by Ted Michael
“It’s this thing in theater, where you kind of get lost in the part you’re playing. So, if your character falls in love with someone, you kind of do too.”
“Sort of like how Hollywood actors always hook up with their costars,” I said.
“Exactly.”
“So you and Ryan . . .”
“We had a little thing during Oklahoma! It wore off pretty quickly. Ryan’s okay. He’s pretty,” she said, a bit wistfully. “But he’s also a little . . . vapid.”
Vapid. I was going to look that one up.
“Anyway,” Alicia continued. “I’m glad you’re in the play. I think you’ll be great once you loosen up a bit. Shakespeare’s challenging, but you’ll get it. And you and me, we should hang out. We’re supposed to be cousins, you know? Best friends.”
“So there could be verisimilitude between us too?” I said. “Beatrice and Hero are friends, so we should be?”
She smiled that perfect smile again. “Yes,” she said. “Something like that.”
. . . . .
Okay, here’s what they don’t show you on Glee: blocking.
That’s the part in the beginning of the rehearsal process where the actors stand on the stage and go where the director tells them. I had to learn the geography of the stage: upstage and downstage, left, right, and center, and all the combinations: Enter down left. Walk to center right. Exit up left. It was initially confusing, but by the end of the first week of rehearsals, I had it down. I was a bundle of nerves, though, because the entire time I was thinking, how are we going to block the kissing? But when we got to the part in the script where Claudio is supposed to kiss Hero (So—Ryan kissing Alicia, as you’ll recall—heavy sigh), they just kind of looked at each other and smiled knowingly and moved on to the next line.
I relaxed a little. Apparently we weren’t going to be expected to kiss anybody yet.
Whew.
I wasn’t supposed to be onstage for a bit, so I sat down in the wings backstage and started going over the lines for my next scene. After a while I became aware that someone was standing in front of me. Someone wearing black Converse sneakers with ratty laces. I looked up.
Eric Bradshaw.
“My lady,” he said, and gave a slight bow.
I stared at him, uncertain of how to respond. His shirt featured a guy with glasses and a mustache and the word PIZZA in large block letters, which I didn’t understand. He smiled.
“Hi?” I said.
He stuck out his hand. “I’m Eric,” he said, like I didn’t know. “We were never formally introduced before, so . . .”
I took his hand. It was warm and slightly rough. “Jo.”
“Jo, right,” he repeated, squeezing my hand. “Are you a freshman?”
“Uh, no,” I said with an embarrassed laugh. “Junior.”
“Oh. Sorry. I’m a junior too, but I moved here last year, so I don’t know everybody, and I’ve never seen you before. I mean, maybe I’ve seen you, but never in here.” He finally let go of my hand and gestured to the auditorium around us.
“I’ve never really been in here before,” I admitted. “Except for auditions.”
“I loved your audition. You, quite simply, rocked.”
I glanced away, hoping I wasn’t blushing. “Right. When I wasn’t speaking in a British accent, you mean.”
His eyes, which were a deep blue, widened (dare I say) theatrically. “No, I thought the British accent was hot. I think we should all do this entire play in British accents. Shakespeare was British, after all. That’s authenticity.” He pressed his fist to his chest, his voice deepening into something that reminded me a bit of Charlton Heston. “That’s truth, in theater.”
I couldn’t help but smile. “Thanks.”
“Eric, you’re up, dude,” somebody said from onstage. Eric turned with an apologetic smile and tipped an invisible hat at me, then bounded out onto the stage.
I watched as he did the scene. I really let myself look at him, which I’d been too mortified by the situation to do before, and what struck me most about him was that he was an oversized little boy—tall, broad in the shoulders, a tad stocky, not overweight or anything, but solid. He smiled a lot. He had a large chin and deep blue eyes that twinkled under the lights. His hair was blond and all over the place, and his face was a bit scruffy, like he couldn’t be bothered with shaving. Because he was too busy playing.
But he was attractive. Not in the way that Ryan was, but still.
He’s cute, I admitted to myself.
And I was going to kiss him. The only question now was, when?
. . . . .
“We don’t do the actual kissing until the week before dress rehearsal,” Alicia informed me later that week when we were out getting Baskin-Robbins and becoming BFFs and all. Which was going pretty well, actually. “Are you nervous about kissing Eric?”
Yes.
“No,” I said quickly, shrugging like it was no big deal. “I just don’t know him very well.”
“Eric’s awesome,” Alicia said fondly, like maybe she wouldn’t mind kissing him herself. “But then, I have a weakness for the funny guys.”
“Like Jonathan Renault?” I asked. I hadn’t forgotten the way she looked at him in my English class.
“How did you know about that?” she gasped, and blushed prettily. Alicia did everything prettily.
“I’m observant,” I answered, and it was quiet for a minute while she thought about Jonathan, and I thought about Eric.
Eric was funny. He always had everyone laughing, so much that he occasionally got into hot water with Ms. Golden for horsing around. For example, at rehearsal earlier, he’d produced a little flute-type instrument from his pocket and proceeded to play it with his nose. “He’s cute,” I admitted, out loud this time.
“I bet he’s a good kisser,” Alicia said, and I didn’t know whether she was talking about Eric or Jonathan, but then we both kind of snapped out of it, went back to our ice cream, and went back to becoming friends.
. . . . .
Here’s some other stuff they never show on Glee: weeks and weeks of rehearsals.
Hours of time spent memorizing your lines. Costume fittings. Set building. Lights. Makeup. No, on Glee the actors simply arrive, belt out their amazing songs with their astounding special effects and their fantastic lighting and sets and dance moves, and then go on to win nationals. No effort required.
But they do get something right: the sense that comes through all those hours of seemingly endless preparation, that you are connected with the other people in your cast. You see them in the hall at school and you think, I know what that person sounds like when they’re broken-hearted, I know how that girl’s face looks like when she’s feeling flirty, or I know the way that guy pronounces the word “bosom” when he’s trying to get a laugh. And it’s not exactly verisimilitude, at least not the way Alicia described it to me.
So we rehearsed for Much Ado About Nothing for a little under three months, six days a week, and in that time I started to feel that the other people in the play were a kind of family. My family. When I saw Alicia as Hero getting basically called a strumpet by the guy who’s supposed to love and protect her, it wasn’t too hard to conjure up some indignation. It definitely took some of the shine off Ryan, because I could see him too, in his acting, and Alicia was right.
He was vapid. Definition: 1. bereft of strength, sharpness, flavor. 2. boring or dull. And he was vain. One time I caught him looking at himself in the mirrors in the backstage dressing room, just smiling at himself, as if he couldn’t help it—he was just that good-looking. And if you wanted to talk about something besides movies or music, if you wanted to talk about the news or politics or the meaning of life, he always got this blank look.
I started to see him as maybe not the sharpest crayon in the box.
The less I liked Ryan, the more I liked Eric. Because Eric goofed off a lot, it’s true, but he could also quote Plato when the situation called for it. He rea
d books. He liked indie films and art. He knew how to deliver those difficult lines so that a normal person would understand Mr. Shakespeare’s fine jokes. He was nice too. Whenever we’d go onto the stage together, he’d hold the curtain open for me. And when I saw him up there acting, showing a bit of his soul, I saw someone who was honest and genuine and intelligent.
He was special, I thought. Not to be too Hallmark card, but he was.
And I was falling for him a little, clearly. I couldn’t tell if it was because of the verisimilitude thing or if it was real. But I liked it.
Like, when we did our scenes where Beatrice and Benedick mock each other, there was always a playfulness in the way Eric said his lines, as if Benedick was enjoying taking jabs at Beatrice, because, deep down, he admired her.
Admired me.
And I was enjoying taking my jabs right back, because I liked him too.
Me: “I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow than a man swear he loves me.”
Eric: “God keep your ladyship still in that mind; so some gentleman or other shall ’scape a predestinate scratched face.”
Me: “Scratching could not make it worse, an ’twere such a face as yours were.”
Eric: “Oh yeah, well yo mama is so ugly that I took her to a haunted house and she came out with a job application.”
Me (laughing): “Oh yeah? Well, your mama is so ugly her pillow cries at night.”
Eric (laughing too): “Come on, Jo. It’s pronounced ‘Yo mama.’ And yo mama is so ugly she made an onion cry.”
Me: “Yo mama is so ugly she made Obama lose hope.”
Then we were laughing too hard to talk for a few minutes, and Ms. Golden just kind of shook her head, and finally Eric cleared his throat and said, as Benedick: “Well, you are a rare parrot-teacher.”
And I thought, not for the first time, I’m actually excited for this guy to be my first kiss.
. . . . .
Which brings us to the week before dress rehearsal, when, after we’d all assembled on the stage, the girls in our petticoats and boys with their swords, and Ms. Golden said, “All right, everybody. Kissing time. For now I want everybody but Alicia and Ryan out while we block their kissing scene, and then we’ll do the bit with Benedick and Beatrice at the end.”
Here we go, I thought, my heart thumping wild. Showtime.
Alicia and Ryan stayed while the rest of us shuffled out into the hallway. I dared a look at Eric. He gazed at the floor like he suddenly found his shoes fascinating. It was the first time I’d ever seen him act nervous. He rubbed the back of his neck, then glanced up at me and smiled in a way that sent a flock of rabid killer butterflies to my stomach, then looked away.
We stayed that way, looking at each other and then not looking at each other, until Alicia came out to get us.
“You’re up,” Alicia said, and she slipped something into my hand.
It was a tiny can of Altoids.
I had to love Alicia Walker. Even if she was perfect.
Eric and I slunk into the auditorium and wandered up onto the stage. We took our places for the end of the play. My knees were knocking together, seriously. I tried to cover by making a big show of opening up the Altoids. I popped one into my mouth. It was so strong it burned my tongue. I coughed, then smiled.
“Want one?” I said to Eric.
“Heck, yes, please.”
He took a couple. Then he pulled out a tube of lip balm and made his own big show of applying it. He held it out to me. It was Skittle flavored.
“Taste the rainbow,” he said, his blue eyes dancing.
I laughed weakly and took it and dragged the tube lightly over my lips. I didn’t want to put on too much and have us slide right past each other.
“Whenever you’re ready,” Ms. Golden said.
“Go easy on him, Jo,” Ryan said, popping his head out from backstage. He smirked at us. “It’s his first time.”
“Ryan. Out,” ordered Ms. Golden, and we could hear him laughing as he left the theater.
So yeah, Ryan was kind of a jerk. I turned back to Eric. “So . . . you’re a lip virgin?”
Eric’s face was very red by this point, clearly mortified, but the corner of his mouth lifted at my terminology. “Yeah. Lip virgin. Kind of pathetic, right?”
“Very pathetic,” I agreed. I leaned close to him and whispered. “Don’t tell anyone, but it’s my first time too.”
His eyes widened. “You’ve never been kissed?”
“Nope.”
“Impossible. How could a girl as pretty as you have gotten this far without being kissed?”
I was blushing by this point. “Oh, Eric,” I said. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”
“All right, you two,” Ms. Golden directed from the audience. “Time to face the music.”
“Ms. Golden, I have a question, actually,” said Eric. “Where do our noses go?”
I’d been wondering the same thing.
“Just kiss her, Eric,” she retorted. “You’ll figure it out.”
I was so nervous I felt light-headed. Now, I thought, would not be a good time to puke.
“Okay. First kiss.” Eric clapped his hands together like a football player breaking out of a huddle. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes momentarily, then opened them and said, “A miracle! Here’s our own hands against our hearts. Come, I will have thee; but, by this light, I take thee for pity.”
I conjured up my best Beatrice smirk. “I would not deny you; but, by this good day, I yield upon great persuasion, and partly to save your life, for I was told you were in a consumption.”
Eric laughed. He took my hand and pulled me closer. “Peace!” he said. “I will stop your mouth.”
He kissed me.
His lips on mine were warm and smooth and tasted like mint and Skittles. Then we stepped back from each other.
“Excellent,” Ms. Golden said. “Just like that.”
Just like that. My first kiss. Check.
I tried not to let my disappointment show on my face. It wasn’t that the kiss hadn’t been good, exactly. It was nice. Quick, but nice. But it wasn’t—how should I put this?—mind-blowing or anything. There were no fireworks, no sweeping music. It was just nice.
“Amazing,” Eric said, his face flushed. “That was awesome, Jo. You rock at the kissing.”
It was sweet of him, saying that. But I knew him well enough by then to recognize when he was acting.
My first kiss hadn’t been such a big deal, after all. It was just a kiss.
. . . . .
It was awkward between Eric and me for a few days after that, especially during the kissing scenes, which continued to be nice and all, but nothing to write home about. But then we hit tech rehearsal, and we were too busy to be awkward. We had stuff to get done. And then, like two seconds after that, it was dress rehearsal, and then it was opening night.
I’d dyed my hair red to match Beatrice’s fiery disposition, and Alicia twisted it up into an elaborate mix of curls and braids that looked like something out of Game of Thrones. Then I put on my costume, a green velvet dress that hugged my body in a way a dress had never fit me before, because it’d been made just for me.
And finally I put on my makeup, starting with a thick layer of pancake foundation that felt heavy and gross and was definitely going to make me break out like crazy, too much blush on my cheeks, too much eye shadow, highlights and shadows painted on my nose and laugh lines and cheekbones so the stage lights wouldn’t wash me out, plus thick, fake eyelashes glued to my eyelids, topped with two layers of eyeliner, and a layer of mascara. I was certain I’d look like a drag queen, but at the end of the whole process I gazed into the mirror and . . . mousy little Jo Dalley was gone.
I saw Beatrice.
And before it felt like I could even properly catch my breath, the curtain was going up, and I was saying my first line: “I pray you is Signior Mountanto returned from the wars or no?” and for a moment I was painfully aware of all the people s
taring at me, hundreds of people: Becca in the front row with my family and half of my old soccer team, my classmates, my teachers, and strangers—row upon row of strangers, all looking at me.
For about three panicky seconds I couldn’t remember my next line, but then it was like some other part of me took over, and the words flowed out, not like I’d memorized them, but like I was actually saying them for the first time.
It was magic.
I was Beatrice. I teased Benedick, and I danced with the prince, and I laughed and raged and fell in love. Hard.
With the theater.
I loved everything about that night, the warmth of the lights, the little motes of dusts floating in the air, the smell of sawdust and fresh paint and hairspray, the whisper of my skirts as I moved, the charge of energy that swept over me as I took my first steps onto the stage, the way I could sense the audience listening, and the way my voice carried in the room. It was like being transported to another world, where I could be anything. Anyone. And at the same time, myself.
All too soon, I was standing center stage with Eric, taking a bow. And all too soon, we’d done Thursday and Friday night, and it was Saturday night. Closing night. It occurred to me then that it was all going to be over. Sure, I’d see the people in the cast again, in the halls at school, in my classes, and around town. But it would never be the same.
I would never be the same. I’d never be Beatrice again.
I made it through acts one through four without crying over it, but around Act Five, Scene Three, I started to lose it backstage. Which was bad, because I was going to mess up my face.
“Oh, sweetie,” Alicia whispered when she saw me. “It’s like this every time for me too. That’s the beauty of it. It’s fleeting. But there will be other shows.”
She floated away into the darkness of backstage, and I wiped carefully at my face with a tissue. When I looked up again, Eric was standing across from me.
“I have something I need to say,” he whispered. “Before we go out there.”
“Is it going to make me cry?” I asked in a whisper back to him. “Because I’m trying to pull myself together here.”
“I like you,” he whispered.
