by Daryl Banner
He didn’t hear your song. Not one note.
He’s deaf.
My eyes flick open. Suddenly, it’s not his sexy face that I see; it’s his half-turned, oblivious face at the Theatre mixer. The first time I ever saw him. I hear myself trying to get his attention again.
Then, I see him walk away like I wasn’t even worth his breath.
I see him after he caught me singing to myself in the auditorium. The menacing twist of his lips into a frown … the tattoo drawn up his neck … his heavy-lidded eyes as he stares me down.
I don’t have an anger problem.
I have a deaf problem.
For some reason, it strikes me harder now than ever. My fantasy is shattered, and as fast as it’d come, suddenly I’m just a girl on a bed with a hand between my legs.
My eyes pool with tears. I bite on my lip, refusing to let them fall. Then when I turn on my side to sleep, they spill onto my pillow.
I don’t know if I get any sleep. I feel like I blink and then the morning’s come, and magically Sam and her light snoring are back from wherever she was, and the date on my phone is the one Friday in all of time that I’m most dreading.
It’s like I have stage fright and I’m nowhere near the stage.
I want to throw up, but my stomach is so empty and I haven’t eaten since breakfast yesterday.
My head spins when I sit up, the morning light touching my face in orange, fiery stripes through the blinds. There isn’t a speck of rain spattering on the window; only golden sunshine and birds chirping.
Fucking great.
After I’m dressed for the day and have a bag packed for tonight with my post-show outfit and stage makeup, I catch Sam sitting on the edge of her bed wearing one of her old shirts and staring forlornly out the window.
“You alright?” I ask, joining her by the window.
She smirks and says, “Well. There’s this guy Tomas. Spelled without an ‘H’. And he wanted to do something with me this weekend.”
“That’s good news! Oh.” I frown. “Do you even like him?”
“That’s the problem. I mean, he’s cute, I guess.” Hearing Sam call a guy “cute” in her monotone voice is probably an experience I’ll never be able to compare to anything, ever. “But, like, he plays the bassoon.”
I lift my eyebrows. “Yeah?”
“I can’t be with someone who plays the bassoon.”
I spot the frat boys playing Frisbee in the courtyard, but today they have their shirts on. I wonder if the rain brought a cool front with it.
“There’ll be some things about the guys we’re into that we think we can’t handle,” I tell her in a wistful tone, watching as one of the guys races across the grass, nearly colliding into the fountain to catch the Frisbee. “Maybe if we tried to hear the bassoon in a new way, we might find that we can … sympathize with the bassoon. Maybe it doesn’t sound as awful as we thought. Maybe it’s even … sort of beautiful.”
Who exactly am I talking about right now?
Sam sighs her words: “You’ve obviously never heard a bassoon.”
I face her. “Why don’t you bring him to my show tonight? I have a pair of comps. I’ll set them aside for you at the box office. It’ll be safe, you’ll get to see a horrible show in which I showcase my abysmal lack of talent, and afterwards, you’ll have the perfect excuse to just come back here if you don’t want to spend any more time with him.”
“Bassoon boy,” she mutters sulkily.
I sit on my bed across from her. My bag lands at my feet with a heavy thud. “I bet you could compose some pretty songs together with your piano and his bassoon.”
“Or a flute. Or an oboe. Or literally anything other than a bassoon.”
“Give him a chance,” I tell her, “but only if you like him. I’m leaving those tickets for you, whether you use them or not.”
She meets my eyes with her big, hazel ones. She gives a short sigh, then says, “I never thanked you for all the … the clothes, and … for my hair, and … and …”
“No thanks needed,” I assure her. “I didn’t do it because there was anything wrong with you, Sam. You should be whatever you want to be, look however you want to look. Wear that old, unspeakable shirt if you want,” I add teasingly. “I … really, I just wanted to show you another world out there. I want you to see other options. I want you to wonder what causes someone to love the bassoon so damn much that he picks it as the instrument to give his music a voice.”
“Insanity, probably,” she reasons.
“Everyone deserves a piece of the world,” I go on, standing on my soapbox in this cramped little half-lit dorm room, “but we aren’t all given equal chances in life, are we? Regardless, it’s important that we do our best with what we have, despite other people’s every effort in keeping us as pressed into the ground as possible. What better way to live than to make those people’s efforts a waste?”
I wonder how many times my mother’s carefree criticism kept me from pursuing a passion of mine. I feel my beautiful sister’s cold eyes as they survey my latest failure, and I wonder how often I’ve let their efforts keep me trapped in this pretty little Lebeau box of expectations of what I ought to be.
To my impassioned speech, Sam lifts her chin and says, “I guess a bassoon can kinda sound like an English horn. Kinda. Not really.”
That’s a start. “You know what, Sam? I’m starved,” I say and realize at the same time. “Want to grab some breakfast with me before class?”
“Yes,” she deadpans, eyes widening.
Breakfast never tasted so good. The nerves leave me alone, granting me an oasis of peace as I enjoy a tasty meal. Sam tells me about her midterms, which consist of three separate compositions, a group project involving composers from the Baroque era, and something about music history. She envies my ability to stand on a stage in front of people, and I tell her to hold off on that envy until after tonight.
My acting class is a merciful reprieve, as I’d already performed my pieces last week and simply have to sit back and watch others today as they are systematically humiliated or praised in front of the class by the long-nosed, cool-eyed Nina. I can’t be bothered to pay attention to their public torture; I have my own to dread.
After class when I make a quick trip to the box office to secure my roommate’s tickets, I’m dismayed to find that the show is nearly sold out already. The best I can get Sam is two tickets on the end of row R, which is not ideal, but it’ll have to do.
When the tickets are paid for and left at will call, Ariel floats up to my side. “Picking up tickets for your family?” she asks in a saccharine tone. “I hope you got front row!”
I shake my head without looking at her. “Roommate,” I mumble.
“Break a leg tonight,” she says almost too quickly, as if she wasn’t really interested in who the hell the tickets are for. “I hear the house is nearly sold out.”
“Just made that discovery myself,” I share. “See you later.” I turn to go, sliding out the glass doors.
She follows. “You know, I think it’s for the best.”
I frown. What the hell is she talking about? “Sorry?”
“You and him. Same thing that happened to me, sweetheart. I did try to warn you. Hey,” she says brightly, “I have someone you should meet. He’s really, really sweet. He’s a friend of mine. When I first met him, I thought he was gay, but he’s actually just super nice and, like, totally not gay. But by the time I found out, I was already engaged to Lance, so …”
She talks so fast, I have to stop. We barely made it out of the courtyard. “What the hell are you going on about?”
Ariel blinks. “I want to introduce you to him, obviously. I mean, not tonight, of course. It can be whenever you like. I mean—”
“I don’t need to meet anyone,” I spit back. Who the fuck does she think she is? “Why the hell would I need to meet your gay friend?”
“No. He’s not gay. That’s the point, Dessie. I’m trying to int
roduce you to someone nice, now that you and Clayton are over.”
“We’re not over,” I state. I’m so annoyed, I feel my pulse in my ears.
Ariel sighs and shakes her head. “Oh, Dessie. Everyone has eyes, you know. Eric heard it all from Dmitri, and everyone pretty much knows that you two are caput.”
“I think the whole damn department can keep their fucking nose out of my business,” I fire back at her, seething. “We’re not over.”
“Oh, Dessie,” she breathes once more, shaking her head.
I leave her standing there, unable to hear another breathy sigh or whiny offering from that unbearably annoying ex-girlfriend who acts like she knows what’s best for everyone. I never said we were over. And, as far as I know, Clayton hasn’t said anything similarly about us. The last time I saw him, he had a big fight with Brant over me and Chloe and using women and … I had to leave.
Since that day, our relationship has been reduced to worries and wishes that float around in my head. I haven’t sent him a text and he hasn’t sent me one. Although I think I might’ve caught sight of him once in the grid, I could be mistaken, and other than that, I haven’t seen a trace of him. It’s like he’s deliberately avoiding me.
If I’m honest, I think he scared himself as much as he scared me.
And really, Kellen’s a little shit. Whatever Clayton did or didn’t do to him, I’m sure he deserved it. But still …
I stop at a tree just before the tunnel that goes under the School of Art, plopping down in the grass by the side of the pathway and sulking. Nothing lately has been easy. I don’t know how I feel about Clayton and I. I don’t know what I feel about the show I’m about to premiere tonight. Part of me has been wanting to call my parents all week, but I’ve refrained because I’m afraid of what they’ll say, and whether or not their words will work to completely unravel me before I step foot on that stage. Believe it or not, my mother has a wicked talent of making my confidence crumble to dust before my eyes, even when she’s trying to encourage me. And I won’t even try to describe my sister’s so-called brand of motivation.
I pull out my phone and reread through texts that Clayton and I have shared over the past few weeks. A few back-and-forth messages revive the smile on my face, and before I know it, afternoon’s come and all that’s left of my day is a light dinner—provided I can keep myself from un-eating it—and show time.
After a quick lie-down in my dorm room and a hurried meal in the Quad cafeteria, I head for the theater to face my destiny. Considering how many footsteps I’ve likely taken in my life, it’s bizarre to me that the relatively short trip from my dorm room to the theater would prove to be such a chore. I’m so nervous that my feet keep wanting to kick into one another. I stumble twice as I pass by the University Center, then nearly walk into the wall as I go through the tunnel under the Art building. I might need new feet before the show tonight.
The sky slowly turns over, the deep dusky blue of evening covering it with the fiery sunset nowhere to be found—its view likely blocked by the scorpion tail of the Theatre building itself—as I make my way in through the side door at the back. The lobby is off-limits to us actors, or so I was told before leaving Thursday night’s dress rehearsal.
The stench of stage makeup fills the dressing room. My castmates banter loudly across the room at each other, and there seems to be a hilarious joke every five seconds, for as frequently (and obnoxiously) as they laugh. I take my seat in front of my assigned mirror and, with shaky hands, I pull open my bag and begin laying out all the sponges, foundations, and brushes that I’ll need. Then, after quickly changing into a makeup shirt, I begin the process of slowly becoming Emily Webb by smearing designer mud all over my face.
“You ready for this?”
The question comes from the actress who plays Mrs. Myrtle Webb, my mother in the play. “You want me to lie, or say something happy and encouraging?” I mumble back to her.
She chuckles, rubbing highlight on her eyelids. “Truth. I always go for truth.”
“I’m scared shitless,” I say, hesitating before I apply the tiniest bit of shadow beneath my cheekbones, which I hollow by sucking them in.
“Me too! I always get nervous opening night. Then, once I get the first night out of the way, the rest of the run is a breeze.”
Just when I’m about to respond, I hear the squeaking of wheels. Turning to the noise, I see a costumes rack being wheeled in by two costume crew members, Victoria and some blonde I don’t know.
Of course one of them would be Victoria.
The blonde girl tends to a torn gown, taking it to the corner of the room to stitch it up. While she sews, Victoria hangs by the rack, aloof, pulling self-consciously at her turquoise costumes apron, her fingers playing anxiously with a tiny tomato-shaped pincushion that hangs by her waist.
I return my attention to my makeup. I may never fall in love with the musty smell of it. “After opening night, it’s a breeze, huh?” I smile at that. “Then once tonight passes, everything’s going to be lovely.”
“It’s really like there’s two rehearsal processes,” she goes on. “The one you do without an audience, and the one you do with one.”
“Audiences make everything so weird,” I moan, blending highlight on my cheekbones.
“Laughing when you don’t expect them to. Not laughing when you do. Applauding too long. Some guy with a horrible cough in the front row. That fucking baby in the third.”
I laugh a bit too hard at her joke, catching sight of Victoria through the mirror. She’s watching me, still picking at that squishy pin-filled tomato and waiting for someone to need something from her.
“Is your family coming this weekend or next?” she asks.
The question makes my hand slip, getting a speck of highlight in my hair. “No,” I answer.
“Too busy to come down all the way from New York, huh?”
I have to remind myself that people here know where I’m from, even if they don’t know exactly who my family is. Well, assuming Victoria hasn’t secretly told everyone behind my back.
Then, from the door, two words ring clear through the room.
“DESDEMONA LEBEAU.”
I jerk, looking up. Ariel stands at the doorway looking gorgeous in a blue satin gown, her waves of blonde hair cascading down her front. Her lips are a perfect, plush, red rose petal. I’m so distracted with how elegant she looks that I forget she just shouted my name.
A hush has swept through the dressing room.
“Ariel?” I return.
Ariel pushes past Victoria standing by the door, taking three steps into the room, each of her steps in those heels of hers clacking loudly against the floor.
“Desdemona Lebeau,” she announces again. “Of course. Every bit of it makes sense now. A person like you getting the part that I deserved.”
I blanch. Now Ariel is the one who wanted the lead role? I guess I’d be naïve to think otherwise; every woman in the department wanted the part of Emily Webb.
“What do you mean by that?” I shoot back at her, twisting around in my chair.
I couldn’t hear my own thoughts a second ago. Now, the dressing room is so silent, I hear the jingle of a hairpin touching the counter at the other end of the room.
“You haven’t heard the commotion?” she says, making the question sound like an accusation. “They had to bring in campus security to secure the doors of the lobby.”
I have no idea what she’s talking about.
“Make way,” says Ariel demonstratively, waving her hands around the room like a magician, “for the one and only Desdemona Lebeau. Do you all even realize who you’ve been acting with? This princess here who robbed me of my senior year lead because her famous mommy and daddy bought it for her?”
Oh, fuck.
Fuck this. Fuck that. Fuck mermaids. Fuck everything.
“Ariel,” I plead fruitlessly.
“So was this your plan all along?” she blurts, spreading her hands. “Bring
in your parents from New York on your opening night and cause a scene and make this huge deal over your big Texas debut?”
Wait a minute.
Wait one fucking minute.
“They’re here?” I breathe, horrified.
“And call in the press, of course. Channel 11 News. 13. Whoever the hell’s in the area. Weather? Traffic? Who cares. The Lebeaus are in town. You are a real piece of work, you know that?”
I can’t even produce words. My heart is lodged somewhere up in my brain, and all I can hear is my pulse and my own erratic breathing. The room spins while I try to imagine the horrific sight of my mom and dad in the lobby right now, slowly being escorted like precious pieces of gold into the auditorium to claim whatever seats they must have secured for themselves ahead of time. Did Doctor Thwaite invite them? Did they come on their own, my mom desperate for more attention and my dad curious to see what his darling Kellen has designed? Is my sister with them?
“I’m sorry.” My voice is so small and pathetic. I don’t know if I’m apologizing to her, or to the whole room. I look around and all I see are confused eyes, contemptuous eyes, blank eyes. I don’t have a friend in this whole building suddenly. Even the actress next to me who I was just talking to, she looks at me like I’m a total stranger. “I’m sorry. I was … I just wanted … Ariel, I’m sorry. I was—”
“Sorry? Sorry for lying to everyone in this room?” she prompts me, her voice turning all sugary again, the same tone she used to warn me about Clayton. “Sorry for … what?”
I lick my dry lips. I can’t seem to swallow. “I’m sorry for—”
“She’s sorry,” says Victoria from the costumes rack, “that you’re being such a royal bitch, Ariel.”
Gasps and whispers wash over the room like a sudden breeze.
Victoria, her arms crossed, saunters away from the rack, facing Ariel in the center of the room. She gives her a pointed once-over.
“Dessie here’s sorry that she even had to keep her identity a secret,” Victoria goes on, “because bitches like you can’t handle it.”
