“Let’s do the scene again, please? Just once more,” he says. “Let’s throw away the blocking we’ve set, and change everything.”
“Why?”
“Just for fun. Let’s follow any impulse that comes up, anything at all.”
“Like what?”
“It doesn’t matter. Laugh in the wrong place. Jump up and down. There are no wrong choices. Surprise me.”
The thrill I felt when we started tonight has disappeared completely. The concept of jumping up and down for no reason is irritating. I’m tired and I want to eat something bad for me and get into bed. James seems annoyingly actor-y to me now. I don’t want to “throw away” all the work we’ve put into the last few hours. I thought that’s why we put the work in, so we would know what we were doing and how we would do it when we performed for the class. This “throw it all away” idea seems pointless and self-indulgent. James is looking at me with his intense brown eyes, waiting for my answer. But there’s a sort of smile on his face, and I realize that he’s taunting me a little, he’s pushing me, even though he knows I don’t feel like being pushed. I don’t want to give in so easily.
“Jumping up and down is a dumb idea.”
“Which part is dumb: Is it the thought of jumping up and down, or the fact that I suggested you do it?”
“Both.”
“What else is dumb?” He’s enjoying himself. He’s enjoying watching me pout and be resistant. It’s all part of his challenge.
“This game. This is a dumb game.”
“What else?”
“I want to go home.”
“Start the scene.”
“What?”
“Go. Start the scene right now. Don’t censor yourself. Go.”
We’ve been using James’s actual front door as the door in the scene. So I step outside the apartment, preparing to enter like I’ve done dozens of times tonight, only this time I’m fuming. He’s just an actor in class, the same as me, and just because he has a few movies on his résumé doesn’t mean he gets to play director, too. Working with him a little has demystified him for me. I’m not as impressed by him as I was when we started. I definitely don’t want to do what he says anymore. I don’t want to play his stupid games.
I enter. The scene is the same, but different. I’m saying the same lines, but not in the careful way I was. I’m throwing things away that should be given great importance, and I’m exaggerating little words unnecessarily. It doesn’t always work or make any sense, but I don’t care. I want this to be over. I’m just looking for a way to get through it quickly, to satisfy whatever desire he has to mess with me. I feel reckless. Gone is the feeling I’ve had since our time together began, the feeling that I’m trying to win James over.
We’ve been rehearsing in the living space near the kitchenette by moving the small dining table and chairs back against the wall. It’s enough space to work in, but we’ve been limited by the presence of James’s bed, which takes up a lot of the room.
The scene we’re doing is the last scene from Act One, when Kate has finally exposed a lot of her story and becomes exhausted. She’s been running for hours and hasn’t slept in two days. “I just need to rest,” she says. “Just let me rest.” The stage directions say: “Kate lies on the floor and falls asleep.”
I’ve been following the stage directions, I’ve been saying those lines sleepily. This time, though, when I enter, I’m wide awake. I feel agitated. I can’t stop moving. I pace all around the room, looking everywhere but in James/Jeffrey’s face. For some reason I don’t want to look at his face anymore.
My gaze lands on James’s bed—his perfectly made, beautifully dressed bed, covered with a dark blue bedspread that might be silk.
I stop my pacing.
I rip off the blue silk bedspread and throw it in the air, not caring where it lands. There’s a soft down quilt underneath, and I pull that off, too, tossing it over my head and letting it pool on the floor. Then I strip back his top sheet, which isn’t easy, because it’s been tightly tucked underneath the corners of the mattress. The effort it takes is helpful, though, in a way. It’s reducing my frustration somehow to do something physical. I want to mess his bed up, I think—I deserve to. I’m tired. He’s bossy. He’s confusing. And people from Hoboken, New Jersey, should not have Southern accents.
Finally, having wrestled all the corners free, I raise the sheet up high so that the released fabric billows out like a sail above the bed. I shake it out a few more times before finally allowing it to come to a landing, settling softly over the mattress. Then I attack it again, scrunching it together in a ball to make it as wrinkled as possible. I take the crumpled mass and fashion it around myself, bandage-toga style, in an exaggeration of the confusing, messy, twisty way I like to sleep at home, and I collapse, twisted and tangled, right in the center of his bed.
I haven’t looked at James once since I started to dismantle his bed. I didn’t want to lose the unfamiliar, thrilling feeling that I don’t care what he thinks.
“I just need to rest,” I say, my face to the ceiling. “Just let me rest.”
There’s only silence in response, which makes sense because that’s the end of the scene, but it feels as though there should be more somehow. I’m not sure whether the scene’s over or we’re still doing this strange exercise. All I know is that I’m not going to be the one to break the spell. I’ll wait all night if I have to. He’s not going to be the one in control. I am.
I can feel his weight on the bed. I didn’t even hear him move there from across the room, but now he’s sitting on the bottom corner; I can tell by how his presence has shifted the mattress. He just sits there, not moving, for what seems like a very long time.
I feel the tips of his fingers as they lightly brush the top of my foot. They rest there, but only barely, like hands hovering above a typewriter, as if waiting for permission to start, but then his whole palm covers the top of my foot. His hand is warm and large enough that it can almost circle my whole foot, which he now grasps warmly and firmly, as if it’s a hand he’s shaking in greeting.
He’s touching my foot. He’s touching my foot.
I’ve never had my foot touched like this. I’m frozen in indecision. Maybe next he’ll move his hand up my leg, and then … oh God, when was the last time I shaved my legs? Is this a come-on of some kind? Some version of a first kiss? And if it is, what do I want to do about it? And if I want to do something about it, what’s the proper response when being approached, er, podiatrically? Also, my sheet-wrestling finale was so aggressive that I fear I’m kind of bound in place. I would have to perform some sort of awkward constricted sit-up in order to free my arms and untangle myself and properly see the expression on his face, and without seeing his face it’s hard to know how he intends this odd gesture, and therefore hard to know how I feel about it. I guess I could pull my foot away in protest, or wiggle my toes in encouragement, but both responses seem to make too strong a statement.
Before I can decide, James appears above me, straddling me, his arms fully extended on either side of my shoulders, as if he’s at the top of a push-up and I’m just the mat underneath. He’s not touching me at all, but his face is directly above mine, his hair falling forward. He’s smiling and his cheeks are red.
“You have no idea how amazing you are, do you?”
“Thanks,” I sputter, trying to move my arm so I can shift my body and turn away from him. But in my attempt to roll over, I realize I can’t move my arm, or any of my upper body, because I’m definitely stuck in the sheet. Normally I’d push my way out from under him, avoiding the intensity of the moment, but I can’t easily move, and I don’t want to ruin my apparently impressive performance with an awkward transition out of the bed. I’ll just lie here for a beat more and let him think I’m naturally this composed.
But he seems to be reading something into my stillness. He’s searching my face for something. I don’t know what.
“You have no idea how amaz
ing you are, do you?” he says again.
I didn’t know what to say the first time he said that, and I still have no idea how to respond. My face is burning. I wish I could move my arms. My legs have room to squirm a little, but it’s no compensation. I want to move off the bed but I’m tangled in the sheet, and it seems I’m powerless to tell him to let me get up. It’s as though my body is tied to my voice, and if they can’t agree to move together, I’m stuck.
“Uh … listen …”
But before I can say more, he kisses me, lightly, just once. There’s something so careful about his kiss. It’s almost chaste, as if he doesn’t want me to take his kissing too seriously. And something about the combination of feeling claustrophobic and being so close to him and having not been kissed in a long time and being kissed by him, but not really, makes my perfume-ad-lady bravery come forward in full force, and without planning it I hear myself say:
“Why don’t you kiss me for real?”
A look of surprise crosses James’s face, as if what I just said makes no sense at all.
Perfume-ad lady evaporates.
I’ve shocked him. I’ve made a mistake. But how could I have misread his signs? He touched my foot. He positively grasped it. And he kissed me. He’s still straddling me, for God’s sake.
But wait—the surprised look has evaporated. Maybe it was never there at all. James is gazing at me now with something more like—well, he’s sort of smoldering now, his cheeks so red he might be blushing. He lowers himself slowly onto one side of me, leaning his head on one hand, and traces the outline of my lips with his other hand, making me shiver.
And then, just like I asked, he kisses me for real.
Hours later I stagger to my feet. I hardly know what’s happened. At some point we got up and had some wine before falling back into bed, but I still haven’t eaten anything and the combination of fatigue, hunger, and kissing have made me delirious. I’m in a dream. I must be. I can’t have spent the last two hours making out with James Franklin. Thanks, Perfume Lady!
“I’m going to walk you home,” he says at the door, his palm cupping the back of my neck, pulling me closer. If I don’t leave soon, I’m in danger of not leaving at all.
“I told you, I’m fine. It’s not that far.”
“This street isn’t great at night.”
“That’s why I have this,” I say, showing him the canister of mace that hangs from my key chain. “I’m a real New Yohkah.”
“Tell me about it. I’m learning how tough you are.” He brushes a strand of hair out of my face and whispers in my ear, “After all, I was practically jumped by you tonight.”
I pull away from him, too abruptly, but I need to read the expression on his face. Is he kidding? I don’t like the sound of that.
“You weren’t … I wouldn’t say I jumped you exactly. You were plenty, uh … uh … jumpy, too, you know …” I sputter. I can’t get my words straight.
“Relax, Franny, I’m just teasing. I’ve wanted this to happen since that day on the street. I was just trying to keep it professional tonight, you know, just a little of Act Two to keep things interesting, but keeping the boundaries. But you. You really went there.” He pulls me close to him, pressing himself against me. “I’m glad you did. Really glad.”
He closes the door behind me after one last kiss, a kiss I’m only partially present for because my mind is racing. I practically run the whole way home, both because the neighborhood is creepily quiet and dark and because of the nagging feeling that I’ve done something I’m going to regret. How could he, in a million years, say I jumped him, even jokingly? And what was he talking about, “Act Two”? Our scene is from the end of Act One. He got it wrong, I’m pretty sure. I’ll have to look at the play again when I get home.
As I get closer to my neighborhood, I slow my pace. There’s nothing to worry about. The night is beautiful, cool, and still, and I’ve done enough jogging to slow down and feel warm. I want to savor the evening on my own before it fades. Tonight was amazing. The work was so exciting, and then what came after … I felt strong and smart and pretty with James—at least I did most of the time.
I pause at the steps of our building, and from the street I can see the glow of our living room light. Someone is home and awake.
I hope it’s Jane, home late from work with stories of Russell Blakely, and what it’s like to watch a movie star work on an actual movie set. It’s funny how close she is to it and yet how far away, working long hours for seventy-five dollars a day. Or maybe it’s Dan who’s up, writing at the dining room table, dreaming of his script making it into a science-fiction festival. We’re all working hard, but so far away from what we actually want to be doing. We’re all peering in at the window of a party we aren’t invited to yet, a party we wouldn’t know how to dress for, or what kind of conversation to make, even if we came as someone’s guest.
I bet it’s Dan who’s up, finished writing for the day and watching TV, his second beer resting precariously between his legs. He spills at least one beer a week on the hardwood floor because he doesn’t want to put the bottles on our “nice” coffee table, a table that Jane and I found and hauled up from the street corner on a trash day a few years back.
I don’t know why I’m thinking about Dan and that coffee table. I’ve stood outside long enough now that I’m starting to feel a chill. I should go to sleep before I can start worrying about what tonight means, if it means anything at all. I should go to bed for maximum beauty rest. I should get up early tomorrow and run. I vow to enter the house and greet whichever roommate is there and then go directly to my room, pausing only to look out the window and to see what Frank is watching on television, before moving directly to studying my scenes from The Blue Cabin, to ensure maximum retention of tonight’s work. Arturo DeNucci probably stays up and studies his lines, even after a long rehearsal. I’m sure James does, too. I’m tired, but tonight I feel like a real actor. A serious actor, on her way to becoming an authentic artist.
THE BLUE CABIN
ACT TWO, SCENE ONE
The curtain rises to reveal KATE as we left her at the end of ACT ONE, sleeping on the sheepskin rug near the fireplace. JEFFREY sits next to her. KATE stirs, throws off her covers. JEFFREY attempts to pull the blanket over her without disturbing her. She wakes just as he is covering her. He hovers over her, awkwardly.
JEFFREY. You have no idea how amazing you are, do you?
KATE. I should never have told you that story.
JEFFREY. (mocking her) You don’t, do you? You have no idea how amazing you are.
KATE. (pushing him away) It’s not funny anymore. Stop. I told you, I don’t need anyone’s help.
Shit. Oh shit.
18
It’s just as I always thought.
By mistakenly acting like someone with confidence, I found the real personality I always hoped was buried beneath the other one, the one I used to have, full of doubt and unattractively low self-esteem. By accidentally acting like the me I wanted to be, I’ve convinced someone I’m actually that person, and I’ve even nearly convinced myself. James and I have seen each other almost every night since the night we rehearsed our scene for the first time, and the thrill of it almost takes away the gnawing in my stomach that’s been a constant since the day I got fired from the club. Money. Where’s the money going to come from?
“So, you’re pretending to be someone else?” Jane asks, shaking her head in confusion. We’re having frozen margaritas at the Mexican place on Seventh Avenue the way we’ve done a hundred times before. But it’s one of the first nights I’ve been anywhere but James’s apartment and it feels strange here now, as if I’m visiting my old high school after having been away at college.
“No, it’s not like that,” I say, crushing a chunk of ice with my plastic straw. “I mean, yes, initially, I didn’t realize James was doing a line from the play we were working on, so I was bold by accident, but I actually feel like I found my real self in the process. I
’m more me than ever before. I feel like I’m finally becoming the person I was always supposed to be.”
“So you are pretending to be someone else.”
“Jane. Seriously. I think this could be the beginning of something.”
“So what happened to the girlfriend?”
“Penelope? They broke up,” I say, waving a tortilla chip dismissively. “She got that soap and changed her name. Can you believe it?”
Jane nods solemnly, but fixes her gaze just over my head and furrows her brow.
“Jane. Are you listening?”
“I’m just wondering. If, for some reason, you—the new you, that is—changed your name, would that somehow reverse the process you’ve recently undergone, making you less of the you you were always supposed to become, or would that make you somehow even more you?”
“Jane.”
“It’s very confusing.”
“Get this. She’s changed her name to Penny De Palma.”
“As in Brian De Palma?”
“See? That’s exactly what you’re supposed to think. She changed her name, which, fine, but she changed it so you associate her with a famous director. Isn’t that insane?”
“It’s either insane or really smart, I guess. Who knows? Maybe she’s actually related to Brian De Palma.”
“Why are you defending her?”
“I’m not defending her. I just said, who knows? And who cares? I don’t get why she bothers you so much.”
“It’s not that she—I’m not bothered. She’s just so fake, and it’s—she bugs me, that’s all.”
“So you’re not at all bothered. You’re just bugged.”
“That’s right.”
“You’re bugged more than bothered.”
“Yes.”
Jane nods gravely. “Well, she got your part, but you seem to have gotten her boyfriend. Seems like an even exchange.”
I can feel my whole body flush in a mixture of shame over my petty remarks about Penny and flashes from last night with James. Over the past few weeks, we’ve hardly been anywhere but his one-room apartment, but that seems to be the only room we need, at least for now. I try to stifle a giggle, but one rises to the surface and idiotically slips out.
Someday, Someday, Maybe: A Novel Page 17