It was only at this point that Giselle remembered the homework assignment. She still hadn’t prepared her three minute comparison of fey creatures in classical ballet to Shakespeare’s fairies and hobgoblins in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Briefly, she considered rushing to Mr. Kinsler while the class settled and confessing she hadn’t done the assignment yet, and asking, would he please not call on her until at least the following day. But as she weighed the potential humiliation of being called on unprepared against the certain humiliation of confession, she decided to remain silent and take her chances.
“Let’s get started,” said Mr. Kinsler, pulling out a clipboard with a thick stack of sheets under the hinged clasp. “As some of you will doubtless have noticed already, there are no duplicate research topics for your three minute presentations. I’m sorry to disappoint those of you who prefer more … collaborative efforts.”
He didn’t look sorry at all.
“Dude, why are you staring at me?” asked one of the students.
Nathan, she thought. Giselle had never encountered a more deadbeat student. He took deadbeat-ery to previously unplumbed depths.
Mr. Kinsler smiled at Nathan and continued, and once more Giselle marveled at the easy informality that existed in drama between student and teacher. It was the complete opposite of the relationship between pupil and instructor in ballet.
“I trust you found your assignments simple,” continued Mr. Kinsler.
“Mine sucked,” muttered another student, grinning as he spoke.
Giselle remembered him from auditions as well.
“Jordan.” Mr. Kinsler paused and Giselle thought he might actually be on the point of reprimanding the student. Instead he smiled at him. “We’ll hear from you today.”
Jordan made a dramatic show of objecting, during which it became clear to Giselle that he actually enjoyed having the spotlight where it currently shone, figuratively speaking. Whether he was actually prepared or not was another story.
“Okay,” said Jordan, scrolling through notes on his phone. He found what he was looking for and began.
“My topic was ‘arranged marriage,’ which is more Chandavarkar’s thing—” Jordan broke off, grinning at Deepak Chandavarkar. “No? You got nothing, man?”
Deepak just smiled, refusing to be baited.
Ophelia, beside Giselle, pointed to a note she’d scrawled:
Deep’s parents=arranged marriage.
“Your presentation please, Jordan,” Mr. Kinsler admonished.
Jordan grinned and returned his attention to his notes, but then his phone pinged with a notification. His expression shifted and he frowned, reading the notice. When he looked up, his entire appearance was sober.
“The dude—the one they pulled out of the river. He died after all.”
The students all began to check their phones, murmuring to one another about the Sirens of Foulweather. Giselle didn’t check her phone. It was too ingrained in her that phones didn’t belong at rehearsal. Not to mention, she had no wish to see … the body.
“Okay, okay,” said Mr. Kinsler, his voice raised. “What happened is a tragedy, but it does not excuse me from teaching class or you all from participating in class. Jordan, if you would please return to your presentation.”
Jordan shook his head. “I don’t see how we can sit here discussing arranged marriages and shizzle when we’ve got murder and mayhem right here in River City.”
Mr. Kinsler frowned. “That sounds like the thinking of someone who didn’t prepare his presentation adequately and is stalling.”
Jordan attempted to look innocent for a count of three, but then he wiped a hand over his mouth, smiling. “You got me, man.”
Nervous laughter ran through the class.
“I’ll tell you what,” Mr. Kinsler said, “If you can think of a way to make a discussion of the latest siren attack relevant to our study of Shakespeare’s Dream, I’m game.” He pulled out his cell, tapping the screen. “I’ll give everyone three minutes to come up with connections.”
The room exploded into over thirty different discussions, thirty different shouting matches. Giselle kept silent, thinking of the connection her babushka made—that the play (in combination with the ballet) would draw the vain creatures to town. This was not a connection Giselle was prepared to share with the class.
“Will you look at this?” Ophelia asked, wide-eyed. She was transfixed by an image on her cell phone. “They’re saying the victim returned to the river after being attacked last night. And this time, they killed him. Here’s the picture everyone’s talking about.”
Ophelia tilted her phone to Giselle before Giselle had the presence of mind to look away. It showed a body. The body. Bloated. Discolored. Bloodied.
Giselle’s stomach twisted.
“I so did not need to see that,” she murmured.
“I know,” said Ophelia. “Isn’t it awful?” Ophelia continued staring at her screen, mesmerized.
Mr. Kinsler raised both hands, chiming phone in one, dry erase pen in the other.
“Okay, what do you have for me?”
Four hands shot up. Giselle felt mild shock upon discovering drama students were capable of hand-raising.
“Jordan, you have the floor. How is today’s tragedy relevant to our play?”
“What if it wasn’t sirens that attacked the dude from Scappoose? What if it was a crime of passion?” asked Jordan. “They’re saying the drowned guy had a wife and another fiancée and neither woman knew anything about the other.”
“And this is relevant to our play, how?” demanded Rebecca. “I mean, even if we were doing Othello, it would still be a stretch—”
“It’s totally relevant,” said Jordan, interrupting her. “Oberon and Hippolyta accuse one another of cheating and each threatens violent retribution. Plus, when Helena follows Demetrius to the woods out of passion, Demetrius threatens to kill Helena, am I right? He threatens to do her mischief if she doesn’t leave him alone.”
“He threatens rape,” corrected Rebecca.
A look of disgust crossed Jordan’s face. “Did not catch that.”
The class exploded into another shouting match. Somehow, Giselle was not shocked by the lack of raised hands, this time.
Mr. Kinsler held up both hands and the class settled. “Anyone else?”
Three other hands popped up and Mr. Kinsler pointed to Deepak.
Deepak smiled. “In the play, Hermia’s father wishes her to marry Demetrius. She wishes to marry Lysander because she loves Lysander. But who is to say her marriage to Lysander won’t end up with a body in the river, in the end? If she allows herself to be ruled by passion once, who is to say it won’t happen again, as with the drowned Scappoose man who married but then pursued a second woman?”
“Thank you, Deep,” said Mr. Kinsler. “That’s a nice tie-back to Jordan’s topic, too.”
“So, what, dude, you’re going to marry whoever your parents say?” Nathan asked, addressing Deepak.
Deepak grinned. “I most certainly did not say that.”
Kim Ogawa spoke out. “It’s a statistic that non-arranged marriages end in divorce more often than arranged ones.”
“Or in murder,” said another student. “So who did it? The Scappoose man’s wife or the fiancée?”
“Neither,” said Ophelia. “His death was consistent with a siren attack, not a crime of passion.”
Giselle felt a chill run along her arms and down her spine. The willis murdered out of passion. Having been betrayed in love themselves, they killed men who had betrayed women.
“The sirens are fake, dude,” said another student. He was overwhelmingly shouted down by student residents of Foulweather Who Knew Better.
Kim Ogawa’s hand was in the air again.
“Miss Ogawa,” said Mr. Kinsler, his voice like a thunderclap. The class hushed.
“Are we supposed to believe the fairies in Midsummer are real or supernatural beings?” she asked. “I mean, that’s rel
ated to the river tragedy, too, isn’t it? Is the sirens’ behavior explainable through rational means or are they somehow ‘magical’? And what does Shakespeare mean for us to believe about the fairies and hobgoblins in the play?”
“An excellent question,” said Mr. Kinsler. “Happily that topic was already assigned to one of you.”
“To me,” said Deepak, raising a hand. “I’m ready.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” said Mr. Kinsler. “But we’re out of time for today. We’ve got a play to rehearse.”
Giselle felt the mood of the classroom shift to one of anticipation; concerns pertaining to the sirens and the attack had little importance in comparison to the weighty business of The Drama. In respect to their dedication to their art, drama students were much like students of ballet.
Mr. Kinsler directed everyone to turn to Act Two of the play. “Now, then. I understand from several of you that you are having a hard time following the ins and outs of the love quadrangle.”
There was murmured agreement and Mr. Kinsler continued.
“Rebecca is undertaking the role of both stage manager and dramaturge, and she has offered to explain the love quadrangle as it plays out.”
Smiling, Rebecca stood. “Lysander and Demetrius both want to marry Hermia. Demetrius had once promised to marry Helena, but he dumped her before the play started and is now pursuing Hermia, with his and her parents’ blessings, emphasizing the importance of arranged marriage in this culture.”
In translation, the action would involve both James and Marcus chasing Caitlyn, while Giselle’s rejected character, Helena, looked on mournfully.
“Then,” continued Rebecca, “We journey into the woods and the tables turn. Oberon, king of the fairies, sends his servant Puck to fix things so Demetrius will love Helena again. Using magic flower-juice.”
“Gotta get me some,” remarked James, winking. Several girls tittered with laughter.
“Anyway,” said Rebecca, “Puck puts the juice on the wrong guy, Lysander, with the result that when Lysander awakens and sees Helena, he thinks he is in love with her and forgets all about Hermia. Oberon commands Puck to fix things, and Puck puts juice on Demetrius next. Demetrius sees Helena, and he, too, forgets Hermia entirely.”
Which meant James and Marcus would chase Giselle while ignoring Caitlyn.
“Of course, in the end, Oberon makes sure Puck fixes his mistakes, and Helena gets her Demetrius, Hermia her Lysander.”
“Clear as mud,” murmured Ophelia, at Giselle’s side.
A smile tugged at Giselle’s mouth. The swapping of affections in the play was ridiculously complex.
“Thank you, Rebecca,” said Mr. Kinsler. “Okay, everyone. Into your groups. We’re skipping warm-ups today.”
Giselle rose, her body stiff. She rolled her shoulders as if to shake off any remaining tension from the discussion of the sirens and her own musings as to what Babushka might or might not know. She forced herself to think of James and his lips and the possibility of an encounter with those lips. A soft flush rose up her neck.
Mr. Kinsler was working Act Two with Giselle’s group today, the “lovers,” consisting of herself, Marcus, James, and Caitlyn. Giselle’s character had several pages before she would go onstage, so she observed from the side, noting with dismay the number of kisses James thought necessary for his “Lysander and Hermia” scene with Caitlyn.
She found herself in a forgiving mood, however, when her own scene with James began. Those hazel eyes, that lazy smile—something fluttered happily in her stomach.
Previous to Giselle’s entrance as Helena, Puck, the hobgoblin servant to the Fairy lord, applied an aphrodisiac to Lysander’s eyes while he slept on the forest ground. When Helena arrived onstage, she had to awaken Lysander, who would then see her and love her madly.
Giselle was just about ready to walk onstage when James sat up from his “sleep,” interrupting the rehearsal.
“Mr. Kinsler,” said James. “I’m worried that if we block my scene with Giselle, er, I mean Helena, with me just lying on the floor moaning about how I’m in love with her, the audience isn’t going to understand I’ve switched my loyalty and am in love with Giselle instead of Caitlyn. I mean, Helena instead of Hermia.”
“Fair enough,’ said Mr. Kinsler. “Giselle, James: what’s the solution?”
James flashed his white teeth at her in a melting smile. “Well, I was thinking about how to overcome the language barrier and the blocking problem at the same time. I think we need to physicalize our encounter to show the audience I’m now in love with Giselle.”
Giselle glanced at Caitlyn, who was glowering at James.
“Why don’t you run the scene the way you have in mind, James,” said Mr. Kinsler. “And Giselle, go ahead and react to him the way you imagine Helena reacting. The element of surprise can create great breakthroughs.”
Giselle thought the element of surprise was more likely to make her forget her lines, but she nodded and spoke her lines, entering the scene.
O, I am out of breath—
Giselle continued through to the point where she discovered Lysander asleep.
Lysander! On the ground!
Dead or asleep? I see no blood, no wound.
Lysander, if you live good sire, awake.
James opened his eyes, lifted his head, and then leapt from the ground and stood behind Giselle, clinging to her.
In a gravelly whisper that gave her chills, he spoke.
And run through fire I will for
Thy sweet sake.
Still behind her, he reached both hands around her hips and pressed them onto her thighs, fingertips splayed downward. There was no mistaking his amorous intent, thought Giselle. No possibility the audience would be lost. Sensuously, James snaked his hands up the front of her jeans and tee shirt.
Giselle felt herself melting into his grasp. Would Helena melt? She didn’t care.
His voice was a murmur in her ear as he spoke his next lines.
Transparent Helena! Nature shows art,
That through thy bosom—
Here, James pressed the fleshy part of his thumbs just below her breasts. Her heart skipped into triple-time as James finished the line:
makes me see thy heart.
James spun her around so that they gazed into one another’s eyes. Giselle felt her breath coming fast as though she’d just turned piqués across the entire stage. James, grinning lazily, back-dipped her and then crushed his mouth onto hers, all electricity and heat and need.
From across the room, the “mechanicals” group hooted.
Jordan called out, “Hottest kiss in the history of Shakespeare!”
Giselle felt unable to speak or move after James’s mouth left hers. Helena, fortunately, had no lines. She hung dizzy in James’s arms, awaiting his next line. His face inches from hers, he spoke them.
Where is Demetrius? Oh! How fit a word
Is that vile name to perish on my sword.
Mr. Kinsler clapped his hands together twice.
“Now that is the way to make Shakespeare accessible to modern audiences!” He turned to the rest of the class. “Do any of you have any confusion as to how Lysander is feeling about Helena?”
Everyone was looking at her. Giselle, reddening, examined the floor. She noticed and corrected her turned out feet. Mr. Kinsler continued for another minute in the same vein, speaking of Shakespeare and accessibility. Eventually Giselle looked up long enough to see Ophelia smiling at her, eyebrows enthusiastically raised. Giselle’s eyes traveled to Caitlyn, off to the side awaiting her next entrance as the cast-off Hermia. Caitlyn was not smiling. Giselle thought she had the look of someone who wanted to poison her by slow degrees.
But Giselle found she didn’t care. In fact, the more she looked around the room, taking in the wishful gazes of those who wanted James to kiss them like that, she realized that for the first time in almost two weeks, she felt great. She felt wanted. Important. Envied. All the things she hadn’t
felt since her mother had taken away her identity as the studio’s principal ballerina.
Mr. Kinsler instructed the various divisions of “lovers,” (Giselle’s group) “fairies and goblins,” (the dancers) and “mechanicals” (buffoonish workmen) to choose a scene into which they would inject some of James’s physicalized passion.
“We have to kiss?” asked Nathan, eyeing his fellow mechanicals with suspicion.
Mr. Kinsler turned to his stage manager. “Rebecca, give the mechanicals a hand.”
Leaving to work with the fairies’ group, Mr. Kinsler instructed the lovers to rework the same scene. James got as far as the kiss and then stumbled over Lysander’s lines.
“Sorry,” he said.
Giselle had the fleeting impression he was speaking to Caitlyn while appearing to apologize for missing his lines.
“From the top?” asked Giselle.
James continued to have trouble with the lines after the kiss, so that they had to re-start the scene four or five times. Giselle lost track. Not that she minded. Electricity hummed through her veins at his every touch.
With each pass through the scene, however, one of James’s thumbs, positioned beneath her heart, crept higher and higher. Giselle knew her character Helena would object strongly to Lysander’s wandering hands. Helena didn’t even like Lysander. Summoning her inner thespian, Giselle pushed James away, speaking her next lines in anger.
Mr. Kinsler, who was now wandering between groups, had stopped at the lovers and applauded Giselle’s effort.
“Good work helping the audience see behind the unfamiliar language,” he said.
Smiling softly, Giselle murmured, “I have to—I mean, had to—help the audience understand ballet, too. It’s as much a foreign language to most people as Shakespeare.”
The sirens were completely forgotten as the rehearsal wore on, and the only blight on Giselle’s afternoon was the anger she could feel coming off Caitlyn, who clearly had feelings for James. The confusing part for Giselle was trying to figure out the extent of James’s feelings for … either of them. When he kissed her the seventh time running their scene, Giselle felt pretty sure he liked her. A lot. But when he spent the five minute break murmuring with Caitlyn, it sure looked like flirting. And then there was the slap last Friday at auditions. Giselle was pretty sure you only slapped someone you felt you had a claim on.
Siren Spell Page 12
