by Daryl Banner
“Too bad her Romeo’s a one-note dud.” I draw a line across the page, frowning. “Next,” I call out to the assistant at the end of the stage.
“Not everyone can be a love story,” he points out.
“Please. Romeo and Juliet is not a love story. Romeo and Juliet is about two horny teenagers making dumb decisions.”
When I notice the face of our next audition, my insides turn cold and hot all at once. He stands center stage and, when I get a look at his face, I realize he’s not who I thought he was and breathe a discreet sigh of relief.
Not discreet enough for my buddy. “What is it?” asks Mr. Harrington.
“Nothing.” I readjust the clipboard on my lap, itch a spot on my head and clear my throat. I really wish thoughts and fears of that puffed-up kid from Basic Acting would quit intruding on every part of my every day this semester. Or maybe I don’t wish that at all, who knows. Am I really this lonely, that I would let my mind and heart chase after a kid half my age?
Okay, to be fair, he’s about two-thirds my age. But I still have ten years on the fucker.
Halfway through the audition of the sorta-looks-like-Justin-but-isn’t guy, Mr. Harrington leans into me and says, “Maybe after auditions, wanna grab a bite? I’m kinda craving eggrolls.”
“No, Mr. Harrington. I have a project for my advanced acting class to prepare,” I lie.
“Project? You still do those?”
“My students are playing a game,” I decide just now. “They interview their acting partner, in-character, and write reports on what they believe and what they don’t believe.”
Mr. Harrington leans into me even more, his shoulder pushing against mine and his breath reeking of spearmint. “Sometimes, you gotta just let go, know what I mean?” No, I don’t know what you mean, Jeff. I bother to think it, straining to focus on the kid onstage. “Like, you gotta give in and kinda just go for it, you get me, Thom? Keep making excuses instead of just grabbing a bite with me, keep holding back and, like, eventually—”
“Thank you,” says the kid onstage, then leaves. I demonstratively take notes.
Jeff sighs, collapsing back into his seat and giving up on me. Just go for it, he says. Let go. He has no idea what the fuck he’s asking me to do, with all his advice and knowhow of life. He has no idea who I am, other than the “other young professor” and resident bitter bunny.
If only he knew my obsessive, unseeable hunger below the waist. If only he knew …
“Hmm,” hums Lesandra to my other side, the sixty-or-so-year-old head of the costume department. “I could dress up that sexy little man in a show or three.” Chewing on the end of her pen, she giggles and circles something in her notebook.
“You get anything I’m saying?” Jeff asks quietly. “Anything at all?”
I lift my chin to the assistant at the end of the stage. “Next,” I call out.
[ 5 ]
Sometimes, it’s the hardest thing just to get out of bed. The world is heavy and horrible, and all that heaviness and horribleness keeps you buried in your mattress and your sheets and your pillows, refusing to let you go when the alarm clock goes off.
This Friday is not one of those days. As if shot with a canister cocktail of adrenaline, caffeine, sugar and fucking fairy dust, I’m dressed in an instant and on campus half an hour early. I check my emails in seven minutes. I’m in class waiting for my students to show up and it’s barely nine thirty.
Nine forty-seven, the first of my students trickle in. They stop talking when they see I’m already here, and I graciously ignore them and grant them due privacy as they silently take their seats. The students, a few at a time, some by themselves, slowly fill the seating area until approximately ten o’clock when all my students are here.
All of them except Justin Brady.
I wonder if I should dare wait for him. My insides are worked up. I’m not in total denial; I know that the reason for my excitement this morning and my sudden love for Monday, Wednesday, and Friday morning classes has everything to do with that hot fucker. I press my lips together, pensive, frustrated. Then, I’m instantly angry that all of this buildup, all of this excitement this morning was for nothing.
With a huff, I rise from my seat and, keys jangling in hand, I move toward the black box doors to lock them. Just as I reach for the handle, it swings open and he stands before me.
Justin Brady lifts his brows. “Am I late?”
I stare at his beautiful face for a second too long, startled, heart racing. Then I say, “In.”
With a short, under-his-breath chuckle, he grins and enters the theater. I shiver as his aroma wafts past me, intoxicating me with whatever deodorant or body spray he’s got on.
I return from the door, hiding the furious joy that’s become of my heart, and reclaim my seat. “Alright, let’s begin,” I say right away, pulling my notebook onto my lap … at just the same time Justin’s shoes come to rest on the back of the chair next to me, inches from my head. I can even smell them. I ignore it.
My hardening cock can’t. “Who’s up first?”
A bony guy in the front row who I might or might not have seen in auditions hops to the stage, beating another guy there from the second row. He says his name and begins his piece, something from a Pulitzer Prize-winning play from six or seven years ago.
“You’re chewing your words and I believe you as much as if you’d told me you were an orangutan,” I tell him when he’s done. “Next.”
Next person, a thin guy with glasses and a striped shirt, performs a gripping piece I’ve heard ninety times. By “gripping” I mean it makes me want to throw up the breakfast I didn’t eat.
“Too stiff,” I tell him after he finishes with a look on his face that suggests he just delivered the greatest soliloquy the world has ever heard. I don’t live for the look of collapsing joy on my students’ faces, but I will admit it gives me a certain dark pleasure.
Next student finishes, I say, “Six seconds too long.”
Another one finishes, I roll my eyes and say, “You slap your thighs every single time your hands drop. Stop slapping your thighs, we’re not puppies you’re trying to beckon.”
Then, quite suddenly, Justin Brady decides to go next. He hops down the steps and to the acting area, and suddenly I’m his puppy, eyes on him with every ounce of focus I’ve got.
“Justin Brady,” he tells us, his eyes bright and keen. “Swag by Bobby Fischer.”
He didn’t pick a new piece. Then, as if he took all my notes from last time and threw them out a window, I watch with a tightening gut as Justin works himself out of his shirt—once again—then tosses it to a dude in the front row. The class goes into another wave of gasps and giggles.
I open my mouth to say something, and for some reason, for some really humiliating, deep, unspeakable reason, the words die on my lips and I’m left breathing hoarsely, mouth parted, staring.
“All the boys look at me,” he starts. He’s looking at the dude in the front row, delivering his speech to him. It’s all the same, as if he’s replaying the show he gave us Wednesday. “They look and, like, all they see is just another hot shit clubster. But I’m … more than that, bro. I’m more than what you see. I’m smart and I’m caring. I’m generous and, if any of those other boys think they can be me, I’ll tell you what, they got big shoes to fill because … I got swag.”
Finished, he grins, looks up at me.
I’m pretty sure I know how ridiculous my face looks, but Justin has no reaction to it except to grin his sexy, wet smile and wait for whatever critique I dare give his flawless body and his prizewinning face and his—his—his nipples.
But we’re not here to critique his body. “You did the same piece,” I remark coolly.
“Yeah.”
I lick my lips and stare at his shoulder for a moment. “You did the same piece and you took off your shirt again and … and you basically didn’t listen to a single thing I said.”
“But I spoke it all to one pe
rson,” he says, his voice lilting with innocent defense.
“Yes. A guy in the front row.”
Justin frowns cutely. “So … that’s who my words are directed at. A guy.”
“In the play, the character is saying those words to another guy?” I ask him, part serious, mostly facetious. “Is your character gay?”
Justin gives it two seconds of thought, then shrugs. “Yeah, sure. I’m not afraid of gays.”
The class titters again. Every exchange between Justin and I in front of everyone feels like an argument with countless words between every line. Each tense statement and question is laced with a double meaning that I doubt either of us catch.
“Did you even read this play? Swag?” I ask him challengingly.
He ruffles a bit, shrugs. “Sure.”
“Tell us what this ‘play’ is about.”
“It’s about …” He searches for the words, his lazy eyes wandering across the class full of his amused or excited or otherwise turned-on peers. “It’s about a cool guy searching for his inner swag.”
“Yeah? Where does he find this swag?”
“He had it all along.” Justin grins, thinking himself smart.
“Swag by Bobby Fischer,” I say, feeling smarter. “Famous chess player Bobby Fischer? Or some made-up playwright? Some made-up play?” To that, he has no answer. “You trying to make a mockery of this class, Mr. Brady?”
“No, teach. It’s just a—”
“Professor Kozlowski.” At my correction, he draws silent, his face resting with nothing more to utter. He only smiles dopily, all his sexiness still on display, pink nipples and all. “You’ve just flunked this simple first monologue, Mr. Brady. Your good looks and charm won’t save you in my class. Take your seat.”
He thinks for a moment, then says, “But you’re saying I do have good looks and charm?”
The class chuckles, finding him all cute and endearing and sexy as a demigod. I let them have their moment. “What I’m saying,” I say when they’re through, leaning forward, “is: checkmate, Mr. Brady.”
The laughing ends. Justin reclaims his shirt, slips it over his head, then lifts his eyebrows at me, curious.
“Checkmate,” I repeat. “Take your seat.” Without further prompt, he hops back up the stairs, whipping past me in a rush of whatever horribly enticing aroma he’s got, and sits.
Then I say: “Next.”
The rest of the students finish their pieces, a surprising amount of them forgetting their lines utterly and having to be prompted by a friend with the script. One student even tries to bring the script with him to the stage; I set him straight with a word and a roll of my eye.
I’ve filled my notebook with tiny notes and grades. I stare at the “F” I marked next to Justin’s name long and hard, furious with it for some reason. He is failing; no doubt about it. He will flunk this class if something doesn’t change. I distractedly dismiss the students and listen to the noise as they leave. Justin Brady goes too, laughing at something someone says to him, never paying me another second of mind. I watch his arms bulge as he grips his backpack, swinging it over a shoulder and vanishing out the theater door.
My gut stings with anger. I’m quite certain he’s going to withdraw from the class. He’s had his fun. He’s played his game. Now it’s over, and who the fuck knows who’s won.
Stalemate, more like.
I vanish into my unlit office, dropping my notes on the desk and sighing, long and tiredly. Drawing myself to the glow of the computer screen, I skim through emails with watery eyes. Auditions. Auditions. Meeting next Monday. Auditions. I rub my face aggressively and pull my notes from last night’s auditions in front of me, pulling it from a stack I’d made by my lamp right next to the calendar—Hey, two weeks and it’s already Thanksgiving. I can’t see what I’ve written, the computer screen being my only light. I’ve cast every role but one.
It’s difficult to focus when all I’m thinking about is a cocky smile and pink nipples.
The official cast list for my spring show is supposed to be posted tonight, but I’ll take the weekend and post mine Monday; that’s sure to torture the students. The Head of the Theatre Department adores me, so I’m sure she’ll allow it. “Everyone deserves a bit of a break,” I tell myself, lifting the sheet off the desk and letting the light spilling in from my opened door illuminate the names better.
That’s when I notice someone standing at the door. I drop the sheet and narrow my eyes. Against the dark, all I see is a silhouette.
“What do you want?” I ask, squinting, not even sure who the hell I’m talking to.
“It’s dark in here,” he says. “Can I … turn on your light?”
“Who are y—?”
My words are cut off when the light switch flips and the freshman from my worst dreams and best nightmares stands in the doorway. His backpack hangs limp from his hand, dragging on the ground, and his eyes are on me, brow lifted to form those innocent wrinkles up his forehead.
“Hope I’m not, uh … disturbing you,” he says.
“Mr. Brady.” His name sneaks from my mouth hesitantly, all the mistrust in the world dripping from those four meek syllables. What is he doing in my office?
Justin steps in, his eyes surveying the room as if he’s looking for something. His eyes pry. They’re smart, sharp, poking into every shelf, jabbing at every drawer, just by the drifting of his simple, quiet, unassuming gaze.
“You want to tell me why you’re here?” I blurt out, annoyed, unable to stand another second of his eyes brushing back and forth across my office, invading my space.
“Wanted to talk.” He’s still looking around.
“Have a seat,” I say coolly, “and talk.”
Distractedly, he sits in the chair across from my desk, his eyes still gazing across the room. I feel so encroached upon. I feel so … strangely naked. What is Justin Brady doing here in my office?
“I …” he starts, licking his lips. Just the simple act of him licking his lips is slow, deliberate, perfect. My eyes are drawn to them now, focusing on his lips as he slowly forms words. “Uh … I was talking to my parents about tuition and like … and how much classes cost and …” He licks them again, turns his head to gaze somewhere else in my office. “I was hoping we could talk about, uh …”
“About your failing my first assignment,” I finish for him, speaking to his lips. “About how if you withdraw this late in the semester, you’ll lose your money. That’s not my problem.”
“But, wait … Hear me out,” he says.
“You haven’t cared about my class since day one, Mr. Brady. I think you and I both know that to be true.”
“I care,” he insists, his hazel eyes burning, reminding me of my recurring wet dream. “I’m just … I’m just really bad at this acting stuff and I was thinking that, like …” He peers up now, studying the ceiling as though it were some fascinating constellation in the night sky. “Maybe you could give me, like … I dunno. Another shot, maybe? I mean … Never really acted before. I’m new to this whole thing. And like, I thought maybe …” He licks his lips. “I thought …”
“You want me to cut you slack?” I scoff at him. “Like you’re some exception to the rules I put on all my other students? You think you deserve special treatment, Mr. Brady?”
Now his eyes meet mine, and the effect is staggering. It was one thing to have his attention in the classroom among all the other students; it’s entirely another for him to be seated in such close proximity to me, within this cramped office, and virtually alone. I’m so taken by the intensity of his keen eyes that I actually draw back an inch, as if afraid of something, as if afraid he can see the desire I’ve unhealthily nurtured for him.
Ugh, listen to that: desire. I never fucking use words like “desire” … not even in acting.
“Would you give me another chance?” he asks, ignoring my questions. “I know I can do better. Promise to keep my shirt on this time.” At that, he grins, thinking hims
elf clever and funny and whatever.
“The ‘F’ I gave you has more to do with than just what you’re wearing—or not wearing.”
“Can you teach me?”
“Teach you what?”
He leans forward, propping his elbows onto his muscular thighs, which his tight designer jeans hug lusciously. “I wanna learn more about the art of acting. I feel so … behind all the others in class. Do you get me, teach?”
I frown, suspicious. “If you feel so behind them, perhaps it’d help you to sit in the front. The back row is for people who don’t care.”
“The back row is also for people who do.” He licks his lips; I can’t help but watch. “I care, teach. I sit in the back so I can see everyone and learn everything. I hate to … miss out.”
The way he says “miss out”, I feel an unspoken second meaning, as if he’s trying to tell me something else. Or maybe I’m reading too much into it. Maybe I’m projecting, just hoping there are other things I’m meant to hear between his slow, sultry words.
“What is it, exactly, that you’re asking of me, Mr. Brady?”
He lifts his eyebrows, wrinkling up his forehead adorably. “I just thought maybe you could … teach me more about acting.”
“That’s what the class is for. You attend my classes to learn about acting. You don’t come to my office with your tail between your legs because I gave you an ‘F’ and ask to learn about acting here.”
“I just wanna suck less.” He chuckles, his eyes light and blameless, and he licks his lips once more as he brings his harmless hazel eyes to mine. “You’re a good teach, I can tell.”
Why do I get the feeling he’s a better actor than he’s letting on? Why do I get the hunch that he’s still playing me?
Why am I welcoming the fuck out of it?
I abruptly get up and come around the desk. “I have a cast list to fill and a lot of work to finish.” My palms are a sweaty mess. “Come to class on Monday with a new piece—and your shirt on—ready to learn, and we’ll see about making a proper actor out of you.”
Justin rises from his chair, and his eyes are perfectly level with mine. Strange, how I haven’t realized we’re the same height until now. It’s oddly sobering, to equal the height of someone so much younger than me.
