by Allen Zadoff
I AM AMAZED AT YOUR PASSIONATE WORDS.
I’m sitting in Derek’s convertible with the top down as Grace slams the car through a series of shifts that make the engine roar.
“This doesn’t suck, huh?” she says.
“Not at all,” I say.
I have to shout to be heard over the wind.
“Maybe you should slow down a little,” I say.
I think how Mom would freak out if she was in a car going this fast. Especially a convertible. What happens if you flip over in a convertible? There’s nothing there to protect your head. Anything could happen.
“I’m serious. Slow down,” I say.
“Relax,” Grace says. “I’ve been driving since I was twelve. My grandfather used to let me drive his Honda in the church parking lot on Sundays. And he learned in the Philippines where they have no traffic rules.”
She winks at me, but I don’t find it funny.
“You’re really scared, aren’t you?” she says, and she slows down a little.
“Not scared,” I say.
“It’s okay,” she says. “We should keep it under the speed limit anyway.”
She eases back on the gas and I relax, even putting my hand outside of the car so I can feel the air buffeting my fingers.
“I’ve been wondering about something,” Grace says. “Why did you talk to me that first time?”
“I felt bad for you.”
“But why? You didn’t even know me.”
“You were crying. I guess it reminded me of someone.”
“Your girlfriend?” Grace says.
“I don’t have a girlfriend.”
“What about that actor?”
“What about her?” I say.
Grace slams gears and my head jerks back.
“Sorry about that,” she says.
She pulls a hard U-turn into the gas station.
“Who did I remind you of?” she says.
“My mom.”
“Oh,” she says.
She looks straight ahead.
“Is it because I’m fat?” she says.
“My mom is thin,” I say. “And so are you.”
“I’m techie thin. Not actor thin.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Fifteen pounds.”
“I like how you look, Grace.”
I study Grace in the late-afternoon light. Her skin is the color of roasted almonds. I think about how I would light her if she were onstage. With Summer, you have to add color because she’s so pale. With Grace, I would highlight the color that’s already there.
At the gas station we wait for a truck to finish so we can pull up to the pump.
“That actress is much thinner than me,” Grace says.
“That actress doesn’t even know my name,” I say.
“Do you want her to?”
“I guess so. Why not?”
“The techie rules. You’re the one who told me about them.”
“I’m starting to wonder if they’re techie rules or Reach’s rules.”
“Either way you’d be breaking them.”
“That’s true,” I say. “And I’m not much of a rule breaker. Despite what you think.”
“Love makes you do crazy things,” she says. “I know better than anyone.”
She pulls up to the pump and kills the engine.
“You know what? I’m not sure that girl deserves to know your name. Maybe you’re too good for her.”
“Maybe you’re too good for Derek,” I say.
She grins, flips hair from her eyes.
“Do you think so?” she says.
I nod.
“Thanks, Adam,” she says.
“Let’s gas this thing up and dump it back at school.”
“Deal,” she says.
Ten minutes later, we pull into the school parking lot. As we drive in, I glance in the side mirror and see a flash of someone coming out the back door of the school.
“Here comes Derek!” I say.
Grace pulls behind a truck and jams the car into park.
“Switch with me!” she says.
She unbuckles and jumps up on the seat.
She slides over the gearshift as I struggle to unhook my leg from under her. She turns to let me get by, and the side of her breast brushes my face.
“Awkward,” she says.
“Super awkward,” I say.
I scurry over the gearshift and plop into the driver’s seat, both of us laughing like crazy as Derek walks up.
“Why did you park all the way back—” Derek says.
He stops when he sees Grace.
“Why is she in my car?” he says.
Grace starts to say something, but I interrupt her.
“I made her come with me,” I say.
“Why?” Derek says.
“I’ve got a learner’s permit. I need an adult with me.”
“She’s not an adult,” Derek says.
“Cops don’t know that,” I say. “They just see two people in the car.”
Grace starts giggling. I give her an elbow in the ribs.
Derek looks at us. “What’s going on between you two?”
“Nothing,” I say.
“I just love your beamer,” Grace says, taunting him.
“We all love the beamer,” I say, trying to sound authentic.
Derek steps back and crosses his arms.
“Something’s different about you,” he says to Grace.
Grace stops laughing.
“Different how?” she says.
“Did you get your hair cut?”
Her hand jumps to her hair, smoothing it down in back.
“Yes,” she says.
“It looks good,” Derek says. He smiles.
Grace turns red. “Thank you,” she says.
Derek looks back at me. “I appreciate you taking care of my baby,” he says.
The way he says it, I can’t be sure if he’s talking about the car or Grace. I sense her squirming in the seat next to me.
I hop out and pass Derek the keys.
“Twelve gallons of super. On me,” I say.
“I won’t hear of it,” Derek says. He pulls out a wad of bills and peels off two twenties. “You don’t have to pay for me. I just wanted to see how serious your commitment to the team was.”
“Serious,” I say.
“You’re an interesting chap,” Derek says. “More interesting every time I speak with you.”
He starts to walk away, then stops.
“Have you ever worked a follow spot?” he says.
“I have,” I say.
“I hoped you would say that.”
He winks at me, throws Grace a brief smile, and heads back towards school.
He makes it about ten feet when he holds the key fob over his head and presses. The car lets out a loud honk that makes Grace and me jump.
Derek waves without turning and disappears into the school.
“What the hell just happened?” I say.
“Derek happened,” Grace says.
WE SLEEP, WE DREAM.
The actors are running scenes onstage as I climb to the catwalk and take my official place behind the spot. I slide the iris lever, pull the motorcycle grips that control focus. I flip gels in and out, getting a feel for the light again.
I’m the spot op, I think.
And all it cost me was a half hour to put gas in Derek’s car.
It’s a small trade-off. Help Derek, and he helps you.
It seemed like such an awful thing before, but now that I’ve done it, it feels easy, even natural.
But then I think of Grace and Mindy, other techies who have been in Derek’s good graces. I think about what happened to them afterwards.
I’m different. That’s what I tell myself.
For one thing, I’m not a girl.
For another, I’m careful. Super careful.
Which means I’m going to be okay.
I pop the color
boomerang and look through the gels that Derek has selected. The colors are rudimentary. Red, Blue, Green, Yellow.
Green makes you look like a monster. Red is passion. Yellow is day. Blue is night. All the color clichés.
Summer is not a cliché. She’s special. She needs a special light. I think about her hair, her skin tone. All the ways light could bring out the qualities I see in her.
I’ve got some sheets of gel nearby, nothing on Derek’s plan, just colors I like. I pull my utility knife and slice out a circle of pale amber. I hold it in front of my eyes, look at the stage through it.
I slide out Derek’s red gel and replace it with the amber.
It feels like I’m helping him. I’m on his team now, so I’m doing something to make the team better.
“Could we try the spot there?” Derek says in the house below.
“In the middle of the scene?” Mr. Apple says.
Derek lowers his voice so the actors can’t hear. But I’m above him, so I hear it all.
“The scene is a little boring,” he says to Mr. Apple. “This might spice it up.”
“You have a point,” Mr. Apple says. “We need as much spice as possible.”
Derek signals to Ignacio, Ignacio to Benno.
I hear Ignacio’s voice on headset. “Let’s get the spot up,” he says. “It’s all you, Z.”
“Will do,” I say.
I flip on the power supply, feel a thrill as the fan whirs to life inside the metal casing. I bend over, using the sight to aim where the beam will appear.
“Spot ready,” I say.
“Actors, stand by for spot,” Ignacio says. He’s being extra careful because of what happened to Miranda.
“Spot go,” Ignacio says.
I hold down the red button, wait for the spark to catch and fire across the gap. It takes less than a second for light to shoot from the end of the barrel.
Summer’s face is enveloped in a soft glow as if lit by candlelight. The effect is subtle to the audience, obvious to me. The wide, flat picture onstage now has dimension and intimacy.
Summer looks at Wesley with love in her eyes.
SUMMER
And I have found Demetrius like a jewel,
Mine own, and not mine own.
Only in my mind, she’s not talking to Wesley. She’s talking to me. I’m onstage with her, the two of us standing together in the light. She reaches for me…
WESLEY
Are you sure
That we are awake?
Wesley puts his arms around Summer. That snaps me back to reality.
I’m nowhere near the stage, nowhere near Summer.
I’m not the one who gets the girl; I’m the one who lights her.
So that’s what I do.
I pull the lever to slide a gel into the spot. Not just any gel. The amber one. The special color I chose.
A subtle rose hue blooms on Summer’s cheeks. Now she is even more beautiful in Wesley’s arms.
“Stop!” Derek shouts. “What’s going on up there?”
“I’m having a great time,” Wesley says, squeezing Summer hard against him.
Johanna’s fist clenches, ready to punch him.
“I mean up there,” Derek says, pointing to my spot.
I don’t say anything.
Derek races over to the tech table and grabs the headset out of Ignacio’s hands.
“What is that color, Z?”
“I was trying something,” I say.
“Oh, you were trying something,” he says. “Thank you so much for your input, but it won’t be needed.”
“I thought you might like it.”
“I like my light plot,” Derek says. “I’d appreciate if you would do your job and accomplish it for me.”
“I like this light,” Mr. Apple says.
Derek holds his hand over the mic.
“You mean you like the spot,” Derek says to him.
“I mean the color of the spot,” Mr. Apple says.
Derek holds his hand over his ear like he’s listening to something on the headset. Which is strange, because I’m not saying anything.
“Oh, that’s right,” Derek says like he’s speaking to me. “I did make that change. Thanks for reminding me, Z.”
He turns to Mr. Apple.
“Glad you like it,” Derek says. “That’s the new Act Four color.”
Mr. Apple raises one eyebrow.
“Excellent choice,” he says.
“Indeed,” Derek says. He hands the headset back to Ignacio.
“Well done then,” Mr. Apple says.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Reach says in my ear.
THE MOST LAMENTABLE COMEDY.
“You got robbed,” Reach says in the Cave during the break. “I can’t believe it. He took credit for your work.”
I shrug.
“No reaction? Righteous indignation? Nothing?”
“I got the light into the show. That’s what’s important.”
“Who are you, Lighting Board Gandhi? On a selfless mission to bring light to the untalented?”
“I’m thinking big picture.”
“I’ll tell you the big picture: you got shafted, and I don’t like it. You’re my boy. I’m supposed to protect you.”
“I don’t need protecting.”
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing,” I say.
“It doesn’t sound like nothing. It sounds like you’ve got something on your mind.”
I imagine telling Reach how I feel. But I’m not even sure what I would say.
So I change the subject.
“The car thing was a good idea,” I say. “It got me the spot job.”
Reach looks at me, suspicion on his face. Then he smiles.
“Admit it. I’ve still got it,” he says.
“You’ve got something.”
“I’ve got it. Genius. Evil-plan genius.”
“You’ve got it,” I say.
Reach wipes a fake tear from the corner of his eye.
“I love tech,” he says. “Where else can you get this kind of male bonding in high school?”
“Sports,” I say.
“Sports guys have to shower together,” Reach says. “Which is not cool in any way, shape, or form.”
Something large blocks the light in the doorway. It’s Mr. Apple. He stands there cradling Carol Channing.
“Mr. Apple, we don’t often see you backstage, sir,” Reach says.
“If you’re going to kiss my ass, Mr. Patel, it’s a largescale undertaking.”
Reach clears his throat.
“Well, the props table isn’t going to reset itself,” Reach says, and he slips out the door.
Mr. Apple enters the Cave. “Was it you who changed the gel?”
What do I tell him? I could throw Derek under the bus like he did to me after the blackout. But why risk it? I’ll gain an enemy in Derek, and maybe have a small chance of impressing Mr. Apple.
“It wasn’t me,” I say. “It was on the light plot. Derek just forgot.”
Mr. Apple nods and scratches Carol Channing’s head. We stand there for a while, so long that I start to feel uncomfortable.
“I think the show is going better,” I say.
“It’s a disaster,” Mr. Apple says.
He starts to breathe hard, his chest rising and falling. He slips a hand into his pocket and I hear paper crinkling.
“My paper bag,” he says. “Better to have and not need than need and not have.”
He holds a finger to his nose and makes a shhhhh sound.
“Our secret,” he says.
“Mr. Apple, things are usually bad during tech, aren’t they? But they get better when the show gets closer to opening.”
“In most circumstances that is the case.”
“You don’t think it’s going to happen this time?”
“You don’t understand. It’s not just the acting or the design. It’s me.”
“What about y
ou?”
“I’m losing it,” he says. He holds his hands over Carol Channing’s ears. “Not that I ever had it to begin with. I’m not a director. I’m a failed actor. I’ve just been faking it in Montclair High School for fifteen years. Most people have career trajectories. Mine is like an oil rig. Straight down.”
“I think you’re a good director,” I say.
“And you’re basing that on what? Your years of professional experience?”
I look at the ground.
“I’m sorry,” Mr. Apple says. “Forgive me, lad. I’m more worried than Julie Taymor in a hospital waiting room.”
“What are you worried about?” I say.
“What do you see when you look at that stage?”
“I see light. What do you see?”
“I see disaster waiting to happen,” Mr. Apple says.
“But light can make the show better.”
“Is light that powerful?” he says with a grin.
“To me it is.”
Mr. Apple sighs. “I need a little of what you have, lad.”
“What do I have?”
“Youthful naïveté.”
“You’re still young,” I say.
“I’m forty-three years old,” Mr. Apple says. “That’s one hundred and seven in gay years.”
“But you can still fix the production,” I say.
“I’m somewhat lacking in inspiration right now. It’s what’s known as phoning it in.”
“You mean you’re not trying.”
“I’m trying to try,” Mr. Apple says. “You have experience with that?”
I think about life since Dad died. The way it feels empty, but it keeps going anyway. And I have no choice but to keep going with it.
Trying to try.
“I do,” I tell Mr. Apple.
“Isn’t that interesting,” Mr. Apple says.
He holds Carol Channing in one hand and swings her back and forth like she’s flying. She yelps and kicks her little legs, but I can’t tell if she’s terrified or enjoying the adventure.
“It sounds like we’re both in need of inspiration,” Mr. Apple says.
“Where do we find it?”
“Discover that,” Mr. Apple says, “and you’ve solved one of life’s great mysteries.”
TRUST ME, SWEET.
I step out the backstage door into the theater department hallway. Derek is there, leaning against the wall, waiting for me.
