by M. L. Rio
“Oh my God.” I seized both his wrists and pulled him toward me, the abashment of the previous moment forgotten. Bruises in raw, vivid blue spotted the undersides of his arms, all the way to his elbows. “James, what is this?”
“Finger marks.”
I let go of his left arm like I’d been electrocuted. “What?”
“The assassination scene,” he said. “When I stab him the last time, he goes down on his knees and grabs my arms and … well.”
“Has he seen this?”
“Of course not.”
“You have to show him,” I said. “He might not even know he’s hurting you.”
He looked up at me with a flash of annoyance. “When was the last time you left a mark like this on someone and didn’t know you were doing it?”
“I’ve never left a mark like that on anyone, ever.”
“Exactly. You’d know if you had.”
I realized I was still holding his other wrist and abruptly let go. He rocked backward, unbalanced, as if I’d been pulling him forward before. He brushed his fingers along the inside of his arm, biting hard on his bottom lip like he was afraid to open his mouth, afraid of what might come out.
Suddenly I was furious, my pulse throbbing softly in my ears. I wanted to give Richard ten bruises for every one he’d put on James, but I could never hope to hurt him, not like that, and my own inefficacy made me angrier than anything else.
“You have to tell Frederick and Gwendolyn that he’s doing this,” I said, more loudly than I meant to.
“Like a snitch?” James said. “No, thank you.”
“Just Frederick then.”
“No.”
“You have to say something!”
He pushed me back a step. “No, Oliver!” He glanced away, into some empty corner of the room. “You promised me you wouldn’t say a word, so don’t.”
I felt a little prick of pain, as if something had stung me. “Tell me why.”
“Because I don’t want to give him the satisfaction,” he said. “If he knows how easily he can hurt me, what’s going to make him stop?” His eyes darted back to my face, a glint of gray. Imploring and apprehensive. “He’ll give up if he doesn’t think it’s working. So promise me you’re not going to say anything.”
My guts clenched like someone had kicked me in the stomach. What I wanted to say was elusive, inapproachable, just out of reach. I grasped the nearest bedpost and leaned on it. My head was heavy with confusion, fury, and some other fierce thing I couldn’t identify.
“James, this is so fucked up.”
“I know.”
“What are we going to do?”
“Nothing. Not yet.”
SCENE 3
During dress rehearsal the following night I didn’t take my eyes off Richard, but as it happened, when he went too far I wasn’t the only one watching.
We had just finished Act II, Scene 1, which included Brutus’s conference with the conspirators, his conference with Portia, and his conference with Ligarius. (How on earth James kept all of his lines straight, I had no idea.) Wren and Filippa had exited stage right and were peering curiously around the curtain. James and Alexander and I had exited stage left and waited restlessly in the dense darkness of the wings for our next entrance: Three-One, the assassination scene.
“How much time do you think I have?” Alexander asked, a hoarse whisper over his shoulder.
“For a smoke?” I said. “Enough, if you go now.”
“If I’m late coming back, stall for me.”
“How am I supposed to do that?”
“Pretend you’ve forgotten a line or something.”
“And invoke the wrath of Gwendolyn? No.”
Wren put her finger to her lips on the opposite side of the stage, and James nudged Alexander with one elbow. “Stop talking. They can hear you on the other side.”
“What scene is this?” Alexander asked, in a lower voice.
Richard had already entered—tieless and coatless—and was talking with a servant, played by one of our inexhaustible second-years.
“Calpurnia,” I murmured.
As if I had somehow summoned her, Meredith appeared between the two center columns, barefoot and wearing a short silk bathrobe, arms tightly folded.
Alexander whistled under his breath. “Would you look at her legs? I guess that’s one way to sell tickets.”
“You know,” James said, “for a boy who likes other boys, you provide a lot of heterosexual commentary.”
Alexander: “I might make an exception for Meredith, but she’d have to be wearing that robe.”
James: “You’re disgusting.”
Alexander: “I’m adaptable.”
Me: “Shut up, I want to hear this.”
James and Alexander exchanged a look, which I didn’t understand and chose to ignore.
“What mean you, Caesar? Think you to walk forth?” Meredith asked, when the servant had exited. “You shall not stir out of your house today.” She stood with one hand on her hip, expression dark and judgmental. The scene had changed since last I saw it; Meredith descended into the Bowl, and as she described her dream it sounded more like a threat than a warning. Richard, judging by the look on his face, was having none of it.
“Well,” Alexander said, “I wouldn’t count on him remaining at home.”
The servant entered again, clearly terrified to even be on the same stage with the two of them.
Richard: “What say the augurers?”
Servant: “They would not have you stir forth today.
Plucking the entrails of an offering forth,
They could not find a heart within the beast.”
Richard rounded on Meredith.
Richard: “The gods do this in shame of cowardice:
Caesar should be a beast without a heart,
If he should stay at home today for fear!
No, Caesar shall not.”
He seized her shoulders and she twisted in his grip.
“Is that the blocking?” I asked. Neither James nor Alexander answered.
Richard: “Danger knows full well
That Caesar is more dangerous than he:
We are two lions litter’d in one day,
And I the elder and more terrible—”
Meredith squirmed and let out a cry of pain. Filippa caught my eye from the opposite wing and shook her head, just barely.
“And Caesar,” Richard bellowed, “shall go forth!” He thrust Meredith away from him so roughly that she lost her balance and fell backward onto the stairs. She threw her arms out to catch herself and there was a sharp crack as her elbow hit the wood. That same vindictive reflex I’d felt on Halloween made me lurch forward—to do what, I had no idea—but Alexander grabbed my shoulder and whispered, “Easy, tiger.”
Meredith pushed her hair out of her face and looked up at Richard with wide, angry eyes. The auditorium was silent except for the soft buzz of the lights for a split second before she said, “I’m sorry, what the fuck just happened?”
“Hold!” Gwendolyn yelled, from the back of the house, her voice shrill and distant.
Meredith climbed to her feet and whacked Richard’s chest with the back of her hand. “What was that?”
“What was what?” He, for some unfathomable reason, looked even angrier than she did.
“That wasn’t the blocking!”
“Look, it’s a big moment, I got caught up in it—”
“And you decided to throw me on the fucking stairs?”
Gwendolyn was running down the center aisle, shouting, “Stop! Stop this!”
Richard grabbed Meredith’s arm and yanked her so close he could have kissed her. “Are you really going to make a scene right now?” he said. “I wouldn’t.”
I bit back a curse word, knocked Alexander’s hand off my shoulder, and ran out onto the stage with James right behind me. But Camilo got there first, jumping up out of the front row. “Whoa,” he said. “Break it up. C’mon, calm dow
n.” He wedged an arm between them and pried Meredith away from Richard.
“What’s going on here?” Gwendolyn said, when she reached the edge of the stage.
“Well, Dick decided to improvise some blocking,” Meredith said, pushing Camilo away. She winced when his hand brushed her arm and her eyes flicked down; a drop of blood snaked out of her sleeve. My own vicarious outrage—overlapping and confused, half for James, half for Meredith—roared up in my chest and I ground my teeth together, fighting a suicidal urge to tackle Richard into the orchestra pit.
“I’m bleeding,” Meredith said, staring at the spots of red on her fingertips. “You son of a bitch.” She turned and flung the tab curtains back, ignoring Gwendolyn as she called, “Meredith, wait!”
Richard’s anger flickered off like a bad lightbulb and left him looking uneasy.
“Everyone take ten,” Gwendolyn told the rest of us. “Hell, take fifteen. We’re having intermission now. Go.”
The second- and third-years were first to move, leaving the auditorium two by two, whispering to one another. I felt Alexander hovering behind me and took a bracing breath in.
“Camilo, would you make sure she’s all right?” Gwendolyn asked. He nodded and exited upstage. She turned to Richard. “Go and apologize to that girl,” she ordered, “and so help me God, don’t pull anything else like that or I’ll have Oliver learn your lines and you can watch from the front row on opening night.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize to me,” she said, but her ire was already fading to exasperation.
Richard nodded—almost humbly—and watched her make the slow walk back to the top of the house. Not until he turned around did he seem to realize that the other five of us were standing there, glaring at him. “Oh, relax,” he said. “I didn’t really hurt her. She’s just angry.”
Beside me, James had clenched his fists so hard his arms were quivering. I shifted my feet, too agitated to stand still. Alexander leaned forward, like he was ready to throw himself between the two of us and Richard if he had to.
“For God’s sake,” Richard said, when nobody replied. “You all know what a drama queen she is.”
“Richard!” Wren said.
He looked guilty, but only for a moment. “Really,” he said, “do I have to apologize to all of you, too?”
“No, of course not,” Filippa said, in a calm, even voice that distracted me from the sound of my own pulse in my ears. “Why would you? You’ve only interrupted our run, fucked up Gwendolyn’s blocking, forced Milo to break up a fight, possibly ruined a costume, maybe damaged the set, and injured one of our friends—not for the first time either. Now Oliver might have to learn all your lines and play your part and save the show when you inevitably fuck up again. And you have the balls to blame it on Meredith being a drama queen?” Her blue eyes were cold as frostbite. “You know, Rick, people aren’t going to put up with your bullshit for much longer.”
She turned her back on him before he had time to respond and disappeared between the tabs. She’d said what we all wanted to say, and, ever so slightly, the tension eased. I exhaled; James unclenched his fists.
“Just don’t, Richard,” Wren said, when he opened his mouth again. She shook her head, with a tight, pinched expression not unlike disgust. “Just don’t.” And she followed Filippa.
Richard sniffed, then said to me, James, and Alexander, “Anything else?”
“No,” Alexander said, “I think she pretty much covered it.” He gave one warning look to me and James before he exited through the wings, already fumbling in his pockets for rolling papers.
Only three of us left. James, Richard, me. Gunpowder, fire, fuse.
Richard and James stared at each other for a moment, as if I wasn’t there, but neither spoke. The silence between them was unstable, precarious. I waited, wondering which way it would tilt, the apprehension making all my muscles tighten under my skin. At last, James gave Richard the tiniest smile—a glimmer of petty triumph—then turned and followed Alexander out.
Richard’s eyes settled on me, and I thought they might burn right through me.
“Don’t start learning my speeches yet,” he said.
And he left me onstage alone. I was quiet. Motionless. In my own estimation, pointless. A fuse with no fire and nothing to ignite.
SCENE 4
When we finished our run (thankfully without further incident), I avoided the dressing rooms. I lurked in the lobby until I thought everyone else would have gone, then made my way back through the theatre. The house lights had all been turned off, and I fumbled between the seats with numb hands, grunting at the armrests that reached out to smack my kneecaps in the dark.
The crossover lights buzzed as I let myself into the men’s dressing room, and I was relieved to find it empty. Mirrors on one wall showed me my own reflection, and a costume rack was pushed against the other, tightly packed with two or three suits for each of a dozen actors. The refuse of the theatre was strewn on every surface—forgotten clothing, combs and hair gel, broken eyeliner pencils.
I began to peel my costume off, for once without bumping elbows with four other boys. Normally I would have enjoyed the luxury of space, but I hadn’t fully recovered from the second-act disaster and I was only vaguely relieved not to have to share the room with Richard. I hung my shirt, jacket, and pants carefully on one hanger, then stowed my shoes underneath the rack. My own clothes had been scattered around the room, likely picked up and discarded during the frenzy following Act V when everyone scrambled to get dressed and go home. I found my jeans crumpled in a corner, my shirt hanging off the mirror. One of my socks was hiding under the counter, but the other never surfaced. I fell heavily into a chair and had just finished pulling my shoes on—damn the sock—when the door creaked open.
“There you are,” Meredith said. “We didn’t know where you went.”
She was still wearing the robe. I risked one glance at her, then concentrated intensely on tying my shoes. “Just needed some room to breathe,” I said. “I’m fine.”
I stood and moved toward the door but she was in the way, leaning on the frame, one leg folded up like a flamingo, knee tucked perfectly in the curve of her instep. There was something introspective and uncertain in her expression, but her face was flushed, like the heat of anger hadn’t quite left her.
“Meredith, do you need something?”
“A distraction, maybe.” She offered half a smile, waiting for me to catch on.
Comprehension hit me with a little jolt like an electric shock, and I leaned back, eased away from her. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why not?” She seemed genuinely confused, almost impatient—I had to remind myself she was a natural actress.
“Because this is the sort of game where people get hurt,” I said. “I don’t particularly care about Richard just now, but I don’t want to be one of them.”
She blinked, and the impatience was gone, replaced by something softer, not so self-assured. “I won’t hurt you,” she said. She came cautiously closer, as if she were afraid of startling me. I was paralyzed, watching the silk move like water on her skin. A bruise was already swelling beneath her collarbone, and I couldn’t help but think of Richard’s hands and how much damage they could do.
“I can think of someone who might,” I said.
“I don’t want to think about him.” Her voice had a raw, tender quality, which I didn’t immediately recognize for what it was: shame.
“Right, you want to be distracted.”
“Oliver, it’s not like that.”
“Really? Then what is it like?” It was a desperate question. I didn’t know what it was meant to do—dissuade her or tempt her or challenge her; call her bluff, force her hand, make her show me. Perhaps all at once.
The only thing it didn’t do was dissuade her. She was still looking up at me, but in a way she’d never looked at me before, something reckless gleaming in her sea-glass eyes. “It’s l
ike this.”
I felt her hands on my chest, her palms warm through the thin fabric of my shirt. My heart stuttered at her touch, and I wondered suddenly if she was wearing anything under the robe. Part of me wanted to rip it off and find out, and another part wanted to crack her head against the wall and knock some sense into her. She leaned into me and the press of her body overthrew all my logical objections. My hands moved automatically, without my permission, rising to find the curve of her waist, smoothing the silk against her skin. I could smell her perfume, sweet and lush and tantalizing, the fragrance of some exotic flower. Her fingers, softly insistent on the back of my neck, pulled my face toward hers. My pulse crescendoed in my ears, my imagination rushing treacherously forward.
I turned my head abruptly and the tip of my nose brushed her cheek. If I kissed her, what would follow? I didn’t trust myself to stop.
“Meredith, why are you doing this?” I couldn’t look at her without staring at her mouth.
“I want to.”
All my latent anger came bubbling up like acid.
“You want to,” I said. “Why? Because James won’t touch you, and Alexander doesn’t like girls? Because you want to make Richard furious and I’m the easiest way to do it?” I pushed her back so we were no longer touching. “You know what he’s like when he’s furious. You’re lovely, but you’re not worth that.”
The last words were out of my mouth before I could catch them, before I even realized how awful they were. She stared at me for a moment, motionless. Then she turned and wrenched the door open. “You know, I guess you’re right,” she said. “People do get hurt.”
As the door swung shut behind her, I was transported back to our first day of Gwendolyn’s class, two months before. It was maddening how beautiful she was—but did that make the rest of her any less real? I dragged one hand across my face, feeling sick. “Hell,” I said, quietly. It was all I could manage.
I gathered my things, shouldered my bag, and left the building, furious by then at both of us. When I got back to the Castle, I paused outside her door on my way up to the Tower. One vagrant line of verse wandered through my head. Courage, man; the hurt cannot be much.