by M. C. Frank
The audience bursts in applause.
And we haven’t even heard anything yet. Rosie clutches at my hand like a drowning person, and after a moment of absolute silence, the music begins.
I always feel, when I listen to music, that there should be more words in the human vocabulary. For example, the words that could describe the sound that comes out of this stage, starting slowly and building up like a hum of energy and feeling, like the rush of cool water that flows to a waterfall. . . they haven’t been invented yet.
From the first notes, chills start traveling up my spine. Music always does that to me, but there is something incredibly gorgeous and poignant about this particular piece. It’s really simple in the beginning. It just starts with the flutes, and the rest of the instruments join in one by one, in a simple but powerful tune. Before I realize it, the music has built up to this complicated melody, filled with every imaginable sound in the universe. My eyes tear up as I feel the powerful music tug at my heartstrings.
Maybe this Pan dude has the right to be as obnoxious as he likes. I mean. . . if he created this. . .
“Okay, answer me this,” I lean down and whisper in Rosie’s ear. “The guy seems to be some kind of orchestra conductor rock star. . . why the hell was he a ‘casting director’ at my audition?”
“He’s best friends with Spencer,” she whispers back without looking at me, her eyes round as though she’s in a trance. “He’s creating a score for Sweet Prince and co-directing or something. And the other guy, the one who was sitting second row, third from the end?”
She’s talking about the muscled, laughing guy from the audition.
“Yep.”
“Ever hear of the name Vanderau?”
Now my eyes are as huge as hers. And of course, I get it. His face looked slightly familiar, but Wes took all my attention, so I was a bit distracted, you could say.
“No,” I mumble in a low voice, hardly able to believe it. “He’s not. . . ”
“Theodore ‘Teddy’ Vanderau. Our producer,” Rosie nods.
Even I am familiar with this name. The guy is the heir to an empire. It’s hard to watch the news or open a magazine without reading anything about the Vanderaus. They are one of the wealthiest, oldest and most prestigious Upper East Side families of New York. They control a big part of the worldwide news agencies and own hotels, shipping companies and charity organizations all over the world. This ‘Teddy’ guy, his face is on every magazine and newspaper; he’s the heir of the empire. Everyone keeps waiting for him to crack under the pressure. But so far, he’s been studying at Yale and getting a drug addiction quietly, if what they’re printing is to be believed—which it usually is not. Oh, and sleeping with anything that moves.
“He is our producer?” Now my eyes are huge. “What do these boys think they are doing? This is only a school project, most of the actors are students.”
“I think they’re trying to prove something,” Rosie shrugs.
“What?”
“Themselves,” she replies. “I think they’re brilliant. All of them.”
“Well, yeah, you could say that,” I admit. They may be a pack of crazy boys, but they sure are brilliant.
“And I think we’re the luckiest two people in the world,” she finishes, squeezing my hand.
They play nonstop for three quarters of an hour, alternating between popular Christmas songs, a few classics like Vivaldi’s Winter and Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, and a few new pieces, that the program says have been composed by students and teachers of the school. The sound they are creating is so amazing it knocks the wind right out of me, sometimes with a raw punch of emotion, sometimes with a slow shimmer of feelings.
The final piece they perform is a badass modern arrangement that no one’s ever heard before. It must be a big deal, because right before it starts, people start whispering to each other and craning their necks towards the conductor’s podium. I glance at the program as the final minor chords of the violins swell in the air and I read the composer’s name: Adam James Yi Peng Pan. Next to me, Rosie is having an orgasm.
As is the rest of the audience, apparently.
The percussions explode and the entire building seems to shudder with the weight of the music. My seat feels like it’s on fire.
Everyone is on their feet, clapping their hands raw even before the final notes. Pan turns around and bows once more and after five full minutes of applause he settles the orchestra down for a final number.
They start playing that bringing-in-the-New-Year thingy that I can never pronounce, the ‘auld’ something, and a hush comes over the room, everyone turning to the person seated next to them, misty-eyed and smiling.
And then I see it.
Gosh, this is harder than I thought it would be.
I can’t even remind myself to not think about things anymore. I let the sadness wash over me, and my heart breaks all over again.
“What’s up?” Rosie asks as she sees the tears pouring down my cheeks. “Ari? What are you looking at?”
She follows my gaze to the front row, where Wes is seated.
“Stanley Laurel,” I answer to Rosie and a smile trembles on my lips, as a flash of his smiling face in the ‘How to Pick Up a Girl’ video passes in front of my eyes.
A few rows of seats in front of us, Wes is seated next to the Vanderau dude. I saw him take his seat, and have been trying to look away since the beginning of the concert. But now I can’t.
Wes turns to his right, where a girl with straight brown hair is seated, and kisses her deeply on the lips. The way he moves, so calm and deliberate, is so different from the drunken way he was sucking face with that actress that day in Drops, that I wonder why my mind is immediately transported to the memory of that day. But it is. And this hurts even more.
He turns back to face the stage and once more the side view of his cheek is all I can see. The girl isn’t someone I’ve seen before. I can’t tell if she’s a celebrity or not, and I’m not sure I would want to know, if she was. She’s wearing a light blue dress with a plunging neckline, her earrings sparking in the candlelight, and she leans into his shoulder in a familiar way that suggests they may have been dating for a bit.
I close my eyes for a second and he appears in front of me as he was that night in Corfu when we listened to the philharmonic, his hair flying in the wind, his hand gripping mine, his eyes filling with moisture as the music enveloped us like a cloud.
“Do you need to go to the loo? They’ll be done in five minutes,” Rosie whispers to me. I hadn’t realized I’d gotten up.
“I. . . I need some air.”
She follows me outside and calls a cab, telling me that I’m to spend the night at her house.
“First night of the new year,” she says. “No way are you spending it alone. We’ll put on pajamas and empty my dad’s bottle of Chardonnay. What do you say? Does that sound like a good way to bring in the new year?”
I just nod, too tired to speak. We get into the cab, rubbing our hands together to warm them up. The cold is biting.
And that’s when I realize it.
What I wanted, what I needed so badly a few months ago, has already happened: Wes Spencer is now officially out of my life.
texts
Ollie: how r things, Hamlet?
Wes: Bad
Ollie: always in character. That’s my boy. s all good then?
Wes: S all bad
Ollie: cant we have an adult conversation 4 onc?
Wes: Did you know Ari would be here?
Ollie: Ari? My Ari? Why wld she be there?
Wes: Stunts
Ollie: what?
Wes: Stunts, she’s doing the stunts. She’s the stunt girl Matt hired.
Ollie: this is serious, stop fooling around.
Wes: She’s here, I’m telling you.
Ollie: no. no no no no noooooooooooo
Wes: yep.
Ollie: fffffffffffffffffffffffff
Wes: She didn’t know t
his is where she was coming. My film, I mean.
Ollie: I didn’t either. Damn. Are u sure?
Wes: What? You’re asking me if I’m sure she’s here?
Wes: I haven’t seen her in a while, but, yeah, I’m pretty damn sure it’s her.
Wes: Skinny, orange wig, falls over her own feet when she walks?
Ollie: . . .
Wes: Ring a bell? We’re talking about the same girl here, right?
Ollie: Stop it, Wes, come on. Ok. It’s gonna be fine.
Wes: Guess again.
Ollie: I’m so sorry, dude. How are you doing, srsly?
Wes: Srsly?
Ollie: Wes come on man
Wes: I’m in hell. Seriously.
Wes: If you tell her a word of what I’ve told you today, I’ll kill you. Srsly
Ollie: Listen, if there’s anything I can do, if u need
Wes: Shut up
Ollie: anything, just call and I’ll fly over.
Wes: I know. Stay put and keep your big mouth shut.
Ollie: that’s funny, how u don’t trust me.
Wes: Hell. I’m in hell.
Ollie: I’m so sorry
Wes: Yeah.
FIFTEEN
We go back to work the day after New Year’s. Everyone is excited, not bugged at all about missing the holidays; after all we chose to be here. Rosie and a few other girls boil tea and bring chocolate-chip cookies in a red tin box to make the atmosphere a bit festive, and everyone stuffs their faces with the tiny confections ravenously, although there are catered snacks offered to us every day at the end of shooting.
Wes directs calmly and with authority, without adding more stress to the shoot, even though he’s also playing Hamlet. He has to wear a shiny leather uniform that contours his body and just about stops the heart of every female within a one mile radius near him—me included. He’s put on even more muscle and he looks practically enormous with the leather sculpted to his body, his cropped hair glowing golden amid all the blackness of the costumes, the gray platforms and the glaring green screens.
I can’t get over how different his face looks: leaner than before, its contours sculpted and sharp, but his eyes, his skin, his lips. . . He’s the same. My heart skips a beat every time I glance at him.
Get a grip.
He recites his lines in a thundering voice and the camera gets about a million close-ups of his handsome face, painted in make-up so that it looks all battered, dry and cut up from the battle. He doesn’t falter once, and his immaculate performance prods everyone else to do their best. He never touches a drop of alcohol, or anything that isn’t sparkling water for that matter, and he doesn’t smile even remotely.
The millionaire heir is nowhere to be seen, but Pan sits quietly on a seat at the back of the empty theater, watching everything with an unpleasant smirk on his face, and Rosie is almost flustered out of her mind.
By the end of the day, Wes, still in full make-up and costume, sits down beside him and they talk for about five minutes, then they gather us and tell us we did everything wrong. We reshoot a few scenes and I patiently wait for my turn in the freezing wings, trying to warm up as well as I can, until I have to go be ‘drowning Ophelia’ inside a square, transparent tub of water they have towed on the stage, by dunking my blonde-wigged head again and again in the tepid water.
I have to hold my breath underwater for eons, and when I come up for air my makeup invariably needs retouching, so we have to take a two-minute break before I’m dunked in again.
So that’s fun.
◊◊◊
The next day is a big battle sequence shoot. Wes will be in the stunt as well, although he’ll be filmed alone, in different frames than me. A few other guys will take part as well, students, and before I have the time to ask whether that’s a good idea, Matt takes me aside and tells me to ‘keep an eye on them so that they don’t get themselves killed’. Before I have time to say anything in reply, they’re bringing in the fog machines and he goes to talk to the stage crew, his eyebrows furrowed.
Rosie and the other artists have taken today off, because no makeup will be needed, it will be mostly far away shots and action sequences that will be digitally enhanced later. I understand this is where the Vanderau heir comes in, apparently he’s some kind of computer wizard.
Well.
He won’t do the flying and falling off of trees with weapons in our hands for us, that’s for sure.
About two hours later, the stage lighting has been tested and reworked to within an inch of its life and three students and I have been positioned near the ceiling of the stage, perched atop props camouflaged to resemble burnt trees. The cameras are rolling.
“Here we go,” Wes says to the fog machine operator, and, with a ‘whoosh’, he turns it on, filling the air with a white cloud of vapor.
I gather my limbs together to jump like I did in my audition, only now I’m holding what looks like heavy war machinery in both hands, so it’s a bit more tricky.
The camera is focused on me and the other guys will be in the background, if they manage to float on their cords at all and don’t sink from the scaffoldig like stones to the floor.
“Action,” Wes yells.
A shiver of pride runs down my spine as I hear the confidence in his voice. Just four months ago he was this conceited British boy who needed Tim to keep him in line, and now every eye in the room is glued on him, waiting for instructions. He’s a director, a writer. . . and a complete stranger. His eyes glide over me as though he doesn’t even notice me. And that’s how it should be. Why would he notice me? I’ve relinquished any right to his attention.
If only I hadn’t. . . No. Focus. Okay, here goes.
It’s a disaster.
We have to do it again. Then again.
Wes remains calm and patient through it all, giving us directions like a pro.
We do it three more times.
“Okay, we’re getting there people,” Wes says. “One more take, then a five minute break. Ready? Action!”
There’s that swooshing sound again as the fog machine starts working once more, but this time it sounds a bit weird, different. I open my mouth to ask if we should check it, and then all hell breaks loose. Shards of glass are bombarding me from all sides, and I drop the weapon prop to protect my face with my hands. Suddenly my cord snaps and I’m falling to the ground, but not as fast as I would if I was free falling—so it didn’t break after all.
I’m being lowered down from the scaffolding so fast that I land hard, my knees hitting the wooden floor with a snap.
All of this happens with unbelievable speed, just a blur past my failing vision, because I have a bigger problem right now than bruised knees.
I can’t breathe.
I choke and gag, desperately thinking that I have to raise my head above this suffocating mass of white smoke, but there’s nowhere to breathe clean air in. Everything around me is snow-white and turning a thick, gray color, as my vision starts closing in on me.
Wes is screaming from somewhere to my left: “Get the window! Now! Smash it in, do it!” but I don’t feel any air entering my lungs.
Someone grabs me and drags me to the back of the room. Strong hands help me to lean out the window, and I take deep gulps of air, coughing and trying to steady myself in spite of the dizziness and nausea.
As soon as I can breathe again, I turn around to look at the rest of the room. It’s covered in filth. Mick, one of the stage guys, a sturdy dude with a kind face and round glasses, is holding me upright. I grab the windowsill and try to will my legs to support me.
“What. . . What. . . ?” What happened, is what I’m trying to say, but all that comes out is a croak.
“Bloody fog machine broke,” Mick replies in a hoarse voice. “Clear out, everyone, give her space! Can you breathe?”
I nod, taking another gulp of air, and I bend my head down over my knees, feeling giddy. In a second the faintness passes. Okay, so these weren’t shards of glass, alth
ough they pretty much felt as painful.
The dense streaks of smoke have begun to drift to the floor all around the room, settling on the seats like snow, small specks floating to my nose and mouth and causing me to choke again. Mick secures his hold on my shoulder.
“I’ve got you,” he says, “take your time.”
The window is broken, and as I gulp in clean air I’m careful not to touch the sharp edges of the glass. Outside a siren is wailing in the distance and freezing air blows in, lifting the dust and debris and twirling it around our clothes and hair. Talk about a post apocalyptic setting!
“Everyone accounted for? Ambulance is on its way,” someone yells.
Ambulance is on its way.
Ambulance is on its way.
Ambulance. . .
Just these words.
All these months of struggling and overcoming and making progress. . . And all it takes is five words. Five words that catch me off guard. Five words that ruin me.
Ambulance is on its way.
Just five words that take me back to the horror of that day in Corfu, they drown me in memory. The darkness drags me under without warning. I lose the ground beneath my feet.
When the room comes back into focus, I’m sitting on the floor hugging my knees. There’s someone here, in front of me, and they must have been talking to me for a few seconds, but I can’t concentrate on their face or their words.
“Hey.”
Ambulance. Ambulance. Ambulance. That’s all I can hear, that’s all I can think. That last day in Corfu. The helicopter ride. Dad and Wes running alongside my gurney in New York. Ambulance. Seeing my bald head for the first time in the mirror.
