by Anthology
I startle backward. Marcus stands there waiting.
“What are you doing?” I say.
He hands me a cup. “Ginger ale. For your stomach.”
My skin warms.
“I remember your mom would pack it in your lunch. You were the only kid who got to have soda in elementary school. I was so jealous.”
He knows. Does everyone know?
I want to say something mean to him, but more tears brim in my eyes. “Yeah, I’ve got a thing … like some stomach…”
“I got them to change our seats, so you, like, could be near the theater door in case you need to go back to the bathroom.” He holds up two new tickets.
I should say thank you, but the words feel buried deep inside.
I stare at the exit doors. If I run out and go home, Nikhil will have to take Indie home and she’ll be grounded. If I stay, then I can’t be mean to Marcus, because he’s actually done something nice. But he knows about my irritable bowel disorder, and I don’t know how I feel about that. The anxiety of it makes my heart race and sweat slip down my back.
“We’ll be breaking up the double-date situation by sitting away from Nikhil and Indie, but I think it’ll be okay.”
“I don’t date,” I say to him.
“Okay,” he replies.
“Well, not right now.”
He nods and hides a sheepish smile. I take a deep breath and follow him back into the dark theater. I feel my stomach start to settle.
- - - Original Message - - -
Sent: Saturday, January 16 11:13 PM
To: MADAME AMOUR
Subject: Seeking Love
Dear Madame Amour,
I’m the only person in my friend group that’s never been kissed.
That’s weird, right?
But I don’t know what to do about it. I’ve been changing up my look and going to every party and trying to be more social.
I went to a fortune-teller and she said that she didn’t see it in the cards for me right now. Is something wrong with me? What should I do?
Sincerely,
Seeking Love
- - - Original Message - - -
From: MADAME AMOUR
Sent: Sunday, January 17 10:45 PM
Subject: RE Seeking Love
Dear Seeking Love,
There’s nothing wrong with you.
I repeat—NOTHING.
My Nana would say, “A watched pot will never boil,” so just be yourself and see what happens.
To be honest, and I probably shouldn’t be this honest, so don’t tell anyone, but I’ve never dated. I know, I know—how ridiculous is it that I run a love advice column without having ever been in love?
But I choose to wait.
I suggest you don’t worry about it so much and see what happens. I think I’m going to do the same.
Best,
Nora James
A Play in Many Parts
FOX BENWELL
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
CHORUS
A company of teenage theater nerds—writers, actors, directors, costumiers, stagehands, and technicians. Players and narrators, both.
E/MARLOWE
Narrator. They/them. (Please.)
MRS. B
Adult supervisor/adviser to the company.
DESMON
Mrs. B’s husband. Suave, successful stage actor and director. Sometimes. At others, he’s a lost boy.
FAUSTUS
The everyman. Played by the chorus, each and every one, in turns.
MEPHISTOPHELES
Played here as the Spirit of Theater.
GOOD ANGEL
Played by Dad.
SETTING
Small, simple stage in a chair-filled hall. Audience is empty save for two people, front and center, watching events unfold upon the stage.
ACT I
CHORUS
(Dressed in the unofficial blank-slate theater uniform of black T-shirts and leggings. Barefoot, unadorned with jewelry or makeup. Step forward and speak in unison.)
If all the world’s a stage, then all of life must be a script and every man the writer, and director, and the lead.
An arrogant view, perhaps. A view of kings, warlords, and lovers; a view of stars who strive to always take that extra bow or byline. Maybe.
Or perhaps it is a tale of fate and chances: who will rise, and who will fall.
Or one of your players running lines and possibilities until they get it right—as right as our frail human flesh allows, in whatsoever time we have.
Or perhaps it’s all of this, or more, or none of it.
Let us explain, and pass the fate and judgment of this Faust into your hands.
ACT I, SCENE 1
E
(Enters hall, hovers by door.)
Somewhere in this room sit your Robin Hoods and Romeos. Your Captain Hooks and your Javerts.
Somewhere.
It seems unlikely, when you look at them.
(CHORUS mills about. Some sit on chairs in an approximate circle; some are clustered at edges of hall, quietly talking among themselves. Some fiddle with phones or leaf through notebooks. Everyone visibly waiting. Nerves are palpable.
Note: Individual characters are visible through costuming: the goths and gamers, hipster kids and beauty queens. But the slouching and averted gaze and checking of clocks are the same, mirrored from one another.)
E
(Inhales.)
It’s intimidating, so much self-consciousness gathered in one room.
But it’s deceiving, too.
You can be nervous and a cocky mother all at once. You can love a thing, and be wholly afraid of loving it.
That’s theater. And everybody in this room is somebody who gets it.
Theoretically.
Of course, they could all be acid-breathing critics.
(Exhales.)
I stride just enough so that anyone who sees me in the corner of their eye will see confident E. The version of myself who’d walk across a stage. But nobody looks up, despite the too-loud wood-on-wood sound of my cane, and I find myself casting my thanks up into the highest corners of the room.
I pick a seat beside a red-haired, glasses-wearing boy who’s scribbling in a fancy notebook. Writer, I think. Hi, my people.
But Mr. Writer does not hear my telepathic greeting, and he does not raise his head until the door swings open, somehow with more gravitas than when we—the teenage company—used it, and in walks Mrs. B, her owlish glasses juuuust peering above a tower of pristine scripts, a purse, a coffee cup, a devil plushie, plastic shackles, and a bag of toffees.
She glides across the room, somehow managing not to trip on her flowing skirt.
“Morning, company. How are we all? Excited?” A lesser mortal would lose stride at thirty teenagers and their blank stares, but Mrs. B is theater people, and she knows the folks she works with.
“Don’t mind the shackles. Pay attention and we’ll all get along fine.”
Someone snickers.
Mrs. B deposits the tower and stands before us, steepling her hands with glee. “My, we all look positively radiant this morning. Come on, wake up, wake up. On your feet. I expect my company to show up ready to perform.”
And I’d protest, but just like that, we are a company, everybody’s hesitation sloughed away.
She makes us play the name game. Catch the devil, tell the company your name and your biggest can’t-resist-it theater weakness.
It’s … not as horrible as I’ve imagined it will be. And at least she isn’t calling out our names.
“I’m … it’s E,” I say on my turn. Barely flinching. “But I’d rather it weren’t anything. Call me Hey You or whatever. And it’s they, them pronouns please.”
Not one person questions it, and in that moment I love theater people and their ever-changing roles.
“And my biggest theater weaknessb is … retellings, probably. Or that thing where something on the stage just hits you, and it means
something completely individual to you, but it’s like they wrote it with your life in mind.”
COMPANY
(Members step forward one by one, to deliver a line.)
The rising of the curtain and the blinding lights.
Symbolic props: a suitcase that’s a suitcase but also a desk, a door, a ticking bomb.
Shakespeare!
Lin-Manuel Miranda!
The Peter Pan-ness of it, how everything onstage is always young.
Silks and satins: Theater is like dress-up but for grown-ups.
Mr. Writer, it turns out, is not a writer. Not if his fame-and-stardom answer is an indication. I’m not sure that anybody here shares my weakness for the words. And I guess that is okay; perhaps this last-chance production of mine will be my time to shine.
* * *
With introductions down, the company all take a knee.
Or chair, in my case. But the principle’s the same.
“All right. To business. We have six weeks, as a company, to pull off the best damned production that we can. By which I mean you have six weeks. In this hall, you are masters of your own fates, and I hope you recognize the seriousness that requires. I’m here, I’ll help, but you’re responsible for everything from how you want to tell the tale to casting choice to set design.
“You want the magic of the theater? This is it.”
She steps into the circle, passing scripts to players.
“Faustus?” Mr. Fame-and-Fortune quirks his head.
Mrs. B lights up. “This play, my dears. This play.”
“Isn’t it a bit…” Whoever started trails off into nothing.
“What?”
No answer.
“Heavy?” Mrs. B hazards a guess. “Classic? Old? Grown-up? Yes, it’s been called all those things. Along with ‘darkly funny and intelligent,’ and more than once, ‘prime vulgarity’ and ‘schmaltz.’ This play is…” She sighs, and I swear she almost hugs the script. “And anyway, Faustus it is. You can walk if you don’t like it, or you can sign up for six weeks of experience beyond your comprehension. Sign up, and you’ll be among the lucky few to grapple with such things. You will be company.”
ACT I, SCENE 2
The rest of the morning is filled with a first, tentative read-through.
I love him. Marlowe, I mean. Every word of him.
I love the jabs and jibes, the way the whole thing feels like swordplay, but with words.
I love the drama and the fun and the hollow-but-relatable humanity of Faustus.
All of it.
And even though some of us are kind of stumbling across the words, I’m just leaning back and listening.
Until Mr. Fame-and-Fortune breaks mid sin parade. “It’s a bit … pretentious, isn’t it?”
I sit bolt upright, his words grating down my spine. “What is?”
“Us. All this fancy language and stuff, here in 2017.”
And I’m going to argue, but a voice behind me gets there first. “No.”
EDWIN
No. I think it’s quite delicious.
(Stands, one hand holding out his script in proclamation, the other on his well-toned gut. He reads:)
“I come of royal parentage! My grandfather was a Gammon of Bacon, my grandmother a Hogshead of Claret-wine. My godfathers were these—Peter Pickleherring, and Martin Martlemas-beef. O, but my godmother she was a jolly gentlewoman, and well beloved … Her name was Mistress Margery Marchbeer.”
I just. Taste that poetry.
COMPANY
(Awed silence.)
Mrs. B breaks the awed silence, clapping for attention. “All right, all right, that seems as good a place as any to break for lunch. Forty minutes, people. Please use the trash cans, don’t spill coffee or Marchbeer on the speakers, and do try not to bowl each other over with your obvious, rampant enthusiasm.”
* * *
“Hi!”
I turn, to find the Marchbeer guy behind me, hand outstretched. And I must look surprised because he takes a small step back and rolls up his sleeves dramatically before he tries again. “No daggers.”
This time, I shake.
“I’m Edwin.”
“And I’m—”
“The player without a name.” He grins, and I find myself doing the same.
“So you like words?” I say. You like … words?
His grin gets wider. “I like these ones. I am, it must be said, less fond of other words.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Like grub, for instance. It just sounds so … grublike, y’know? Low and dirty.”
“Huh. It does. But there’s something to be said for words that do that, you know?”
“You’re right. It’s like … word alchemy or something. Conjuring a thing with nothing but your tongue.
“Grub. Grub. Can’t you just see it?”
I can. And suddenly my sandwiches don’t seem appealing. “Ew.”
We talk. And there is another kind of magic. The kind where you find you belong.
What doesn’t belong is my dad.
My dad. Peeking through the doorway like some kind of creep. What is he doing here? And then he’s coming in and striding over toward Mrs. B and pulling her aside—
“Excuse me.” I pull myself up and away from this smiling logophile.
“Dad!” He turns, and so do the three nearest girls, huddling over paper coffee cups.
I wince. My dad … does not belong here. Look at him. All business suit and barely loosened tie.
“E—”
I glower, stop him in his tracks before he gets his mouth around the name.
At least he has the decency to look awkward, rubbing at his neck the way he does when he feels bad. “Just introducing myself. Y’know. In case there are any problems.”
“Problems?” I am Wrath.
“If you’re tired, or the pain gets bad and you can’t manage.”
“Dad. We’re fine. No. Leave.” I grab his sleeve and pull him angrily toward the door.
“Your teacher has a right to know, pet.”
“Go home.”
“All right, all right.” He pulls himself free and smooths the wrinkles in his sleeve. “But we should talk about this. If you aren’t being honest with her, I’m … I just don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“Go. Home.”
Jesus. I do not lean on my cane the whole way back to my chair. With my back turned, even if he hovers, Dad won’t see me wince. And I will not give him any ammunition.
“Parents.” Edwin greets me with a sympathetic smile.
“Indeed. I disdain to have them.”
ACT I, SCENE 3
(COMPANY stands together, in a circle. They appear engaged and excited, for this is where the magic will begin.)
CHORUS
(As one.)
Faustus is in his study, surrounded by books and treatises that he knows by heart, a thousand roles and lines already mastered. And it is good. It is, but where to go from here?
Tonight, we’re all finding our inner Faustus.
“Drop your scripts a moment. Close your eyes,” says Mrs. B. And everybody does.
There’s something about standing vulnerable like that, listening to people’s breaths so intensely and nervously that somehow you all start to breathe as one.
There’s something, too, in knowing that without your stick or sight to balance you, one jostle and you’ll fall.
“Imagine, if you will, that you are Faustus. Standing in a magic circle not unlike our own. You know your books—your scripts—but a play is more than script. There’s more. If you’re ready to leap for it. Today, I want you to access your emotions. Yours, not Marlowe’s. But if we’re doing that, I need to know we trust each other, and that everyone is safe.”
MRS. B
Faustus, do you trust your Mephistopheles enough to fall?
(Three pairs break out of the circle while the others watch. Each Mephistopheles offers his Faustus a hand, all courteous and cha
rming. Dances round him, offering assurance, then takes his place behind Faustus. Faustus crosses his arms over his chest, ready to fall back into Meph’s arms. Or not.)
“Okay, Faustuses, you’re in your study. See it? Smell it? Books and wood and candle wax. There you are, teetering upon the edge of everything, leaning in, ready to attain enlightenment, and WHAM—” The whole room jumps. “This great big, ugly demon appears, towers over you, all yellow sharpened fangs and leather wings and glinting eyes.”
(Beat.)
“What goes through your mind? How does it feel? Are you scared? Excited? Arrogant? Everyone keep thinking. Hold on to that emotion, but I want you to open your eyes.” She walks quietly among us and taps a tiny blond girl on the shoulder. “Emily. How do you feel?”
“Excited,” she says softly.
“Excellent. Center stage, please.”
Emily steps into the middle of the circle.
“When’s the last time you were really, wildly excited? The most excited you have ever been?”
“Ummmm…”
“Don’t tell us. But how does it feel? That adrenaline, that joy. Is it pulsing in your fingers, gathered in your gut? What does your body do when it’s excited?”
Emily looks terrified.
“Feel it. Doesn’t matter why you are excited, only that you are. Use your own excitement—for snow days or getting your braces off or bringing home a puppy—and bring it to the stage. Got it? Okay. The demon’s in front of you. Go.”
For a moment, Emily just stands there, and we watch her, frozen, and it’s awful.
Then she grins. Giggles, bouncing on her tiptoes as she gazes up at an imaginary beast. “Ahahahahahaaaa, you’re here! It worked! I can’t believe it! Oh my GOD, I am a master! YOU’RE a … look at you!” She reaches up, pulls at his imaginary wings and spins him round, bouncing again for good measure. “A marvel!”
Everyone applauds. We run angry Faustus, so angry he almost breaks his fist against the stage. And one cowering doctor so afraid that he cries actual tears.
I try arrogant. Feel the pull of confidence inside my chest, a swagger that tugs harshly on my hips—and no, I will not tone it down—and juuust a hint of nastiness upon my tongue.
