by Gigi Blume
Did he seriously make a Princess Bride reference to me? It shook me from the gravity that held me rooted to him, and I jumped back.
“That’s enough talking for now,” I said, gathering my wits. “Maybe in a few minutes, we can talk about the weather.”
I assumed the starting position and poised myself for the lift, but he placed his hands on his hips and squinted his eyes at me.
“Do you make it a habit to make small talk while dancing?”
“It would be weird if we didn’t speak at all,” I replied. “Some people might find that the more they talk the less they have to say.”
“And is that more for your benefit or mine?”
“Both, I guess. Neither one of us has a lot to say unless it’s from a script.”
That did make him laugh. “You? Not have a lot to say? I wouldn’t describe you that way at all.”
“Are you saying I’m chatty?”
“Are you saying I’m aloof?”
Yes.
“I don’t know. I haven’t decided yet.”
He had no other response, unwittingly proving my point, and we got back to work on the acrobatics. He was silent for quite some time, concentrating on the lifts but not seeming to find much difficulty in them. He was rather strong but not bulky—more like an athletic dancer in which he again reminded me of Gene Kelly. He obviously had some form of training. After a few sets while we were catching our breath, he opened the subject I hoped to cover.
“Do you always like to roam around the secret places in the theatre?” he asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, the other night in the costume basement, and then last week in the scene shop. This theatre has lots of interesting corners to get lost in.”
“Oh, that.”
I couldn’t have asked for a better opening. Charlotte did tell me to make the most of every opportunity, after all. I decided I would make the most out of this one and so, with a devilish smile, I said, “Yes. And I made an interesting new friend.”
I charged at him from my opening position. His reflexes responded by extending his arm as was his choreography, but instead of a flip, I toppled over him and fell hard on my butt with a painful slam.
“Leisl…” I cursed.
Will didn’t offer to help me up this time. Really, this choreo was less like a dance and more like stage combat. A dark shade of arrogance claimed his features, and his eyes were lit with flame. Talk about triggered. I hadn’t even mentioned Jorge’s name and already Will was poised to rain fury down upon me.
“Jorge Wickham,” he said through clenched teeth, “has the kind of charisma that opens lots of doors for him, and he’s fortunate to make friends everywhere he goes. Whether or not he’s capable of keeping those friends is another matter altogether.”
He didn’t wait for me to prep for the run-up. Once I was on my feet, he wrapped his hands around my waist and threw me over his shoulder. I couldn’t get the height needed for the next move and finding it exceedingly difficult to continue the conversation in this manner, I remained slung over his shoulder. His hands were dangerously close to my backside, and I found my face dangerously close to his as I held on to the hard muscles at his sides.
“He couldn’t keep your abs,” I squeaked from my upside-down position. The blood rushed to my head.
“I mean friendship.” I had to stop thinking about Will’s abs.
“He couldn’t keep your… friendship,” I continued. “Now he’s blackballed all over Hollywood.”
I could feel Will’s shoulders and back tense beneath by body and with iron tension, he bent down and lowered me to my feet.
“I think we should get some water,” he said quietly. I noticed as he reached for his bottle, his entire face was washed in crimson. I hit a nerve there. How could talking about Jorge upset him that much? He was the guilty party and, by Jorge’s account, Will didn’t even care about the pain he inflicted on him. It was nothing to him—a fly on his windshield. It couldn’t have affected him the way he appeared. Perhaps calling him out on it was an injury to his pride. Heart throb Will Darcy: a handsome exterior but rotten underneath. The facts surrounding his behavior toward Jorge were unforgivable, and the anxiety Jorge expressed to me on Sunday night still rang in my ears. I was convinced there was nothing Will could say in his defense that could justify his actions.
The silence between us was thick and palpable as we drank from our water bottles. When it seemed Will had sufficiently calmed, I saw a flitter of movement around the corner. Bing and Jane were sneaking off somewhere—again. Seriously, didn’t those kids have to rehearse something? I honestly didn’t care if they got lost in the bowels of the theatre all night. I wasn’t about to go after them and get locked in the costume shop ever again. Thinking I was the only one to see their secret rendezvous, I turned to Will. That’s when I saw the lasers in his eyes searing into the back of Bing’s retreating head. His face, where it was a red flush a minute prior, was now fiercely white. His expression was a mixture of contempt, disappointment, and frustration. He appeared derailed from the present by whatever occupied his thoughts and with a conflicted aura, he turned to me and said, “I forgot what we were talking about.”
11
Red and Black
Will
This woman was messing with my head. I found myself engrossed with thoughts of her, wondering what her agenda might be, imagining her in a mini skirt, or lost in the aftershock of that kiss. A stage kiss, nothing more. I had done thousands of them.
But in the lobby where we were rehearsing our choreography, it was something different altogether. There were no cameras. There were no boom operators or grips mulling about. There was only Beth.
She smelled of coconut lotion and the clean scent of shampoo, and my resolve was about to crumble. I needed some distance and hydration. A cold shower would have been ideal. And that’s when I noticed Bing and his leggy soprano sneaking off somewhere and all I saw was black. Black. The color of my gloom. Red. The blood of angry me. If Bing didn’t appreciate what I was doing for him, I wasn’t responsible for the consequences.
With regret boiling in my veins for all I’d done for Bing, I turned back to my dance partner. There she was, incessantly staring at me with her delicate hand resting on her hip. Those tight leggings clung to her body like fresh paint. Black. The spandex of her pants. Red. I thought I’d catch on fire. Black. The darkness of my heart. Red. The blushes of her skin.
Stop. Stop it. I told myself. No more Les Mis. What were those SpongeBob lyrics? That would do the trick. I had to say something, or my regrets wouldn’t be limited to just helping Bing.
“I forgot what we were talking about,” I admitted. Something, something, pineapples in the sea…
“We weren’t talking at all,” she replied coyly. “I don’t think there are two people in all the world who have less to say to one another than you and I.”
I frowned. I had to admit talking about the weather was safer than talking about feelings. The more we talk the less we have to say. Wise words on her part.
“We were attempting small talk,” I said.
“We were attempting the lift,” she retorted and held out her arms and curled her fingers into her palms. “Let’s go.”
“Wait,” I exclaimed. “I’m not ready.”
But she was already charging toward me as I set my water bottle on the floor. I was en route to straightening my body when I turned to find her forehead crashing into mine.
“Rolf!” she cried as she reached for her face. “That hurts like a Mother Abbess!”
I could sense a quiver in her voice and the signs of tears being repressed. Still, I couldn’t help from being amused at her choice of language.
“What is that? Why do you do that?”
“Do what?” she groaned. “Head-butt movie stars?”
“No. You shout out stuff from shows. Like some sort of Musical Theatre Tourette's. You did it the other night when we were locked in the cos
tume shop. Is it for luck? Like the opposite of saying the M word?”
“The M word?”
“You know,” I whispered. “The Scottish play!”
“Macbeth?”
“Shhh. Don’t say that.”
She laughed, actually laughed, thankfully forgetting the pain on her forehead.
“That’s a stupid superstition,” she said, waving her hand dismissively. “Just like the hype about the Wailing Ghost in the Cry Room.”
I had heard the rumors about the theatre ghost. There were so many conflicting tales about it over the years, I’d lost track. It used to scare me as a kid, though.
“Are you going to make me guess?” I asked impatiently.
She smirked, probably enjoying my confusion. After a short pause and a little flush of pink to her cheeks, she admitted, “I don’t like curse words. They just sound so vulgar to my ears.”
“So you replace them with showtunes?”
“Musical theatre characters,” she corrected. “Today is my Sound of Music day.”
That was one of the oddest and cutest things I’d ever heard.
“So let me get this straight. All day today, if you want to cuss, you’ll yelp character names from Sound of Music and only Sound of Music?”
She nodded energetically. “Yes. And tomorrow might be a Sweeney Todd day. I usually go by the first expletive of the day.”
This took me aback with amused admiration.
“Do you ever repeat days?” I asked.
“Now you’re just making fun,” she said with a pout. “Let’s try that lift.”
“You can ask me something about myself if that makes you feel better,” I said, trying to appease her. “Then you can make fun of me.”
Her eyes narrowed into slits, and she tilted her chin up to meet my gaze. If I knew this girl at all, she was taking her time to think of some wisecrack to throw me off, but she surprised me by her serious tone when she said, “You told me the other day that once someone’s on your… Burnt List, they’re on there forever.”
“That’s true,” I admitted. Where was she going with this?
“What does one have to do to get on that list? Is jealousy a good enough motive?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever been jealous of anything or anyone my entire life.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Where is this coming from?”
“I’m just trying to figure you out,” she said.
The feeling was mutual.
“And what’s your impression so far, Miss Bennet?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think you want to know the answer to that question, Mr. Darcy.”
Black… Ugh. This girl would be the death of me. I picked up my water bottle and, in an attempt to sound calm, said, “We can practice the lift again after Thanksgiving.” And with a smart clap to her rump, I added, “Don’t eat too much stuffing.”
It was a small but short-lived feeling of satisfaction when I saw her jaw drop to the floor. It wasn’t my finest moment, but the only way I knew how to respond when someone insulted me was to throw it back in her face. I suppose it was low of me, and I almost immediately regretted it. Therefore, I halted my steps on the way out to say one more thing to her.
“Don’t believe everything you hear, Elizabeth—about theatre ghosts or superstitions or movie stars. Maybe get to know me before you form an opinion?”
“If I don’t form it now, I might not get another chance,” she said defiantly.
“I wouldn’t deny you the pleasure,” I replied with a wink, and I left the theatre entirely without a word of goodbye to Stella or Bing or that wannabe queen posing as our choreographer. I was so over this place. Thanksgiving in New York with my sister couldn’t come fast enough.
12
The Yam Incident
Beth
“Get to know me before you form an opinion?” Charlotte exclaimed when I saw her at work. “Guuuurl, that man is sweet on you!”
“What?” I cried. “Good Lord, no. He just has such a huge ego. He can’t stand the thought of anyone alive in the world disliking him.”
“Whatever you say.” She shrugged as she placed the last of the crepe paper turkeys on the tables.
Lucas Lodge was one of the few restaurants in the area open on Thanksgiving. We were scheduled to close at five o’clock, so the staff could celebrate with family, but it still sucked working on a holiday. With any luck, my career would take off, and this would be my last Thanksgiving as a food server. Of course, I’d been telling myself the same thing for years.
“Besides,” I said after a minute’s pause, “he clearly thinks I’m fat.”
“Who?” she asked absently.
“Will Darcy.”
“Oh,” she said. “Are we still talking about him?”
“What did he mean by the stuffing remark? I don’t even like stuffing.”
“Who doesn’t like stuffing?” she cried. “It’s un-American.”
“Lots of people don’t like stuffing. It’s just soggy bread with bits in it. Disgusting.”
She turned from her work to give me one of her serious looks. “What may be disgusting to some people, is a delicacy to others. Don’t knock it.”
I narrowed my eyes on her. “Why do I get the feeling there’s a metaphor in there somewhere?”
Charlotte was halfway to a degree in philosophy but could only take a few classes a semester. Lucas Lodge would fall apart without her, and she had little time for studies. It made me a little sad because she was too brilliant to stay where she was in life.
“If you find a metaphor in that,” she said, “then it’s your own conscience feeding it to you. No pun intended. But, if we’re on the subject of men…”
I raised my eyes to the ceiling. “Here we go.”
“Never mind,” she huffed.
“No, go ahead.”
She hesitated for a moment but realizing I wouldn’t let her drop a subject once she opened it, she went on with her thoughts.
“Okay, here it is,” she said. “You seem hung up over that Jorge guy, and don’t shoot me for saying this, but I don’t think he’s all that attractive.”
“Are you blind?”
“Will you let me finish?”
I held up my hands to surrender my remaining interruptions and kept silent, and with a sigh, she went on.
“You don’t exactly have a reputation for having the best taste in men, Lizzie.” She had a point there, but I let her continue, “Remember that bass player you dated for a week before you realized he was in some weird vampire cult?”
“I thought there was something off about his extra-sharp canines.”
“And what about that gay co-star you had the hots for?”
“So I don’t have gay-dar. What’s your point?”
“My point is, dear Lizzie, you don’t know what you want. And maybe the right guy will be right there in your face, and you won’t even realize it.”
“One, you sound like my mother, and two, I don’t need a man to make me happy when pizza will do the trick.”
She conceded, saying she couldn't argue with me about that as she liked pizza well enough to give up chocolate if given the choice between the two. We agreed enthusiastically and made a pact to use pizza as a code word if one of us were to make any more dating mistakes. I told her I no longer had any expectations as far as Jorge was concerned, and she seemed a little relieved at the news, saying she was prepared to go ninja if she suspected anything was going awry. We laughed a great deal over the course of the next few hours as customers trickled in for the turkey buffet we offered as the only option on the menu. As much as I resented working on Thanksgiving, I was grateful to Charlotte’s dad for making it easier for us. All we had to do was deliver drinks and check on the customers throughout their meal. Best of all, the tip was included with the bill. It was a good day, and Sir William Lucas had promised me a tray of yams, so I could have something to take to my parents’ house later in t
he day.
I was getting a head start on my side work, looking forward to an early departure if more customers didn’t decide to come in, when a half hour before closing, I was surprised to see Colin flutter into the dining hall. He was alone, and my first thought as he glided his way toward the bar was that he must have had no family in L.A. to celebrate with. My second thought came with more trepidation as I noticed him inquiring something of Charlotte and turning to look for me as she nodded her head in my direction. I hadn’t thought he knew where I worked, so it didn’t cross my mind he’d be looking for me. What on earth could the man want with me? That’s when I panicked. Had Will complained about me? What could possibly be so pressing that couldn’t wait until Monday’s rehearsal? I swallowed hard as he approached me, leaving his Shirley Temple at the bar. His approach was stiff, and he wore a grave expression which made his features appear even whiter than usual. Still, upon closer inspection, I was convinced it was just the wrong shade of foundation. He smiled through contorted looks of discomfort and greeted me awkwardly.
“Might I have a word with you in private?” he asked.
My shift was close to ending and save for a few tasks and a lingering party in my section, I was free. A glance at Charlotte gave me leave to take a few moments with Colin, so I directed him to a booth away from the few stragglers still dining. I admit, I was nervous to hear what he had to say, and I’d be lying if I said my palms weren’t sweaty. He spoke in a painfully formal manner, laying out all my good qualities in an orderly but suspect fashion. I’d been let down by directors before and that was usually the way they did it. The difference was I was used to hearing the ‘You’re talented but not what we’re looking for’ speech at auditions, not in the middle of a run. Besides, he was the choreographer—not the director. Did choreographers have the power to fire actors?
