by Gigi Blume
But in the lobby where we were rehearsing our choreography, it was something different altogether. There were no cameras. There were no boom operators or grips mulling about. There was only Beth.
She smelled of coconut lotion and the clean scent of shampoo, and my resolve was about to crumble. I needed some distance and hydration. A cold shower would have been ideal. And that’s when I noticed Bing and his leggy soprano sneaking off somewhere and all I saw was black. Black. The color of my gloom. Red. The blood of angry me. If Bing didn’t appreciate what I was doing for him, I wasn’t responsible for the consequences.
With regret boiling in my veins for all I’d done for Bing, I turned back to my dance partner. There she was, incessantly staring at me with her delicate hand resting on her hip. Those tight leggings clung to her body like fresh paint. Black. The spandex of her pants. Red. I thought I’d catch on fire. Black. The darkness of my heart. Red. The blushes of her skin.
Stop. Stop it. I told myself. No more Les Mis. What were those Sponge Bob lyrics? That would do the trick. I had to say something, or my regrets wouldn’t be limited to just helping Bing.
“I forgot what we were talking about,” I admitted. Something, something, pineapples in the sea…
“We weren’t talking at all,” she replied coyly. “I don’t think there are two people in all the world who have less to say to one another than you and I.”
I frowned. I had to admit talking about the weather was safer than talking about feelings. The more we talk the less we have to say. Wise words on her part.
“We were attempting small talk,” I said.
“We were attempting the lift,” she retorted and held out her arms and curled her fingers into her palms. “Let’s go.”
“Wait,” I exclaimed. “I’m not ready.”
But she was already charging toward me as I set my water bottle on the floor. I was en route to straightening my body when I turned to find her forehead crashing into mine.
“Rolf!” she cried as she reached for her face. “That hurts like a Mother Abbess!”
I could sense a quiver in her voice and the signs of tears being repressed. Still, I couldn’t help from being amused at her choice of language.
“What is that? Why do you do that?”
“Do what?” she groaned. “Head-butt movie stars?”
“No. You shout out stuff from shows. Like some sort of Musical Theatre Tourette's. You did it the other night when we were locked in the costume shop. Is it for luck? Like the opposite of saying the M word?”
“The M word?”
“You know,” I whispered. “The Scottish play!”
“Macbeth?”
“Shhh. Don’t say that.”
She laughed, actually laughed, thankfully forgetting the pain on her forehead.
“That’s a stupid superstition,” she said, waving her hand dismissively. “Just like the hype about the Wailing Ghost in the Cry Room.”
I had heard the rumors about the theatre ghost. There were so many conflicting tales about it over the years, I’d lost track. It used to scare me as a kid, though.
“Are you going to make me guess?” I asked impatiently.
She smirked, probably enjoying my confusion. After a short pause and a little flush of pink to her cheeks, she admitted, “I don’t like curse words. They just sound so vulgar to my ears.”
“So you replace them with showtunes?”
“Musical theatre characters,” she corrected. “Today is my Sound of Music day.”
That was one of the oddest and cutest things I’d ever heard.
“So let me get this straight. All day today, if you want to cuss, you’ll yelp character names from Sound of Music and only Sound of Music?”
She nodded energetically. “Yes. And tomorrow might be a Sweeney Todd day. I usually go by the first expletive of the day.”
This took me aback with amused admiration.
“Do you ever repeat days?” I asked.
“Now you’re just making fun,” she said with a pout. “Let’s try that lift.”
“You can ask me something about myself if that makes you feel better,” I said, trying to appease her. “Then you can make fun of me.”
Her eyes narrowed into slits, and she tilted her chin up to meet my gaze. If I knew this girl at all, she was taking her time to think of some wise crack to throw me off, but she surprised me by her serious tone when she said, “You told me other day that once someone’s on your… Burnt List, they’re on there forever.”
“That’s true,” I admitted. Where was she going with this?
“What does one have to do to get on that list? Is jealousy a good enough motive?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever been jealous of anything or anyone my entire life.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Where is this coming from?”
“I’m just trying to figure you out,” she said.
The feeling was mutual.
“And what’s your impression so far, Miss Bennet?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think you want to know the answer to that question, Mr. Darcy.”
Black… Ugh. This girl would be the death of me. I picked up my water bottle and, in an attempt to sound calm, said, “We can practice the lift again after Thanksgiving.” And with a smart clap to her rump, I added, “Don’t eat too much stuffing.”
It was a small but short-lived feeling of satisfaction when I saw her jaw drop to the floor. It wasn’t my finest moment, but the only way I knew how to respond when someone insulted me was to throw it back in her face. I suppose it was low of me, and I almost immediately regretted it. Therefore, I halted my steps on the way out to say one more thing to her.
“Don’t believe everything you hear, Elizabeth—about theatre ghosts or superstitions or movie stars. Maybe get to know me before you form an opinion?”
“If I don’t form it now, I might not get another chance,” she said defiantly.
“I wouldn’t deny you the pleasure,” I replied with a wink, and I left the theatre entirely without a word of goodbye to Stella or Bing or that wannabe queen posing as our choreographer. I was so over this place. Thanksgiving in New York with my sister couldn’t come fast enough.
12
The Yam Incident
Beth
“Get to know me before you form an opinion?” Charlotte exclaimed when I saw her at work. “Guuuurl, that man is sweet on you!”
“What?” I cried. “Good Lord, no. He just has such a huge ego. He can’t stand the thought of anyone alive in the world disliking him.”
“Whatever you say.” She shrugged as she placed the last of the crepe paper turkeys on the tables.
Lucas Lodge was one of the few restaurants in the area open on Thanksgiving. We were scheduled to close at five o’clock, so the staff could celebrate with family, but it still sucked working on a holiday. With any luck, my career would take off, and this would be my last Thanksgiving as a food server. Of course, I’d been telling myself the same thing for years.
“Besides,” I said after a minute’s pause, “he clearly thinks I’m fat.”
“Who?” she asked absently.
“Will Darcy.”
“Oh,” she said. “Are we still talking about him?”
“What did he mean by the stuffing remark? I don’t even like stuffing.”
“Who doesn’t like stuffing?” she cried. “It’s un-American.”
“Lots of people don’t like stuffing. It’s just soggy bread with bits in it. Disgusting.”
She turned from her work to give me one of her serious looks. “What may be disgusting to some people, is a delicacy to others. Don’t knock it.”
I narrowed my eyes on her. “Why do I get the feeling there’s a metaphor in there somewhere?”
Charlotte was halfway to a degree in philosophy but could only take a few classes a semester. Lucas Lodge would fall apart without her, and she had little time for studies. It made me a little sad
because she was too brilliant to stay where she was in life.
“If you find a metaphor in that,” she said, “then it’s your own conscience feeding it to you. No pun intended. But, if we’re on the subject of men…”
I raised my eyes to the ceiling. “Here we go.”
“Never mind,” she huffed.
“No, go ahead.”
She hesitated for a moment but realizing I wouldn’t let her drop a subject once she opened it, she went on with her thoughts.
“Okay, here it is,” she said. “You seem hung up over that Jorge guy, and don’t shoot me for saying this, but I don’t think he’s all that attractive.”
“Are you blind?”
“Will you let me finish?”
I held up my hands to surrender my remaining interruptions and kept silent, and with a sigh, she went on.
“You don’t exactly have a reputation for having the best taste in men, Lizzie.” She had a point there, but I let her continue, “Remember that bass player you dated for a week before you realized he was in some weird vampire cult?”
“I thought there was something off about his extra-sharp canines.”
“And what about that gay co-star you had the hots for?”
“So I don’t have gay-dar. What’s your point?”
“My point is, dear Lizzie, you don’t know what you want. And maybe the right guy will be right there in your face, and you won’t even realize it.”
“One, you sound like my mother, and two, I don’t need a man to make me happy when pizza will do the trick.”
She conceded, saying she couldn't argue with me about that as she liked pizza well enough to give up chocolate if given the choice between the two. We agreed enthusiastically and made a pact to use pizza as a code word if one of us were to make any more dating mistakes. I told her I no longer had any expectations as far as Jorge was concerned, and she seemed a little relieved at the news, saying she was prepared to go ninja if she suspected anything was going awry. We laughed a great deal over the course of the next few hours as customers trickled in for the turkey buffet we offered as the only option on the menu. As much as I resented working on Thanksgiving, I was grateful to Charlotte’s dad for making it easier for us. All we had to do was deliver drinks and check on the customers throughout their meal. Best of all, the tip was included with the bill. It was a good day, and Sir William Lucas had promised me a tray of yams, so I could have something to take to my parents’ house later in the day.
I was getting a head start on my side work, looking forward to an early departure if more customers didn’t decide to come in, when a half hour before closing, I was surprised to see Colin flutter into the dining hall. He was alone, and my first thought as he glided his way toward the bar was that he must have had no family in L.A. to celebrate with. My second thought came with more trepidation as I noticed him inquiring something of Charlotte and turning to look for me as she nodded her head in my direction. I hadn’t thought he knew where I worked, so it didn’t cross my mind he’d be looking for me. What on earth could the man want with me? That’s when I panicked. Had Will complained about me? What could possibly be so pressing that couldn’t wait until Monday’s rehearsal? I swallowed hard as he approached me, leaving his Shirley Temple at the bar. His approach was stiff, and he wore a grave expression which made his features appear even whiter than usual. Still, upon closer inspection, I was convinced it was just the wrong shade of foundation. He smiled through contorted looks of discomfort and greeted me awkwardly.
“Might I have a word with you in private?” he asked.
My shift was close to ending and save for a few tasks and a lingering party in my section, I was free. A glance at Charlotte gave me leave to take a few moments with Colin, so I directed him to a booth away from the few stragglers still dining. I admit, I was nervous to hear what he had to say, and I’d be lying if I said my palms weren’t sweaty. He spoke in a painfully formal manner, laying out all my good qualities in an orderly but suspect fashion. I’d been let down by directors before and that was usually the way they did it. The difference was I was used to hearing the ‘You’re talented but not what we’re looking for’ speech at auditions, not in the middle of a run. Besides, he was the choreographer—not the director. Did choreographers have the power to fire actors?
But after Colin listed the several attributes about me he found alluring, the word ‘but’ didn’t follow. Nor did he make any mention of any complaints by Will or any other company member. What he said next both distressed and diverted me.
“I know I’ve been a little too obvious, but I can’t help it. I wear my heart on my sleeve.” Here, he folded his hands around mine. “But almost from the first moment I saw you, I said to myself, that girl is the one. We have chemistry, you and me.”
He clasped my hands with renewed strength as his thumb drew circles over my knuckles. Fortunately, the sweat on my palms gave me the moisture needed to pull free from his grip, and I did so with confusion and dread. I was still not entirely sure where he was going with this and not wanting to jump to conclusions, I said, “I don’t understand.”
Almost immediately, his composure shifted from one of supplication to haughty self-confidence, and he grinned.
“Oh, my dear Beth,” he said. “You little kitten. That’s one of the things I love about you.”
Kitten? I was so occupied with the office of restraining my laughter, I couldn’t find a moment to reply and so, he went on.
“I like a measure of modesty in a girl. I find it extremely attractive.”
“Whoa.” I stopped him right there. “I don’t know what you were thinking, but I’m not that kind of actress.”
He was taken by surprise at my declaration, and he paused for a moment to understand my words. He laughed. He cackled so hard he could hardly breathe, and after a full minute, he composed himself the best he could and said, “You are hilarious. You’re not only beautiful, you’ve got a great sense of humor. You’re everything I’m looking for in a woman. And let me tell you, there are lots of women who want to date me. Lots. But I choose you, Pikachu.” He gave me a cheeky wink and sighed in relief having said what he came to say. Confident enough to assume I’d accepted his overtures, he added, “When can I meet the parents?”
I was so taken aback by his soliloquy, words were slow to form in my addled brain. First, he wasn’t there to fire me. That was good. Second, he wasn’t suggesting what I thought he was. That was also good. Third, he was… was he… asking me out? That was unexpected. That was also improbable since it was obvious to me and I’m sure everybody else that he played for the other team. Which was perfectly fine. But I was in such a shock, I didn't think before I blurted, “You’re gay.”
I immediately regretted my words, hoping I hadn’t offended him. Unsure what the politically correct way to say it was, I apologized. Then I questioned everything I thought I knew about people and stereotypes, second-guessing my impression of him. Was he, or wasn’t he? Maybe he was a swing hitter. Maybe he was in the closet. No. Not in the closet. Not with a faux-fur collar and Lemondrop Rothy’s. Nothing in the world made any sense. Charlotte was right. My gay-dar was screwy.
“Gay?” He laughed. “You’re adorable. I’ll admit, though—I get hit on all the time. Can I help it if men find me attractive?”
He waved his hands over his chest with a flourish.
“I’m hot. As much as I like the attention, I have to be true to myself. I love the ladies too much.”
I was so mortified I could hardly form words except, “Oh.”
He didn’t seem affected by it, however, as he continued his overtures without much restraint. His spirits were animated as he pattered on about all his remarkable attributes, most of which he attributed to his affiliation with the Rosings Institute of Dance and its founder, Catherine de Bourgh. It was as if he were on an interview for the position of being my boyfriend. His long list of reasons why he was the best candidate for the job flowed from his lips with su
ch liberty and indulgence, I hardly could utter a sound in edgewise. He was so sure of himself and in turn, sure of my approval, he made plans for our future, notwithstanding as he put it, “Our cohabitation.” He actually asked which side of the bed I preferred. Yeah. That was a hard pass. Bed was my favorite place in the world. Why would I want to share it with anybody?
I had to bring him round to reality somehow, but unable to get a word in, I abruptly stood. This put a brief pause to his speech, which gave me a succinct moment to say, “Look, I have to get back to work. You’re a really nice guy, but you’ve got the wrong girl. I’m just not—”
Mr. Lucas cut my rejection short by his appearance tableside.
“Welcome, weary Knight,” he announced. “If it is sustenance you seek, Lucas Lodge has a royal feast prepared. Come sup with us at our buffet table, drink ale and make yourself known at court.”
He bowed low to Colin with dramatic flair.
“I am Sir William Lucas. And what may we call you, good sir?”
Colin took about five seconds to take in the sight of Mr. Lucas in his medieval costume and finding himself quite equal to a man as ridiculous as he and fitting in magnificently, he returned the greeting with a bow of his head.
“Colin Hunsford at your service.”
Nerd alert. If any two humans were ever so perfectly matched, it was those two. I might have believed it if I were told we were teleported to Renaissance Faire, but the turkey legs at our buffet weren’t big enough, and the hippies at table five waved for their check.
Mr. Lucas, noticing the table void of a place setting and the condiment tray, turned a severe eye to me and scolded, “Lady Elizabeth, what is the meaning of these inhospitable accommodations? Where are the table ornaments?”
The table ornaments, I would have liked to say, were put away because the section was closed. My shift was also a mere ten minutes from ending. I also wanted to add that the last time I checked I wasn’t on the menu, but Colin ogled me like Wiley E. Coyote looked at the Roadrunner.
