and salad, plantains, bread—everything on one plate. My mother made the best casado for me on my birthday and special occasions. Even on Christmas and Easter.”
“Sounds absolutely delicious,” exclaimed Bing. “We were stuck with very dry ham every year. No one had the heart to tell my grandmother how bad it was.” He laughed at the memory. “Oh! And the deviled eggs!”
Jane expressed she loved deviled eggs to the room, but my sister said, “I can’t eat deviled eggs. Too gassy.”
Jorge admitted, “I’ve never had them.”
“Well,” continued Bing, “You’re lucky you’ve never tried my mother’s deviled eggs. She’d use the eggs from our Easter egg hunt, but the food coloring had seeped through to the flesh. It was epically unappetizing. My sister—excuse me for saying this at the dinner table—but my sister once lost her cookies when she was served Mom’s deviled eggs. It ruined the whole dinner that year.”
His story made everyone laugh, and I watched him light up at the attention. I’d never seen him so talkative, but somehow, the memory brought out the natural performer in him.
“I can match your Easter story,” Jorge said in challenge. The attention was once again reverted to him. “We’d never decorated eggs at my mother’s house,” he began. “It’s not a custom in Costa Rica, so I didn’t grow up with that tradition. I’d only ever hunted for plastic eggs at school or the community center. So one year after I heard my friends talking about decorating real eggs, I made the request to Mom. She kind of put me off at first, clearly confused, but come Easter morning, she surprised me with a dozen eggs she’d dyed after I went to bed. I was so excited, I could hardly sit through church. Later that day, we went to a neighborhood party, and she brought the eggs to contribute to what the other families brought. Anyway, to make a long story—well, I can’t make it much shorter at this point—once we’d found all the eggs, one of the girls—una gordita—went to crack open the shell to eat it and got raw egg all over her fancy dress.”
Mom and Jane gasped at this, but the rest of us laughed.
“Like I said,” he continued as he laughed with us. “It’s not a tradition in Costa Rica. My mother didn’t know to hard boil the eggs first. No wonder she was so confused.”
“You have to be careful not to leave dairy products out,” said Mary. “When in doubt, throw it out.”
“Thank you for those wise words, Mary,” Dad said. “How I’ve survived all these years without them, I’ll never know.”
“It’s actually sound advice,” said Jane. “My family used to hide real eg
gs until one Fourth of July, there was a terrible smell in my uncle’s backyard. It was so incredibly bad, and nobody could figure out where the smell came from until one of my cousins found a three-month-old Easter egg in the bushes. I’m sure it was worse than your mom’s deviled eggs, Bing.” She smiled, leaning into him with a spark in her eyes.
“My sister would have fainted for sure.” He laughed.
“What’s your sister’s name?” asked Mary.
“Rose,” he answered with a smile. “My parents’ favorite movie is White Christmas. She was named after Rosemary Clooney, and I was named after Bing Crosby. My middle name is actually Crosby.”
“Well, I think that’s adorable,” said Mom. “And speaking of holidays, I’d like you to come for Thanksgiving dinner. You too, Jose.”
Jorge thanked her for the invitation but said he had other plans. Since he didn’t have a family, I couldn’t imagine who he’d spend it with, but I didn’t let the thought run too wild. Bing was also grateful to be included but lamented some business in New York he had to attend to with Will. This piqued my mother’s interest, and she asked all sorts of questions about his friendship with Will and what was it like on the national tour where they had met. I stole a glance at Jorge, but if the subject made him uncomfortable, he was good at hiding it. I felt inclined to be offended for him, but Bing didn’t linger on his relationship with Will for too long. He mostly spoke about his job as a swing in Something Rotten (or Rotten on the Road as he endearingly called it) and all the roles he had to learn and be ready to perform at any time.
“My favorite track was Bard Boy,” he said brightly.
Jane gave him a sly wink. “Because of the leather pants or guy-liner?” she quipped. She was truly a different person around him. I liked it.
I watched her as Bing spoke of his experiences. She was clearly enamored with him beyond anything I’d seen. It gave me all the feels, watching the two of them interact, and in that moment, everything was right in the world. Jane had Bing, and I had a new man-candy friend. I actually didn’t know what Jorge and I had going on. I told myself not everybody could be crazy in love like Jane and Bing. Jorge was nice enough. Maybe it could grow into something more. I wasn’t the type to get butterflies in my stomach anyway.
