by Daryl Banner
Then the crowd starts to move. Clayton goes with them and, after half a second of despair, I follow to the other end of the stage where Dick starts to explain about something to do with the pulley system—all the ropes lined up along the wall that connect to all the things hanging high above us.
I realize with frustration that there’s now a person between Clayton and I. The magic is lost. I stare at the professor sullenly and find I can’t even focus on what he’s saying. Every word flitters by my face, unheard.
“The counterweight system is dangerous. This is not a toy. Learn to use it properly. Want to give us a demonstration?” Dick asks, giving a wave of his hand.
He seems to have signaled Clayton, who cuts through the crowd and positions himself at the ropes. I’m alive again, just like that. Watching the way his body moves is hypnotizing. Without instruction, he knows precisely what to do, flipping some lever with his big hands … those big hands that seem to make love to every little thing they touch. Then, he unwinds something else and grips the rope, fingers wrapping around it the way they might embrace a lover. He gives the rope a solid tug, the veins in his thick biceps popping, and something happens behind me.
The whole class turns to watch, but I keep my eyes focused right where they are, already watching the most beautiful thing in the world.
His hands still firmly gripping the rope, Clayton’s eyes lower, catching mine.
I hold my breath. I experience a jolt of fear … or a jolt of excitement. I can’t seem to tell the difference between the two right now.
And his eyes change. It’s subtle, but it’s there. He recognizes me, I realize as my heart quickens. Yet still, I don’t look away.
The professor must’ve said something because the whole crew moves to the two long battens—which are steel pipes from which curtains or set pieces or lights are hung—that have been lowered. I finally allow that to break my gaze from the distraction that’s Clayton, forcing myself to pay attention to Dick.
That attention is short-lived. Not a moment later, Clayton has returned from the counterweights, and he’s right at my side yet again. I just can’t catch a break, can I? Not that I want one. I’ve never been so worked up in all my life. I’m in agony standing next to him. I feel my pulse in my neck. I can barely breathe evenly.
His arm brushes against mine.
Total. Fucking. Agony.
“Lighting creates atmosphere. Lighting turns the barren nothing of a stage into the snowy Alps, the lobby of a hotel, or the bowels of a whale. Lighting gives life to the cast onstage,” states Dick, our mildly inspired professor. “Without light, we are all a bunch of shit-shoveling nobodies in the dark, aren’t we?”
Clayton inhales deeply. Just in that inhale, I hear the depth of his voice. There’s something so intimate about it, like I’m already getting to know him even without having shared a single word. Then, he exhales deeply, and half that breath tickles my arm and sends shivers of awareness through me.
I am one seriously obsessed stalker right now.
“Short day. That’s all, my little light monkeys. I’m leaving the sign-up sheet at the foot of the stage. Sign up for whichever lighting shift you want, and that’ll be your shift every week for the rest of the semester. Crew shifts start next week. There’s lots of options to accommodate all kinds of classing schedules, so if your whiny ass needs some special treatment, come have a chat with me and we’ll figure something out.”
With that, the whole crew scatters and Clayton abandons my side. I’d just grown used to having his heat there that when he departs, I feel a vacuum of need so strong that I nearly topple over.
I walk down the steps and approach the sign-up list. Some of the guys are talking amongst themselves or consulting their phones to double-check their scheduling conflicts. When it’s my turn to pick from the list, I consider what’s available. Amazingly, five of the six available shifts do not overlap with my classes. There’s a shift Mondays that would fit after my acting class, a shift Tuesday afternoons between my voice and movement classes, another Friday mornings, another Saturday afternoons, and then a late Wednesday evening shift. I could pick any one of those that I want. Any at all.
And yet it’s on that Wednesday evening shift that I see the only name that matters. It’s written right at the top of the list. Clayton Watts.
Only two others have signed up for that time slot. The least popular shift, it seems. And driven by some kind of insanity, I bring my pen to that Wednesday list of names and add my own.
Dessie Lebeau.
I look up and find Clayton walking away. I only catch a split second of his muscular backside before he disappears through the backstage door. Oddly, I feel a small sense of relief at his departure. It’s damn stressful being near him at all. My nervous system got a work out today.
As I walk back to the dorms, the relief turns to emptiness. It’s so strange, to be able to go for so long without being aware of how alone you truly are. You convince yourself that your heart is full with all your interests and hobbies and fiery passions. You fill yourself up with hollow reassurance. You get used to the routine of handling yourself, comforting yourself, and smiling all day long.
It only takes one stupid hot guy to unravel all those feeble efforts of yours, reminding you how very not satisfied you are.
I’m lonely. I’ve been alone for years. I’ve dated a small number of guys in New York, but none of them worked out. One of them lived in a rat-infested apartment in Queens. One had a girlfriend in New Jersey he tried to hide from me. Another played video games all day and lived in his older brother’s basement. Each one left me feeling lonelier than the last. My dating history is, needless to say, a trail of murky water.
Long after the sun’s fallen, I knock on her door.
“Dessie!” she cries when she answers, the beads that hang at her closet tapping one another. “I found the perfect monologue for you!”
The night progresses into a back-and-forth trade of monologue practice and constructive criticism, in which Victoria offers me many queer looks and some politely-worded suggestions. If she has anything ugly to say about my acting ability, she is kind enough to spare me the words. Her roommate, a heavyset pale-as-death girl by the name of Leanne, sits on her bed in a nest of bed sheets and textbooks, typing away on her laptop and pretending we’re not even there. We offer her the same courtesy.
When I excuse myself on account of having my morning movement class, Victoria smiles at me at the door and says, “You’re going to be perfect for Mrs. Gibbs, which will complement my take on the role of Emily. You’ll totally nail it. Can’t wait!”
Back in my own room, my roommate Sam types at her desk on that ancient, last-decade laptop of hers. She’s wearing the same thing she wore the day she arrived, which both unsettles me and breaks my heart. We exchange halfhearted hellos before I lock myself in the bathroom and enjoy the comfort of my own reflection.
I study my face intently, because whenever I blink, all I see is his.
I’m standing at the door to the rehearsal room gripping my obviously embellished résumé. Every line of the dramatic monologue I spent all Wednesday night and Thursday rehearsing repeats in my head over and over like gold fish swimming around the bowl, circles and circles and circles. I can hear the tapping of water as they make laps in my brain.
I’m oddly calm. I haven’t seen Clayton at all since shift sign-up on Wednesday, which is strange, as I had gotten used to running into him daily.
It isn’t fair. Every little thing I do now becomes all about Clayton. When I decide where to eat lunch, I consider whether or not he might be eating lunch at the same time and place, too. When I walk down the halls on the way to my Theatre classes, I wonder if I’ll run into him around every corner, or if we’ll bump into each other in the lobby, or out in the courtyard. It’s crazy how far an obsession or innocent crush will take you, dictating your day, bullying your mind into submission so badly that even choosing which damn bathroom to use becomes
a chore—because at any point in the day, I could run into him. Even on my way to the bathroom.
Yet I didn’t, and haven’t.
And likely won’t.
I don’t even notice the rehearsal room door open when the voice catches me mid-thought. “Desdemona Lebeau,” it speaks softly, its source being a girl with electric blue hair and a nose ring, one of the director’s assistants. “We’re ready for you.”
Inside, a table’s been erected at the far end of the room, at which four visibly coldhearted individuals who have each had a worse day than the other sit patiently awaiting my audition. Not one of them smiles. The only one of the four I recognize is my acting professor, Nina Parisi, a needle-eyed, cold-faced bone of a woman whose caramel skin sags at the eyes as if she hasn’t slept in sixty-six years.
“Hello,” I say when I take my place before them. I don’t know how close to stand, so I measure myself at roughly thirty feet away, which still feels too close. “I’m D-Desdemona Lebeau, and I’ll be acting in a … Sorry, no. I’m performing one verse of an original song called ‘A Palace of Stone’ … as well as a dramedy—er, dramatic piece from D-D-Damien Rigby’s Quieter The Scream.”
Then, with all due emotion, I perform.
“How’d it go??” Victoria begs me the moment I’m out of the door.
I’ve returned to the lobby filled with the others who have either gone already or still anxiously wait, practicing their audition pieces to the walls or the stairs or each other. There’s a peculiar comfort in watching them go at it while knowing that my own audition is over with and I’m no longer enduring the anxiety that is so visible on their faces and in their wringing hands.
“It went okay, I guess.”
“Just okay?” She frowns on my behalf. “It’s alright. Nerves get the best of us. Maybe spring auditions will be better for you.”
I smile. “And yours?”
“Perfectly!”
Her face bursts with ecstasy. It’s like she’s been dying to express how perfectly her audition went for the past hour. And she does just that, detailing to me every little nuance she discovered, even in the tiny sixty second opportunity we’re given in front of them.
“Oh, Des, you should come with us!” she exclaims suddenly. “We’re all hitting up the Throng & Song after this.”
I squint at her. “Whose thong?”
“Throng. Come with us! It’s the Theatre hangout.”
Considering it’s Friday and, now that the audition is over with, I just have a weekend full of freedom ahead of me, I tag along with Victoria, Eric, and Chloe on a trip across campus, down a street, and into a piano bar slash diner called, as previously warned, the Throng & Song. The inside is shockingly crowded with college-aged kids, most of whom I’d assume are not old enough to drink. Baskets of fries and wings adorn every table and a thin veil of smoke hovers in the air.
We claim a table near a very small circular stage, upon which stands the most rundown upright piano I’ve ever seen, and a stool where a guitarist strums and sings unheard in the thick clamor of the room. Victoria is telling me something about her audition and I’m just smiling and nodding, unable to hear a word of it even sitting across the table from her. We haven’t been in here for two minutes and I already feel drowsy from the noise and smoke.
A waitress comes by and asks each of us if we want something from the bar. To be heard, she leans in so close she could kiss each of us. Her words tickle my ear, and I wince and answer, “Vodka tonic, please.”
I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but as the day turns to night, the noise grows even louder. It is so deafening in here that I feel pressure against every wall of my skull, as if it’s being invaded by an army of sound and every cell in my body works to defend my cranium castle, resisting the swarm. I clutch my head at one point, convinced that my brain is being rattled inside by the noise.
After three vodka tonics and a round (or was it two?) of tequila shots that the others insisted we do, the noise doesn’t bother me at all.
“Oh my god, y’all,” Victoria slurs, giggling as she leans into me. We’ve all traded positions over the past hour and now she’s nearly sitting in my lap. “I’m gonna need another one of whatever the fuck that was. That shit was goooooood.” Eric shouts the name across the table. “Huh?” Eric shouts it again. “What?”
The guitarist finishes his song, and the half of the bar who are actually paying attention applaud noisily, a chorus of hooting and whistling cutting through the room. “Thank you, thank you,” the musician says with a wave of his hand. “I’m taking a ten, then I’ll be back. Peace.”
When the guitarist makes his leave, Victoria leans into me. “Confession: I want to have his babies.”
I giggle, though I’m not sure if it’s because of what she just said or because the room’s spinning and that somehow tickles. “There’s nothing sexier in this world than a singer,” I blurt back into her ear.
“Oh! I want to hear your audition piece!”
I stare at her through foggy eyes. “You already did, silly! Thirteen times in a row, remember?”
“I mean your song, dummy!”
“Ooh, right, yeah.” I laugh. Flecks of saliva dust the table in front of me and I slap a hand over my lips, inspiring Eric to laugh at me. “Shush! I haven’t drinked anything since—Uh, haven’t drunk anything—Uh, what’s the word? Drank? Drink, drank, drunk?”
“You should drink more often,” Victoria shouts into my ear. “You’re so much more fun.”
“Are you calling me boring?”
“No! You’re just … less boring when you’re drunk!”
“You are calling me boring!”
“No!”
“You think I’m boring? Hey, Other Eric!” I shout, squinting across the table at him. “Am I boring? Hey, Chloe! Am I boring??”
They shout back answers I can’t hear. I slap my hand on the table, causing the drinks to jump.
“Alright, then,” I say, assuming their answers. “I’ll prove to you how very not boring I am. I’ll prove you all wrong right now.”
I push myself up from the table and stumble to the stage. Victoria’s laughter trails me along with a few words I obviously can’t make out. When I’m on the stage, the pianist greets my eyes with worry. “No, no,” I tell him with a dizzy wave of my hand. “Don’t worry. I’m an actress. I have training in these sorts of things.”
I have no idea what I mean by that, but I say it.
“Excuse me!” I call into the microphone, then give it five solid taps that cut through the cacophony of collegiate banter and screaming and laughter.
To my utter surprise, dozens of pairs of eyes turn to meet mine on the stage. I see every pair even through the haze of smoke and light. The noise cuts in half.
Holy hell, I actually did get their attention.
“My friends think I’m boring,” I explain to the room, inspiring even more silence and attention from them. “And I’d love to prove my friends wrong. So while our sexy guitarist is taking ten, I’d like to sing you all a lovely little song.”
Three guys cheer from the back of the room. Some girl shouts, “Let’s hear it!” followed by a chorus of roars. My friends at the table near this tiny stage wear looks of astonishment, their eyes sparkling with pride and alcohol.
“It’s a song I wrote about myself,” I tell the room. “A song about how we close ourselves up. A song I hoped would inspire me to break free from my own … from my own proverbial palace. A song …”
Suddenly lost in the emotion of said song, I stop explaining and let the music speak for itself. Gripping the microphone, I bring my lips to its black, puffy head, then close my eyes.
And I sing.
The room, which was only a moment ago packed with the deafening noise of so many voices, is now filled with only one: mine. My voice reaches through the room. My eyes search, a strange desire to touch every person in this room gripping me by the throat.
Something magical happens. I fee
l something in me let go. I’m weightless as I sing to them. If I didn’t have such a grip on the microphone, I just might float away. I let the words of “A Palace of Stone” stream out of me.
And then, somewhere between the second and third verse, I see him in the crowd.
Oh my god. He’s been there the whole time, I realize.
Beautiful as ever, intense, and wearing a tight white shirt that makes that bad-boy tattoo up his neck pop … Clayton sits on a barstool palming a beer bottle, and his eyes are alight with fierceness, with yearning, with something I cannot even name.
Or is it the alcohol that makes me see these lovely things? Is it the alcohol singing and not me?
Clayton doesn’t seem to care, and his eyes do not avert in the least. I have him in the palm of my hand. He watches … He watches and listens.
This would be the second time he’s heard this song. This is the second time I’ve captivated him. What else could that expression of his mean?
I’m hypnotizing him.
Yes. Finally, the tables have turned. I’m the one he’s obsessed with now, in this one moment, as long as I can make the song last. I am his siren, luring him with my music.
And then I hear the tinkling of piano notes. I turn to find that the pianist has joined in, following my lead with the melody I sing. The guitarist, who’s back from his break, has been watching from the side of the stage, his eyes sparkling with wonder. He picks up his guitar and joins his friend, supporting me with their tunes, totally improvising as they go.
Maybe it’s the music that inspires me, as a wicked, naughty little demon takes control of my body.
Plucking the microphone off the stand, I saunter down from the stage, still singing, and slowly cut my way through the crowd—to him. Every lyric I have is now given straight to Clayton.
It’s a matter of half a verse before I’m standing right in front of him, singing my music.
His face stiffens.
Is that fear I just inspired in his dark, threatening eyes?
I sing my words to them, my fingers slowly, gently, lovingly, tenderly stroking the microphone up and down.