by Daryl Banner
While the others finish eating and start bantering back and forth, I listen to a tune that comes on the restaurant sound system and catch myself smiling. It’s a song I know. Finishing my linguini, which isn’t half bad even compared to Chef Julian’s masterful cooking, I hum along with the melody. I wonder if normal-people food is growing on me, or if I’m simply forgetting already what it’s like to be … me.
A couple hours later, everyone goes their separate ways and I’ve returned to the theater to sign up for auditions. In a short, closed-off hall that connects the lobby to the theater, I stare at my phone in my palm, dreading what I’m about to do. This is never easy.
I tap her name. My phone chirps at me. I bring it to my ear.
“Desdemona? Hi.”
Already, I’m annoyed by two facts. One: I almost don’t recognize her due to the thick English dialect she’s putting on. Two: she’s the only person in the world who uses my full name. Not even my parents bother with all four annoying syllables of it.
“Hey, Cece. I have a favor to ask. A really serious favor.”
“Oh, that is quite fine. I was simply partaking in a lesson with my vocal coach,” she answers in an airy voice, her English dialect annoyingly realistic. “Andre, can we take five? My dear sister needs a favor of me. Thank you. Desdemona, what is it you need, dear?”
I sigh. “Can you knock off the voice, please? This is serious.”
“This is quite serious as well,” she goes on, the dialect remaining perfectly intact. “I must master every bit of idiosyncrasy in the Upper RP dialect, and that entails remaining in-character for the rest of the week at the very least, dear sister. My work is quite serious.”
“Fine.” I roll my eyes, unable to bear one more word than I absolutely have to. “Cece, I need help with an acting résumé. I’m required to have one for auditions this Friday.”
“Oh, silly girl, I am afraid I do not do my own. That is the job of Xavier and Iris. I would be happy to connect you, if you so wish to—”
“No, no, no.” I resent that I even have to have this conversation. “You don’t understand. I don’t have any shows to put on mine. Other than high school, I’ve only done the one show at Claudio’s, and I didn’t even do that to completion. My résumé’s empty.”
“Are … Are you requesting my assistance in an act of forgery, dear sister? Oh, how wayward you have become! Oh, stars! I am afraid I cannot—”
“For fuck’s sake, Cece, I need your help,” I hiss into the phone, my hands trembling. “It’s just a résumé. I can’t go in there Friday with nothing!”
Cece draws a deep breath into the phone. I can even picture her as she does so, her body turning rigid and her long eyelashes batting with irritation as she steels herself for her next words.
“Every actor must start somewhere. It is not my fault that you have no history. To have a history, you must first make one. Life experience makes the actor, Desdemona. Not a sheet of paper.”
“I haven’t been given the experiences you have. It isn’t fair of you to act superior to me, treating me like it’s my fault I don’t get the callbacks. You’re the one who inherited all our family’s magic mojo and left none for me. So help me out a little, Cece.”
“If I may allow you to stand corrected,” my sister retorts, her voice clipped and sterile, “with regard to our family’s ‘magic mojo’, you did, in fact, ask for a journey to Texas to find that very thing, didn’t you, dear sister? Why cannot you try and see this as a most precious opportunity to find that very special thing that makes you, you? I guarantee, it won’t be by forging a false résumé.”
I’m clenching my phone so tight, the muscles in my palm ache.
“Thanks for nothing, Cece. I gotta go. I’m so busy over here having my life experience.”
I hang up, cutting off her response. I always regret asking my sister for help; she makes me want to act upon violent impulses. With a huff, I turn to the sign-up sheet on the wall and bring a pen to its surface with too much force, scratching on my name.
When I’m about to turn away, I hear a noise from the opened door of the auditorium. I stop and listen.
Nothing else comes.
I move to the door and poke my head in. I don’t see anyone in the seats. Coming further inside, I look up at the stage. No one. Nothing.
“Hello?” I call out, like the half-naked bimbo does in the horror movie before she’s caught and gutted by the killer. “Hello?”
No one answers. I move down the aisle, curious, drawn by the silence. I ascend the steps and stand center stage, looking out at the seating, which is only half-lit by the spray of stage light above.
A smile finds my face. No one uses the auditorium at all, not until after auditions when the set building and rehearsing begins. This big room is abandoned for the time being, according to my new friends.
This auditorium is mine.
I imagine the seats filled to the walls with people who’ve purchased tickets. I imagine the hum of an animated crowd as they enjoy the house music and await the first act to begin. I imagine myself standing backstage, wringing my hands and excitedly longing for the drapes to be drawn. This is my moment. This is my show.
On this big stage, I feel a stronger sense of privacy than I do in my dorm. The desire to express myself grows strong, stronger … until I can no longer contain it. The first thing that comes to mind is a song no one’s heard of called “A Palace of Stone”. I part my lips and sing:
I have made a palace of stone,
a place of which to call my own.
Here is my bed
to lay down my head
and dream that I’m not alone.
For such a feat, what do I win?
The doors are deceivingly thin.
But I built the walls too high
nearly kissing the sky
so no one can find their way in.
There’s no staff to help with the messes.
There’s no guests to admire my dresses.
Dinners cook themselves
as I dust off my shelves
and watch as my lifetime progresses.
I’m an actress who shows no fear.
The bravest in my whole biosphere.
And by my painted skin
you see the people I’ve been
and the people I’ll never go near.
It’s work to perch atop this throne
made of credit cards and silicone.
Don’t dare give your heart
or you’ll fall right apart
right here in my palace of stone.
When I’ve finished, I imagine the room erupting into applause. I face the crowd and take it all in, rejoicing. I wonder if flowers are being thrown to the stage. I can smell them if I close my eyes.
There’s a noise from behind. I spin, alarmed by it.
He’s standing by the light rack, watching me. His eyes are fierce and focused, his lips parted slightly.
Oh shit. He heard everything.
“I-I’m sorry,” I murmur, my face flushing horribly. “I … I didn’t realize …”
His tight shirt hugs the two hills of his shoulders that lead up to his thick, muscular neck. His big pecs stare at me just as he does, and for a moment it’s like he’s some statue of a god. I bet his muscles feel like one too, firm and unbudgeable. I imagine the meaty sound his body would make as I tackle him, and the metallic racket of the lighting instruments as they bang together, disrupted by our crashing into them.
Wait. What the hell am I thinking?
“I’m s-sorry,” I repeat, ashamed, humiliated. All he does is stare at me. He doesn’t say a damn thing. “It … It wasn’t that bad, was it?”
His eyes bore into me, smoldering me, those deep, powerful eyes. He looks so dangerous … so tortured …
So sexy. My heart races. I can’t catch my breath.
“Oh,” I blurt, my voice shaking. “It was that bad. I’m not supposed to be here, am I? I’ll just … I’ll go
.”
And that’s precisely what I do, tripping over my legs as I race down the steps. The noise of my feet slapping the tile of the lobby assaults my ears as I flee the theater.
“And this guy … caught you singing?”
I sigh and lean into the table, mortified, then nod sheepishly.
“There are some hot guys in our school,” admits Victoria, “but I don’t know which one caught you. If you’d tell me more, I might know his name. There’s Jerry, short for Jeremy. There’s Aaron. Ooh, or Ian …”
Truth is, I don’t want you to know who. “It’s okay. I just hope it doesn’t get me into trouble. I want to make a good first impression.”
“Yeah, save that for auditions Friday.” She winks and gives me a nudge. “Lighten up. It’ll be fine. Hey, I didn’t know you could sing.”
“I doubt I sang well. He just stared at me like I was an idiot and …” I can’t even finish, not wanting to relive it yet again. “I need to work on my audition pieces. I didn’t realize—”
“That auditions would be the very first week? Yep. We don’t mess around down here in Texas. I’m sure you’re used to that in New York City too, of course. Hey, we can help each other with our monologues! I could totally pick a brain like yours.” She nearly giggles with excitement. “I have a whole bookcase of marked-up scripts in my room. Hey, I bet you could even sing for one of your pieces. I think they’re allowing that, on account of the spring musical.”
I can’t stop picturing his face, the way he stared at me so intently after I’d finished. “We’d better get to class,” I say, noting the time on my phone.
“First day of crew! Did you see which one you got? They’re posted on the door of the rehearsal room.”
Twenty minutes later, we’ve moved from the food court to the School of Theatre, where I stumble as I scurry down the winding halls to the rehearsal room door. I search the list for my name.
My heart skips a beat.
I’d nearly forgotten which one I signed up for.
“Lighting crew?” Victoria questions, staring at me. “You picked … lighting crew? Mmm, honey, I hope you aren’t scared of heights.”
I bite the inside of my cheek and suck my tongue, staring at my name and reading it over and over and over again. My body trembles. My nerves tighten and my knees turn weak. I know exactly why I picked it.
“I … wanted to t-try something new,” I struggle to say through a dry mouth. I have trouble swallowing suddenly. Maybe my organs are all shutting down. I might die before I reach my class.
Victoria gasps in protest when she sees her own name. “Costume crew?! Are you kidding me?! No! That wasn’t either of my preferences! Damn it! That can’t be right …”
I can’t even participate in a moment of sympathy for her, too wrapped up in my own predicament, if I dare call it that. Will I see him today? How many people has he told about what happened yesterday in the theater? Maybe he’s not in the lighting crew at all. Maybe he was just … fiddling with them a lot. Maybe he’s part of the set crew. Just like any other student, he gets assigned to different crews each semester too, right?
I’m overthinking this. Calm down, Dessie.
“Oh well. Come by my room later,” she says to me, and I’m pretty sure I just zoned out on her whole tirade about costume crew. “We’ll pore over scripts! I want to show you what I’ve got prepared. You can critique me with all your New York City knowhow.”
I give her a halfhearted nod and grimace, then we part ways. I proceed in silence to where the lighting crew is supposed to meet: the main stage.
My heart hammers in my chest as I approach the door to the auditorium. It’s so cold that I swear they set the AC to a considerate thirty-below.
The door creaks.
I don’t know why I’m so afraid of anyone hearing me or noticing my existence at all.
When I step inside, however, I’m surprised to find only twenty or so sitting scattered among the first five rows. After a quick, nerve-wracking scan, I realize that mister mystery-hot-shit is not among them. Everyone in the crowd seems to know one another, chatting and laughing amongst themselves. Two guys in the back have their feet propped up. Three other guys are hanging over their chairs, chatting with the folk behind them. Am I the only female here? Literally zero of the people I’ve met thus far are in this room.
I sit silently in the fifth row behind the strangers, clutching my bag to my chest and waiting patiently for something to happen.
Ten minutes later, something does. A man comes out of a door backstage, emerging into the light. He’s dressed in black with a smear of unexplained green paint on his thigh and he carries a clipboard, toward which he inclines his head and adjusts the thick set of glasses that perch at the tip of his nose. His bald head shines with grease under the blaring stage light.
“Welcome,” he says to his clipboard, though I think he’s addressing us. “First day of lighting crew. Hi. Most of you know me. Six of you don’t. Hi. I’m Professor Dan Trellis. You can call me Dick.”
Two guys wearing baseball caps in the seats ahead of me turn to each other. “How do you get Dick from Dan?” one of them mutters quietly.
“You ask nicely,” answers the other, and they both break into a fit of muffled snickering.
I roll my eyes.
“This is not the slack-off crew,” Dick says in a tired drone, though it seems less like a fact and more like he’s trying to convince himself. “Most of your life here will be cables and gels and C-clamps. Shit gets stressful the week leading up to dress, just before each show goes up. You will be going up Bertha the cherry-picker at some point, so if heights aren’t your thing, make them your thing. Introduce yourself to Bertha. Learn how to operate Bertha. Love Bertha. You’ll be given an assistant when you first use her, blah, blah, life’s about confronting fears and shit, right?”
I’m about to make a mental comment on all of the professor’s swearing when something else steals every bit of my wayward attention.
Every bit of my delicious, sexy attention.
Another figure has come out of the shadows from backstage. His brawny build is unmistakable, as well as the swagger in his stride. When the light finally touches his face, it’s like a gift from the School of Sex. Dark, brooding, fierce … he always looks pissed off about something. Why do I find that so hot?
“Nice to have you join us, Clayton,” the professor mutters with a turn of his head. “Most of you know Clayton, my right hand man with the lights for the last two years. Invaluable to us. Be like him.”
Clayton … Is that his name?
If it is, you wouldn’t know it from the way he completely disregards Professor Dick, hopping down the steps and taking a seat in the front row. Just as well, Dick doesn’t seem to mind as he lifts his clipboard back to his face and resumes instructing us on what our semester with him is going to be like.
Meanwhile, my eyes drift to the beauty in the front row. Clayton. His face taut with concentration, he stares at the professor as the speech goes on and on. Something about sound crew. Something about time management and patience.
Yeah, I know all about patience. Here I am, patiently staring at the beauty who’s invaded every one of my dreams since I stepped foot into this very theater. I have never, in all my life, been as drawn to a person as I am to him.
Clayton. The name fits him so well. He’s a statue, a hardened clay sculpture, a work of art.
Suddenly, everyone’s rising from their seats and filing onto the stage. I must’ve missed something. I get up awkwardly, following the baseball-capped boys. I avoid eye contact with Clayton and pray that, should he get a look in my direction, he doesn’t remember who I am. I realize how unlikely that is, considering the full-on eye contact we shared right after my bold and embarrassing performance yesterday.
“Here’s the lighting rack,” Dick goes on, tapping a giant contraption made of pipes upon which tons of different lighting instruments hang.
The crowd of us gather
around the professor as he starts describing the different types of lights. As I take my place in the back, I don’t realize until it’s too late who I’m standing right beside.
I freeze. The whole world is gone and all I’m aware of is his body standing to my left.
Oh my god, he smells so good. He could have come from three hours of working out, or from a morning of transporting heavy props and set pieces backstage. Who knows. Who cares. His scent intoxicates me, just like it did that first day at the mixer.
Does he always smell like this?
“There’s all kinds of gels,” Dick goes on. “See, with them, the lights get colors, or get shapes, or get …”
Clayton’s big, firm body is like a bonfire at my side. I feel his heat. Does he know he’s standing next to me? Is this intentional, or completely incidental that the hottest guy in the room is so close that I could climb him? Oh, damn, I want to climb him.
“Now, if you come in close and look here …”
Everyone takes a step forward, crowding each other to get a better look at—something—and I find myself pushed by a guy to my right … which causes me to lean into Clayton unintentionally.
My skin touches his.
I feel the tight, rock-hard meat of his arm. It’s as firm as I expected, and then a little more. I don’t dare look in his direction. My heart is racing so fast, I wonder if he can feel my pulse through the skin of our forearms.
Dick goes on. Something about lamp houses. Something about ellipsoidal reflector spotlights. And my mind goes on about what I’d do if I found myself stuck in a room alone with Clayton.
He’s half a foot taller than me, maybe more. It’s the perfect height for me to lay my face on his big, muscled shoulder … if I just tilted my head a tiny bit. Just a tiny, tiny bit.
I’m so close to him that I’m starting to sweat.
