by Jen Klein
Nikki stations the rest of us in a half arc against the back of the stage, where we are to watch the action and participate in the chorus of the song. “Who doesn’t have a line yet? Raise your hands.”
A half-dozen hands—including my own—shoot into the air. It’s not that I want to speak out loud from the stage, but if I am forced to do it, at least it would be nice if it’s in a scene with Tuck. Like we are acting together.
“Keep them up,” Nikki tells us. While we stand with our arms in the air, she and Del have a whispered confab. After a moment, she writes something on the script in her binder. “Okay, hands down. Bianca, you have the first chorus line on page twenty-two. Let’s hear it.”
A girl with long pink hair steps forward from our half arc. “However will you choose, Paris? They’re all so pretty.”
Del Shelby gives her a thumbs-up and, satisfied, Bianca returns to her spot.
“Great.” Nikki checks her script. “Rainie, same page at the bottom. The last chorus line.”
I scan the page and find my line. Horror rises inside me. I would rather run around the stage butt-naked than say this thing to Tuck in front of everyone. I jerk my gaze back to Nikki, who is waiting expectantly. “Go ahead.”
I look at Tuck. He gives me an encouraging smile. I step forward—because there’s no way to wriggle out of this gracefully while all these people are here—and I say my awful, awful line. “Hey, Paris, how about picking a mortal instead? Like me? Please? Please?”
Except apparently I say it too quietly and too fast, because Nikki waves her hand at me—speak up—and I try again. This time, Del Shelby ambles over. “Hey, honey. New this year, right?” I nod, and he points to my script page. “You’re doing great. Just give me a pause between the two ‘pleases’ and add some desperation, okay? You want this guy. Sell me on that.” Del gestures to Tuck. “Paris, give her the reaction line.” He points to the two girls flanking me, Ella and a girl named Lori. “Then you guys pull her back, like you’re saving her from more embarrassment. Everyone got it?”
This is literally the worst thing that has ever happened to me: basically begging Tuck to love me before getting dragged away from him because I’m just too pathetic.
But since I can’t say that, instead I spit out my line: “Hey, Paris, how about picking a mortal instead? Like me? Please?” I wait until Del points at me before I say the last word. “Please?”
From center stage, Tuck-as-Paris throws me an incredulous look, as if to say, Why would you be so stupid as to even think I might be interested in you? But aloud he says only, “Uh…no thank you.”
“Great!” Del Shelby claps his hands. “We’ll hold a second for laughter—”
It just keeps getting better.
“—and then you’ll be pulled back by your friends. Let’s run that again.”
So we do. Thrice more. By the last time, I’ve perfected my despondent slump when Tuck—I mean, Paris—rejects me. I definitely wouldn’t call it acting, though, because I’m not acting at all.
I would trade my line for Ella’s stupid skunk costume any day of the week.
I stayed up late last night, reading the whole play from beginning to end and typing up a cheat sheet for myself. I finally understand what’s going on, but exhaustion meant I was pretty out of it this morning…and I forgot all about Nikki’s instructions. Everyone else in the dressing room is wearing ratty black or beige underwear that never should have seen the light of day. I look down at my pale yellow lace panties and matching bra.
They’re about to get wrecked.
The rest of my clothes are in my assigned locker while I stand with Ella and a half-dozen other girls in the communal shower of the women’s dressing room. The ceiling is low over my head, and the tile floor is cool and damp under my bare feet. The makeup assistant—a young woman dubbed “Makeup Mandy” by the rest of the cast—hands out damp sponges and plastic spray bottles filled with green latex paint. I don’t want to be on display for these people I don’t know, but there’s no way out of it. Besides, no one else seems to be bothered in the least. Not the pink-haired girl, who, now that she’s nearly naked, I can see is covered in tattoos; not my scene buddy Lori, who is built like an Amazon and apparently isn’t interested in wearing a bra; and not Ella, who is shorter than me, curvier than me, and clearly much more confident than me.
“Bianca, you’re first.” Mandy beckons Bianca forward and, without any additional warning, squirts her with the spray bottle. A splotch of green blossoms across Bianca’s stomach.
She squeals in response. “It’s cold!”
“Rub it in.” Mandy demonstrates by swiping Bianca with a sponge, spreading the green over her sides. “Everyone else, start squirting. And help each other out. If you see someone missing a patch, let them know.”
There’s a pause while we all stand around, uncertain. Then Ella grabs a bottle and unceremoniously blasts me in the thigh. I squeal like Bianca. She wasn’t just being a dramatic theater girl—the paint is freezing.
“Three minutes.” Mandy is holding a stopwatch. “On a performance night, that means you only have two left until you’re supposed to be onstage. So unless you want to be out there in your underwear, I suggest you speed it up.”
We start squirting and sponging like mad, and very quickly we’re all green from our hairlines to our toes. Once we’re done, we rush to our lockers; in each hangs a dress the same color as our newly painted skin. I yank mine over my head and tug it down. It barely skims the tops of my knees.
“Go!” Mandy yells at us. I follow Ella and the rest of the girls in a mad dash from the dressing room.
On the wooden deck, an assistant stage manager is also yelling “Go!” and gesturing toward the amphitheater. We charge out of the wings as a stream of equally green boys are pouring from the other side. Nikki directs us into our standard semicircle at the back edge of the stage, where we’re told to situate ourselves in boy-girl order and to link arms with the people next to us. I find myself on the end of the arc, and as I slide my right arm between a hard biceps muscle and a naked rib cage, I realize they belong to Milo.
I also notice (again) that he’s tall. And angular. And (for the first time that I’ve seen) wearing very, very little.
Which suits him.
It is not a thought I can have, so I try to shake it off. I pretend that I don’t notice it’s him.
More specifically, I pretend that I don’t notice his body.
But Milo has no such compunctions about me. “You look like an elf,” he tells me.
I compose myself enough to answer him. “Well, you look like an alien.” It’s less weird than saying what I truly think, which is that he looks like he belongs in a museum. One with a gallery featuring a display of sculpted Greek gods.
Yeah, there’s no way to deny it. Ella’s ex-boyfriend is hot.
But maybe I’m only noticing it because (A) he’s half-naked, and (B) Tuck is not in this scene.
Del Shelby and the choreographer saunter onto the stage, and we walk through the basic steps of the final moments before intermission. We will continue to hang out upstage in our semicircle while four dancers—also completely in green—come out carrying flaming arrows. The dancers will flail around for a little bit before flinging their arrows into four fire pits.
Then King Menelaus shows up. He’s yet another green dude, but he’s bigger than everyone else and wears a super-crazy giant headdress. Also, he’s seriously pissed because in the last scene—while I was slathering myself in paint—Paris crashed his castle and snagged his wife, Helen of Troy. Paris had goddess-permission to do it, because Aphrodite, desperate to get that stupid golden apple, promised Paris the most beautiful woman on earth if he would only proclaim her—Aphrodite—the most beautiful goddess.
I lean toward Milo. “These goddesses have major self-esteem issues.”
“It doesn’t make any sense,” he agrees in a whisper as King Menelaus rages across the stage. “They’re grown-ass goddesse
s. Why do they give a crap how some stupid boys think they look?”
“It’s a terrible message.”
“The worst.”
“Also, what makes Paris so qualified to judge female beauty?”
“Good point.” Milo shrugs. “But whatever. I didn’t write it.”
Nearby, King Menelaus waves two huge arrows over his head while he tantrums around. Finally, he stops on his mark at the center of the stage, where Del Shelby directs him to give a “war whoop.” Menelaus lets out something that sounds more like a baby donkey braying, which makes me feel a little relieved. At least I’m not the only one who underplays their lines….
Del makes Menelaus whoop again, and the third time he gets it right. Those of us in the chorus somberly intone, “This is war.” Nikki explains that during a real performance, this is when all the lights will go off, the arrows will be extinguished, and the stage will be plunged into darkness. We’re supposed to run offstage under cover of night.
I practice running as instructed, and nearly bowl over Ella. She gives me a dirty look even though I say, “Sorry!”
“Where were you in the line?” she asks me.
“Stage left.” I say it with more authority than I feel, as I’m still making sense of the directions around here.
“Next to Milo.” Ella’s voice is level. Calm. I can’t tell what she’s thinking.
“Yeah.” I push past her into the locker room. “Next to Milo.”
•••
The next day is a tiny respite. Del Shelby is going to work with the principals on their deep, meaningful moments, and the choreographer will be onstage with the featured dancers. We peasants—I mean actor-technicians—don’t have to be there until midafternoon, so Ella and I get to sleep in.
When we awaken—conveniently at the same time—we find Annette just leaving for work. She looks like a waitress in a movie: crisp white button-up over black pants, little red apron, high ponytail. She pauses in the apartment doorway to invite us to the restaurant for lunch. “We have great sandwiches, and I can give you the family discount. It’s a good deal.”
Ella and I look at each other. She gives a tentative nod, I do the same, and three hours later I’m pulling into Bel Giardino’s gravel parking lot. We get out and head toward the faux-brick building graced by an awning of red, green, and white stripes. The windows are painted with cartoon renderings that someone must think of as authentically Italian: a heaping bowl of spaghetti with meatballs, a pizza, and a chubby chef in a white suit with a red neck scarf.
“It’s supposed to be the best restaurant in town,” Ella says as she holds open a door for me.
Just inside, we find ourselves in a lobby that is small and dark and lined with red benches. It smells like garlic and freshly baked bread. Suddenly, I remember that all I had for breakfast was one of Ella’s strawberry yogurts.
A college-aged—or maybe slightly older—dude in a red vest looks up from his position behind a host stand. His nametag says Vic and, under that, Assistant Manager.
“Two for lunch.” He sounds bored. “Table or booth?”
“Booth,” Ella and I say together.
“Let me see if we have one open.” He scours his clipboard, which of course doesn’t make sense, since he’s the one who just asked us what we wanted.
Ella steps forward. “Can we be in Annette’s section?”
Vic the Assistant Manager perks up. “Are you her guests?” When we both nod, he beams. “Why didn’t you say so? Which one of you is her sister?” Ella raises her hand, and the wattage of Vic’s smile increases. He grabs a couple burgundy-leather-bound menus. “Right this way.”
We follow Vic down a narrow hall and into a larger room with a black-and-white-checkered floor and red-and-white-checkered tablecloths. Low copper lamps hang above all the seating areas, about half of which are filled with customers. The walls are decorated with oil paintings of Italian streets. As Vic waves us into a corner booth, Annette comes out of an arched doorway that probably leads to the kitchen. She gives a little squeal and trots over for hugs. “See, I said you’d get the royal treatment.”
Vic smiles at us. “Enjoy your meals.” He heads back toward the lobby.
Ella and I slide into opposite sides of the booth as a busboy in a red bow tie arrives with a plastic pitcher of ice water. If nothing else, Bel Giardino is consistent with its employees’ accessories. The busboy pours, edging around Annette as she opens our menus and starts pointing at entrées. “We’re kinda known for our pizza wrap, but the meatball sandwich is to die for. The chicken pesto is awesome too. Cory here”—she gestures to the bow tie guy—“can start you off with drinks. What do you want?”
Cory—who by the way is very cute and blond—gives Annette a slow smile before regaling us with a list of nonalcoholic fountain and bottled beverages. I order a Coke. Ella asks for a water with lime and is told they only have lemon.
As Cory heads off, Annette leans close to our table. “The guys who work here are the best.”
After Annette takes our orders and Cute Cory brings our drinks, Ella and I are left sitting across from each other. It’s awkward, to say the least. Sure, we’ve agreed to a meal together. That doesn’t change the facts: she’s blackmailing me to stay in town, and I’m pissing her off by being friendly to her ex.
However, we do share a history, an apartment, and—I’m assuming—a desire for a peaceful lunch. I decide to wave the white flag. A temporary one. I motion to her water with lemon. “Sorry about your subpar citrus.”
“I did assume there would be multiple garnish options.” Ella stirs her water with her straw. “Bel Giardino has a bar, after all.”
“You should have asked for cherries.”
“So I can show off my newly acquired tongue-tying skills?”
“Yup.” I take a sip of my Coke. “How was the acquiring of those skills, anyway?”
“You mean, how was Gretchen?” Ella eyes me. “You can just ask. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”
“Is she…” I’m not sure what I want to know. Is she funnier than me? Is she smarter and cooler and better than me? Is she going to marry Tuck and bear his children? “Is she nice?”
“She’s not not nice.” Ella looks at me like she’s considering what to say next. “So what are you going to do about Tuck?”
“I don’t know what I can do.” Other than admit that everything I thought when I came here was completely wrong.
“Well, are you getting to know him? Like we talked about?”
“I guess so.” I don’t mention that the person I seem to be getting to know best is Ella’s ex-boyfriend. “I just don’t…” I trail off, because saying what’s in my brain is too hard. It makes me feel naked, and I’ve already been more naked than I care to be in front of a bunch of people I don’t know. And I still don’t even know Ella. At least, not anymore. Not really.
But Ella finishes my sentence for me. “You don’t know if it’s worth it.”
“Yeah.” Again, I omit part of my thought: Or if I screwed up again. Wanted the wrong thing again. Can’t figure myself out.
Again.
“Well, I think it is.” Ella eyes me across the table. “What he said—about how he was glad you came—I think he meant it. It’s just that—” She stops, cocking her head to the side. Like she’s weighing something.
“What?”
“I think he meant it. That’s all.” She takes a sip of water, and the conversation is over.
We sit in silence until Cute Cory returns with the fried mozzarella sticks I ordered as an appetizer. “I brought extra marinara sauce.” He sets the basket between us on the table. “Since you’re Annette’s friends.”
“I’m her sister,” Ella specifies.
“Even better.” Cory grins at her before glancing back at me. “No offense.”
“None taken.”
Ella and I manage to make small talk through the cheese sticks and most of the entrée (shrimp scampi for me, a meatbal
l sandwich for Ella). Even if we wanted to have deep conversation, we couldn’t, because we’re constantly interrupted by the stream of waitstaff coming over to say hello. Clearly, Annette is the beloved belle of the Bel Giardino ball.
As we’re finishing our lunches, Annette shows up again to ask if we want anything else. Ella sticks to her lemon water, but I ask for an espresso. While we wait for it to arrive, Ella glances around the restaurant. She leans across the table toward me. “Hey, Rainie, who wouldja?”
I blink at her. “Huh?”
“Remember how we used to play that?” Ella grins, and I’m taken back to sixth grade—our first year in middle school—when we were suddenly thrown into the deep end of a much larger social pool. To cope, we started playing this game in every classroom we were in. At the time, the implied word at the end of the sentence was “kiss,” but now that we’re older, I think it might be a different verb….
“Okay, one sec.” I scan the room. Two tables over, there’s a dude in a beret who’s scribbling in a notebook. The seat across from him is occupied by a guitar, so maybe he’s writing lyrics.
“That’s a reasonable option.” Ella is looking at the same dude. “Maybe he’d play a song after the deed is done.”
“Wait, you think that’s a plus?”
Cute Cory appears at our table with my espresso. “Can I get you anything else?”
We tell him no and watch him walk away. When he’s out of earshot, I turn to Ella, but she says it first—“Dibs!”
“Damn.” That busboy is definitely the best option in this place.
“How old do you think he is?”
“Twenty, maybe?” Ella grins. “God, if that’s how boys grow up, I can’t wait for college.”
“Why do you have to wait?” I return her grin. “We’re here. Give him your number.”
“Gross, no.”