Directing You

by Katana Collins

  But she didn’t come to my rescue. Her hands folded in her lap, and she slowly crossed one leg over the other.

  I cleared my throat. “Yes, Professor. It won’t happen again.”

  His jaw twitched and he pointed at a seat. As I crossed the room, the fucking kiss-ass of a bitch Jenna Duncan snickered against the back of her hand. I paused, glaring at her for a brief moment before I slunk into a free seat, opened my laptop, and cursed my bad luck. What in the hell was he doing here? What sort of bullshit kismet was this? The man I almost went home with last night also happened to be my professor? I glanced over the top of my laptop at him. If I thought he was crisp and put together last night, it was nothing compared to today. His exquisitely fitted charcoal-gray dress pants were fitted against his lean hips and a blue Hugo Boss shirt clung to his chest and biceps. Muscles I’d had my hands on last night pushed against the high thread count, and the shirt tapered perfectly, hugging his trim waist.

  He made my mouth water, and holy hell, I regretted not going home with him last night.

  As soon as the thought entered my brain, I shook it away. Was I crazy? He was my teacher! How many fucking propositions was I going to get from professors at this fucking university?

  “Normally,” he said, addressing the class and snapping me out of my improper thoughts, “in the real world, if you’re late to a rehearsal, you get docked your pay.” He reached into a bag leaning beside the piano at the front of the room and pulled out a large jar, setting it on top of the piano. “In here, of course, none of you are getting a paycheck. But if you are late and you want that door to be unlocked to get in, it’ll cost you a dollar for every minute you’re late.”

  I felt my breath hitch as I glanced at the clock. I was six minutes late. Today would have cost me six bucks. Six extra bucks when I was already paying a fortune for this damn class? His eyes met mine briefly as he slid into a seat on the piano bench. “Today was your one pass,” he said, the glass jar slamming down onto the heavy wood of the piano. The strings made a cacophony that was anything but musical.

  My hand shot into the air, and I immediately regretted it, wincing at my stupid, impulsive hand stretched above my head. But it was too late now.

  He sucked his teeth slowly. “Yes? Ms…?”

  The question about my name tripped me up momentarily as I almost said Moon and stopped myself. “Stone,” I answered with my real last name. “Hazel Stone.”

  “Yes, Ms. Stone?”

  “I have a problem with your policy,” I snapped, forcing myself to take a breath and remove the hostility from my voice.

  “Do you, now?”

  “I do,” I said, nodding. “As you mentioned…in the real world, that pay is docked from a paycheck. Since none of us sitting here are getting paid, I find it rather unethical that we should be expected to pay extra on top of the tuition we’re already putting in to be here.”

  Another twitch of his jaw. Oh, shit. I was pissing him off. If he wasn’t already pissed because of the raging case of blue balls I sent him home with. Then again, I was pissed too since his parting words last night had basically implied I was a prostitute who let all my clients finger me for money.

  “Well, I find it unethical to disrupt your classmates and interrupt their precious class time when you’re late and come bursting into class. With a Frappuccino.”

  I ignored the jab. Something I deserved a freaking standing ovation for. “It’s a disruption, yes. But it’s still my time that I’m paying for. And if I choose to show up thirty minutes late for a class, frankly, that’s thirty minutes I’ve paid for already, regardless. You can’t lock me out of a class I’m paying to be in…even if I am late.”

  His gaze narrowed dangerously. “Can’t I?”

  “No. And if you do, I will take this to the board and demand a refund for the time I’ve missed in a class I’ve been locked out of. Not all of us are privileged students here on Mommy and Daddy’s dime. Some of us have full-time jobs and children on top of classes and homework and our dreams aren’t any less significant because of that—”

  “Children?” he asked, cutting me off.

  My eyes squeezed shut for a moment. “Well, not me. I don’t have children.” Was I seeing things, or did he seem relieved with my answer there? I cleared my throat and continued, “But I know a couple of my friends here in the program do have children. And while a dollar per minute might not mean much to someone with a full-time teaching job, to me that’s six cups of ramen dinner that you are literally taking from my mouth.”

  He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and his gaze fell on Ms. Dercy in the back of the room. I wasn’t sure if I had a case or not to petition for a refund of my tuition money…but I thought I made a damn good argument, regardless of whether or not I would win.

  He pressed his mouth into a thin, blanched line before he stood up and moved over to the whiteboard on the other end of the room. Grabbing the marker, he wrote down a phone number. “This is my cell phone,” he said. “In the professional community, if you’re going to be late, it is required you call your stage manager. Since we don’t have a stage manager yet…we’ll pretend it’s me.” His eyes fell to mine sharply. “If you are going to be late, you must call or text me before that big hand hits the twelve. If you do that, you will not be required to pay.”

  I heard the sound of fingers tapping on screens around me as other students were inputting his number into their phones.

  He paused, then added, “And we’ll use the money at the end of the semester to pay for a party where I will cover the difference. If no one is ever late, I will throw an end-of-semester cast party for you all out of my own pocket.”

  He held out his hands as an offering to me. “What do you say, Ms. Stone? It’s a compromise. One that I think is fair and teaches an important lesson if you’re going to do this professionally. Your director is not going to give a shit if you have a day job—or a night job,” he added pointedly. “They aren’t going to care if you’re a single parent. Or that you had five hours of homework that evening. There are hundreds of men and women who look just like you. They sing just like you—probably even better. They act better than you. They dance better than you. You are replaceable in this industry. We all are.”

  He held my stare until I slowly pulled out my phone and punched in his cell phone number, pausing as I realized I didn’t know his name yet. I breathed in slowly through my nose and punched in Professor Cockhead as his name, then dropped my phone back into my purse.

  “I’m Professor Reid Bradley,” he said, turning and writing his name on the whiteboard and my jaw nearly smacked the linoleum floor. He was Reid Bradley? The Reid Bradley…the Broadway director? “I’m filling in this semester for Faith… Lewis.” He had paused before saying her last name in a curious way and took another brief moment before he continued talking. “And for this semester, we are going to be workshopping a new show. We are going to audition the show. Cast it. Rehearse it. And perform it to Equity guidelines. By the end of the semester, you will all know if you have what it takes to do this professionally.”

  Though no one in the classroom spoke a word, excitement buzzed through the room, like a riptide beneath the ocean’s surface. You could feel it but not see it. People shifted in their seats, and I heard the intake of several gasping breaths. Jenna thrust her hand in the air, and I had to suppress the urge to roll my eyes.

  “Yes, Jenna?” Professor Bradley said. God, he already knew her name. Of course, he did. She probably came to class today with freshly baked muffins.

  “What’s the show?” she asked, her smile a little too eager.

  “It’s a new show, being written by a friend of mine. Not a large cast, which is perfect for this class. Not all of you will be acting in it. Some of you might be assistant directing, stage managing, etc.” He paused, looking around the room. “Out of curiosity, is anyone in here not wanting to be an actor? Do we have any prospective directors or behind-the-scenes folks?”
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  Three people raised their hands, my friend Max included, and I inwardly cringed, lifting mine into the air as well. I swallowed hard as Professor Bradley’s eyes drifted over me, and I could see the shock in his expression before he resumed scanning the remainder of the room. I wasn’t delusional. Did I want to be in the spotlight on stage? Of course. But I wasn’t getting any younger. At twenty-four, I was one of the oldest undergrads in the department, outside of a couple of much older adults who’d come back to school in their thirties and forties.

  I wanted to make a living in theater…not just for the vanity of it. If that meant being a stage manager or someone backstage and paying my bills? I’d be just as happy as if I were the lead.

  Okay, maybe not just as happy. But I would be happy. It would definitely beat shaking my tits and ass in a Willy Wonka costume every night for tips.

  “Good, good,” Professor Bradley said. “I will chat with you four more later about your roles and what your goals are in this business. I would still like you all to audition for the show though. Even if you don’t think you want to be on stage.” He cleared his throat, looking back at Ms. Dercy. “I assume it’ll be okay to get access to one of the stages in the building since this is a musical theater course?”

  I heard her clear her throat and forced my face to remain neutral as I spun in my seat to face her. She nodded, smiling at him. Practically kissing the ground he walked on. I didn’t know if she wanted to sleep with him or be cast in one of his shows or if she was simply rallying for him to teach more courses here, but either way, the display was revolting. Most of our professors were also actors trying to make it in this business.

  We all knew Professor Faith—we called her by her first name since we all called her husband Professor Lewis—was going to be gone for this tour. But the school had kept the fill-in professor a secret. And now I knew why. They must have wanted to wait to make sure he was truly going to be here teaching before making any announcement.

  “Great, then let’s begin. I will post the character descriptions on the class forum. Next week’s class will be our auditions. Bring in an audition song, sixteen bars, that reflects the character you are auditioning for. We will have cold readings from the show as well as a dance audition. Any questions?”

  No one spoke as he moved toward the whiteboard and lifted the marker into his long, thick fingers. Fingers I knew very well. Biblically well. I gulped and glanced down at my laptop. Jesus, I needed to get it together. “Great. Then let’s begin with audition fundamentals.”

  The rest of the class actually went smoothly. Some of what he taught was common sense—things like, wear clothing that reflects the character you are hoping to get. And if you’re auditioning for a soprano role, don’t choose an audition song that belts your face off like a mezzo or an alto.

  But a lot of what he said was new information. He had us work on our slating—a standard practice where auditioners state their names into a camera for the casting director. Apparently, Professor Bradley claimed he could tell from that exact moment in an audition if he was going to invite you in for a callback. Simply by how you said your name, which honestly, to me, either sounded like a lie or like he was totally full of himself.

  One by one, he had us stand in the front of the room and practice our audition greeting.

  “Ms. Stone,” he said. “You’re up.”

  I smoothed my wrinkled, ripped jeans as I stood and walked to the center of the classroom. I beveled my toe, put a hand on my hip, and smiled. “Hi, I’m Hazel Stone and I’m auditioning for the role of Mary.”

  His pen fell between his lips and he chewed the edge, eyes narrowing onto me. “Nope,” he said simply. “Hands at your sides and try again.”

  Shit. What was wrong with what I did? Was it really my hands on my hips that was the problem?

  My fingers flinched as I dropped them to my sides, and I stated my name once more, feeling my smile drop nervously as I finished.

  “Nope,” he said again, tossing the pen onto the desk in front of him. “Again.”

  I shifted my feet and folded my hands in front of me, mustering up what was left of my confidence, and gave my name once more.

  “No, no, no.”

  I threw my hands up, letting them land on the outsides of my thighs with a heavy slap. “Can you at least tell me what I’m doing wrong? I don’t know how I’m supposed to learn without knowing that?”

  “You’re flirting with me, Ms. Stone.”

  My jaw nearly smacked the linoleum tiles, and I heard a few giggles come from my classmates. My cheeks flamed red hot. “Excuse me? You think that was flirting?”

  “Yes,” he said simply, and as the snickers grew louder, I snorted. Loudly. I couldn’t help it. What an asshole. If I wasn’t mistaken, I had been the one to turn him down last night. To call it off before we took things to the next level. Was this some sort of deep-seeded ego bullshit I was dealing with now? “You have a sultry smile. Your hip is cocked, toe is pointed in, and every time you start talking, you arch your upper back, pushing your cleavage out.”

  I narrowed my eyes at the bastard. Yep. Definitely Professor Cockhead. Was there something in the water at this university that turned the male professors into total dickwads? “What if I’m auditioning for a role that matches the vixen or the flirt?” In fact, I was almost always typecast in that part. It was another reason I was sick of being on stage. If I had to play one more sassy, brassy bimbo, I was going to attack the Samuel French offices.

  “Slating your name is the one moment that you are allowed to be as far from the character as you want to or can be. In fact, it will show what a good actress you are if you are yourself and then transform into the character.”

  “So… I’m supposed to do what up here?”

  “Be yourself. This is the moment on stage the casting team wants to see you. Not a character you’re singing or reading for. Not a perfect triple pirouette. Just you.”

  Fuck. Just me? When was the last time I had to be just me on stage?

  I was chewing my bottom lip without realizing it and tugged it free from between my teeth, clearing my throat into my fist. I smoothed my hair, buying as much time as I could before I dropped my hands to my sides, pushing my weight to be evenly distributed between my feet. God, I felt awkward. Everyone else seemed to do much better at this than me. Were they all just more genuine than me? Knew who they were? Better at being themselves?

  I started to smile and felt the corners of my mouth fall. Me? I wouldn’t smile. Not that big cheesy grin I had done earlier. Instead, I gave a small, tight-lipped smile that dropped almost as immediately as it appeared. “Thanks for seeing me today. I’m Hazel Stone and I’ll be reading for Mary.”

  Professor Bradley was silent as he studied me. Those thick fingers of his, which had not long ago been inside my body, played with the edge of the red pen on his desk. Finally, he nodded. “Better. Okay, class,” he said, standing, “we’ll see you Wednesday. Don’t forget to look through those character descriptions on the message board before you come in next.”

  Everyone stood, gathering their things, and as I slid my laptop into my bag, Professor Bradley added, “Ms. Stone, please see me before you leave.”

  Fuck. So close.

  Ms. Dercy walked by my desk and scooped the untouched but now nearly melted Frappuccino into her manicured hands. “Seems like you learned something today,” she said with a humoring smile. I wasn’t sure if she meant it to be a dig, but it sure as shit felt like it.

  With a little wave at Professor Bradley, she exited the room along with everyone else, leaving the two of us alone. The air was thick, wrought with tension and history that neither of us asked for or wanted.

  “Ms. Stone,” he said pointedly. “Did you know you were going to be in my class?”

  I shook my head. “No,” I hissed, my voice a raspy whisper as I glanced at the wide-open door. “The department kept Faith’s replacement a huge secret. We finally got a message in the class ch
at room last night, but I was…” my voice faded as I collected myself. “I, uh, I was at work. As you know.”

  Professor Bradley sighed and stood, crossing to the door and starting to close it. He paused before it clicked shut, looking at me. “Is it okay if we shut this?”

  I nodded. God, yes. Please shut that door.

  It clicked as he closed it. “You sure you didn’t get that message before work?”

  Anger flared at my core. First, he’d called me a whore. Now he was implying… what exactly? That this was some sort of setup to ruin his reputation? “No, I didn’t. I had no idea who you were last night—and in retrospect, I’m going to kill Noah because he must have known we at least were going to be at this school together, if not in the same class.”

  He closed his eyes, hissing a sigh. “Fucking Noah. Get in line, ’cause I’m going to kill him first.”

  “Look, I’m sorry I was late. I will do my best not to let it happen again, but I work here. I work for Ms. Dercy and that stupid coffee was for her. Only she wasn’t in her fucking office—”

  “Language, Ms. Stone. In here, I’m not your client. I’m your professor.”

  “Shit, sorry. I mean, shoot! Jesus.” I pressed my fingertips to my brow, rubbing the pulsing headache budding there and taking a breath. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know Ms. Dercy was here in this classroom, otherwise I would have been on time.”

  He nodded and his eyes flicked to the door, following where she had left a few minutes ago.

  I twisted my hands in my lap. I hated that, all of a sudden, this man that I’d felt such power over last night now held all the cards. He held all the power. I fucking hated it…and if I was being honest, it turned me on, too, in a way that made me worry my Feminist card might be revoked. “Look, Professor Bradley… I need this job. I need both of my jobs. And if the school ever found out what I did at night…with the stupid integrity clause for employees here, I’d be fired in a second. And I can’t afford this program without the faculty discount. I could lose my job. My scholarship. My placement in the program—”