by Jen Klein
But I’ve already pulled away and am walking toward the stage. From behind me, I hear her whispered “Oh shit,” but it’s too late.
I’m already in the light.
Both Tuck’s and Logan’s eyes get really big when I appear onstage in my white toga robes. I would go so far as to say that Tuck looks legitimately panic-stricken. But I only give them a half second of attention before turning to Milo. He’s staring up at me from the ground, and although he doesn’t look terrified like Tuck, he is certainly surprised.
Almost as surprised as I am.
I turn toward the stadium seating of the amphitheater, which—of course, with my luck—is packed. I have no idea where Marin and Sarah are in the blur of faces, but I’m sure that wherever they are, they’re shocked as hell to see me march out here. I put one fist on my hip and use my other hand to point at Logan. “You are right, Pollux,” I call out loudly, like the principal actors do when they’re saying their lines. “You should not have come here.”
In my peripheral vision, the other actor-technicians huddle together, watching me. Stunned.
“But since you have done that,” I continue, “now you must…” Deal with it, deal with it, deal with it…what’s Grecian for “deal with it”? I glance up at the production booth for inspiration, but there’s none to be had, since, even from here, I can see that Nikki is looking down at me with a face of fury. “Reap what you have sown!” I spit it out really fast, and then slow myself down for a second crack at the improvised line. This time, I intone it all deep and solemn. “Now you must reap what you have sown.”
Logan takes a step toward me. “How so…Olympian Muse?” He winks. Thank Zeus and the rest of the gods, mythological or otherwise, Logan—of all people—is playing along.
“I too have lost someone today,” I tell him, with a glance down at Milo, who has to listen to me this time, since he’s all dead and crap. “I lost him because I—like you—was fighting the wrong war.”
I jerk my gaze back to Logan, who tilts his head so the audience can tell he’s asking me for answers. “Pray tell, oh Muse.”
“Yeah.” Tuck finally manages to spit out some words. “Pray tell?”
“That warrior.” I point dramatically at Milo. I think I can detect the tiniest twitch in the corners of his lips. Like he’s trying not to smile. I manage to find enough self-control so that I don’t fling myself on top of him. Instead, I stay right where I am, one finger poised in his direction.
“Achilles?” Logan asks helpfully.
“Yes.” I nod, and then—because I don’t think it was visible to the audience—I do it again, more emphatically. “I have lost my chance to tell him…” I trail off, my heart thudding wildly against my chest. Milo’s upstage hand, the one hidden from the audience by his body, is moving. Although the rest of him stays still, that hand slides toward me. Just a tiny bit. And his fingers splay open in the dirt. He wants me to come closer.
I take two steps toward Milo’s fake-dead body, and then glance up into the production booth again. Nikki is leaning over the controls, watching me intently. I’m sure if this was a regular stage—the kind that’s indoors and not carved into the side of a mountain—she’d have brought the curtain down on me already. But here…she’s kind of stuck.
I take another step…and another. Until I’m close enough that I could kick Milo with a sandaled foot if I wanted to. I turn back to Logan and say the words I should have said weeks ago. “I have lost the chance to tell him that I love him.”
“You love him, huh?” Logan looks totally amused. He’s getting a kick out of this. “Speak more, Muse.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “I love him, all right, Pollux?”
Oops, doesn’t sound very Grecian.
I turn back to look at Milo just as I feel his fingers slide around my ankle, caressing it gently. “I love you,” I tell him. Then I glance up at the audience. “I love you, Achilles,” I say louder. “I only wish we could have had more time together.”
Then, from behind us all, there’s a thunderous roar that makes me jump. “Your wish is granted!”
Milo’s eyes widen, and I—along with the audience—turn to see Hugh…I mean, Zeus. He’s standing on the upstage boulder, pointing down at us. “War is bad,” he bellows. “Love is good.”
Aaaaand…this is why actors need writers. Still, I appreciate the sentiment.
“Rise!” Zeus’s command is deep and deafening. It’s the most godlike he’s sounded all summer. “Rise, Achilles!” He points at Milo. “Live for love!”
Holy shit.
Nikki is going to kill us all.
As I whirl frontward, I catch a glimpse of Tuck and Logan. Tuck looks horrified, but Logan has a huge grin plastered across his face. Who knew that Logan’s redeeming quality would end up being his willingness to improv along with me?
I squint against the stage lights that seem to be blazing brighter than ever. It takes me a few seconds to recognize it’s not just my fevered brain. Up in her booth, Nikki has gone along for the ride. She’s decided that if we’re going to force ourselves into the spotlight, we might as well get the actual spotlight. The audience is a giant indistinct shadow somewhere before me as my section of the stage flares and something brushes against my shins.
I don’t have to look down. It’s Milo. He’s rising at Zeus’s command and at my impassioned declaration. He stands there, inches from me, all dark eyes and angles and perfect mouth, and we just stare at each other for a moment. Then he reaches out and sets his hands on my shoulders. I raise them just slightly under his touch, wanting to feel more of his warm palms against my skin. His gaze leaves my eyes, skimming up to my hairline before plunging back down to my lips. I feel pressure against my shoulders. He’s turning me, cheating out for the audience so he’s not blocking me.
“Thanks for raising me from the dead.” He says it quietly so there’s no way anyone on the aluminum bench seats can hear him. From where they sit, we’ll look like two reunited lovers sharing a private moment.
Which—maybe—is what we are.
“I want you to kiss me,” I whisper, and watch the smile spread over his face.
“That would be a very obvious move,” he says. “The message is not hidden at all.”
“Good.” I rise up on tiptoe and slide my hands up his arms, linking them together behind his neck so I can pull his head down to mine. His mouth is warm and firm, and, from the way he kisses me, I can tell he’s been wanting to do this for a long time. Maybe as long as I have.
As the opening strains of the mournful dirge start blaring from the speakers, it takes me a second to recognize that the sound underneath it is applause. Two thousand people out there are clapping for us. For our kiss. For the surprising ending to this uniquely inaccurate play.
Even though the very last thing I want is to lose contact with the deliciousness of Milo’s mouth, I pull back so I can look up at him. His pupils are huge and liquid, his brown irises a soft line around them. He touches my temple with one finger, tracing it down the side of my face to my chin. “When I was taking pictures of you, I probably should have mentioned that I find you very beautiful.”
“It was implied,” I tell him, and stretch for another kiss. It’s a really good one.
Behind us, the other cast members are making their way across the stage. This time, there’s nothing mournful or dirgelike about their singing. In fact, it sounds almost like a song of victory. As Milo and I pull apart, I catch a flash of Ella. She’s grinning and practically doing a high step as she marches along.
Milo jerks his chin toward the line of our coworkers. “Think we should join them?”
“Eh.” I shake my head. “We’re kinda doing our own thing over here.”
“You are crazy,” he murmurs.
“I caught the crazy this summer.”
He laughs and leans forward to nuzzle my nose with his own. “Must be contagious.”
“Kiss me again, please,” I tell him.
And he does.
A lot.
I walk across the bedroom floor, my black boots echoing loudly against the wood. Yep, just like I figured. There it is: a jacket at the foot of the bed.
Again.
I snag the jacket and take three steps past it to the rug, where there’s a crumpled shirt lying. Next to it, a pair of pants. I roll my eyes.
Tuck Brady.
I grab up all the clothing and stalk out past the heavy red curtain and down the stairs to the backstage area. I barge right into the boys’ dressing room, which makes Wendell squeal and leap to cover his underwear-clad self with a towel. I ignore him, dropping the jacket, shirt, and pants onto the lap of their rightful owner. I fold my arms, glaring down at him.
Tuck gives me a look of apology. “Sorry…”
“You are very pretty when you’re not wearing most of your clothes,” I tell him. “But if you don’t put your costume away after one-act rehearsals, I will make it my personal mission to screw up your light cues so drastically that the audience will never have a chance to see any of”—I gesture to his body—“that. Got it?”
“You’re kind of a hard-ass when you’re on the crew,” Tuck says.
“You’re kind of a doink when you’re one of my cast,” I retort, shaking my head.
And yet we smile at each other.
Actors.
I’m all the way to the door when he calls me back. “Hey, Rain. Are you bringing Sarah to the party?”
“I don’t know.” I lean against the doorjamb, regarding him. “Are you still smoking?”
“No.” He says it immediately but then follows it up with: “Mostly no.”
“Then yes. Maybe yes.”
“C’mon, Rain.” He looks pleading. “She’s killing me.”
“Sarah doesn’t like boys who smoke.” I give him a pointed look and head out. I don’t have time for Tuck’s romantic troubles tonight. I’m already late.
Outside the school, I join the stream of students and parents making their way toward the entrance to the football field. I scan the crowd, searching…searching…
There he is.
Milo leans against a post at the main gate, his legs crossed at the ankle. He raises a hand in greeting, and my heart swells. It’s only been five days since we last saw each other, but still. Apparently, this is just how it is now.
I trot toward him, and he swings away from the gate to meet me, enfolding me in his arms. I run my hands beneath his jacket, sliding around his rib cage to link behind his back, and tilt my face up for a kiss. He obliges, and—as always—it’s so damn good.
When, after a moment, Milo pulls away, I yank him back into me. “One more,” I tell him.
“You’re bossy when you’re in rehearsals.” He clocks my grin. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing. Just kiss me,” I order.
And he does.
Finally, we come up for air again, but only after a freshman tells us to get a room. Milo checks out what I’m wearing: black jeans and a matching sweatshirt. “Are you going to be warm enough?”
He has a point. It’s mid-October, which means it’ll be chilly by the end of the game. “We might have to cuddle.”
“Approved.” He laces his fingers through mine and we head through the main gate, stopping long enough for me to fork over a pair of tickets. “Your side or mine?”
“My home game, my side,” I inform him.
“Ugh.” Milo pulls a look of mock horror. “I’ll get killed over there.”
“So don’t cheer for the marching apples, whatever.” I grin up at him. “I’ll make it up to you at intermission.”
“How?”
“Oh, I don’t know….” I shoot him a sideways glance. “But it might involve us alone, under the bleachers.”
“Tempting.” He runs his fingers through his crow-black hair, pretending to consider my offer. “You know it’s called halftime, you theater nerd.”
“I know that.” I stop walking so I can pull him in for another kiss. This time, his fingers tease under the lower edge of my sweatshirt. Goose bumps rise along my waist, and all I want is to stay there forever, but we have an audience, so I pull away. After all, this isn’t Zeus! “Intermission,” I tell him.
“Fine.” He takes my hand again. “Where do you want to sit?”
“The thirty-yard line,” I tell him, and watch his eyebrows wing upward.
“Are you always so specific about football?”
“Ella and Bradley are saving us seats.”
“Ah.” Milo smiles at me. It makes me wish that intermission—I mean, halftime—would hurry up and get here. “Then we’ll sit with Ella and Bradley,” he says.
“Don’t forget about the cuddling,” I remind him.
“Oh, I haven’t.” That smile again. He’s killing me. “Don’t worry.”
The great thing about it is this: I wasn’t actually worried.
Not at all.
ACT I
SCENE 1
Eros and Eris (subpar gods) tell about ancient Greece. Greek chorus (me!) explains story for audience. Zeus falls in love with Leda during her ballet solo, turns himself into swan. Swan Zeus woos Leda via dance, carries her offstage for hot poultry love.
SCENE 2
Chorus sings while Helen and Pollux (not chickens) hatch from giant eggs. She is most beautiful woman on earth (gag), he is not. Plan: Helen will be given in matrimony to King Menelaus of Sparta. Pollux: “Wait, what about me? (squawk!)”
SCENE 3
Greek forest. Goddesses Hera, Aphrodite, Athena waltz. Fine until Eris (subpar god of discord) crashes party, tosses golden apple of plaster discord, and says prettiest goddess gets it. Commence goddess throwdown. Zeus doesn’t like fighting and says he’ll get the most handsome man to choose the prettiest goddess (WHATEVER!).
SCENE 4
Paris looks in mirror and practices special self-talk about own handsomeness. Greek chorus agrees. Hera, Aphrodite, Athena show up: “Which of us is the prettiest?” Each promises a gift if Paris picks her. Aphrodite’s gift is most beautiful woman on earth. Paris is into that, so he picks her.
SCENE 5
Paris and army sail across Aegean Sea to Sparta. (“Sea” made of blue cloth…v. heavy.) Lights up on Menelaus garden, where Helen chills with friends. Eros (subpar god of love) shows up with plans to upset the apple cart: “Get it, APPLE cart, like the golden apple of discord?!” Eros shoots Helen in boob with love arrow. SO IN LOVE. Paris taking her back to Troy. At the last second, Pollux decides to come too: “Sounds like fun!”
SCENE 6
Greeks (green togas) prepare for war against Trojans (white togas). Four Greek maidens carry flaming arrows, dance around fire pits. King Menelaus (big green outfit, big green headdress, biggest flaming arrow) screams, dances, screams more. Chorus: “THIS IS WAR.” Stage goes black.
INTERMISSION
ACT II
SCENE 1
Chorus tells everyone that ten years of war have passed. Big polka number. Even gods take sides and fight. Zeus finally sick of it: “Enough!” Gods stop fighting, but Greeks and Trojans do not.
SCENE 2
Helen and Paris hold hands in Trojan garden (gross). Pollux happily watches sister and bromance-bro. Battle sounds in distance. Helen/Pollux duet. Helen’s part is about how much she loves Paris. Pollux’s part is the same, but it’s all about their bro-love. Paris apparently can’t hear them singing right next to him. Crux of duet: relationships can start in deception but end in love because “look how happy everyone is now.” Pollux: “Except for all the deaaaaaaad people!”
SCENE 3
Greeks (loud stage whispers) say they’re leaving because they’ve been beaten—“But there’s no room for THIS”—and exit stage. Two Trojans: “No room for WHAT?” Trojans go offstage and come back pulling giant wooden horse. Trojans think it’s their new trophy (stupid Trojans) and have victory dance.
SCENE 4
Fake moon rises, spotlight on horse. It OPENS,
and Greeks sneak out. Chorus (helpfully): “The horse is hollow!” Greeks open city gates and run inside. Sun rises.
SCENE 5
Battle: swords, punching, cannons. Blood galore. Tide turns toward Trojans. Paris kills Greeks’ greatest hero, Achilles (hate it). Battle seems to be over. Most Greeks dead. Pollux goes to high-five Paris, all tired after war, when Zeus shows up. He’s pissed again. Zeus: “For Achilles!” Zeus throws lightning at Paris, kills him super dead. Pollux catches Paris. Pollux: stirring monologue about travesties of war. Eros and Eris lead trudging march and mournful dirge.
CURTAINS
(except there’s no curtain)
Much and many thanks to the following army of awesome…
My Carol-Carol Used-To-Be-Barlow Sigmon, for making me go to that first audition.
Maria “Maris” Moore, who grew up to teach theatre and is damn good at it.
David Furr, who is now a star.
Chet Longley, for helping me figure out why I wanted to write about this “fading institution” and why it hasn’t really faded at all.
Noelle McKay, with whom I got lost in the woods, the story of which is now a thing of legend.
Sarah Horstman, for keeping the world spinning in the correct direction.
Nina Berry, for always reading proposals when I’m on deadline and desperate.
Chelsea Eberly, for gentle guidance and extraordinary vision.
Lisa Gallagher, my champion as always.
Mallory Loehr, Michelle Nagler, Elizabeth Tardiff, Barbara Bakowski, Jocelyn Lange, Josh Redlich, and the entire sparkling Random House world.
My big, nutty, chaotic extended family—parents, grandparents, sisters, cousins, aunts, uncles, everyone—for the inspiration, the support, and sometimes the names.