by Anthology
I’m trying to come up with a gesture synonymous with I’m going to murderlize you when she finally agrees. Five sloppy, unneeded kisses with Stefan later I surge from the wobbly lawn chair to make my escape.
In a smart move that no doubt saved her life, Jessica takes the lead in front of me, using a combination of combat boots and karate to pave our way back through the mass of people copulating on the dance floor.
I don’t last five seconds in the car before stalking him on any and all social media accounts that I can find. Official or not. A tweet, Instagram, and status update later and my fate is sealed. I’m officially fucked in all the wrong places.
Theodore Drake, according to all available media and even my student information account, is now my Theatre Arts professor. I will have to impress him and two other department heads if I have any hope of getting a recommendation for the internship.
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.” I toss my purse on the floor and throw myself on the futon in our living room that serves as a couch.
She sits down next to me and places a reassuring hand on my shoulder. I eye it like it’s a snake about to attack. “I didn’t want you to overreact. And besides, I didn’t think he was going to be at the party. I figured if you showed up to the audition and he was there you might not notice and everything would be fine.”
“Not notice.” My voice raises an octave. “How could I not notice?”
“Well, it was worth a shot.”
I cover my face with a pillow and pray for suffocation. “I can’t believe he told me to quit drinking. Who does that?”
“Professors.”
“Major jerks.”
“Are you okay?”
“No, I’m going to die a miserable death.”
She pinches my side. “Well now I know you’re okay.”
“How is he even here?” I lament. “Why isn’t he off making little people and teaching soccer?”
Jessica grabs the pillow and tosses it behind her. Her eyes brighten with glee. “Let’s find out!”
Twenty minutes later we’re armed with a couple midnight snacks and the most powerful search engine in the world at our fingertips. Whereas I only touched on the surface of the enigmatic Theodore Drake, Jessica does some serious stalker damage.
“According to reports from neighbors, the couple frequently had domestic disputes. On more than one occasion police were seen at the residence, though no charges were ever filed. Whoa.” Jessica looks at me. “Mr. Hottie with a body didn’t have such a perfect life after all.”
“Does it say why?”
“Apparently his wife is a raging alcoholic. No wonder he was such a hardass.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Drake filed for divorce two months ago and has since taken a prestigious teaching position at St. Christopher’s academy.”
It is official. Lain out in black and white and pixel.
CLASS ACT
I shall be telling this with a sigh. Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I— I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference.
I repeat the words to the Robert Frost poem from my perch behind the curtain as I listen to the other students go through their auditions. My mother told me that it was a technique that all actors use to calm themselves before a performance. In truth, I think she was just trying to placate me enough so I would get off the phone so she could continue with her cooking shows.
Nothing I tried worked to soothe my nerves, it was a hopeless cause, really. Bless her for trying, though, however halfheartedly.
Three days this week I’ve managed to make it out to the theatre as the department chairs administered auditions for interested internship applicants. And three days I’ve been unable to take those few steps from behind the curtain to center stage. Instead, I torture myself by listening to the other students, their exhilaration, their triumph…and their failures. The stutters and gasping breath of those overcome by stage fright. Yeap, choosing a performance major is such a bright idea. Who cares about following dreams? Office jobs for the win.
Unfortunately, if I’m going to have any chance at the internship I will have to complete the audition in front of one of the biggest names in theatre. I will have to get on the stage, lights on me and become someone else. That should be pretty easy because at that moment I would give my first born to be anyone else.
That morning I’d watched as the beguiled applicants learned they would be auditioning for the Theodore Drake. The crowd had positively rippled with excitement and fear. Every single female practically swooned. I used the moment to practice my deep breathing and avoid eye contact with said professor.
Now, one of the three administering the admissions evals calls the latest audition to a close. “Thank you, Taylor that was very inspiring. Evelyn Stratton!”
Through the thick barrier of the curtain I hear the dismissed girl thanking the professors the distant footsteps of her exit. Beside me a few of the girls that haven’t performed chatter excitedly.
“I heard he left her for a model.” The girl giggles. Who giggles?
“Shut up! No, he didn’t!”
She nods enthusiastically. “Yes, that’s what I heard. Really, you can’t expect a man like that to stay faithful to some nobody.”
I try to ignore them and I pack up the wrinkled script I’d spent the whole hour destroying.
“He can be my Romeo any day.”
“Is Theodore Drake his stage name?”
Their conversation trails off as the girls joined the rest of the group to eagerly wait their turn.
I stuff the pencils I haven’t mangled back into my bag with renewed anger and stand, brushing off their comments and, hopefully, my nerves. So what if I’d made a fool of myself last night? So what if the one person who intimidated me is the one that everyone else seems to revere? This is my one chance to make my dreams come true and I’m going to make that audition my bitch if it kills me.
I make a mental note to memorize some more Robert Frost later so that I don’t self-destruct.
As I walk out on stage I take deep measured breaths. I know I’m good. Every production I’ve ever been in has gotten stellar feedback. My entire high school and college career I’ve worked like a dog, trying to be better, work harder. If anyone deserves a chance at an internship with the City Theatre it should be me.
I imagine that I’m like him. That I have a crowd of admirers at my feet. That I own the attention like it is my due. If he can make regular conversation a production, then I can rock one audition.
The stage lights obscure the audience and for that I’m grateful. I recite my lines, my body moving from memory. “Oh, I'm burning! I wish I were out of doors! I wish I were a girl again, half savage and hardy, and free; and laughing at injuries, not maddening under them! Why am I so changed? why does my blood rush into a hell of tumult at a few words? I'm sure I should be myself were I once among the heather on those hills.”
I can feel his focus on me the entire time, like he is sizing me up for more than just an audition. His striking green eyes seem to be able to read body movement and that only makes me all the more determined to prove to him that I wasn’t whom he’d assumed I was the night before—a college chick looking for a good time.
At the end of my monologue I wipe the sweat off of my forehead and hope that my smile doesn’t wobble. Performance anxiety, man. If this is how men feel when getting down to business, it is no wonder my previous (two, lest you get ideas) lovers were of the in and out type. Literally and figuratively. It is much easier just to get it over with as quickly as possible, right? At least that way there will be less to be embarrassed about in the aftermath.
Once they dismiss me, I make it a point to stay out of Professor Drake’s way while I wait for the rest of the interviews to conclude. The intensity that surrounds him puts me on edge. I try to focus on thinking of him like a teacher instead of a man with the fate of my life in his hands.
> When the process is finally over, the sheer amount of relief I feel is incalculable. The only thing niggling at my conscience is what he’d said to me about my drinking and if that would, in any way, affect my evaluations. As the rest of the students file from class I make a beeline after his retreating form before he disappears on his mission to terrorize other undergrads.
Thankfully, he is still talking to the pair of giggling girls just outside the double doors.
“Did you get to play Romeo?” one of them asks, twirling a piece of hair around her finger.
I roll my eyes in exasperation, bouncing on my feet.
“Unfortunately, no.” He smiles at them, then spares a glance at me.
I stop bouncing, my feet now glued to the floor. An unexpected, and seriously unwanted, heat spears through my middle.
“That’s too bad.” Her voice is breathy and I wonder if she is faking it or if the mere sight of him has stolen her breath. The phenomenon can’t be limited to me, surely.
“If you’ll excuse me, ladies. I believe Ms. Stratton has a question for me. You did great today, Lynn. I’ll see you two tomorrow.”
The girls excuse themselves with a few twitters, leaving Theodore Drake and me alone in the dark alcove. I try to recite the poem again, but all powers of recall have been momentarily suspended when caught in his powerful gaze. Damn you, Robert Frost. My mother and I are going to have a serious conversation about her dedication to the success of her spawn.
“Is there something I can help you with?”
He takes a few steps closer and I resist the sudden urge to take an equal measure backwards. Doing so will leave me flush against the door. Trapped. The thought causes my stomach to flutter and my palms to sweat.
“Yes, I just had a question about the audition and I was wondering if we could talk for a second. Are you free?”
There is a quiet power in the way he carries himself. His shrewd gaze cuts to me and I feel his eyes as though they are his hands. They caress my face, neck, then my arms and torso. Down my legs and back up. Then his eyes meet mine and even from a few feet away I’m rocked by the intensity in them.
He would have made a great Romeo. When he was on stage you simply weren’t capable of looking away. He just had that energy, that spark that made every movement captivating. What made it worse was that he didn’t fill the empty space with conversation. The years on stage must have also taught him the art of listening because when you spoke to him it was like you had his complete attention.
A rush of students spills from a nearby hall, the sound of their voices echoing in the open space of the atrium. Professor Drake looks backwards causing a lock of dark blonde hair to fall. The sudden urge to tuck it back, to sift my fingers through the burnished gold strikes me and I have to tuck my fingers under my arms so that I don’t make a fool out of myself.
He turns back and presses a hand against the door behind me. I draw in a deep, desperate breath. Danger, I think, or I try to as my thoughts are muddled by the absolutely delicious scent coming from the fabric of his sweater. I’m nearly heady with it before I realize that he’s opened the door, allowing me to pass back into the empty theatre.
The door closes leaving us alone in the cavernous room. I focus on a point somewhere in the vicinity of his shoulder.
“I just wanted to make sure that you didn’t get the wrong impression of me last night. I’m not like that normally, I promise. I’ve just been really stressed with school and the internship. My friend Jessica thought it would help me relax.”
I wait a moment, two, three before I find the balls to meet his eyes. That god-awful smirk is there and his eyes are twinkling. The bastard is laughing at me. I literally bite my tongue to keep from making a scathing comment. That won’t do when I’m trying to get him to do me a favor. Also, one must refrain from insulting the professor. That never ends well.
“Trust me, Ms. Stratton, I completely understand having performance anxiety.”
I try and nearly fail to hold in the spontaneous laughter. “Yes, sir,” is all I can manage to reply.
“If you’re worried about it affecting your application, don’t. We focus on your scholastic record and the audition piece. Besides, if they cut everyone who indulged a drink now and then we wouldn’t have anyone left.”
The relief is swift and welcome. “Thanks, I really appreciate that. You have no idea.”
“Sure, I do. I really feel like it should be me should apologizing for making you worry. My intention was to make sure you got enough rest today, not to criticize.”
I immediately look down to my shifting feet. I hate looking people in the eye. It is too intimate. Too personal. It feel like they are looking too closely at me and I’m not sure if I can handle their assessment when they do.
Theo puts his fingers under my chin, forcing me to look up and directly at him. “Hey,” he murmurs. “No harm done. How about we go out for a bit of coffee so I can make it up to you?”
I pause, uncertain.
“Come on, Stratton. You can consider it extra credit.” He pushes the door open in invitation.
I take a deep calming breath, search for the verses of Frost, but they escape me. “Sure. Why not?”
You would think that doing a date-like activity with your Professor, let alone one with celebrity status would be extremely awkward, but Professor Drake is surprisingly easy to talk to.
That is, unless you had completely contradictory opinions.
He smiles ruefully over his cup of coffee. “That’s too bad.”
My body follows the movement of his mouth like a honing beacon. I shake my head and refocus. “Too bad? What do you mean too bad?”
“I mean it’s too bad that you don’t have the guts to get up there. You have talent and you want to waste it on directing. Clearly I have come too late to make a difference in the education of Saint Christopher’s finest.”
“Actors, such prima donnas.”
“And proud of it.” He shrugs. “Besides without people like me, you would be out of a job.”
“After that experience today I think I’ll stick to my place behind the curtain. There’s nothing you could possibly do to make me want to get up on that stage in front of a ton of people and make a fool of myself.
“Then I guess you’d better get ready for a long night.”
“Long night?”
He smiles and I’m reminded of a predator going after its prey. “Did I forget to mention that it’s open mike night?”
Two hours later I’m certain that all men are genetically crafted to be appealing to women because creating them any other way is a surefire way to ensure their death. I glare at Theo, chest heaving, sweat running down my face.
“Again.” The demanding bastard.
“How many times do I have to do this, Theo? Surely open mike can’t last for hours.” There is only so many times I can profess my love to Romeo, oh the irony, before I ran out of steam.
“The fans want what they want.” He glances over his should at a trove of adoring women.
I growl, throwing the papers on the floor. “Then get one of them!”
Theo unfolds from the chair at the foot of the stage and prowls up the stairs to join me. He grabs my hands, holding them between us. Our body heat creates a perfect cocoon that I immediately focus on ignoring.
“Maybe we should have tried this first.” He did the finger to chin thing so that I had to look him in the eyes again. “Sometimes it’s easier to learn when you have someone else on stage to work with.”
“That’s a great idea, Professor Drake. Maybe you should find that someone. I’d rather mime or something. Interpretive dance?” I chuckle and smile up at him, my momentary grudge forgotten.
“Haven’t I told you to call me Theo? And I don’t think I’d be a good interpretive dancer.”
“Mime?” I suggest, ignoring the pleasure at his request.
“Let’s just stick with Romeo and Juliet for now, then we’ll see about letting you put
me in a box.”
“Now, there’s an idea!” I jerk to the side to avoid his fingers as they probe my ribs. “Stop, stop. Okay. Romeo and Juliet.”
“Okay.” Theo grabs my hands again and brings them up to his chest, laying them flat. He presses his own against the curve of my hips, pulling me closer to him, enough that I’m once again wrapped in his intoxicating scent. “The first thing you need to remember is to feel.”
I try to ignore the growing audience watching our impromptu production. “You said that already.”
“Then maybe you should learn to listen.” He holds me for a few breathless, heart-stopping moments and I wonder if this is all some kind of trick. “You have to really tap into what the character is feeling. Think about how you would react in their situation, let that overwhelm you and then just do what feels naturally. And don’t forget to look into my eyes when you say it.”
We practice the section that I am supposed to read for the second audition a thousand times by then. I’d read the play, dissected the words in more classes than I could care to remember. The lines I knew by rote, but applying them to life was a completely different story.
Theo stands in front of me, hands hanging loosely by his side. His long-sleeve, loosely knit sweater are pushed up to combat the heat emitting from the theatre lights. As I speak my lines I try to ignore the way he looks at me, to brush it off as a professor helping their student. I try to keep my voice calm and infuse feeling into the words. It wasn’t easy, but I make it through it without looking like a jerk in front of the full coffeehouse. As long as I could do that the next time, I would do okay.
Of course his following performance puts me to absolute shame. On any other man the absolute commitment to the role wouldn’t have worked. I know now why the girls in class were always laughing and flirting with him. The boys our age aren’t anywhere near Theo’s level. They don’t have his confidence, the overwhelming self-assurance that allows him to own his performance. Any boy in our class would have broken character and laughed the moment they got too uncomfortable with the role. But not Theo.
