by Daryl Banner
I hate to think of Clayton like that. In fact, I can’t. There’s something so different about him. Maybe this isn’t a game, I consider, chewing on my lip in thought. Maybe this is his way of … showing interest.
Like when you’re a kid on the playground and you shove your crush into the sand and make them cry.
The read-through begins. I patiently wait for my lines to come, reading along with the script. The Stage Manager role has a crap load of lines before anyone else even speaks, introducing each family to the audience and painting a picture of two houses on an empty, deliberately set-deprived stage, setting the scene for the audience’s imagination. What a weird play, I tell myself.
Really, I do know this play, I swear I read it long ago. But the roles are all confused in my mind, and I don’t even really remember how it ends. Of course, this doesn’t help the nugget of guilt that sits in my chest, wondering what other highly deserving actors could be sitting in my place right now, as I wait for Emily’s first line. Victoria hasn’t spoken a word to me since the day the cast list was posted. That was at the beginning of the week, five days ago. Eric swears she’s just been busy, but I know better.
Finally, after an eternity, it’s my first line. I draw breath and recite it plainly, as if I were reading from a textbook. Ugh. I feel so stiff. I read my next line, and again, I might as well be reading advanced algebra equations. I can’t help but feel self-conscious, worried that everyone in the room is thinking the same thing: This is the person Nina cast as Emily, the lead? This is the one who beat out all the others?
I’m certain there’s even people in this room who wanted the role of Emily, but got cast in other parts. It’s not just Victoria, I realize; all the women wanted my role. Some of my competitors are in this room right now listening to me, comparing themselves to me, scoffing inside their heads.
As I read the next line, I glance up to survey the table. I see the costumes girl yawn. I see the face of someone else near her appearing utterly bored. I catch the assistant director who tiredly meets my eyes, smirking.
I suck.
I suck so much.
When my scene is over and the character of Emily has exited the stage, I let go a little sigh, which doesn’t seem to go unnoticed by Eric, who gives me a little pat of encouragement on my thigh.
Then, I feel someone softly kick my foot under the table, so I retract my foot a bit, figuring it to be in the way. Then, my foot’s tapped again, more deliberately.
I look up.
Clayton’s gone back to staring at me again. It’s his foot. He smirks, his eyes narrowing as his shoe taps mine again.
A rush of excitement surges up through me.
What a game-playing, mind-toying asshole.
I pull my feet under my chair, far away from his. Then, I pretend to pore over my script and ignore him utterly, despite my stomach-tumbling desire to do the exact opposite.
I am exercising some serious discipline here.
I push through the next scene, also making it a point to ignore the others in the room. I can’t be judged by all of them; I judge myself badly enough.
The role of George—who is Emily’s love interest, wedded to each other in act two—is played by a guy I haven’t met before. He’s a decent-looking man, most likely an upperclassman. His well-groomed hair and plain, coppery face make for a fitting George and male lead, if you discount the Stage Manager role and his twenty-or-so billion lines I don’t envy.
When it comes to the scenes in which Emily and George flirt, I look up and try to say the lines across the table to the actor who’s playing him—whose real name I’ve already forgotten from the intros earlier, or perhaps never paid attention to in the first place. A few times, I lose my place in the script due to looking up and stumble over the words.
“Just read for today,” Nina cuts in, startling me.
I look up, my heart slamming against my chest in the not-so-pleasurable way. “Sorry?”
“It’s a read-through,” she explains patiently, as if I needed to be told—in front of everyone—what we’re doing here today. “You don’t need to connect with the other actors. At least, not with your eyes. We’ll have plenty of time for that in rehearsals. For today, just read.” She offers me a cool smile and a nod.
Some others around the table meet my startled eyes. I feel the flood of judgments and silent sneers coming from my castmates.
How embarrassing is that, to be called out like some amateur by the director and told to “just read” during a read-through?
I can already hear my sister scolding me, were Cece in this room.
“Of course,” I answer Nina, the stiff-necked, rigid-as-an-icicle director, then resume my lines.
The rest of the read-through is far less enjoyable. I make the wedding in act two sound like the funeral in act three. Even reading the lines, I trip over the words, pushing them out with the enthusiasm of a slug.
The read-through can’t end fast enough. After it’s all over with, the director thanks us, then dismisses us with a forewarning that the first act of the play is due to be off-book by Monday, which gives me exactly two days—my weekend—to learn my first act’s lines. I give very little attention to the rest of the room, closing up my script and rising from the chair. Eric asks me something about hanging out at the Throng, but I decline—perhaps too quickly. I very suddenly want to just go back to my dorm and forget that the rest of the world exists. Even Clayton, who would have a totally different opinion of me if he heard any of that awful, horrible excuse for “acting” that I just did.
I push through the rehearsal room doors. I walk quickly down a half-lit hall to the lobby, finding the darkness of night through the tall glass windows. A group of students are rehearsing a scene by the chairs in the lobby, and they stop when they see me.
“Dessie.”
I turn around. Clayton stands there, his sharp eyes locked on mine and his script tucked under his big arm. Oh. Maybe it was him the students in the lobby stopped to look at.
But my patience is long gone. All my emotions are high and flustered and hot, my nerves tight as wires. “What do you want, Clayton?”
After a moment of studying the obvious distress on my face, he frowns. For a second, I feel bad about snapping at him. Then, with his free hand, he brings a fist to his chest and draws a circle.
Sorry, he signs.
My mood softens instantly. I wonder for a second what he’s apologizing for. The kiss on Wednesday? The shitty read-through just now? The foot-thing?
“What for?” I ask.
He brushes the knuckles of his right fist against his left fist, then sweeps a hand to the side, palm-up.
I sigh. “I don’t know what that means.”
He shrugs, then quietly says, “Everything.”
I hear whispering from the lobby, likely from our little audience of actors who’ve shut up to pay witness to this whole exchange. I fight an urge to shout at them to mind their own business.
I don’t know why I’m so mad at Clayton. It’s not like he owes me a damn thing. He kissed me during lighting crew. So what? It’s not like I didn’t enjoy it too. Besides, if I’m really honest with myself, maybe I’m just pissed about getting cast in this dumb show, cursed with the very thing I begged the gods for ever since my older sister gulped her first tasty teaspoon of success: a lead role. Now the gods laugh at me, giving me the role without the due talent needed to perform said role.
I’m no good for Clayton, regardless of whether or not he’s any good for me. “I should go,” I tell him dejectedly, though I’m really not so sure I want to.
“Why?” he murmurs in his small voice.
The students in the lobby whisper to each other.
“I don’t know,” I admit, hugging the script to my chest. It feels heavier with each second that goes by. “I just need to go. I need to be by myself.”
He sucks on his tongue for a moment, frustrated, his jaw tightening. Then he pulls out his phone, types, and shows
me the too-bright screen:
Want to hang out tomorrow night?
I’m stunned. My heart races up my throat as I read the words five times in a row. I look up to meet his eyes. He’s searching mine, desperate for the answer.
He wants to hang out with you, Dessie. You’d be crazy to say no. Don’t you dare say no. I will never, ever forgive you if you say no.
But can I say yes? I was feeling so defiant a week ago when my friends enthusiastically advised me to stay away from the Watts boy, telling me he’s bad news. Chloe even gave me his romantic history. Ariel even pitched in her two unasked-for cents. Now, I wonder if I should have heeded all their warnings. Is this the game he plays, luring a girl into his little trap, having his way with her, then tossing her aside like a used towel? I’m not going to lie; he looks exactly the type to do just that. I mean, he’s gorgeous. He’s got a killer body. And he’s aggressive as hell, despite the soft nature of his voice.
Can I really trust him?
I take a deep breath, shake out my hair, then face the beautiful beast with a pinch of confidence.
“Where?” I ask nonchalantly.
He types again:
Bowling alley on Kingston Blvd.
Right off campus.
Walking distance.....ten minutes tops.
My roommate has a competition thing....
I’m going, thought you might like to come too
With that, he meets my eyes as I read the words a few times. The look in his eyes is … hesitant. It’s like he fears my answer. Is he as afraid of rejection as I am afraid of his intentions?
Even if I agree to this, I can still be in control. It’ll be a public place with other people around, and I don’t have to kiss him again or do anything I don’t want to do.
Not that I don’t want to kiss him, because I do.
A lot.
Oh, hell. I’m so screwed. Look, Dessie, you can bolt at any time. You owe him nothing. Right?
Or maybe my fear is that I won’t want to bolt.
What am I so afraid of?
Okay, so I said yes.
Something about a man like Clayton standing over me and asking … with his dark, hungry eyes and his smooth, sexy hands and his plush, perfect lips … is somewhat persuasive.
Annoyingly persuasive.
I haven’t been to a bowling alley since I was a kid. Yet somehow, I instantly remember the smoky, sweaty stench. No, I’m not a fan. There’s only one reason I’m suffering it tonight.
And that reason isn’t here.
I stand awkwardly by the entrance. The front counter, where a man has annoyingly asked me four times if he can help me, is to the left. An arcade filled with the likes of the Alpha Kappa Louda-As-Fucka fraternity is to my right. Ahead, the loud clanking and banging of the bowling lanes awaits.
I stare down at my phone and curse myself for not getting his number. At least then, I might’ve received a text that he would be running late, or that the thing was cancelled—who knows. Instead, I’m standing here wondering if I should bother getting a drink, or maybe making the ten-minute walk back to my dorm before it gets dark. After all, I was warned by Victoria that our campus sits between crime-land and fortune-land, and I can’t with any confidence say which one I’m in.
Someone rushes up to the front, leaning across the counter to speak to the man there. He’s a slender, tan, good-looking guy, full of energy, with tight jeans torn at the knee (is that a Texan thing?) and a grey fitted t-shirt with a frog plastered on the front. Upon second inspection, a joint hangs out of the frog’s mouth and its big eyes are bloodshot. This carefree, cheery dude-bro wears a pair of bowling shoes, one fingerless glove on his left hand, and a backwards cap squishing down a head of messy brown hair.
He turns. His eyes flash when they meet mine.
I look down at my phone suddenly, pretending to be occupied with a very interesting text message. In reality, I’m staring at the reflection of my own worried face. Crap, is that what I look like?
“Hey.”
I look up, startled. It’s the carefree dude-bro.
“Hi…?” I return warily.
He brings the blue and orange marbled bowling ball up to his chest with one hand, his bicep bulging in the effort. “You look lost. Are you lost?”
He’s got a slight Texan drawl to his voice. I offer an apologetic smile, then shake my head. “I’m not lost. Thanks for your concern.” I look back down at my super interesting phone.
“Do you go to Klangburg?”
I nod without looking up. He’s pretty cute, I’m not going to lie. But if I were to take a guess from his easy demeanor and slick charm, he’s had about eight girlfriends this week alone, and he’s likely sizing me up to be his ninth. I know a player when I see one.
“What’s your major?” he asks, leaning against the wall and tossing his bowling ball gently from one palm to the other.
“Theatre.”
“Oh, sweet. My roommate—ah, um … Anyway, you here to bowl?” He shuffles uncomfortably, which draws my attention back to him, wondering why he changed the subject so abruptly.
“Just to watch,” I answer, then glance down at my phone for the time. Almost thirty minutes late. Where the hell is he? “What do you study?” I ask distractedly.
“Boobs. Just kidding. Titties. Just kidding. Uh …” He grins as he looks off, flashing a pair of perfect teeth, then hugs the bowling ball to his chest and answers, “I’m thinking architecture.”
I don’t know why, but I find myself amused by this totally cocky horn-dog. I swallow a laugh. “You’re thinking architecture? Still undecided?”
“I’ve … ah, I’ve changed my major about four times since my freshman year. Don’t judge.” He gives me a warning look, his blue eyes flashing. “I like to take a little taste of everything, if you know what I mean.”
I’m quite certain I know exactly what he means.
“Nice,” I say, feeling smart. “So, since freshman year, you’ve switched majors from boobs to titties to lady bags … and finally settled on architecture.”
He grins. I think he appreciates me throwing his humor right back at him. “I like a … hands-on major.”
“Your mother must be so proud.”
“You sure you aren’t lost?”
“Nope. Just waiting for someone. I know exactly where I am.”
After a second, his expression changes. Then, with a new, almost alarmed look in his eyes, he shifts his posture and says, “You wouldn’t happen to be Dessie … would you?”
I stare at him and blink. “Yes, I am.”
“Oh, fuck.” He lets out a laugh, his face flushing, and then he whistles and hoots loudly. “Right on!” he finally says after he’s recovered. “I should’ve known. I’m such a dipshit! So, you’re Dessie.” He extends his free hand. “You’re Clayton’s friend, and I’m rude.”
Now it’s my turn to blanch. “And you are?”
“Brant,” he answers, his hand still extended, as I haven’t yet trusted it with my handshake. “I’m the reason you’re here. The one who’s bowling tonight. Tournament. Clayton’s favorite roommate—just, ah … don’t ask him to confirm that.”
“Brant,” I echo hesitantly, shaking his hand.
He seems to cling to mine, fascinated. “Your skin is soft as fuck.”
“You’re cute,” I tell him, “but I’m not interested.”
“Sorry.” He lets go, then nearly drops his bowling ball as he recoils—like some magic barrier just formed around me after learning who I am. “You’re … you’re a lot prettier than I was expecting.”
I choke on a laugh, unsure how to react to that. “Were you expecting a swamp creature?”
“He said you’re from New York City,” Brant goes on, a hint of uncertainty in his voice, “so I kinda presumed you’d be, like … I dunno. Rough-looking? Edgy? Nose-ring and purple hair and kinda rude?”
“Is that what you think everyone from New York City’s like?”
“I�
�ve lived here my whole life, born and raised,” he explains, a twinge of southern accent playing in his words. “I don’t get out much. You can just tell me to shoo at any moment, seriously, and I’ll just go and bury my head in an ice bin or something.”
“Good thing I came down here to Texas,” I say, toying with him right back. “I totally thought you all ride horses to the supermarket, dodge tumbleweeds on the highway, and wear spurs to your best friend’s wedding.”
“Wedding? Oh, no. Clayton’s never marrying,” he says with a hearty guffaw. “That dude’s been …”
And then as quickly as the joke occurred to him, it dies on his tongue, his eyes glossing over. I wonder for a moment what he was about to say, then find myself staring down at his shoes awkwardly, struggling to give Clayton the benefit of the doubt and assume that his “best friend” Brant here wasn’t about to spill some magic beans I might want to be privy to, if I had any interest in pursuing Clayton seriously.
Which I don’t. I’m here to hang out. That’s it.
“Let me get you a drink,” he says suddenly. “What do you drink, Dessie? I’ll get it for you. On the house. I know people. Just name it, they got everything.”
I smile mutedly. “Tea?”
He frowns. “Except that.”
“Water, then.”
“I mean a real drink. The bartender who’s working tonight, mmm, she makes a mean martini.”
“Just a water.”
He studies me for a second. “You don’t drink?”
I fondly recall the hangover I enjoyed last weekend after my night at the Throng & Song. “No.”
Brant nods, appraising me with smiling eyes. “I think I like you. I hope Clayton keeps you around.”
I fight one of my stubborn blushes that’s coming on. “We’re just friends,” I insist, checking my phone again. Thirty-five minutes late. What the hell, Clayton?
“Well, hey, why don’t you come over to our lane?” He beckons me with a wave of his hand as he backs away. “Dmitri and I are hanging out. Oh, you haven’t had the pleasure of meeting Dmitri, Clayton’s least favorite roommate. He isn’t drinking tonight, either. His major is poetry and general arty-fartiness, so you two will get along just fine.”
