“You made it.”
I looked up. Ben had changed into jeans and a flannel, the top three buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up below his elbows. Was this guy incapable of covering his forearms?
“Yup,” I said, plonking a few more keys. “What do you want me to do?”
“Who/What/Where scenes.” He folded his arms.
I folded mine, too and met his eyes. “Alone?”
He held them. “I’ll be your partner.”
My stupid heart started pounding. I broke eye contact and cleared to the mirror side of the room.
He entered raking the ground.
He was establishing the “what”: yard work. It was up to me to name “who” and “where” we were.
I pitched my voice in a southern drawl. “You must really miss Grandpa, son, because this is the third time you’ve raked his grave this week.”
“Scene,” he said. “Again. Enter with an action.”
I circled back and started pulling on what I hoped looked like a gorilla costume.
He swiftly joined me, miming holding a clipboard. “Mickey Mouse auditions, line up right here, please. The director will see you soon.” Then he “set down” his mimed clipboard and said, “Scene.”
Gorilla, Mickey Mouse—close enough. But I had that nagging feeling about relationships—if you don’t know your scene partner, you have so much work to do to establish it. I couldn’t believe assuming the relationship was a crutch. It—
Now he was chopping something on a counter.
I picked up my own “knife” and chopped next to him. “My boyfriend and his parents will be here in five minutes, Dad. If you finish up these veggies, I’ll set the table.”
“Scene.”
I swept back around and came out tossing Frisbees.
“Quit throwing the dishes, Lisa!”
See, now there was another thing—telling someone not to do something shuts down the scene. Plus, he’d only established the “what.” Now the “where” and the relationship of the “who” were my job.
I chucked the “dishes” even harder. “My mother left me this house, and I’ll do what I please in it! You might be my husband, but it’s my name on the title!”
He stilled my throwing hand with his right and wrapped his left hand around my hip. It flooded with heat.
“I pay the mortgage,” he whispered.
What was he doing? We’d established the who/what/where. But I remembered how angry he’d gotten when I broke the scene at rehearsal the other day. I’d already made him angry twice today. What would happen if I did it again? Would I be off the team?
I stayed in the scene.
I glared at him. “Sure, you pay the mortgage. With your trust fund.”
Now he lowered my dish-throwing hand and placed my palm on his chest. “You love my trust fund. Almost as much as you love me.”
He took my face into his hands. His eyes darted back and forth between my eyes like they weren’t sure where to land.
No. He wasn’t going to—
And then he was kissing me. A real, live boy was kissing me. Kissing ME. I hardly knew what was happening. He wrapped an arm around my back and pulled me closer.
This muscly California boy was—wait. Was this real? Or was it just for the scene? Did people actually kiss in improv scenes?
That was his tongue! What was I supposed to do with that?
And then it was over.
“Good job,” he said, all business. “Good scene.”
I looked into his face. Was I a bad kisser? Did he stop because it was a scene and the scene was over, or would he have kept kissing me if I was a better kisser?
Not finding a quick answer, I turned away and covered my burning cheeks with my hands.
“Look. You could get into trouble with the Pauls for missing rehearsal, so because you came to this one, I’ll just . . . forget to tell them. Okay?”
I nodded, confused.
“And hey.” He gently turned me around. “About the high ropes course.” He shook his head and touched my cheek. “You scared me up there. The rain and the lightning—I’m sorry I yelled.”
I nodded again.
“We good?”
Apparently, all I could do now was nod.
He took a step closer to me. I closed my eyes.
“Good,” he whispered.
When I opened my eyes, he was gone.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
When I slunk back to the cabin, the Gildas weren’t there. I pretended to be asleep when they returned—I just wasn’t ready to talk about what had happened with Ben at that rehearsal.
But by the next morning, I’d almost forgotten about it because everyone on my team was sitting around a table in the Main Lodge, laughing.
At my cold open sketch.
“Did you write that, Ben?” Brandon asked, leaning back in his chair and flipping through the pages. “It’s genius.”
My heart glowed. We were all seated around one of the lunch tables piled with multiple copies of our various attempts at cold-open sketch writing. The sun was streaming in through the large Main Lodge windows. I tried to suppress a smile.
“Remember—these are blind reads. We won’t identify writers until the end,” Ben said.
“Man—that sketch was awesome.” Trey shook his head.
I chewed on my lower lip to keep from smiling my face off. I felt vindicated. Valued. I tried to catch Ben’s eye. “How many are left?” I asked.
Ben flipped open a folder. “Just one more.” He passed out copies without making eye contact. “There are two parts,” he said. “Brandon, will you read Mr. Phillips, and Ellie, will you read Marcy?”
Ha! I thought. I guess there are perks to being the only woman on the team.
Ben handed me my copy of the script. I tried to smile, but he still wasn’t looking at me.
Brandon cleared his throat. “Uh, Ben, you gonna read stage directions?”
“That’s okay . . . Xander?”
Xander shrugged and picked up the script. He cleared his throat. “We’re in an office. Mr. Phillips is working late. Marcy knocks and enters.”
“Where have you been?” Brandon as Mr. Phillips demanded.
“I left,” I said as Marcy. “The meeting got canceled, so I got a manicure.”
“You got a manicure?” Brandon thundered.
“You didn’t say not to,” I said.
“I didn’t say you could! We were all here!”
“Well, I had things to do!”
“So did we!”
Something felt funny about this. Besides the stereotypical male boss/female secretary thing . . .
“I’m sorry, Mr. Phillips, it’ll never happen again,” I said, internally rolling my eyes.
“Damn straight it won’t. Because you’re fired!”
“What?”
“You heard me!”
“Oh, Mr. Phillips, please. Please don’t fire me. I’ll do anything!” My eyes flicked above the script to catch Ben’s. Seriously? Also. Where were the jokes?
“Well . . .” Brandon read.
“Please! I’ll—I’ll juggle!” I said.
“Marcy picks up a stapler, a mug, and a pen and attempts to juggle them,” Xander read.
“I’ll sing!” I continued. “Oh, they built the ship Titanic, to sail the ocean blue!”
Not super-original jokes, but at least she’s the one getting the punchlines.
“Look, Marcy,” Brandon said, “there’s nothing you can do to make it up to me.”
“What if I do this?” My eyes flicked over to the stage directions. I froze.
“They kiss,” Xander read. Then he looked up and cackled. “Oh man! Were we allowed to write porn? I totally would have written porn.”
“Save comments for the end,” Ben said in a clipped voice.
“I’m just saying,” he muttered.
I stared at Ben. I stared until he couldn’t not notice I was staring. He met my eye for a split second, then
looked down at the script again.
Had he taken what had happened at our rehearsal and turned it into this?
“Hey, Ellie. Your line,” High Ropes Jake said softly.
I glanced at him, then coughed and looked back at the script.
“How was that?” I asked flatly, as Marcy.
“I’ll consider your reinstatement,” Brandon said, “as long as you promise me one thing.”
“Anything.” Seriously?
Brandon waited a beat, long enough for us to assume Mr. Phillips would want more action from Marcy. “Teach me that juggling thing? Then I’ll teach you how to kiss with tongue.”
It was the punch line of the scene, but to their credit, no one laughed.
“Well?” Ben prompted.
I couldn’t look at anyone.
That ass.
“I like the one before this one,” Donovan said. He retwisted one of his twists. “This . . . the structure’s there—I see the three acts. But the jokes are weak and the setup is clichéd. It’s not saying anything.”
I tried to catch his eye to thank him, but he continued to study the page.
“It’s saying something—it’s commenting on the cliché,” Ben protested.
“Is it?” Brandon asked. “It just feels . . .”
“Boring,” High Ropes Jake complained.
Ben shook his head.
“It’s . . . Also, it’s punching down,” I said, finding my voice. “She—Marcy—is in a vulnerable position. Mr. Phillips takes advantage of her. Like, it’s not that funny when the president mocks a homeless guy—the power imbalance just makes it feel mean. But if a homeless guy mocks the president . . .” I shrugged. “Punch up. Not down.”
“You’re being too sensitive,” Ben said.
“Maybe.” Brandon flipped the script pages back and forth, looking at them again. “But regardless, it’s just not that funny.”
“Who wrote it?” Ben asked. “Do you have something to say in its defense?”
I furrowed my brow. He wrote it. Ben wrote it. I opened my mouth, but then closed it again. What good was going to come from my challenging him?
He caught my eye. “Anyone?”
I shook my head.
No one said anything.
“Well, after that response, I don’t blame you for not owning up,” Ben said, “The clear choice is the sleepwalking bear sketch.”
“You wrote it, didn’t you, Ben.” Brandon fired off a finger gun at him.
“Actually . . .” Ben shifted in his chair and cleared his throat. “Ellie did.”
I felt every eye on me. I raised my eyebrows expectantly. They’d already said how much they liked my sketch. Now they were going to have to admit to my face that I was funny. I smiled in anticipation of their praise.
“Did your brother help you or something?” Xander asked.
Was he serious? I made sure my voice was firm and clear. “No, I wrote it by myself.”
“Ellie wrote it?” Brandon frowned. “Wait. Ellie-Ellie?”
Now my eyes unfocused, and I just stared at the table. “So . . . we’re all shocked I could write something funny by myself?”
“It’s just—it was really funny,” Xander said in a voice that sounded both surprised and impressed. “And girls usually aren’t—well, the ones I’ve known—”
“Oh, so it isn’t personal,” I said, heat rising into my face. “It’s not that we’re shocked that I could write a funny sketch, we’re shocked that a girl could write a funny sketch. Without her brother’s help anyway. Is that it?”
“God, Ellie, quit freaking out about every little thing,” Ben said.
“This is not a little thing! If anyone else here had written this sketch, would you have doubted them?”
No one would make eye contact with me.
“You know, improv has always made me feel good. Like I was strong and funny and smart. I was a part of something. But you guys—” I shook my head. “What you do isn’t improv. It’s a lot of one-upmanship and dick waving and you don’t need me for that.”
I stood up and shouldered my bag. “I’m leaving.” I turned to Ben. “I’m done. So, I won’t be at rehearsal. Makeup or otherwise.”
No one tried to stop me as I left. As a parting gesture, I tossed over my shoulder, “Ben wrote the Marcy-the-sexy-secretary sketch, by the way. Way to go, champ!”
I didn’t wait to hear the backpedaling. The “Oh, the secretary sketch isn’t so bad after all . . .” or worse, the “Actually, now that I read it again, I’m not sure about the sleepwalking bear sketch . . .”
I thumped down the stairs, my full water bottle swinging from my Second City tote bag, banging my hip with each step. As I reached the path, a big gust of wind blew up and a flock of birds abandoned a nearby tree in unison. One of the birds flew so near my head, I flinched.
I set my teeth and marched, my Chacos kicking up rocks and dust as I went.
I was breathing easy. I wasn’t sure if it was from breaking free of those dillholes, or if I was starting to acclimate to the elevation a little. Maybe both.
I swung my arms as I walked. Without me, they didn’t have a solid cold open. Without me, they’d start picking on each other. Without me, they’d maybe even turn on Ben.
A few minutes into my sojourn, the wind died down, the chattering and chasing of the birds quieted, and a creeping worry sneaked into my periphery. If I had actually quit Varsity, what was I going to do for another nine days? Would they take me on JV? Or was I forfeiting that possibility? Would Ben tell them I was “too sensitive”? Would they put me on a skill-building team? Or would they tell me I had to go home?
What were the Gildas going to say? What about Will? My stomach dropped.
Nina Knightley.
My chest felt tight, and I slowed my walk.
What had I done?
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
What was I supposed to do now? Just pace in circles? Wear new paths through the woods? Staring at my sandals, I hesitated. Was there poison ivy in Colorado?
The sound of chattering drew my attention, and I watched a pile of middle school–age Boy Scouts hike down our road, trying very hard to maintain a straight line.
Boy Scouts!
Turning on my heel, I clutched my bag to my shoulder with one hand and braced the water bottle with the other. My Boy Scouts took the same hike for lunch every day, right? I’d been invited any time I wanted. I knew what path they’d started on at least. Jogging, I willed my lungs to acclimate more. Make active choices. Be in the moment. It was a little far-fetched that I’d find them, but what other plans did I have?
Before long, the path grew narrower. I alternated between jogging until I couldn’t breathe and brisk walking. With every step, Brandon, Ben, and Xander’s words echoed in my brain. “Ellie wrote it?” “Did your brother help you or something?” “It’s just—it was really funny. And girls usually aren’t—well . . .”
Tears threatened, but I blinked them away.
I stopped for a moment and closed my eyes, listening for signs of human existence, but all I heard were chipmunks chittering, birds chirping, and the breeze rustling aspen tree leaves.
Finally, I came to a crossroads. A giant rock held court at the Y in the path. This was as far as I knew. I could guess and take one of the paths randomly . . . Or maybe I could see ahead a little. I peered down one of the paths and for a second was sure I saw Jesse, Murph, and Ricky. But when I got a closer look, they were much too young (and loud) to be my scouts.
Maybe height would help. I climbed on top of the rock and hoisted myself up to standing. Blocking the sun’s glare with my hand, I squinted, peering down one path, then the other. The thick foliage prevented me from seeing much farther than I could on the ground. “Dammit,” I muttered.
Before I could firmly settle into a haze of disappointment, however, a male voice jerked me out of it.
“Zelda?”
I screamed so loudly, another flock of small birds vacated their
tree in unison. Terrifying birds was getting to be a thing with me.
“Whoa!” Ricky’s hands were raised defensively as he appeared at the foot of the rock. “Just me!”
I shook my head. “I’m so glad I found you. Though I’m not sure all those birds I traumatized would agree.”
Ricky’s smile was small, but when paired with his green eyes looking straight at me through his smudged glasses, it made me feel like we were on a warm, safe, two-person planet. Like he was really with me, right here, in this moment. Like that was important.
Before I had a chance to respond, however, Jesse and Murph came crashing through the underbrush. “Zelda!” they both exclaimed.
“What are you doing here?” Jesse blurted at the same time Murph asked, “How did you find us?”
I shrugged. “You said come hiking with you sometime. Can now be sometime?”
“Of course,” Murph and Jesse said in unison. Murph pushed Jesse who grinned and pushed him back. They turned to Ricky.
“Okay with you?” Jesse asked.
Ricky nodded. “I found her,” he said and turned up the path.
I laughed, and we followed him, Jesse and Murph flanking me like they had the day of the high ropes disaster.
“Seriously, though,” Jesse said. “Don’t you have rehearsal?”
Our feet marched lockstep—them in hiking boots, me, woefully underprepared in my Chaco sandals—and I debated how much to tell them. They had defended me back at the ropes course. I was sure they’d be on my side, but I really didn’t feel like getting into it. For now. “Free morning slash lunch,” I said, grateful we were hiking side by side so no one could see my lying face.
“I can’t believe you caught up,” Murph grinned, side-hugging me.
I squeezed him back. “I know! I’m so glad I found you guys.”
“You bring a lunch?” Ricky called from the front.
“Nope,” I said.
“Just sandals?”
“Yup.”
“No backpack?”
“Just this tote bag.”
“Water?”
“That I have.”
He nodded and turned back to face front. “All you need, really.”
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