by Leisa Rayven
I swear that I’m so desperate sometimes I just think I’m going to grab the next guy who comes up to me, tear his clothes off, and molest him on the spot. That I’m going to—
“Hey, Taylor. Writing a novel?”
I slam my diary and legs shut with equal panic. When I look up, Holt’s looking down at me with one of his signature irritating smirks.
“What do you want?” I say as I shove my diary deep into my bag. With much effort, I stop myself from petting his crotch.
I fan myself because, oh sweet Jesus, my face is burning hot.
“What the fuck is wrong with you, woman? Are you sick?”
He places the back of his fingers on my forehead. All I can think is that I want those fingers touching me in intimate places.
Yes, I’m sick. Extremely perverted and sexually sick.
“I’m fine,” I say and stand to get away from him. I wind up overbalancing and tilt toward the ground. Then his arms are around me, and my horny, deprived body is against his, and I’m trying desperately not to hump his thigh.
“Shit, you can’t even stand up today,” he grumbles. “What the hell?”
I have a moment to savor how his arms feel under my hands before he’s pushing me away and doing that thing where he exhales while running his fingers through his hair.
I have to get away from him, because if I don’t, I swear to the tiny, sweet-smelling baby Jesus, I’m going knock him to the ground and straddle him.
I turn and walk away.
“Where the hell are you going?” he calls after me.
“Elsewhere.”
“Taylor, the Benzo Ra performance starts soon. In the theater. Which is in the opposite direction to the one in which you’re currently traveling.”
I stop in my tracks. In my sex-obsessed haze I’d almost forgotten about the world-famous performance troupe visiting our school for an exclusive performance.
I spin on my heel and stalk past him. “I knew that.”
He falls into step beside me. I speed up to lose him, but there’s no outrunning his stupidly long legs.
“You auditioning for Juliet next week?” he asks.
I scoff and shake my head. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because there’s no way I would get the lead. I’m probably going to end up playing ‘third partygoer from the left’ and spend the whole production doing crosswords in the dressing room.”
He stops and stares at me. “Why the hell wouldn’t you audition?”
“Because I might suck.”
“Why would you suck?”
“Because,” I say, “I look around our class, and everyone, and I mean everyone, has more of a clue about what the hell they’re doing. Nearly all of you have had some kind of professional experience and training, while I’ve had none. I feel like you guys are all driving sports cars while I’m still trundling away on my pink kiddie bike with the training wheels.”
He frowns. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it? Holt, they didn’t even have a drama course at my high school. I had a couple of private acting classes with a guy whose greatest claim to fame was being an extra on The Bold and the Beautiful, and the other day when I walked in on a conversation between Zoe and Phoebe about Stanislavski, honest to God, I said, ‘Oh, wow, I love him. I think I saw him play in the finals of the U.S. Open.’”
He looks at me for a few seconds, his aggravatingly blue eyes unblinking. “Well, hey, that’s an easy mistake to make. The father of modern characterization does sound like a tennis player.”
He keeps his composure for a grand total of three seconds before his face cracks as he doubles over in laughter.
“I hate you,” I say as I walk away.
“Aw, Taylor, come on,” he calls as he comes after me.
“I tell you I’m feeling insecure and inferior, and this is how you react? See, this is why we’re not friends.”
“I couldn’t help it.”
“I know. Apparently my ignorance is hilarious.”
He grabs my arm to stop me, and his laughter fades. “Cassie, you’re not ignorant. Do you honestly think a casting director is going to care if you know who Stanislavski is when you go to an audition?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never auditioned for a casting director, because I have zero experience.”
“But you’ve done plays …”
“I was in the chorus of two musicals for which the only audition requirement was showing up. I’d hardly credit that to my stellar technique.”
“Well, you got into this place, for God’s sake,” he says, gesturing around him. “Out of thousands of people, they accepted you, and that wasn’t because of how many castings you’ve been to or how many lame-ass plays or movies you’ve been in. They accepted you because you’re really fucking talented, okay? Stop being so goddamn insecure and own it.”
I look up at him. “You think … I’m talented?”
He sighs. “Jesus, Taylor, yes. Very talented. You’ve got just as much chance as anyone of getting the lead role. Maybe more, because you have a sort of … intense vulnerability when you act. It’s … well, it’s kind of remarkable.”
For a moment, the way he’s looking at me is almost affectionate. Then he clears his throat, and says, “You’d be freaking nuts not to audition for Juliet. You’d be perfect.”
The phrase “you’d be perfect” resounds in my brain like a sweet, sexy echo.
“Well, maybe I will try out,” I say, practically toeing the pavement. “Even on my suckiest day I’m still better than Zoe.”
He chuckles. “That’s true.”
“So what about you?” I say, walking slowly as he falls into step beside me. “Are you auditioning for Romeo?”
He shakes his head. “No way. I’d have to have my balls removed to play that pussy.”
“Hey, that’s no way to talk about one of the greatest romantic heroes of all time.”
“He’s not a hero, Taylor, he’s a limp, fickle dick who confuses lust with love and kills himself over a chick he’s just met.”
“Harsh!” I say and laugh. “You don’t believe he loved Juliet?”
“Fuck, no. He was dumped by Hot Girl Number One—Rosaline. He pines over her like a kid who’s lost his puppy, or his pussy, as the case may be. Then, through a chain of unlikely events, he meets Hot Girl Number Two—Juliet. He immediately forgets all about Hot Girl Number One and is so pathetically desperate to fuck Hot Girl Number Two that he proposes marriage to her within hours of meeting her. I mean, come on. Her vagina could offer shiatsu massage and whistle the national anthem—it’s still not worth marrying her to get a piece of it.”
I shake my head over the massive mound of cynical walking beside me in human form.
“So you don’t think there’s the slightest possibility he just fell in love at first sight?”
“Love at first sight is a myth invented by romance novel authors and Hollywood. It’s bullshit.”
“Jeez, how did you get to be so jaded?”
“I’m not jaded. Just realistic.”
“Sure you are.”
He stops and turns to me, his face all serious. “Think about it like this. Just imagine you see a hot guy. You have an immediate, powerful reaction to him. Do you love him?”
Not sure I’m entirely comfortable with this line of questioning.
“Well … I … uh—”
“Okay, I’ll turn it around. I see a girl. For some reason, looking at her is like … God, I don’t know. Like finding something precious I never knew I lost. I feel something for her. Something primal. Are you trying to tell me that what I feel is love? Not lust?”
“I don’t know. Is this hypothetical girl hot?”
“Fuck, yes. Hot in a way I never thought hot could be. Just looking at her turns me on. It’s annoying as hell.”
Okay. This conversation has taken a seriously arousing turn. Just what I need today.
“I … well …”
�
��Come on, Taylor. Am I in love?”
I’m looking at his crotch. “Well … uh, I don’t know. It’s hard"— God, I said hard while looking at his crotch—"to say. I mean … uh … wow.”
“Of course I’m not in love! It’s a bizarre chemical reaction that’ll pass. I’m not going to ask her to marry me just so I can fuck her.”
My mind goes to very porny places.
“Taylor!” He clicks his fingers in front of my face. “Focus.”
“So … uh … you think a strong reaction to someone of the opposite sex is always purely physical?”
“Yes. If Romeo and Juliet had happened in real life, minus the ridiculous deaths, Juliet probably would have destroyed Romeo in the end by fucking Mercutio.”
He’s dead serious. It’s funny and tragic at the same time.
“Think about it, Taylor,” he says as he leans forward. “If Romeo thought he loved Rosaline and she broke his heart, why wouldn’t he be terrified of Juliet, considering his connection to her is a hundred times stronger?”
I raise my eyebrows. “Maybe he’s brave enough to think it’s worth the risk.”
“Yeah, and maybe he’s just horny and stupid.”
“The romantic argument would be that if they’d denied their …love … connection … whatever you want to call it, they’d be hollow. Isn’t that the point of living? To find the one person in all the world who’s your perfect match?”
“Actually, Taylor, the point of living is not dying. Romeo and Juliet failed at that part.”
I shake my head in disbelief. “What you’re telling me is that if you were Romeo, you’d have walked away from Juliet.”
“Yes,” he says, unblinking.
“Hmmmm.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. It’s a contemplative sound.” “Contemplating what?”
“How much you’re deluding yourself.” I narrow my eyes while tapping my chin with my finger. “Hmmmm.”
He exhales and glares. “Don’t fucking ‘hmmmm’ me, Taylor, okay? I don’t need your condescending little sounds.”
“Hmmmm.”
“Goddammit.” He looks at his wrist and says, “Wow, look at the time. We have to go. The show’s starting soon.”
Right. Benzo Ra.
He walks off, and I follow, saying, “Uh … Holt? You know you’re not actually wearing a watch, right?”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Just checking.”
When Holt and I emerge from the theater an hour later, we’re barely out the door before we’re snorting out all the repressed scorn that built up during the performance.
“Oh … man,” Holt says as he starts to calm down “That was the funniest thing I’ve seen since Keanu Reeves did Much Ado About Nothing.”
I wipe the laugh tears from my eyes as we walk to our next class.
“Seriously.” I sigh. “That’s a professional theater company. That could be our future.”
He laughs and groans at the same time. “It would be the ultimate torture. Those guys couldn’t actually classify themselves as actors, could they? Surely their resumes say ‘Professional Pretentious Prick.’”
We continue chuckling as we make our way into acting class. Erika is already there, sitting on her desk.
As the class settles around her, she says, “So, that was one of the most highly respected avant-garde theater troupes in the world, ladies and gentlemen. What did you think?”
The class babbles excitedly. Phrases like, “Oh my GOD, it was AMAZING!” and “SO unique! Really powerful!” and “The most stunning piece of theater I’ve ever seen!” fly around the room, overlapping.
My mouth drops open.
They loved it. They all loved it.
They saw the same collection of embarrassingly obtuse scenes as I did, and they all came to a completely different conclusion.
God, I’m such an uncultured idiot.
“Their use of stylized movement was so precise,” Zoe says excitedly. “It was incredible!”
Next to me, Holt scoffs, and Erika turns to him.
“Mr. Holt? Did you have something to say?”
“Nothing good,” he says and raises his chin defiantly. “I thought it was a pile of shit.”
Erika tilts her head. “Really? And why did you think that?”
“Because,” he says, exasperated. “There’s supposed to be a difference between random noise and movement, and theater. Even experimental theater is supposed to represent ideas and emotions. It’s not supposed to be a bunch of idiots walking around the stage like they have sticks up their asses.” “You don’t think the performance achieved communication on an emotional level?”
He laughs. “Not unless they were trying to communicate that they were all enormous jerk-offs.”
Zoe rolls her eyes, and there are murmurs of disagreement from other members of the class.
Holt looks at them with disdain. “I can’t believe you guys didn’t think it was crap. Did you all see a completely different show? Or were you blinded by their ‘reputation’ because you’re a bunch of fucking sheep?”
I hear several murmurs of “Fuck you, Holt,” until Erika shushes everyone as she turns to me.
My stomach convulses.
No, no, no, no, please don’t ask me.
“Miss Taylor? I haven’t heard your opinion yet. What did you think?” Oh, God.
Holt is looking at me.
I don’t want to look ignorant. I want to be accepted and say the right thing.
“Well …”
“Come on, Taylor,” Holt says. “Tell them what you think.”
“It was …”
They’re all staring. Him. Them. Erika.
“I thought it was …”
So many expectations. My head hurts.
“Yes, Miss Taylor?”
Holt’s gaze is piercing. “It’s not a hard question. Just give them your opinion.”
No matter what I say, I’m screwed.
“I thought it was amazing,” I finally mutter. “Really incredible. I loved it.”
The silence is broken as everyone mumbles their approval.
Everyone but him.
I can almost see Holt’s anger shimmering like a current in the air.
“Well, that’s very interesting,” Erika says. “It seems you’re all of the same opinion about it except Mr. Holt, and I have to say"—she gives him a surprised smile—"I agree with him.”
There are gasps of surprise.
I feel like crap.
Wrong again. Of course.
“Just because someone has a reputation for excellence doesn’t mean you should view everything they do as tacitly good. Even the finest actors in the world have had terrible performances. Just look at Robert De Niro in Analyze This.”
Everyone laughs.
Erika crosses her arms over her chest. “I’ve seen Benzo Ra perform many times over the years, and I have to say, this performance was disappointing in the extreme. It was comprised of unimaginative theatrics that, in my opinion, alienated the audience rather than drawing them into the experience.”
She keeps talking, but I’ve zoned out. I feel sick.
After being at each other’s throats for weeks, Holt and I were starting to get along. Then I go and throw him under the bus because I want people to like me.
Idiot.
“So, ladies and gentlemen,” Erika says, “your assignment tonight is to write a thousand words analyzing the Benzo Ra performance and why you did or didn’t like it, citing references to other experimental theater practitioners, including people like Brecht, Brock, and Artaud. I look forward to reading your thoughts.”
She dismisses us, and before I can stumble through an apology, Holt is striding out of the room. I scramble to my feet to follow him, but he’s so damn fast I have to run to catch up.
“Holt.”
He ignores me.
“Holt, wait up.”
He keeps walking. I get in fr
ont of him and put my hand on his chest to stop him.
His face is stormy. “What?”
“You know what.”
“Oh, that little thing back there where you completely screwed me over? Yeah, I do know what. Take your fucking hand off me.”
He steps around me and keeps walking while I stumble after him.
“I’m sorry! I didn’t know what to say. I thought I must be defective because I didn’t get it. They all thought it was great. I didn’t want to seem like I was too ignorant to have the right opinion.”
He stops and turns to me. “So you think I’m too ignorant to have the right opinion?”
His expression is so intense, he’s almost scary.
“No! God, you said exactly how you felt, and I should have. I just—”
“For fuck’s sake, Taylor,” he says as he throws up his hands. “An opinion isn’t right or wrong. It’s your interpretation of a subject or situation. You can’t be fucking wrong!”
“So, if I look at the sky and have the opinion that the clouds are pink, I’m right?”
“Yes! Because it’s an opinion, not a fact, and maybe to you, the clouds are pink because you’re nuts. An opinion doesn’t need to be true for anyone else in the world but you. Stop trying to fucking please everyone, and just say what you think.”
I feel like he’s slapped me.
“And you know what makes me even crazier?” he asks, poking his finger at me. “Whenever you’re with me, you’re the most opinionated person on the fucking planet, and you constantly browbeat me with your opinion, whether I want to hear it or not. But the moment you get around those dicks in our class, you have zero fucking backbone.
You’re so damn paranoid about being accepted, you turn into a sheep, just bleating along with the herd. It makes me want to slap you, because you forget about everything that makes you cool and fun and … Cassie, and you become some sort of people-pleasing autobot who tries to be whatever the fuck people expect instead of just yourself.”
He’s so worked up, he’s panting. I have nothing to say because he’s said it all.
No one has ever known me well enough to call me on my issues before, and I guess that he’s so upset because he actually … cares.
“You’re right,” I whisper.
“Yeah, I am,” he says. “So fucking quit it.”
