by Emma Scott
“It’s okay if you are,” Angie said. “Our Plastics aren’t all that Plastic.”
“Everyone’s pretty nice, actually,” Jocelyn said, waving at a girl across the restaurant. “When you grow up with the same people since pre-school, it’s pretty hard to be bitchy.”
Nash smiled at me. “If you know the Homecoming Queen used to eat paste, she doesn’t exactly have a lot of leverage.”
“Still, they might try to steal you from us,” Angie said. “You’re so shiny and new.”
“Steal me from what?” I asked.
Angie exchanged glances with Nash. “I may have ulterior motives for calling the gang together. Motives that have nothing to do with Greek tragedy.”
“She wants you for our yearbook staff,” Nash said, and flinched as Angie elbowed him in the side.
“You didn’t let me sell it,” she said.
“The play starts in forty-five,” Nash said. “We don’t have that kind of time.”
Angie rolled her eyes and dug into her bag. “Fine.” She pulled out a yearbook from last year and slid it across the table. “As we discussed earlier, college apps are the thing now and you need extra-curriculars, right?”
I nodded, flipping open the glossy book of photos. “My dad commanded it, so it shall be.”
“So?” Angie clapped her hands. “To paraphrase The Breakfast Club, are we not exceptional in that capacity?”
“Maybe,” I said, flipping through the pages.
I had zero interest in being on the yearbook staff. Or a cheerleader again. Or obeying my dad’s edicts at all. I looked at the faces in the photos—students laughing together, working on projects, singing in talent shows and winning ribbons for science fair exhibits. An entire book dedicated to normal kids doing normal things. I knew many of them—probably more than I could guess—had their own horrible shit to contend with, but they looked so much better at moving past it than I was.
I wasn’t moving at all.
A waitress took our order, and I went back to browsing the yearbook while the others chatted around me. I turned to a page of Harmony community activities. And there was Isaac Pearce onstage. Frozen in a dramatic black and white shot. I leaned closer.
“Why, Miss Holloway,” Angie said. “We’re becoming awfully curious about Mr. Pearce, are we not?”
I ignored her and scanned the photos of Isaac with captions beneath each: Angels in America, Buried Child, All My Sons.
“He’s been doing this a long time?” I asked.
“Since grade school,” Angie said.
“Oh, I see,” Nash said with a roll of his eyes. “Tonight isn’t arts appreciation, it’s inducting a new member into the Isaac Pearce Fan Club.” He looked at his girlfriend. “I hope you told New Blood she’s barking up the wrong tree.”
“I’m not barking up any tree,” I said, a deep ache clanging in my heart. The idea of being with a guy, ever again, was repellent. Having him stand close to me. Being in the closed confines of his car for a date. Being kissed. Or touched. A boy’s body pressed close to mine and not knowing its intentions. Or its power.
I shut the yearbook with a snap, cutting off both the visual of Isaac and the thoughts that could send me into a level-10 panic attack.
“He’s pretty to look at,” Jocelyn was saying, “but a serial college-girl screwer. He won’t even look at us children.”
“Children?” I said. “He’s our age.”
They all shook their heads.
“No?”
“No. His mom died when he was eight,” Angie said. “He stopped speaking for, like, six months or something, and had to be held back a year.”
I frowned. “He stopped talking for six whole months?”
Angie nodded. “Maybe longer. He was in our third-grade class. Before he got pulled it was weird to see a little boy—what…? Eight years old? Not saying a word?” She shook her head. “Poor guy.”
My mind conjured a little blond boy with smoky green eyes having the words punched right out of him by his tragedy. “What got him talking again?”
“Miss Grant, the fourth-grade teacher, directed a little show and convinced him to be in it.” Angie raised her hands. “The rest is history.”
I nodded slowly. She gave him someone else’s words to speak.
“But he lost a year of school,” Nash said.
Caroline nodded. “He’s eighteen. No, wait…” She counted on her fingers. “He’s probably nineteen by now, right?”
“That’s got to be hard,” I said.
Jocelyn shrugged and dipped one of her fries in ketchup. “It’s paid off. His acting is going to make him famous.”
“Speaking of which,” Nash said, checking is watch. “We should get going. Oedipus isn’t going to gouge his eyes out all by himself.”
Angie whacked his arm. “Hello? Spoiler alert?”
“I know the story,” I said, unable to keep from smiling. Unable to not like Angie, who linked her arm in mine as we strolled down the sidewalk. I flinched at first; I wasn’t a fan of being touched, but Angie was warmth to my ice and I let her, as our breath trailed clouds down the twinkling winter streets.
“So, any thought about my offer?” she said. “Yearbook is heading into crunch-time and I could really use the help.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t think it’s my thing.”
She pouted. “You sure? Because—”
“Yeah, I’m sure,” I said, my voice hard. I forced it to be soft again. “Sorry. We just moved nine days ago. I’m still getting my bearings.”
“OMG, of course,” Angie said with a wide smile. “I’m pushy as hell—”
“You think?” Nash muttered under his breath.
Angie scowled at him over her shoulder and leaned back into me. “You do your thing, Holloway,” she said. “Whatever that is. But my door is always open. Always.”
“Thanks.”
Angie’s words warmed me too, for the rest of the walk to the Harmony Community Theater.
Do your thing, whatever that is.
Willow
Compared to the other shops of downtown Harmony, the building that housed the community theater was almost embarrassingly run-down. The turn of the century columns at the entrance were smudged with years of car exhaust. The cement steps leading to the entrance were cracked. Inside, dust motes danced in the soft illumination from the elegant stained-glass ceiling lamps.
After we bought tickets from a small box office, Angie and her friends talked amongst themselves while I strolled up and down the lobby, perusing the gallery of black and white photos. Some were historical shots of the building. According to the captions, HCT had been in operation since 1891, when Harmony was a small collection of sparse buildings separated by wide, unpaved roads. Horse-drawn buggies and women in dresses with big, feathered hats traversed the wide expanses of dirt.
One long wall was hung with photos of past performances—a time-lapse reel of styles, costumes and plays from 1900 to the present. Both my pace and my gaze slowed down at shots from the past five years. Nearly all of them featured Isaac Pearce. He wasn’t always the lead, but he was in every one.
And he’s different in every one, I thought.
Even in early productions, when his youth was evident in his softer, rounder features, he could make subtle changes in his facial expressions or change how he carried his body—tricks that transformed him into a completely different young man in each role.
“Peel your eyes off of those photos,” Angie said, tugging my sleeve. “It’s time to feast upon the real thing.”
We entered the main theater with its two sections of plush seats. The velvet had once been vibrant red, but now it was dulled to a tired maroon. The red velvet curtain across the proscenium had also seen better days. Wall sconces sent columns of light climbing up the walls and into the interlocking arches in the ceiling.
Oedipus Rex had been running for two weeks in this tiny town, yet by my guess, the 500-capacity theater was t
hree-quarters full.
“Hasn’t everyone in Harmony seen this already?” I asked Angie, as we took our seats.
“More than once,” Angie said. “Tomorrow’s closing night and is sold out. People come from all over. Down from Braxton and Indy.”
“Even up Kentucky,” Jocelyn said from my other side. “Theater is big in the Midwest.”
“Universities in Ohio and Iowa have prestigious schools for theater arts,” Nash said. “Our little place draws some VIPs.”
Angie polished her knuckles on the front of her sweatshirt. “We’re kind of a big deal.”
“If it’s such a big deal, can’t they afford to fix it up?” I asked, fidgeting as a spring in my chair cushion poked my ass.
Angie shrugged. “Martin Ford—the owner—took it over ten years ago from the previous guy, who ran the finances into the dirt. Nearly went bankrupt. Now Ford is doing his best to keep it afloat.”
“Can’t they get a grant or something? Some kind of endowment?”
“I’m sure Mr. Ford’s doing whatever he can,” Jocelyn said.
Caroline nodded. “He loves this place. He’s not just an owner but he directs all the shows.”
“Our citizenry is where he gets most of his actors,” Angie said. “He wants to keep it organic.” She pointed at my program. “He acts in the shows, too.”
I looked down at the cast list and found the name Martin Ford playing Tieresias, a blind prophet.
“So he’s the one who keeps giving Isaac all his roles?”
“More than that,” Angie said. “He chooses plays he knows can showcase Isaac’s talents. Isaac is his protégé.”
“I think the word you’re looking for is ‘meal ticket,’” Nash said, absently and affectionately wrapping Angie’s curls around his finger.
“That’s two words.” She leaned in to me. “Nash is jealous because he doesn’t look as good in a toga.” The house lights dimmed. “Speak of the devil.”
The lights faded to pitch and when they came up again, the curtains had opened on a black, empty stage. Large white cubes and pillars framed out a room. A white backdrop of Thebes was sketched in rough, black strokes. A minimalist set to let the words capture the audience’s attention.
A priest stepped onto the stage, surrounded by a crowd of men and women in white togas who pantomimed being afraid or confused or despairing.
Then Isaac Pearce strode onstage and a little buzz went through the audience; a surge of crackling anticipation.
There he is.
His beautiful face was partially covered by a fake beard, transforming him from a nineteen-year-old guy in 21st century America into a powerful and omniscient king. I’d never had a religious experience in my life, but at that moment, I’d swear the light pouring down on him came from the Greek gods. He was divine. Otherworldly.
Untouchable.
He raised his arms as he spoke, his booming voice demanding—no, commanding—our attention.
“Sons and daughters of old Cadmus,
The town is heavy with a mingled burdens of groans and hymns and incense;
I did not think it fit that I should hear of this from messengers but came myself—
I, Oedipus, whom all men call the Great.”
I stared, slack-jawed.
Oedipus the Great.
“Holy fucking shit,” I whispered.
Out the corner of my eye I could see Angie grin, though her gaze stayed riveted to the stage. “Told you so…”
We didn’t speak another word until final curtain. Even with a cushion spring digging into my ass, I barely moved. A fire alarm wouldn’t have stolen an ounce of my attention from the action onstage.
Like every other high school student, I’d read Oedipus in English with Spark Notes at my side and yawning, because who gave a shit about a dude who slept with his mother?
That night, I gave a shit. About everything. I lived it. With Isaac at center stage, I was there, in Thebes, watching it unfold, unable to look away. I held my breath as Oedipus hurled himself at his horrifying fate, seeking to unravel the mystery shared by every single person sitting in that theater. A mystery I was desperate to know.
Identity. Purpose. Self.
The truth, a voice whispered in my endless dark. What’s left of me?
When Oedipus learned the traveler he had murdered years ago was his father, and the woman he married was his mother, the anguish was raw and powerful. Almost destructive. His tortured denial reverberated through the theater as if it could shake the foundations. Bring the whole building crashing down with him as he collapsed to his knees.
When Jocasta—his wife and mother—hung herself, the king’s grief and pain sucked the audience in, uncomfortably close.
When he tore the golden brooches off her dress and used them to claw his own eyes out, the stage blood spurting from under his palms was as real as the horrified blood thundering in our veins. His agony saturated every scream, every syllable, every weeping gasp of breath. And we had no choice but to feel it too.
I was vaguely aware of sniffles from the seats around me, people passing tissues and exhaling ragged sighs. But it wasn’t until Oedipus, purged of the terrible weight of the prophecy, was exiled from his home that tears broke free and streamed down my cheeks. The fallen king cast adrift in the dark, forced to wander alone.
The curtain fell and we all bolted to our feet in a thunderous standing ovation. The crowd roared louder when Isaac took his bow. Behind the beard and the streaks of blood, his expression was exhausted. Then he smiled. A brilliant, breathtaking, triumphant smile of someone who’d taken a dark journey and come out the other side.
I slammed my hands together over and over, tears streaming unchecked as the dwindling, flicker of a fire in me stretched taller and reached for the stage.
Isaac
The post-performance crush was always surreal for me. The congratulatory hugs and back pats from the cast seemed to fall on someone else’s body while I looked on from a corner, still lost in and connected to Oedipus. Some actors called it being in the zone, but Martin called it the flow. A current of creativity where performance stopped being performance and became real.
The flow was my drug. I craved it as soon as I left the theater. Like a junkie, I’d sell off everything I owned to live in that place where painful emotions trapped inside me were set free. It let me be exposed and raw, yet kept me protected under costumes and shielded by sets.
Lorraine Embry, the forty-year-old school teacher who played Jocasta, pulled me in for a long hug. Tears stood out in her eyes when she pulled away.
“Every night,” she said, her hands holding my face. “How do you give so much every night?”
I shrugged. “Just doing my job.”
We headed to the dressing rooms to change and wipe off stage makeup and, in my case, fake blood. Changing into street clothes, the guys shot the shit and talked up the show, lamenting how we had only one more performance. They waved goodbyes and headed out to greet friends and relatives who’d come to see them. As usual, I felt a fleeting curiosity if Pops was among the crowd in the lobby. As usual, I shot it dead.
Only if every ticket came with a bottle of Old Crow.
The dressing room was now empty except for me, Martin and Len Hostetler, who played the role of Creon.
“You guys want to grab a beer?” he asked. Then he laughed. “Shit, Pearce, I keep forgetting you’re only eighteen, O king, instead of thirty.”
Martin, a slender man with a shock of graying hair and wide blue eyes, beamed. “Actually, today is—”
I shot him a warning glance through the mirror, shaking my head slightly.
“—not a good time,” he finished. “Thanks, Len.”
Len saluted. “What’s the play after this, Herr Direktor? You make your decision?”
“Yes, I’ve decided it’s going to be Hamlet,” Martin said, meeting my stare in the mirror.
“Good choice,” Len said. “It begs the question, what came first
—the play or the actor you had in mind for it?” He laughed and chucked me on the shoulder. “I kid, kiddo. You were brilliant. As usual.” He turned to Martin. “We gotta use this guy’s talents before Hollywood or Broadway snatches him up, am I right?”
“My thoughts exactly,” Martin said.
“Have a good one, fellas.”
The door shut and Martin and I were alone.
“The entire cast would throw you a birthday party if you’d let them,” he said, tying his shoes.
“We have a party,” I said. “A cast party. Tomorrow night after closing.”
“That’s not the same—”
“It’s not a big deal,” I said. “Turning nineteen and still being in high school is fucking pathetic.”
Martin’s face folded into concern and I immediately wished I’d kept my damn mouth shut.
“It’s not your fault,” he said, holding my gaze in the mirror. “You got the wind knocked out of you, kid. They held you back so you could catch your breath. You shouldn’t be ashamed of that.”
As usual, I didn’t have a decent reply, so I changed the subject.
“Hamlet?” I said. “I thought you were leaning toward Glass Menagerie.”
Martin held up his hands. “Len’s right. I have to use the talent I have and you need to be on bigger stages. Hamlet is the ultimate role and it’s going to get you noticed professionally.”
“Maybe.”
“Not maybe. Guaranteed. I’ve been reaching out to a few talent agencies. A couple of bigwigs from New York, one from Los Angeles. The LA guy has already committed to seeing you this spring.”
I sat back in the chair. “Are you shitting me?”
He put his hand on my shoulder. “I hate to lose you, Isaac, but I’m kicking you out of Harmony with this one. I want Hamlet to be your grand finale.”
I stared. Martin knew the score with me and my old man. He knew I was saving up to get the fuck out of town. Our scrapyard and gas station didn’t make shit. Between minimum wage to clean up the theater as Martin’s unofficial handyman, and pulling $30 per show to perform in it, it’d be another nineteen years before I had enough. Never mind that the idea of leaving Pops to drink himself into a stupor in that shitty trailer always soured my getaway plans with guilt.
