Unscripted

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Unscripted Page 18

by Nicole Kronzer


  He met my eyes. “A walk?” He smiled.

  “Or . . . whatever? You guys know this place better than I do.”

  “A walk sounds great. I’ll ask them if they’re not busy . . . They might be busy.”

  I nodded. “But you’re not busy?”

  “I’m not busy.” He was still smiling.

  “Good.” Warmth spread from my stomach.

  “Yeah?”

  I nodded. “I’ll meet you by our gate? After dinner? Say, seven o’clock?”

  He paused, then reached down for the ax. “Zelda.”

  I tucked a curl behind my ear. “Jesse.”

  “Is everything okay?”

  I opened my mouth, but, for once, thought about speaking before I spoke. What if I told Jesse about Ben? About how controlling he was? How scared I’d become? He’d probably tell me to tell the Pauls. But I wasn’t going to do that. So what good was it going to do? Better for him to just see me as funny, fun, carefree Zelda. Better to have one person here who didn’t feel sorry for me. Plus, I suddenly realized, I didn’t want him to think there was something going on between Ben and me.

  Make statements and assumptions. “I . . . I’ve got this script to revise. I wrote the cold open. You’re coming, right? Saturday night?”

  “To the improv show? Yes. I don’t know what a cold open is, but I’m glad you wrote it. I’m sure it’ll be the . . . coldest, most open one there.”

  I laughed. “See you tonight.”

  He nodded slowly and grinned at me. “The gate. Seven o’clock.”

  Feeling lighter, I watched his progress through the trees.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Two hours later, waiting for JV to settle in to watch a run-through of my revised cold open, I was under strict instruction from Ben to “just sit still” and let him “do all the talking.” I alternately bit my nails and sat on my hands.

  “Okay, JV,” Ben called in a commanding voice. “What you are seeing is a revised version of a sketch we’ve been developing this week.”

  I couldn’t help it—I looked over my shoulder at the JV teams and caught Will’s eye.

  “Didn’t you write this?” he mouthed.

  I nodded and shrugged.

  He rolled his eyes and threw an arm around Jonas, whispering something in his ear. Jonas nodded and gave me a thumbs-up.

  I smiled and turned back to face the stage.

  “Okay!” Ben started toward the seat next to mine. I tensed. “Lights up!” he called.

  Someone flipped off the house lights, leaving the seats dark but the stage lit. I leaned in with my script to catch some of the light so I could still see to write notes, but Ben pushed me back so I was sitting upright.

  “I need the light—” I whispered, but he shushed me.

  I started to vibrate with anger. How much was this guy going to try and control me? How much more could I put up with? What would happen if I really stood up to him?

  Xander came on stage.

  “Thank god for the Colorado woods,” Xander said, miming setting down a heavy hiking backpack. “Rugged landscape, vistas for miles, and all the solitude a person could dream of.”

  Immediately, Brandon stumbled on stage, joining him. “Oh my god!” He grabbed Xander by the shoulders. “I’m so glad I found someone! I need to monologue all my feelings!”

  The laughter began. And my anger dissipated.

  As the scene progressed, it got sillier and more complicated, and by the time the sleepwalking bear showed up, I thought JV was going to lose their minds. At my new favorite part with the pilot, I glanced over to see Ben’s reaction—out of habit, I guess—but his face was stone cold. He was clenching his jaw. His arms were folded across his chest.

  I thought this sketch was good—maybe the best I’d ever written—but clearly it didn’t meet his expectations.

  “Scene!” Ben called.

  JV broke into applause, and Will shouted, “Go, Zelda! That’s my sister!” Laughter accompanied more whoops of appreciation. I turned and waved.

  When the clapping died down, Ben stood and faced the audience. “Clearly there’s still a lot of work that has to be done,” he said.

  I looked up at him skeptically.

  “Really?” Roger asked, frowning. “That sketch looks show-ready to me. Who wrote it? And why isn’t Zelda in it?”

  “Yeah!” Hanna’s voice called out. I stared at my hands.

  “We really developed it as a team,” Ben said.

  My ears began to burn. I looked up on stage. Would any of them stand up for me? But once again, they were silent.

  I would feel so stupid claiming writing credit. Plus, Ben had shown me what could happen when I disagreed with him.

  “Thanks for coming.” Ben forced a smile and waved like everyone had already made their intentions of leaving known.

  “Didn’t Zelda write it?” Will called out.

  I couldn’t help smiling into my lap.

  “As I said, we developed it as a team,” Ben insisted. “That’s a wrap, everyone. Let’s get the tables set up for dinner.”

  The guys on JV started to stand.

  “Why wasn’t Zelda in it?” Sirena demanded.

  Emily joined in. “Yeah. Why isn’t Zelda in it?”

  “Not enough parts.” Ben’s forced smile moved into grimace territory.

  Paloma stood up. “If you developed it as a team, why not develop enough parts for everyone? There could easily be another circus performer—”

  Ben didn’t even acknowledge them. He turned to his notes and wandered away like no one had spoken.

  I slowly exhaled, staring at the floor. Wasn’t this supposed to be the moment to celebrate my hard work? Why was Ben taking that away from me?

  I felt someone standing over my shoulder.

  Roger. He pushed his way between the seats and sat in Ben’s vacated chair.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Hi.” I turned to face him.

  “Will says you wrote that sketch.”

  I nodded.

  Roger’s curly hair was like mine—boingy. The curls bounced as he shook his head.

  “It’s good. I hope Ben tells you that. Does he tell you that?”

  I shrugged. “Yeah. Not in so many words, but . . .”

  He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Okay.” He started to say something, then stopped himself. Then he stood up, took a deep breath, and sat back down. “Let me—or Dion—know if . . . if you need anything. Okay?”

  I squinted. “Need anything?”

  He glanced up at the stage, maybe looking for Ben. “Just. You know.”

  He squeezed my shoulder and called to his team. “Let’s clear these chairs, JV!”

  Will scurried over and hugged me. “Say something,” he pleaded.

  “To who?” I whispered. “And say what? It’s not fair? I didn’t get credit for something that was really everyone’s idea in the first place?”

  He grabbed my shoulders. “Please. Promise me you’ll say something.”

  “Will—”

  “Ellie?” Ben wandered back into the room and seemed surprised to see Will still there. “Aren’t you two going to help set up for dinner?”

  “Yes,” I said, grabbing Will’s arm. “Jonas and the Gildas will be waiting for us. That’s okay, right, Ben? No team dinner tonight?”

  “No team dinner,” he said, slowly clicking his pen. “But we’re running one-liners afterward. Seven o’clock. Rehearsal room B.”

  I furrowed my brow as a wave of disappointment crashed over me. “No—I can’t. I have plans.”

  “With who?” Ben snapped.

  I opened my mouth to answer, but decided I didn’t owe him the truth. I shrugged and stammered. “Th-the Gildas.”

  “It’s a required rehearsal,” Ben insisted.

  “But it’s not on the original schedule,” I protested. My heart rate was increasing as my irritation at his demands did.

  “You’re there,
or you’re off Varsity.” His calm, snake-like voice was back. “And none of us wants that.”

  Then he was gone.

  “I’m finding the Pauls,” Will murmured. “This has gotten out of hand.”

  “Will! No!” I grabbed his shirt. “Please. Listen to me.”

  “No, I’m—” He pulled out of my grip.

  “Then you’re no better than he is!” I exclaimed.

  Will looked like I’d slapped him. “How can you say that?”

  “Let me make my own choices for my own life,” I said. “Nina Knightley. Improv. Script writing. This is my life. If you tell the Pauls, I’m off Varsity.”

  “Or he is,” Will retorted.

  “Who will defend me?” I demanded. “The Varsity guys? No way. And the little that Roger and Dion and JV have seen? That’s not egregious enough to get someone removed. And if Ben knows I complained, he’ll sideline me. I’m already not in the cold open. I can’t risk it. Let me handle this. My way.”

  “But he—” Will turned away. He was shaking. “He controls you. Can’t you see that? You’ve got to quit Varsity.”

  I shrugged. “I’m not going to. There’s too much at stake.”

  “Jesus, Zelda.” His shoulders sagged. “Let’s go eat. Maybe everyone else can convince you. Before your next rehearsal starts.”

  “Wait—I . . . I don’t have plans with the Gildas tonight,” I said. The disappointment crashed again.

  “Okay.” He caught my eye. “Who do you have plans with?”

  I shrugged. “Some Boy Scouts.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “Your Boy Scouts? Those hiking Boy Scouts?”

  I nodded and dug around in my bag for nothing.

  “All three of those Boy Scouts?”

  “Well, Jesse for sure, but probably Ricky and Murph, too. Jesse and I ran into each other when I was—”

  “You ran into each other?”

  “It’s feeling like an echo chamber around here,” I said.

  “Good God, Z. How do you go from no guys liking you—”

  “Thanks for that.”

  He ignored me. “To an older man—”

  “Ben’s only twenty,” I protested.

  “—And three all-American Boy Scouts all fighting for your attention?”

  “Jesse and Murph and Ricky are my friends,” I said firmly. “And Ben is . . .”

  “Trouble,” he finished. Then suddenly, he threw his arms around me. “I’m worried,” he muttered into my hair.

  I nodded and laid my head against his shoulder.

  “Tell me what to do to help.”

  I smiled and pulled back. “Thank you. I’ll handle Ben. I can think of something. But can you meet Jesse and the others? Tell them I’m at rehearsal? Seven p.m.—at the gate. Here. Let me write a note.”

  I grabbed a pen from my bag, a discarded cold open script from the stage, and scribbled on the back.

  Hey, Jesse (and Ricky and Murph—if you could peel yourselves away from all of your rock collecting and orienteering)—

  Last minute rehearsal, so I can’t make our walk. Can we try again tomorrow? Same time. Same place. Same me. Same you. Just a different day.

  The disappointment is all mine,

  Zelda

  P.S.—J—maybe leave the ax?

  “The ax?”

  I jumped. Will was reading over my shoulder.

  “Hey!” I yelped.

  “There are two inside jokes by my count.” He smiled.

  I folded the note and smiled a little, too. “So?”

  “Are you afraid they’re going to be mad?”

  “Of course not. I hope he—they’re disappointed. I sure am. But he won’t be angry.”

  “They.” He slid my note into his pocket.

  “Huh?”

  “They won’t be angry. You said ‘he.’ ” Will raised knowing eyebrows at me, which I ignored.

  “Okay. They won’t be angry.”

  “Is he—are they nice to you?” Will fiddled with the buttons on his shawl-collar cardigan—which, I noticed, he’d been wearing an awful lot since I pointed out that Jonas liked him in it.

  “Yes.”

  “Do they insist you not eat with your friends?”

  I lowered my eyes. “Will . . .”

  “Do they try and control your behavior or belittle you or—”

  “Will. I know Ben is not a good . . .”

  “Person.”

  “I was going to say boyfriend candidate,” I amended. “But I can handle him.”

  “. . . Okay. But these Boy Scouts . . .”

  “They are my friends,” I insisted. My stomach growled. “Murph has a girlfriend, Ricky has . . . rocks, and Jesse isn’t interested in me like that. Let’s go eat.”

  “How do you know?” Will pressed.

  “Because no one is,” I said flatly. “It turns out the only person who has ever wanted to be with me only wanted it to feel powerful.” My jazz hands tried to deflect some of the bitterness I felt.

  “Z—”

  “I’m tired of talking about this, Will. Let’s eat.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  About halfway through dinner, I tapped my fingers on the table. How was I going to avoid being in a room alone with Ben? Ben had said it was a required rehearsal, but I was pretty sure it was only required for me. Maybe if I got there before him . . .

  After inhaling dinner, I slipped away and dashed back to Gilda Radner. My heart thumped as I pulled open the closet where we had found the backup toilet bucket and located what I had been hoping for: a tool box. I took a flathead screwdriver and a hammer and for just a second, felt the weight of them in my hands. I shuddered and tucked them into my bag. Then I ran back to the Lodge.

  Most everyone was still eating, but as I climbed the top stair to the rehearsal rooms floor, Sirena was waiting for me.

  “Zelda, don’t go to this rehearsal.”

  “It’s fine, Sirena,” I said, panting. “I figured it all out.” I fished out the screwdriver and hammer and held them up.

  “You’re going to kill him?”

  “Jesus, no. I’m taking the doors off.”

  “What?”

  I opened the door to the rehearsal room and jammed the tip of the screwdriver into the bolt securing the bottom hinge and whacked the back of the screwdriver with the hammer. Then I pushed down on the screwdriver and the bolt popped up. I pulled it out.

  “If he can’t close the door, maybe he won’t . . . try anything.”

  Sirena’s mouth dropped open.

  “Help me with the one on top?” I asked.

  “Wait. This is crazy.”

  “Yes, it is, but I’m doing it.” I grabbed a rehearsal block, stood on it, and repeated the procedure. The bolt slid right out. “Steady the door?” I asked.

  Sirena grabbed it as I hopped down.

  “Okay, let’s put it in Rehearsal Room C.”

  “He’ll just put it back on.”

  “Ah, but he won’t because it’s going to be occupied.”

  “By who?”

  “Yes, Ellie. By who?”

  My heart dropped. I looked at my watch. 6:45. He was early.

  “What are you doing, Ellie?” he asked, smiling sweetly. “Are you maintenance in addition to being the talent?”

  I opened and closed my mouth. Sirena was still holding the door.

  “Let me get that for you.” He lifted the door out of Sirena’s hands and set it back into its hinges. “And the bolts?”

  I just stood there. He plucked them out of my fist and tapped them into place. He swung the door back and forth. “Good as new.” Smiling at Sirena, he said, “Time for our rehearsal. See you later, Sally.”

  “Sirena,” we corrected him.

  “Let’s go, Ellie.” He opened the door wide for me to pass by him.

  I locked eyes with Sirena.

  “I . . . I’d like to stay with Zelda,” she stammered.

  He ignored her. “We’ll start with Fun Fact.
” He passed into the rehearsal room and sat on a chair, notepad in hand. He faced the wall of mirrors, caught my eye, and clicked his pen. “Ready?”

  Sirena folded her arms. “I’d like to stay,” she repeated, louder.

  “That’s fine,” Ben said smoothly.

  Sirena and I exchanged a shocked look.

  “But before we start, I have something I’d like to say to you, Ellie.” He turned in his chair to face us.

  Sirena took a protective step toward me.

  “I’m sorry I yelled. You are perhaps the most talented female performer I’ve ever worked with, and it throws me off guard. You’re going places, Ellie. I’m just worried about your soft heart. I want to prepare it—prepare you—for the world out there. You know how Olympic athletes train at high altitudes so running at sea level is easier?”

  I shook my head—both because I didn’t know that, but also because I couldn’t make sense of what he was saying. I stepped closer to Sirena.

  “Well, I’m hoping if you can handle the man-vibe here, everything out there will be easier. I’m sorry it’s hard. But some day you’ll thank me.”

  It was what I wanted to hear, right? That he was sorry? That I was talented? But he’d said it before. And things didn’t get better—they got worse. And then cycled back to this apology part again. I felt trapped in an endless loop.

  “I—” I began. I looked over to Sirena who shrugged a tiny shrug as if to say, “What are you going to do?”

  I faced Ben. “Thank you. For apologizing . . . But look.” I took a step forward. “If I’m so talented, don’t you want to set me up for success when the improv reps are here? If I can’t be in the cold open because I’m the writer, can’t I at least get credit for the writing?”

  In the mirror’s reflection, I saw Sirena nod.

  “About that.” He shuffled through his notepad and pulled out the script. “I’ve made some changes. Thought we’d share writing credit.”

  I took the script from his outstretched hand and skimmed it.

  “Where’s the pilot?” I asked after a minute. I flipped the page over, read some more, then alarmed, asked, “Why did you change the end? These aren’t—you changed parts that were working really well.”

  Ben shrugged. “I have more experience than you do.” He smiled benignly.

 

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