How Not to Make a Wish

by Mindy Klasky

  I wasn’t ready to give up on the tattoo thing quite yet, though. I pointed vigorously toward another area of the drawing, as if I were showing off the world’s most expensive manicure. “What’s that?”

  “A trapdoor,” he said, oblivious to the magic sparking before his very eyes. “We’ll use it to take out Friar Laurence, at the end of his first scene.”

  Nothing. He obviously couldn’t see the marks on my fingertips. Teel would remain a secret, even if I saw evidence of magic every time I waved my hand.

  I blinked and actually paid attention to the drawing for the first time. Now that I was no longer trying to measure my Visible Genie Quotient, I could see that John had done a great job of capturing his design ideas. His drawings were obviously only sketches, ideas that would be modified as they were turned into models, then actually constructed by the Landmark’s renowned carpentry shop. But the lines were firm, the overall design confident, quietly competent in a straightforward way that many theater designers lacked.

  “How will you handle the balcony scene?” I asked. Even as I voiced the question, I remembered Jennifer and Drew reading the day before. I resisted the urge to wrinkle my nose—as much as I respected Bill Pomeroy’s daring ideas, I didn’t like the notion that the gimmick of reverse-gender casting might ruin the audience’s appreciation for the stagecraft evident in John’s drawings.

  “We’ll use this platform here.” He gestured toward stage right. “Juliet’s bed will fold down from the back wall. I want it out there, really obvious, so that her—his—whatever…” he said, stumbling over his pronouns, and I wanted to tell him that I sympathized. Teel had made me question my own use of the English language, just the evening before. I could only imagine how confusing the next few months would be here in the theater, with genders switching minute by minute. “Her sexuality,” he finally continued, with enough irritated emphasis that the second word unexpectedly made me blush, “is clear from the start, but I also have to get it out of the way for the entire ballroom scene. That’s when this level doubles as the entrance hall.” He shrugged. “I might go down in history as the first set designer to give Juliet a Murphy bed.”

  I laughed—it just struck me as funny. There we were, talking about one of the greatest lovers in all literature, and the only thing I could picture was every bad slapstick routine I’d ever seen, with mattresses slamming into walls at the most inopportune times. “That Juliet—she’s quite a decorator.”

  John still seemed annoyed by the pronoun confusion. A quick frown creased his forehead, and he rubbed a hand down his mustache. “Damn fool casting,” he muttered.

  “Don’t let Bill hear you say that,” I warned teasingly, glad that I wasn’t the only person who found our courageous production a little…silly. At least at this stage. Maybe rehearsals would change my mind.

  “Don’t let Bill hear you say what?” The question, predictably, came from Bill himself. “Ah!” our director exclaimed, coming to look at the drawings. “Wonderful! I want the entire cast to see these, so that they can start to live the physical realization of this show.”

  Live the physical realization. (Read: “Get familiar with the set.” But “living the realization” sounded so much more grand.) John rolled his eyes just the tiniest bit, and I bit my lower lip to keep from smiling with him.

  Most of the actors had drifted into the room while we’d been talking, and Bill quickly called everyone to order. “All right, everybody! Take your seats! We’ve got a lot to do today!”

  The group settled down immediately, with a tangible air of expectation. This was a company of professional actors, intent on making theatrical magic come alive for themselves, for their director, for the audiences that would be stunned by our creation, come April.

  Surreptitiously, I dug out a listing of the cast that Bill had given me the day before. Working my way around the circle, I made sure that everyone was present, on time for this important first read-through. I was pleased to see that I could match every name on my printout to a face.

  Bill called on John to explain his basic design, to annotate verbally the perfectly clear sketches, for everyone’s benefit. I used the time to go back around the circle, to test my ability to name every cast member without the aid of my written list.

  Just as I got to Drew Myers, he looked up. It was almost like he’d heard me call his name. His dark brown eyes met mine, hints of green sparkling as if we were in the middle of an animated conversation. His smile was immediate, dazzling. Surprised by the unexpected attention, I looked away, pretending that I’d been distracted by something in the general area of the rehearsal room door. When I gathered my courage to glance back, Drew was leaning over to whisper something to the actress sitting next to him.

  I fought off a scowl. Why hadn’t I just smiled back at Drew like a normal person? Why hadn’t I accepted his silent offer of friendship? What the hell was wrong with me?

  I knew what was wrong with me.

  Drew Myers was the most gorgeous guy I’d seen in ages. He was the first man to make me catch my breath in…I couldn’t even say how long.

  I was afraid of my reaction to him. The last time I’d felt like that, I’d ended up engaged to the guy. Engaged to TEWSBU. I wasn’t going to make that kind of mistake ever again—not if I needed to avoid every smile from every actor in every play I ever worked on, for the rest of my life.

  I folded my flame-tattooed fingers into a fist and bent over my notebook, forcing myself to take meticulous notes as Bill instructed everyone to turn to the first page of their scripts so that we could begin our read-through.

  At the end of the read-through, a group decided to go to Mephisto’s. It was two o’clock when we finished the rehearsal; enthusiasm was wearing thin as everyone grumbled about being hungry. The cast filed out quickly, but John stayed behind to help me with the chairs. Again. After accepting his assistance, I could hardly refuse his invitation to grab a burger with everyone else.

  Even if I was leery of Mephisto’s. Even if my pulse started to quicken as we hurried through the bitter cold to the nearby block of low-rise, family-owned businesses.

  The storefront wasn’t anything to look at from the street. Careful lettering on the plate glass window announced Mike’s Bar and Grill. That same window was half covered with theater posters from productions dating back to the 1970s.

  Hmm…Teel would have been perfectly at home there, if he’d first manifested in the back room of the dive. At least his disco suit would have been deemed “retro” instead of simply weird.

  Inside, the lighting was dim, the tables were close together, and the bar took up the better part of the left-hand wall. There were private rooms in the back, each large enough to host the cast and crew from a medium-size show on opening night. The food at Mike’s was simple and good—burgers, fries, and onion rings, with a killer green salad for leading ladies constantly on diets. Not that I’d ever actually ever tasted the salad in all my years of coming to the place, but I’d been told that it was good. At least, the blue cheese dressing was to die for. (Read: Leading ladies lie to themselves about what they eat just as much as everyone else does.)

  Mike Reilly, our very own Mephisto, was the father of four daughters, each of whom had struggled to make her way in the local theater scene. Kelly, the oldest, had actually succeeded enough that she’d left us all behind, for Broadway (or off-Broadway, or off-off-Broadway, or for a few bit parts in a community theater in Queens—we never asked for too many details).

  Two-thirty in the afternoon was an odd time for anyone to arrive at Mephisto’s; Mike was more likely to see customers stroll in at two-thirty in the morning, after a particularly grueling rehearsal. In fact, when John and I ducked through the door, Mike was behind the long zinc bar himself, a clear sign that his evening staff had not yet arrived.

  “Kira Franklin!” he exclaimed as I stepped into the dark restaurant. I blinked to hasten my vision’s adjustment. He set down the rag that he was using to wipe clean the
spotless bar and settled his hammy fists on his hips. “How long has it been, stranger?”

  “Just about a year,” I said, surprised to find myself grinning, despite the reason that I’d kept my distance. Mike had been one of the invited guests that night at the Hyatt. I was certain that TEWSBU still ate here on a regular basis; he’d always claimed that Mike spiked the French fries with crack.

  Well, it was funnier when he said it. Back when I’d thought everything he said was funny.

  I wiped my suddenly slick palms on my shapeless sweatpants, trying to cover my awkwardness with an attempt at being polite. “Have you met John McRae?”

  “Met him?” Mike boomed. “I’ve fed him half his meals since he came to town. How you doing, John?”

  “Just fine.” My set designer (my set designer! I was still incredibly thrilled to think of the Landmark’s staff as my own) smiled easily and crossed the room to the bar. Mike had already pulled a dark and foamy mug for him—it looked like John had an unfathomable appreciation for Guinness. Smiling laconically, John looked over his shoulder and said, “What’ll you have, Franklin?”

  But Mike was a better bartender than that. He’d already scooped up the largest of his glasses, filled it with ice and shoved three limes onto the rim. As he shot the glass full of tonic water from his six-button dispenser, I tried to calculate how many times I’d bellied up to his bar.

  I retrieved the glass from Mike with a grateful smile, sneaking the quickest of glances at John to see how he registered the nonalcoholic beverage. About half the guys I met thought I was the strangest specimen of humanity they’d ever met outside a zoo. The other half gave me a sad little smile and a half shake of the head; most of those immediately launched into a conversation about loved ones who were twelve-stepping through some program.

  John didn’t seem to notice what I was drinking. Instead, he said to Mike, “You taking orders out here? I’ll have a black-and-blue burger, with fries.”

  I thought I saw Mike’s smile tighten as he turned to me. We both remembered that TEWSBU loved Mike’s Cajun-spiced hamburgers, built around a pocket of blue cheese that melted into a redolent sauce more compelling than any gourmet kitchen’s snooty offering. “Cheddar and bacon,” I said, determined not to let John’s unfortunate order get me down. And then I decided to toss all care to the wind. What the hell, twelve months was too long to stay away from Mephisto’s. “And grilled onions and—”

  “Mushrooms,” Mike finished. “Welcome back, Kira. It’s been a long time.”

  I tried to think of something to say, but all of my responses sounded awkward. It occurred to me that I owed John some sort of explanation; the guy had no idea of my sordid past. But I wasn’t quite sure what to tell him, how much anyone would want to know about the greatest embarrassment of my life.

  Typically, Mike saved the day. “I half expected to see you in here asking for an apron, Kira.” As I’d alluded to my father, Mike was famous in the theater community for handing out jobs to those in need. When roles were really scarce, Mike had one waiter per table. When shows were doing well, though, you could wait half an hour for the place’s one harried server to take your order. We theater folks were always grateful when it took a long time to get refills on drinks.

  “The rumors of my demise were greatly exaggerated,” I said with a grin that was only slightly forced. I had Teel to thank for that, of course. I rubbed my tattooed fingers together, shivering a little at the electric tingle that hummed down my spine.

  “Glad to hear it,” Mike said. “Go ahead, you two. Everyone’s in the Mamet Room. I’ll bring your food when it’s ready.”

  The Mamet Room. Every time I ducked through the velvet curtain of the private space, I felt like I should swear like a sailor. Swear, and talk as fast as possible and tell everyone about my sex life, in the raunchiest terms imaginable. Yeah. As if I had a sex life at all. Mamet just brought that out in a girl. Or at least his plays did. I’d cut my teeth on his early piece, Sexual Perversity in Chicago. It wasn’t as bad as it sounded. Really.

  Still, I was more comfortable in the neighboring Shakespeare Room, all things being equal.

  John held the curtain for me as I ducked into the Mamet, careful to keep from spilling my tonic water. I pasted a smile onto my face, the better to greet my new acting family. Mechanically, my eyes swept over the bevy of actors, the women who were going to play Mercutio and Benvolio and Paris. And Friar Laurence. After our morning read-through, I was more convinced than ever that the show was going to be strange. Wonderful, groundbreaking, breathtaking. But strange.

  I shrugged mentally. “Strange” was how a theater made its reputation. “Strange” was how a company made its mark. Besides, who was I to talk about strange? Me, the woman with a genie at her beck and call?

  I tried to brace myself against the silly swoop I knew my belly would make when I caught sight of Drew Myers. Sure enough, he was sitting with his back to John and me, right by the entrance. There were a couple of chairs open beside him, and I knew that it would be the most natural thing in the world to take a few steps forward, to put my glass on the table, to sit beside him.

  I ordered my feet to move, but they refused to listen. I told my smile to stretch a little more widely, but my teeth seemed to get in the way. I instructed my voice to form a greeting, but I had apparently forgotten every word I knew in the English language.

  It had been a long time since I’d tried to socialize with anyone, much less with a drop-dead gorgeous guy like Drew. I’d grown accustomed to living in the convent of my apartment. It was harder than I’d expected to make the transition back into the real world.

  In fact, I felt as stifled as I’d been when Teel kept me from mentioning the genie stuff to my housemates. Worse, even, because I knew there wasn’t anything magic about this. Nothing more magic, that was, than the fact that Drew was unbelievably, unfairly handsome.

  But he was an actor, I remonstrated with myself. The type of guy who had a dozen women hanging on him, even on a slow day.

  “Hey, y’all,” John said, putting an end to my internal debate by pulling out a chair for me—the chair closest to Drew!—and taking another for himself.

  There was a chorus of greeting, and I was freed to sit down, my momentary awkwardness released. I took a sip of tonic water, hoping that the bitter tang would cool the furious blush that I could tell was painting my cheeks.

  Drew spared me a small smile as I put my glass back on the table, but even that blast of casual half-normal wattage sent my stomach tumbling over itself. “Hi, Kira,” he said. I could not think of a reply; I was unable to muster a single complete sentence in English.

  I glanced at John, hoping to find that he was miraculously prepared with some topic of conversation. Instead, he was already talking to a woman across the table, a pretty brunette whose name I suddenly couldn’t remember, despite the fact that I’d seen her here, in Mephisto’s, for years, before TEWSBU led to my self-banishment. The woman was playing Tybalt, Juliet’s cousin, the brute who thinks with his sword instead of his brain. John was nodding at something she was saying, something about how a winter storm was expected to blow through by Monday.

  I gulped my drink and turned back to Drew, simultaneously pleased and chagrined to be on my own. I forced myself to say, “So, this production is going to be like nothing I’ve ever seen before. Did you know about the reverse casting when you auditioned?”

  Drew smiled again and shrugged with the sort of frat-boy abandon that made me want to run my fingers through his already-tousled hair. (Read: I was ready to invite him home then and there, regardless of what Maddy and Jules might think when they saw a guy—a guy I’d only mentioned once before—swaggering through our front door.)

  I’d forgotten what it was like to be this interested in someone. I’d forgotten what it was like to plot out conversations three exchanges down the line, to have a constant monitor running in my head, reminding me that if I asked about this, I was likely to open up a line
of discussion good for another five minutes; if I asked about that, I could glean a minimum of seven minutes….

  I used to be really good at this game.

  But that was before TEWSBU. Before the past year of self-enforced celibacy, and the year before that of engagement, and the year before that of exclusive dating with the guy I’d believed was the man of my dreams.

  Wow. I’d been out of circulation for a long time. Could it really have been three years since I’d experienced this breathless, pounding, flushing feeling? (Yeah, there was that time I had the flu, last January. But that didn’t count.)

  In fact, I was so far out of the swing of things, I’d forgotten to listen to Drew’s answer to my question. He’d said something about the auditions, about Bill’s plans for Romeo and Juliet, something that would have given me some idea—any idea—what to say next. And I’d missed it, because I was anxious, feeling sorry for myself, sorry for the me whose life had been ruined by an insensitive, cold-blooded, bastard ex-fiancé. I drained my glass, searching for my next line.

  Luckily, John had overheard whatever Drew had said, and he dropped easily back into our conversation. “I wish I’d been there for those callbacks,” he drawled. “Just to see the expression on y’all’s faces, when Bill told you to switch roles.”

  Again, Drew dazzled us with that smile. Dazzled me, anyway. I was pretty sure that John wasn’t affected. “I thought it was an acting exercise, you know? ‘Think about what Romeo’s sword feels, as it plunges into Juliet’s breast. Feel that emotion. Act out the role of the sword.’”

  I laughed, and John joined in. We’d all worked with our share of touchy-feely directors. Method acting in its simplest form—it was a technique where actors tried to re-create the emotions of their characters by drawing on their past experiences. It was one thing, though, for someone to build Ophelia’s insane love of Hamlet by thinking about an actual failed high school romance. It was another when directors pushed Ophelia-actresses to build their madness on the loss of some other relationship, say a childhood friend who’d moved away. Or, in one disastrous production I had stage managed in college, on the loss of a favorite angora scarf.