The Darlings Are Forever

by Melissa Kantor

  “Will that be all?” asked the barista.

  And Jane found herself saying, “No, actually. Make it two coffees.”

  When she got back to the building, there were still a few minutes before last period ended; Jane pushed open the door of the theater and walked inside. The auditorium was empty, but the stage was crowded with flats and furniture, the nearly completed scrim that would be dropped at the beginning of the forest scenes partially lowered. Jane stood in the middle of the stage in the light from a single row of lamps. She looked out at the empty seats that stretched before her like an ocean.

  Was there any place in the world more wonderful than center stage?

  She began speaking her first lines. “‘Four days will quickly steep themselves in night. Four nights will dream away the time. And then the moon, like to a silver bow new-bent in heaven, shall behold the night of our solemnities.’” The words rang out in the empty space, and Jane reveled in the silence almost as much as she had the speech.

  From the wings she heard the sound of a single person clapping, and she whipped around.

  “Well done.” Mr. Robbins stepped out of the shadows, his familiar leather bag over his shoulder, his shirt coming untucked from his jeans. The dim lighting and his casual outfit made him seem even younger than usual.

  “Thanks.” She tossed her head in appreciation of his compliment. Gesturing at the two cups of coffee at her feet, she added, “I brought you a coffee, Mr. Robbins.”

  Nodding appreciatively, he came over to where she was standing. “Starbucks. Fancy. But I think if you’re bringing me coffee, you can call me Len.”

  “I don’t know. I think I’ll stick with Mr. Robbins.” She’d called him Len at her audition, but now she liked being the only one in the cast who called him Mr. Robbins; it was almost like a private nickname.

  “Suit yourself,” he said, picking up one of the cups.

  “I wasn’t sure how you like your coffee,” she said, watching him drink.

  Raising an eyebrow, he said simply, “Caffeinated,” then drank some and nodded his approval. “And hot.” He took another swig, then dropped to the floor and looked up at Jane standing a few feet in front of him. “Let’s take it from the top.”

  Jane felt a pleasurable warmth come over her at his attention. “Okay.” She began the speech again, but this time Mr. Robbins stopped her when she was halfway through.

  “Wait a sec. Can you hear the natural rhythm of the words?”

  Jane wasn’t sure what he meant, but she didn’t admit it. “The rhythm?” she repeated.

  He put down his cup. “Listen. ‘Four days will quick-ly steep themselves in night. Four nights will quick-ly dream a-way the time.’” He clapped on every other syllable. “What do you call that?”

  Jane smiled at him. “Clapping?”

  He laughed a deep, full laugh that made Jane feel as if she were the funniest person on the planet. “It’s iambs. The speech is made up of iambs.” He repeated the opening lines, again, emphasizing every other syllable.

  “Wow,” said Jane. “I never noticed that.”

  “That’s why they pay me the big bucks.” Mr. Robbins jumped to his feet and crossed his arms. “Try it again, only this time, feel the rhythm of the language.”

  Jane spoke the opening line, but it sounded weirdly singsongy. “Can I say it again?” She remembered her botched audition.

  “Of course. It’s going to take a while.” He stepped back to where he’d dropped his bag. “You want the rhythm there…but not there.”

  “Okay, that’s impossible,” said Jane.

  Crouched over his bag, he looked up at her. “Of course it is,” he said, smiling.

  Jane said her lines, trying to emphasize the iambs without emphasizing them. To her ears, the words sounded stilted and awkward. “Again!” Mr. Robbins called, digging in his bag.

  She repeated herself. It was a little better, but still pretty bad. “Again,” he said.

  Once more, she launched into the speech. She could feel the rhythm, how each word flowed into the next, like water finding a path through rocks.

  “Better,” he said. “Again.” He was looking up at her, a folder in his hands.

  She repeated the lines. Halfway through, without telling her to stop, he said, “Remember, the end has to be triumphant.” She continued speaking, and so did he. “It’s like you can’t believe it. The very meter of your speech is trumped by the announcement you’re making.” They spoke the last line of the speech together, nearly shouting it. “‘Behold the night of our solemnities!’”

  Jane was panting slightly. “That was great!”

  “That was better,” he corrected. They grinned at each other as he crossed to where she was standing and opened the folder he was holding. “Look at these.”

  Jane found herself looking at drawings of two dresses, one with blue at the waist and neck, one red where the other was blue. Hermia/Helena, it said in the lower left-hand corner. He turned to the next page, and Jane was surprised to be looking at a drawing marked Hippolyta. The dress had a silver bodice and long sleeves; the wrists were thick, gold cuffs.

  “Wow,” said Jane. “Did you design these?”

  “I came up with the guiding principle, but Alona really gets the credit. Do you like? You’ll get to see the real thing at dress rehearsal Saturday.”

  “They’re amazing.” Her dress was feminine but somehow strong; different not just in color but in kind from the ones for Helena and Hermia. Theirs were girly, feminine. Even though it was fitted through the waist, there was something almost military about the dress for Hippolyta.

  “Sexy, right?” He nodded at the drawing. “This girl is one sexy Amazon.”

  Jane felt the air in her lungs freeze. Her heart seemed to stop beating, then to start up again at double its normal pace.

  Had Mr. Robbins just called her…sexy?

  The rear door of the auditorium burst open. Jane was flooded with annoyance. She glared over her shoulder at whoever it was that had just barged in on her private moment with Mr. Robbins.

  “Hey, Len!” called Dahlia. “Hey, Jane.”

  Jane had happily eaten lunch with Dahlia less than three hours ago, yet now Dahlia felt like a mortal enemy. Jane wanted to be alone with Mr. Robbins, to see if he’d follow up on his observation that she was sexy. Or even better—she wanted Fran or Bethany or Hugh or Daniel to walk in, to see her talking privately with him.

  Dahlia didn’t notice that Jane didn’t say hello. “Whatcha lookin’ at?” she asked, coming to stand between Jane and Mr. Robbins.

  “Costumes,” Mr. Robbins answered.

  Was it Jane’s imagination, or was Mr. Robbins as irritated as she was at Dahlia? Jane glanced past Dahlia to look at him, but Mr. Robbins appeared engrossed in the sketches.

  “Cool!” Dahlia announced.

  Jane stared daggers at the back of Dahlia head.

  Okay, he had totally called her sexy. This girl is one sexy Amazon. Those were his exact words. And this girl was Jane. That meant he had basically said, Jane is one sexy Amazon. Or maybe, Jane, you are one sexy Amazon.

  The next afternoon in the auditorium, she watched him from across the aisle, their exchange playing over and over in her head like a beautiful performance. What did it mean? Could he be thinking about her as much as she was thinking about him? Was she crazy to think that a teacher liked her? But why was that crazy? Her mom knew two teachers who had married former students. Okay, one had been a graduate student and one had been in medical school. But still. It clearly happened.

  Why shouldn’t it happen to her?

  Besides, it wasn’t like Mr. Robbins was old. He’d made a comment recently about how his ten-year college reunion was coming up even though he felt like he’d just graduated. Ten years. That meant he wasn’t much more than thirty.

  Lots of couples had age differences that were way bigger than theirs.

  But how could she know? How could she know for sure that she wasn’t mis
reading what he’d said?

  “Jay, you’ve got your back to the audience!” Mr. Robbins called out. He stood up.

  Jay turned around from center stage and winked at Mr. Robbins. “You mean you’re not interested in Bottom’s bottom?” The cast—both onstage and off—cracked up, but Mr. Robbins just gave a tight smile. Jay was a really funny Bottom, but sometimes it was as if he was too funny. To get a laugh he’d change his blocking and acting, which threw off the rest of the actors, even though—and sometimes because—he was hilarious.

  Wanting to be by herself to analyze yesterday’s exchange with Mr. Robbins, Jane had avoided Dahlia and the other girls she usually sat with. Now she looked casually around the auditorium, and she noticed that everywhere people were in groups of two’s or three’s, giving each other back rubs, braiding each other’s hair.

  The sight gave her an idea. Should she just offer to give Mr. Robbins a back rub? She imagined taking his shoulders in her hands, telling him he felt tense. Could she do it? Or was that too—

  “Hippolyta!”

  She snapped to attention. Mr. Robbins and most of the cast were staring at her.

  “Sorry.” She stood up.

  “We’re taking it from ‘I was with Hercules and Cadmus once,’” said Mr. Robbins, his voice frustrated.

  “Sure.” How long had he been calling for her? She made her way to the front of the auditorium as quickly as she could, taking Matt’s hand as he reached down to pull her onto the stage. What seemed like an instant later, she was walking with Matt’s arm through hers, reminiscing about her days spent hunting in Crete.

  Mr. Robbins watched from the edge of the stage, his hand wrapped around his chin. Almost as soon as Matt started his speech praising his hunting dogs, Mr. Robbins interrupted. “One second.” He crossed to where Jane and Matt stood surrounded by members of their court.

  “Excuse me,” he said to Matt, taking him by the shoulders and moving him slightly away from Jane. A second later Mr. Robbins had his arm linked through Jane’s and he looked down into her eyes. “You need to woo her here. You’re talking about the dogs, but you’re not talking about the dogs. You’re telling her she isn’t going to regret marrying you, but you’re telling her by praising your amazing hunting dogs.”

  “Come on, Len. We know all about Theseus’s incredible dog,” Jay shouted up at the stage.

  Most of the cast laughed, but Mr. Robbins ignored them. He continued to stare at Jane, then spoke Shakespeare’s words quietly, gently, looking into her eyes the entire time. “‘My hounds are bred out of the Spartan kind, so flew’d, so sanded, and their heads are hung with ears that sweep away the morning dew.’” He touched Jane’s cheek gently, tracing his finger along the edge of her face almost to her neck. “Got it?” he asked.

  He was staring at her so intently that Jane thought she was supposed to answer, until Matt said, “Check, Chief.”

  But Mr. Robbins didn’t move. There was no reason for him to be standing next to her anymore, no reason he hadn’t told Matt to come take her arm and try the scene again. No reason for him to still be staring at her.

  No reason at all…unless there was.

  AS SOON AS she finished her Greek homework, Natalya headed into the living room and switched on the computer. When Safari opened, she navigated to her Facebook page and read her wall posts and messages. Morgan had posted more pictures from the party. There was one of Morgan sitting with Katrina and Sloane on either side of her, all of them laughing for the camera. There was a shot of Morgan standing on the first-floor landing, talking to a boy Natalya hadn’t met. He was cute, but not as cute as Grant.

  Not as cute as Colin.

  She shook her head, as though thoughts of Colin were an irritating bug she wanted to get rid of. Tonight she was going to be good. She was going to stop. She wasn’t going to keep doing what she’d secretly been doing for the last several nights. It was over. She’d been stupid and careless and she had to stop.

  She made herself stare more intently at Morgan’s pictures. There was a photo of Morgan on the love seat in the library, which she’d been sitting on when she was talking to Jane, Natalya, and Victoria. In the foreground was a small lump of black that looked like it might be a knee. Was it Natalya’s knee? She tried to picture where she’d been sitting when she was talking to Morgan. She hoped it was her knee. That made being at the party more real somehow—if her knee had been there, so had the rest of her.

  She clicked away from the pictures. George had sent her a quiz: “What mixed drink are you?” Since he’d texted Morgan about Natalya, he’d sent Natalya a bunch of groups to join and people to become fans of. So far he hadn’t sent her an actual message, and she was kind of relieved. As long as the only evidence of his liking her was Morgan’s saying he did, she didn’t have to decide how she felt about him.

  She took the quiz, skewing her answers in the hopes of finding out she was a virgin piña colada. But in the end, she was something called a daiquiri, which she’d never heard of.

  When she was done, she sent Victoria the quiz and a message about Morgan’s new pictures, but she just sent Jane the quiz. She knew Jane wouldn’t want to see the pictures, but she didn’t get why. What did Jane have against Morgan? And why did she care that Natalya didn’t want anyone to know she’d thought Colin was cute? So Natalya had decided she wanted to be friends with Morgan more than she wanted to pursue a crush on some random guy she’d met for like, five seconds. Did that make her a criminal?

  Starting to think about Colin made it hard for Natalya to stop thinking about Colin. She remembered his smile, how it had felt when he’d said “Hand,” and pulled her hand toward him so he could draw the map on it. He was so cool. So confident.

  How could he possibly be a geek?

  And before she could stop herself, she was clicking onto the Web site, breaking the vow she’d made (and broken) every night this week.

  It had started innocently enough—Sunday afternoon when she finished her homework, she’d wanted to play some chess, but her dad was working. Her mom and brother didn’t play. She wasn’t supposed to play online with strangers, but it wasn’t like she’d be dumb enough to give her name or her age or anything to some creepy nut job she met online. Still, just to be safe, she’d started by searching Web sites connected to schools, where hardened criminals doing life in prison for violent crimes probably weren’t.

  Which was how she’d stumbled onto the New York City Independent School’s consortium. It was a clearinghouse Web site for the private high schools in the city, and all you needed to gain access was an e-mail address from one of the member schools. Natalya logged on with her school account and started to make her way through the site. Most of it wasn’t especially interesting—you could list your contact information if you wanted to be part of a babysitting service, participate in a peer tutoring center, recommend summer camps and after-school activities (did that many kids at New York City private schools really ride horses? Apparently so). And then she discovered it.

  Games.

  Natalya had scrolled past Scrabble, Dungeons & Dragons, and virtual baseball. She’d clicked on the “chess” link, then casually read down the list of current players, telling herself she wasn’t looking for anyone in particular, she was just looking. Just looking to see if she recognized any names. Just looking to see if…

  And there he was: cbprewitt@thompson.edu.

  Colin B. Prewitt. What did the B stand for?

  Did she care? She was crazy to care. She was crazy to do this. It was like sacrificing your queen.

  It was like sacrificing yourself.

  Still, she’d found the mouse moving closer and closer to his name as she played a game of chicken with herself.

  Finally, she clicked. A window opened up. Would you like to challenge cbprewitt@thompson.org to a game?

  She’d closed the window immediately, then opened it, then closed it. This was so stupid. Morgan, Katrina, and Sloane were her friends. They thought she was co
ol. They were taking her to a huge costume gala at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in less than a week. Nobody, nobody knew about her conversation with Colin, about the fact that he was still on her mind.

  She opened the window. Would you like to challenge Colin Prewitt to a game?

  Yes.

  Heart pounding, she waited as the little beach ball spun around for half a minute.

  Colin is not online at the moment. Would you like to make the first move in a game he will be invited to join when he logs on?

  Would she like to make the first move? Would she like to make the first move in a game Colin would be invited to join?

  Her hand was shaking so much that she had trouble moving the mouse to the box she wanted to click on. Or thought she wanted to click on. Or couldn’t not click on.

  Yes. Yes, she wanted to make the first move.

  A chessboard opened on her screen. She moved her pawn to D4, and before she could change her mind, she hit send.

  It was an opening move, all right. The only question was: What game was she playing?

  Now, several nights and as many moves later, she was like an addict. The first thing she thought about when she woke up was whether Colin was sitting in his room, studying the board. So far they’d never been online at the same time; she made a move, then sent it into the cybersphere, and when she logged on, he’d always made a counter move.

  Tonight, when the game came up on her screen, she could see he had her in a tight place. It seemed impossible to avoid losing her rook. She stared at the pieces, studying her options, so consumed by the game that she forgot about Colin, Morgan, even herself. There was nothing but the moves she could make, the moves she couldn’t, nothing but the board.

  It took her a long time to decide what to do, but when she finally slid her bishop to E6, she was feeling pretty proud of herself. It was a good move. If he fell into her trap, his rook was in danger and so was his bishop. She leaned back in her chair and folded her arms across her chest, realizing, to her amusement, that she was sitting exactly how her father sat whenever he’d made a move he was pleased with.