If Only

by A. J. Pine

He sighs. “Aye. Ya did have Griffin in the room with ya when he came by. Try to understand what that could have done to him. Even though nothing happened, ya didn’t tell him.”

  My heart sinks into my stomach when I remember lying in Griffin’s arms and hearing the knock on the door. My eyes sting with the threat of tears because I do know how Noah felt. The only difference is I didn’t know he was there, but when I went looking for him, he knew it was me and let Hailey greet me at the door.

  We’re on campus now, and I’m minutes from facing Noah.

  “You’re right,” I say, “about all of it. But there’s one puzzle piece missing from your argument.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Hailey. The other girl.” I shrug and try to smile, indicating my appreciation for his words, but everything in me feels too heavy.

  Because he knows he cannot argue against me, he smiles back sadly, waving as he walks toward his building. As I approach Taylor with increasing dread, I lament that my castle has turned into my torment. Any steps Noah and I have taken forward are erased with all the steps that instead lead back to a beginning that is now an end.

  Three tables. That’s it, the setup of the classroom. Three tables. An intimate seating arrangement. Each table seats five, and all seats are filled except for one at one table and one at another. Noah is not here.

  There are still several minutes before class begins. In my morning haze, I somehow made it out of the flat with time to spare. I opt for the table closest to the door and take a seat next to a girl I recognize from one of my first-semester classes. She’s heavily in conversation with someone on the other end of a text, but she looks up to say hello when I sit. Minutes tick away like seconds before a hurried woman walks in the door, hair half-falling out of a messy bun stabbed through with pencils and a precarious stack of books between her two hands. She barely makes it to the small desk at the head of the room before the books pour from her arms, some making it to the desktop, others finding an unexpected place on the floor.

  “Right,” she starts, clasping her hands together below chin level. “I am Professor Thompson, and I’d like to welcome you to…” And now her hands flourish with dramatic passion. “Shakespearean Comedy.”

  In spite of myself, I smile. Her manner and air of speaking is Judy Dench as Eleanor Lavish in A Room with a View, vivacious and infectious. In just her introduction I’m certain she’s the type of woman who doesn’t hold anything back.

  “Sorry I’m late.” The familiar voice comes from the door. He smiles until his eyes meet mine, and I realize I never had a chance to tell him we would be taking this class together.

  Surprise!

  Noah makes his way to the only empty seat in the room at the table opposite mine. His back faces me, so I cannot gauge his expression. His shoulders tense toward his ears, though, and he barely turns toward the instructor.

  “It’s quite all right…” She pauses, waiting for him to speak his name.

  “Noah. Noah Keating.” In his profile I see his forced smile, and the corners of my mouth inch up involuntarily along with him.

  Stupid smile.

  “It’s quite all right, Noah Keating. As the rest of you will soon find out, attendance for this course is mandatory yet quite fluid. Depending on the topic of the day, we may meet here as a class, or you may meet in smaller groups or pairs for scene work at other places along campus or in your area of residence.”

  This gets everyone’s attention.

  “As the course description informs, the reason for the small class size is that we do not simply read Shakespeare’s comedies. No one was meant to read them.”

  I’m not sure I like where this is going.

  “Whether comedy, tragedy, or history, we are meant to experience Shakespeare, and the only way in which to do that is by watching or performing. In here, you will do both.”

  I definitely don’t like where this is going. I read no further in the course description than Noah’s name on the roster. Shite. Shitey shite shiterson.

  She continues outlining the course. “Each week you will all individually read the assigned comedy. Additionally, we will watch video excerpts of the plays, and each Friday you and your table mates will do a cold reading of a scene from that week’s selection.”

  Reading on our own, cold readings, watching movies—this I can handle.

  “Your final assessment will be a well-practiced scene from our last play, Much Ado about Nothing. While I don’t require anything in the way of material production, the scene must be memorized, rehearsed, and performed. Do not simply say the words. Experience them.”

  The passion in the professor’s voice is matched by a buzz of chatter about the room, students already trying to call which scenes they want and with whom they want to work. I don’t blame them. Much Ado is one of my favorites. I can recite my favorite lines right now without cracking a book. I’ve probably read most of what’s on our syllabus. I may need the credits, but I don’t need this class. Maybe I can still weasel my way into advanced calculus.

  “While I appreciate your enthusiasm,” Professor Thompson interrupts, “I have worked out all the details for you.”

  Some of the buzz morphs into groans. I look around to note the complainers. One of them is me. This is what I get for not thinking things through, for being spontaneous. From now on I shall call myself Captain Planner. Captain Planner—ridding the world of dumbass decisions made by those who think with their hearts instead of their heads. The world needs me.

  While I hatch my plan—that’s right, a plan—for world domination, the professor continues.

  “This is an ongoing project that will culminate in a polished performance. I’ve already placed you in one of three groups, each group assigned a scene either from the opening of the play, the middle, or the end.”

  I cross my fingers that she casts me as Dogberry. At the very least, I can pull off spouting comic malapropisms.

  “I’ve grouped you based on residence, so that when you work on this outside of class, which will be the bulk of your preparation time, you won’t have to worry about travel.”

  Something tightens in my stomach as I look around the room. It’s not as if I know everyone who lives in Hillhead, but I know at least one who does.

  “I hold here fifteen envelopes, each with a name on the outside and the list of your group members and scene selection inside. So, if you would, please come and grab your materials and spend some time getting acquainted with your cast mates.”

  In a rush, everyone leaves their seat, everyone except me and Noah. He knows, as do I, that it will be more than enduring three mornings a week in the same class.

  “Thank you,” I say, walking up to the front to grab my materials. When I sit back down, another student asks me what scene I got. I haven’t opened the envelope, wasn’t planning to until absolutely necessary, but she keeps staring at me, waiting for an answer.

  “Act I, Scene 1. That’s me,” she says. “I do wish to play Beatrice.”

  I do wish I’d read the course description. The manila flap of the envelope taunts me, unsealed. I slide out the papers, and atop the front page, the scene is listed: Act V, Scene 4. I spin it around to show her, and she claps with glee.

  “I adore that scene,” she coos. “Who do you wish to play, Hero or Beatrice?”

  It doesn’t matter. In the final scene of the play, Hero and Beatrice are the only two female roles, and both women do the same thing. They get married.

  Once everyone has an envelope in hand, Professor Thompson gives further direction.

  “Get up and move about the room. Find and meet your cast. They will also be your new table mates, so please sit with your cast for the remainder of the session. Now is the time to devise a plan, a rehearsal schedule. Do note that there may be more characters in your scene than there are actors. You have freedom of direction as long as it does not compromise the integrity of the scene. Should you find it necessary to combine two characters into one o
r have one person play more than one role, by all means do so. On your way out, please come up and grab a copy of The Comedy of Errors and a class syllabus. We’ll be reading that week one. Thank you and welcome to the class.”

  Everyone moves excitedly around the room. A boy called Oliver, who I find out lives in Hillhead, immediately takes control of the group once we have all found one another, a natural director. Oliver sits at Noah’s table, so the rest of us migrate there, five of us—me, Oliver, a girl named Emily, another boy named Phillip, and Noah. Sitting at a round table, where no one goes unseen, Noah makes a concerted effort to avoid eye contact with me.

  “Right,” Oliver begins, his commanding British accent bringing forth a smile no matter how much I try to repress it. “Shall we start by assigning parts?” He doesn’t wait for answers. Looking straight at Emily, a shy, petite girl with long, dark hair and pale skin, he says simply, “You’re our Hero.” She blushes but smiles, clearly complimented by his choice. Oliver scribbles down her name on a piece of paper. No one seems to object, so we let him continue.

  Tapping his pen on his lip, he muses for a moment before pointing at Noah. “Claudio.”

  Noah shrugs noncommittally, which causes the pen to resume its beat on Oliver’s mouth. “No, no, no. That won’t do. Not enough of that bright-eyed innocence in you.” He scribbles more words onto his list. “You’re our Benedick. I like your scowl.”

  Noah straightens in his chair. “Dude, I wasn’t scowling.” He may not be scowling, but his voice sure as hell does, and for the first time since I entered this room, I laugh. This, at the very least, causes him to reflexively turn toward the sound, and our eyes meet. I bite back my grin. And a ghost of a smile breaks through his denial of a scowl, most likely to prove Oliver wrong, but I’ll take it.

  Oliver erases my minor triumph when he turns to me. I’m the only other girl in the group, so I know what’s coming.

  “So full of disdain. Yes! Beatrice!” He says it with such thrilling conviction that for a moment, despite the obvious insult, I’m excited as well until I remember that I will be playing a marriage scene opposite Noah.

  “And Phillip, that means you will be our Claudio. Yes. Yes. I see it now.”

  Oliver scribbles again on the paper, still not one of us objecting to anything he says. To look at his ginger hair, freckled skin, and rosy cheeks, he looks more Ron Weasley than Kenneth Branagh, but he is clearly the latter.

  “That leaves the rest of the parts for me, which is perfect since they are minor roles and I should like to focus on directing if no one objects.”

  We all nod our heads in unison, Oliver’s cast of characters. He’s obviously got a vision, and far be it for us to get in the way.

  “Brilliant! Right, so the next order of business is a schedule. What do you say to Saturday afternoons?”

  I start to raise my hand and then realize I’m sitting in a group of five peers and not in my first-grade classroom. My arm lowers back to my lap.

  “Actually, I work on Saturdays, so if we can make it early in the day that would be great. I need to be able to make it from Hillhead to the Blue Lantern by four o’clock.”

  Noah turns to me. “The Blue Lantern? You work there?” God, that voice. Any anger I have dissolves at the sound of it. But I know what he’s thinking: here’s a social establishment he can add to his list of places to avoid me.

  “I start this weekend.” I look down.

  “You two know each other?” Oliver again. “Perfect! Better than I had hoped. Familiarity means chemistry, and that’s what I want to see on stage!”

  “Oliver?” I ask. He looks at me. “You do know this performance is for the class, right? I know it’s our final grade and all, but it’s just one scene.”

  Oliver smiles curiously. “On the contrary,” he muses. “It’s only the beginning.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Since none of us have class after lunch, Oliver insists we meet at his flat for a viewing. Turns out I’m the only one, aside from him, who has read the play and seen the 1993 film version. Emily’s at least read it, but neither Phillip nor Noah have.

  Oliver lives in another one of Hillhead’s two-flat buildings, his flat-mate out for the afternoon. Still, our only choices for viewing rooms are his tiny kitchen and his even tinier bedroom. He opts for the bedroom since his kitchen reeks of burned bacon, a result, he tells us, of his flat-mate’s drunk cooking last night.

  “You know,” I start, trailing the others into Oliver’s room, “I’ve already seen the movie, more than once. I should just head home and give the rest of you room to watch.”

  Phillip and Emily wedge themselves on the foot of Oliver’s bed, and Noah slides down the wall to the small bit of floor not covered by furniture. Oliver turns from the desk where he boots up his laptop.

  “Jordan, I’m sure you can understand the importance of the performance being fresh in our heads as we prepare. I don’t expect you to be Emma Thompson or for him to be Kenneth Branagh.” Oliver chuckles, surely insinuating that none of us are the actors he’d cast if he had the choice. “But watching these relationships build as these actors interpret them, feeling the play before you interpret it, won’t that help our performance?”

  I roll my eyes but don’t answer, Oliver’s question obviously a rhetorical one. Having no problem finding the movie streaming online, he clicks play and drops on his bed next to Phillip and Emily, leaving me no choice but to take the floor seat next to Noah.

  “Hero and Claudio,” Oliver starts, narrating the opening scene of the movie, “love each other from the start. No one questions his pursuit of Leonato’s beautiful daughter. But Beatrice and Benedick…” He rubs his hands together, his eyebrows rising along with the corners of his mouth. “Never have two people had such scorn for each other.”

  Phillip’s head turns toward Oliver, interrupting his obvious admiration of Emily. “Thought our scene said something about them getting married. But they don’t even like each other?”

  Oliver laughs with satisfaction. “You know what they say about love and hate, don’t you? There’s a thin line, my friend. A thin, thin line.”

  Oliver relaxes as the opening music dies down. Amid the last of “Hey Nonny Nonny,” I knock my head against the wall behind me. Noah glances at me out of his peripheral vision but says nothing. All other eyes stay trained on the laptop. Until the soldiers arrive.

  Noah straightens visibly against the wall, and Emily points frantically at the screen.

  “Hey! I know Claudio, I mean the actor. He’s…oh, what’s his name again? He’s the bloke from that American movie…”

  She means Robert Sean Leonard, the actor who made a name for himself a few years before Much Ado about Nothing in a film I know better than any other. In the distraction of Oliver convincing us to have this little get-together, I forgot about the actors in this version of the play.

  “Dead Poets Society,” I say, and Noah’s eyes don’t avoid mine when I say it. The day of the tour crashes into me, and I hear us both as we howl our barbaric yawps. In the movie Mr. Keating teaches his students carpe diem, to seize the day. But Noah and I never did, not really. Stolen kisses on a train and one night in each other’s arms. That’s all we ever got. The potential for so much more, we lost that. And now? Now it hurts to breathe.

  “His name is Robert Sean Leonard, and he played Neil in Dead Poets Society, and, Oliver, I need to use the loo. Do I have permission to leave the viewing room?” My voice grows hoarse with each word, and I stand before Oliver gives me official permission, my knee knocking into Noah’s as I navigate the small space between us.

  Oliver hesitates before answering, and I stab him, repeatedly, with my glare.

  “Of course, down the hall.”

  I’m out the door before he finishes. Normally I’d think twice about locking myself in a bathroom used solely by boys, but all I care about now is breathing. Fortunately, Oliver rivals me when it comes to cleanliness. His loo is immaculate. Of course
, I assume Oliver is the neat one. Based on the burned bacon still sitting in a pan on the stove, I’m pretty sure I’m right.

  I pace the small room, avoiding eye contact with myself in the mirror. I can do this. I can watch a goddamn movie. A movie starring Robert Sean Leonard that reminds me of another movie starring Robert Sean Leonard, my favorite movie, with an English teacher named Mr. Keating. Noah’s name—Keating.

  A bitter laugh escapes my lips. Who the hell am I kidding? Captain Planner would have seen this coming and stopped it before it started. Turns out I’m a shitty superhero. How can I save the world if I can’t even save myself?

  No way is Oliver going to let me leave, so I drum up an excuse to avoid his room a bit longer before he thinks to drag me back.

  “I’ll just grab some movie snacks,” I call as I throw the door open into the hallway. “Back in a few.”

  “Already on it!” I hear Oliver call, but I don’t pay attention because my sleeve snags on the outside of the door, a place where the paint has been chipped away. When I turn back to unhook myself, I’m thrown against the door by another body.

  “Shit! You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  Noah’s voice, and his body—almost flush against mine—greet me inside a triangle of space smaller than the floor we occupied in Oliver’s room.

  “What the hell?” I ask, unhooking my sleeve and turning around against him, too confused to react to his nearness.

  Noah presses his back against the kitchen door, and I do the same with mine. The loo door and kitchen door both open out to the narrow hallway where they have somehow converged at a point, creating a small triangle with the adjoining wall.

  “Is it possible for the universe to hate me? Because I think the universe hates me.” I ask the question out loud, but I don’t expect Noah to answer. This is between me and the universe.

  “Oliver. He was in the kitchen. You, the loo. Stuck in between the doors.” Noah’s breathing is ragged, but he continues. “Have you noticed…” He pauses, catching his breath. “That your kitchen has hinges but no door?”