“Let’s stay single together,” I tell him now. “We have each other—who needs romance?”
“Not I,” Lawrence says. A beat. “Well, maybe I a little bit.”
“I a little bit too,” I admit.
“Mind if I sit here?” Harry takes the empty chair next to me before I even respond. He’s been doing that all week: sitting next to me if he can. It’s fine with me; he makes me laugh. And whenever he says something at all coy or flirtatious, I shoot him a look, and usually the next thing he says is normal again.
Julia’s not thrilled about our growing friendship. “I thought you didn’t trust him!” she says to me a little while later when we’re both waiting in line for ice cream.
“I don’t. But that doesn’t mean I don’t like him.”
“Well, I think it’s strange that you’re always telling me how shallow and unreliable he is, and now he’s like your best friend.”
I shrug and don’t say what I think, which is that it’s probably a relief for Harry to talk to someone who isn’t in love with him. Maybe he likes a break from the hard work of living up to his reputation.
“It’s not like I care,” Julia says. “Personally, I mean. I’m over him.”
“You are?” It’s news to me.
“There’s this other guy in our cast . . .” And she launches into a description of Manny Yates, who’s playing a couple of different roles in Twelfth Night. He’s cute, he’s straight, he’s interested in her, and he’s more shy than flirtatious. “I’m done with guys who are in love with themselves,” she says. “I want someone who actually pays attention to me.”
“Really? I want someone who doesn’t even know I’m alive.”
The joke is wasted: Julia, as usual, barely registers my words. “Just don’t do anything stupid,” she says with all the superiority of someone who stopped doing stupid things a couple of days ago. At the most.
Back at the table, Marie is in my chair.
“Um,” I say, “I was sort of sitting there.”
“Sorry,” Marie says, with an indifferent shrug. “Harry and I were going to try to run some lines right now. Do you mind switching?”
“It’s fine.” I take my ice cream and water glass over to her former seat on the opposite side of the table, feeling vaguely annoyed: Harry could have made an effort to save my seat for me. But he’s Harry. Whichever way the wind blows . . .
The wind blows him and Isabella and Vanessa off for a stroll together after dinner while the rest of us gather in front of the dining hall.
I’m soaking in the warm night air and my last few minutes of freedom before returning to the apartment—on Thursdays Amelia likes to watch The Real Housewives of Blahdy-blah-da while she and I do whatever hand-sewing work she’s brought home with her—when Alex comes over to me. “Hey, Franny.”
“Cigarette break?” I nod after Harry, Vanessa, and Isabella’s retreating backs.
He sighs. “She told me she wants to stop. The problem is, Harry’s always getting her to join him—”
“You’re blaming him for her smoking?”
“Well, he is her smoking buddy.”
“He’s not exactly holding a gun to her head,” I snap.
Alex draws his head back in surprise at my tone. His light blue eyes flit up to my face, then quickly dart away again. “Sorry. I guess I should be more careful what I say. Isabella told me that you and Harry—” He stops.
“Isabella told you that me and Harry what?”
“You know,” he says, which by the way is the most maddening thing a person can say when you’ve made it clear already that you don’t know.
I can guess, though. “Did Isabella say we were, like, into each other or something?”
“Are you?”
“No. Not that it’s any of Isabella’s business.”
“I’m not prying, Franny,” he says. “But you rushed to defend him and—”
“I wasn’t rushing to defend him! I just don’t think you can blame anyone for the fact that Isabella smokes except Isabella.”
“Still . . . I mean . . . Isabella says he likes you. That he keeps talking to her about you.”
“God, it’s like a game of telephone around here!” I flick my palms up. “People say stuff and other people repeat it and no one has any idea what they’re talking about!”
“Why are you so mad about this?”
Because Isabella got you to believe I like someone I couldn’t care less about. And because I can’t tell you who I really like. “Because,” I say out loud, “there’s nothing going on with me and Harry Cartwright, but people are talking about us like there is. I hate that.” That was true enough in its own way.
“Everyone talks about everyone here.”
“Yeah, I definitely know way more about you and Isabella than I want to.”
His eyebrows draw together. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” I’m an idiot. Why’d I say that? “My point is, I don’t start throwing it in your face.”
“What exactly did I throw in your face? All I did was apologize—”
“It was an inappropriate apology!” There’s a pause while we stare at each other. I’m not sure which of us laughs first, because we both crack up at the same time. “Okay,” I say. “That sounded really stupid.”
“I’ll try to apologize more appropriately in the future.”
“See that you do.”
He smiles, and all the tension goes away. “I’m kind of glad, though.. . .”
“About what?”
“That Isabella’s wrong. About you and Harry. I know it’s none of my business, but I’d be bummed if you started going out with him.”
I freeze in place. I force myself to sound casual. “Why’s that?”
“I just think he can be kind of a jerk. At least when it comes to girls.” He lowers his voice. “You deserve better, Franny.”
“Yeah?” I say.
“Of course,” he says even more quietly. “You’re amazing.”
I stare at him, stunned.
What am I supposed to say to that? Thank you?
Or: Do you mean it?
How about: If you think I’m so amazing, why are you with Isabella?
I want him to say more. But while I’m still wondering what I can say to make him know how badly I want him to say more, he goes, “Oh, hold on a sec,” and darts over to the dorm entrance, where one of the custodians is trying to get out with a huge bag of garbage. Alex holds the door for him and then helps support the bag as they take it around the building to the back.
By the time he’s done with that, the three smokers have returned from their walk, and I’m thinking that I’m reading too much into a compliment from someone who just likes to be nice to everyone he meets.
Now that I’ve measured the waist, hips, bust, and inseam of everyone there is to measure—and that’s a lot of everyone, since there are almost fifty kids in the program—Amelia has put me to work altering existing costumes from the basement archives. Mostly it’s making things smaller. These are high-school kids, and the Mansfield actors are college-aged and dealing with the fallout from the freshman fifteen. Which is lucky for me: it’s always easier to take in than let out, especially since some of these costumes have already been used and altered a few times and there’s just no extra fabric left to play around with, which means I have to add in panels when I need to widen the waists or bodices.
It’s all precise, difficult work that makes my neck ache from bending over the fabric, ripping and sewing, so on Tuesday morning I happily jump at Amelia’s request that I bring some yellow knit swatches to the theater where the Twelfth Night cast is rehearsing. She needs the director to pick out the one he wants her to use for Malvolio’s stockings.
I make my way down the hallway and through the exit door near the base of the stage, where the entire cast is assembled. Charles sees me come in but puts up a wait a sec finger, and I’m more than happy to take a front seat and watch t
hem go on with the scene. I’m in no rush to get back, and I’ve been dying to see how the shows all look.
The actors are still using scripts, and the blocking seems pretty rudimentary, but the more I hear them say their lines, the more I’m impressed. Not surprised, though: I looked at the Mansfield application online, and I know you have to provide a performance video and that there’s a lot of competition—forty-eight kids get in from more than four hundred applications—so the ones who make it are some of the best high-school actors in the country.
My school did Twelfth Night a few years ago, and I remember enough about it to know that the scene they’re doing comes at the end of the play, with all the confused-identity stuff getting sorted out and the right couples uniting at last.
The scene is progressing nicely, when there’s too long a pause. Everyone looks around uncertainly.
“It’s Antonio’s line,” Charles says, checking his script. “That’s you, Wilson, isn’t it?”
Wilson, a cherubic-looking kid with glasses, says, “Sorry—I’m getting confused here. I’m already in this scene as the clown.”
Charles drops the F-bomb, then quickly adds, “You didn’t hear that, guys.”
Harry flutters his hand in front of his chest and says, “Heavens, I believe the young man uttered a curse word. Our innocent young ears will be ruined!”
“Shut up, Harry.” Charles shakes his head. “I forgot that Antonio and Feste are in a scene together.”
“I could have a hat for each role,” Wilson says. “And keep switching back and forth . . .”
“That’s ridiculous,” Marie says.
“I guess I could just cut Antonio out of this scene, but we’d lose some good stuff.” Charles swings his head around, like he’s hoping he’ll see something useful.
And what he sees is me, sitting quietly in the front row, clutching my little stocking samples.
He takes a step toward the edge of the stage and peers down at me. “You’re Amelia’s kid, right?”
“God, no,” I say. “Her niece.”
“Right, sorry, that’s what I meant. Listen, could you do me a favor? I need an extra body to stand up here and read the lines for this one character—I just want to see whether I need him or not in the scene. You mind?”
“Not at all.” I’m thrilled: an excuse to stay away longer from the workroom and a chance to act, however briefly. I race over to the steps up to the stage and take them two at a time. Julia waves at me. I wave back. Harry salutes me. I salute him back. Marie flaps her fingers unenthusiastically at me. I flap back with an equal lack of enthusiasm.
Charles hands me his script and tells me where to stand. “Do you know the play?” he asks. “Do you know who Antonio is?”
“He’s the guy who rescued Sebastian from drowning, right? And there’s something about some money he lent him, only he actually gave it to his identical twin sister who looks just like him because she’s dressed like a guy. Right?”
Charles laughs. “That’s exactly right. You know your Shakespeare.”
“Just a lucky guess,” I say.
“Yeah, right. Okay, gang, let’s go back to Sebastian’s entrance.” He taps my script. “Right here—uh, forgot your name.” I supply it for him, and he nods. “Okay, right here. Oh, wait—do you need those?”
I look down and realize I’m still clutching the fabric pieces. “They’re for Malvolio’s stockings—you have to pick one.”
“Will do.” He takes them from me and sticks them in his pocket. “Okay—and don’t worry about how well you read or anything like that, Franny. This is just to let me see whether or not Antonio adds something to this scene.”
“Got it,” I say.
The scene starts, and pretty soon we get to Antonio’s lines—he basically has to stare at Marie (Viola) and the guy who plays Sebastian (Lawrence’s roommate Raymond, who doesn’t look much like Marie, but I know their costumes will be identical and they’ll wear matching temporary hair dye, so that will help them look alike) and react with amazement at how similar the twins look, and realize that he confused them before.
Antonio has only a couple of lines, but I milk them for all they’re worth, circling the two actors in astonishment when it’s my turn to speak and letting my voice squeak with excitement.
Charles laughs out loud, which makes me happy. Harry catches my eye and gives me a quick grin and a thumbs-up, and Julia nods approvingly. Marie doesn’t even look in my direction.
We finish the scene fairly quickly—Charles has shortened it a lot. The script is filled with blacked-out lines. He starts to discuss some blocking changes with the cast, so I’m heading toward the stairs when I hear him calling my name. I turn around.
“Do you need to rush back, or can you do me another favor?” he asks. “Because I’d really like to see you do the first half of this scene as Antonio, if you’ve got the time.”
I don’t care that Amelia will probably be all worked up about how long I was gone when I finally get back to the Sweatshop—I’m enjoying this too much to worry about it.
I’ve worked hard to forget how much I love being on a stage, first when my parents told me to focus on other things, and then this summer, being the only kid not in a show here. But just these few minutes of acting remind me how much fun it is.
I’m mostly playing off Harry—the duke—in this part of the scene, and that’s part of why it’s going so well. For one thing, I know him and I feel comfortable with him. For another . . .
Our drama teacher in middle school used to talk about how actors can be generous or selfish onstage. A generous actor doesn’t always call attention to himself, but sets up the other actors to shine too. A selfish one is constantly making you look at him. “You may remember a selfish actor after you see a play, but you won’t remember the play,” he’d say.
Anyway, the point is, Harry is generous as an actor, willingly playing the straight man to my bewildered, angry Antonio. It’s surprising, given his need for attention off the stage, but I guess maybe that gets it out of his system. Even with some of the lines cut for time, I get to deliver a pretty long speech, and he doesn’t do anything distracting during it, just listens intently. When I finish, he bursts out with an enthusiastic “fantastic, Franny!” and Marie, who’s supposed to deliver the next line, hisses at him to “stay in character.”
We go through the rest of the scene, and then Charles tells everyone to take a five-minute break and get ready to do Act 1, Scene 5. Then he beckons to me and leads me into the wings.
“I really enjoyed watching you do that,” he says.
“Really?”
“Yeah, you’re good. Did you apply to the program here? You’re the right age, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, but I needed to work this summer, and Amelia said she could use an assistant, so I ended up here for a completely different reason.”
“Got it.” He tilts his head and studies me thoughtfully. “So this is a little unorthodox . . . but I’m thinking, why not? Would you be interested in jumping in and doing a little acting since you’re here anyway? Be our Antonio?”
“I would love that,” I say, and I mean it. My heart does a little happy turnover at the thought. “So much. But I know my aunt’s worried about how much work we have—”
“I’ll talk to her about it,” he says. “The good thing about Antonio is that he’s only in a few scenes. We can work around your schedule and try to take up as little of your time as possible.”
“I still don’t know if she’ll be okay with it.”
“Just tell me honestly whether or not this is something you want to do. If it is, I’ll work it out with Amelia.”
“What about the guy who had the role before?”
“I don’t think he’ll mind,” Charles says. “I had to cut a lot of his lines as the clown because he had too much to do, but I can expand that role if it’s all he’s doing.”
“Then yes,” I say. “Yes. A thousand times yes.”
H
e holds out his hand and we shake on it.
I race back to the workroom. Amelia looks up and says, “What on earth took you so long? I tried texting you, but then I realized you left your phone here.”
“I had to wait for them to finish a couple of scenes. Charles was busy.”
“You could have just left the fabric samples. They’re not worth losing an hour of work over. So which one did he choose?”
“Um,” I say, because it now occurs to me that the samples are still in Charles’s pocket. “One sec.” I go running back out of the room.
Amelia calls after me, “I don’t know what you’re up to, Franny, but you’d better come back quickly this time!”
Back in the theater, Charles is standing in front of the stage having a conversation with all the cast members, who are sitting in the front few rows facing him. I enter in time to hear Marie say, “But don’t you think it’s too confusing to have a girl playing a guy, when I’m already doing that as part of the show?”
“We’ll make the character Antonia, then,” Charles says. “Easy solution.” He waves his hand at me. “Hey, Franny.”
“I just think it’s weird,” Marie says, and then adds, “Oh, she’s here,” like she hadn’t noticed.
“Sorry to bother you,” I say to Charles. “I forgot to get your Malvolio stockings choice.”
“Oh, right.” He pulls the samples back out of his pocket, asks the boy who’s playing Malvolio—Roger—what he thinks, and together they pick out a bright sunshine yellow. I take the fabric and head toward the exit.
Harry reaches up to touch my arm as I walk by his seat. “Welcome to the cast, Franny,” he whispers.
Charles comes to the sewing room a little while later, right before lunch. He tells me to go eat, so he can talk to Amelia alone. “We’ll figure this out,” he tells me. “No worries.”
“Figure what out?” Amelia says, so suspiciously that I’m very happy just to slip away and let Charles handle it.
Julia and Harry clap and cheer when I join them at the table with my tray of food.
“You were so good!” Julia says.
The Trouble With Flirting Page 9
