by Daryl Banner
When we leave the food court a moment later, he stops me at the door, the blinding sun silhouetting his face in an otherworldly, beautiful way.
Away from the noise of the building and entirely unable to see his face or lips, I only hear him as his voice brushes against my ears. “Do you want to hang out tonight?”
In contrast, he likely sees my face perfectly lit, the sun painting me in the brightest shade of every color it has to offer. “I have rehearsal.”
“After rehearsal,” the shadow murmurs.
“Well …” Squinting against the glaring light, I shrug. “I was invited to the Throng to sing, but …”
“Sing? They want you to sing again?”
“I went last night and … the musicians basically invited me back tonight,” I explain. “They want me to sing again, but I don’t think I’m going to go,” I finish with a frown and a shake of my head.
“Why not? You’re amazing.”
“You don’t know what I sound like! How do you know?” I spit back playfully, peering into the shadow that’s Clayton. “I don’t think—”
“I’ll bring the guys,” he says, and I hear a smile in his voice. “We can hang out afterwards if you’re up for it. Everyone should hear you.”
I smile, despite myself. Clayton at the Throng again so I can sing my song to him, my muse who sets my insides aflame? How can I say no to all of that?
“Sounds good,” I murmur with a nod.
Clayton leans a bit to my right, eclipsing the sun and giving me the gift of his beautiful face for one fleeting moment.
“See you then, Dessie,” he murmurs, the sound of my name through his velvety voice sending a tremor of excitement down my body, before we part ways.
I fly through the vocal performance as if it wasn’t ever a vex on my mind. The class even seems to smile back at me, and the whole world spins as if it were the basketball on the end of some guy’s finger. Clayton’s finger. He’s got my whole world and he’s spinning it.
I don’t even dread going into rehearsal as much, despite how horrible my first day was. I sit next to Eric and pay attention the whole time, no “sickly waiting for Clayton to answer my text” distracting me the whole four hours.
And I take Eric’s advice and suck. I suck so hard when I recite my lines. I even chuckle at the irony that, despite our requirement of being off-book for act one, we still have to hold our scripts so that we can write down the blocking and directions we’re given. Really, each time I look at the script to jot down a note, I take the chance to suck up my next line with my eyes, then suck as I recite it.
Suck Town.
When we break after two hours for a fifteen, Eric puts an arm around me and says, “You’re sucking really well today.”
“You too,” I note, since Eric got to finally do his first Simon scene. “Your ‘drunk’ is spot-on. I should know; I’ve seen you at the Throng.”
“Speaking of, are we still on?”
“Yep. And,” I add, giving him my playful eyes, “a special someone and his two roommates are coming.”
That stops Eric dead in his green Converse. “No way.”
“Way,” I state with a grin. “Very, very way.”
Eric dances into the men’s bathroom with a howl of excitement as I saunter off to the quiet, unoccupied lobby which, at 8:08pm, is somewhat like a very long, dark dorm room, feeling strangely intimate and safe. I stare out of the tall glass windows at the courtyard, watching students pass under streetlamps as the chill of the AC touches my skin, and I pull out my phone.
I need to make a call and I’m not sure I really want to make it. Yes, of course I could wait until tomorrow, but I also need to get some answers to my questions. I’m walking on uneven ground until I do.
I press the phone to my ear, my eyes centering on the back of a bench outside where a pair of lovers are holding each other, the tops of their heads glowing under the pale white streetlamp.
“Dad?”
“Dessie, sweetie,” he says, his voice nearly singing with happiness. “How’s your life down there, sweetie? Isn’t Klangburg just charming?”
“It’s really great, Dad. Thanks so much. I’m really having … I’m really having a time down here,” I finish with a doleful sigh.
“Sweetie?”
He hears the doubt, even in my sigh. In complete contrast to my oblivious mother, my dad picks up on every little nuance in my voice; he always has.
“I’m just … curious …” I start, wondering whether I really, truly want to broach this subject right now, “how exactly I came to … enjoy this time here.”
My dad doesn’t sidestep around any subject. “All I had to do was call up Marv and tell him what a fine, promising young lady you are,” he discloses at once.
Marv? “And who’s Marv?”
“Marv, sweetheart! The Director of the School of Theatre. Haven’t you met him yet? He said he’d see you first thing and make sure you’re taken care of.”
I feel my head spinning. “The Director himself? Doctor Marvin Thwaite?”
“That’s the one. Is there a problem?”
I guess I was a bit naïve to not consider who my father’s contact was. Of course it’d be someone at the top. “I didn’t realize you two knew each other.”
“We went to college together, sweetie. He’s doing really well for himself, being head of the department and all. Pays to have friends in high places, eh?”
Presuming you don’t stoop to an all-time low with said high-placed friends. “Dad, why is Kellen here?”
“Oh, so he’s arrived? I wasn’t sure if it was this week or next. With all our focus on Winona’s show in London, I forget what day of the week it is unless Mia puts the schedule right in front of me.”
I don’t know who Mia is, whether a secretary or a friend or yet another of my father’s countless budding lighting design interns. “He’s arrived,” I state coolly.
“At least you’ll have a familiar face down there with you,” he says, meaning well.
No, I didn’t tell the story to my dad about Kellen Wright’s ill-timed advance on me. Being the selfless (read: spineless) individual I was four years ago, I thought that telling my dad that his twenty-nine-year-old golden boy was making a move on his eighteen-year-old daughter would have put an abrupt and horrible end to the man’s career before it even started. For all my dad knows, Kellen is still the angel he pretends to be. And to be fair, even with eleven years on me, Kellen has a youthful face that make him look far more innocent than he is.
“Dad,” I say, daring to step on his toes, “did you send Kellen down here … for me?”
My dad seems to find that amusing, breaths of his chuckling dancing through the phone in tiny bursts of static. “Leave the matchmaking to your sister. I’d never deign to commit such an act.”
“That’s not what I meant,” I mumble.
“I sent him there as a favor to Marv,” my dad carries on. “You know, to drum up a little media for the school. Ticket sales have been low, interest in the program has decreased, you know how it can be.”
“He … was part of the deal?” I ask, my pulse rising.
“What deal?”
“Marv lets me into his program, and you send him one of your lighting designer minions in exchange? Am I … Am I hearing this right?”
“Sweetheart, you’re twisting it around.”
“Do you realize that, in doing this, you just took an opportunity from … from someone else who could have designed lights and actually learned something?”
“It’s only one show, sweetie, and it’s really for the betterment of the whole department. Imagine, when all the shows sell out and Klangburg gets noticed, receiving more funds from benefactors, which can—”
“So it’s all about money? Is that it?”
My heart racing, I’m not even listening to him anymore; I just want to pick a fight. I’m furious that I’m—even indirectly—responsible for Clayton having lost his opportunity.
/> “The ‘big picture’ is a lot bigger than you realize, Dessie, and you’re standing too close. It’s better for everyone this way. The school. Its future. Your peers. And you’re enjoying your role in Our Town, aren’t you? Isn’t it what you’ve always wanted?”
I feel like some princess high up in a stony tower and my father’s handed me a porcelain doll. Was this handed to me? All of it? I didn’t earn my way into this school, fighting hard like Clayton did. For all I know, I didn’t even earn the role I’m playing.
Oh, god. Did he even arrange that? Does he know Nina too, or did Dr. Thwaite convince her to hand me the lead role, just like I was handed everything else?
I feel sick.
“Sweetheart?”
He’s been talking in my ear, but all I feel is rage. I was naïve not to have considered any of this before. It’s strange, how a call to my dad can make me aware of the pair of rose-tinted glasses I never noticed were balanced on the tip of my nose.
The lovers on the bench, the ones I’m staring at through the windows, they pull apart and I see the tears in their eyes. In the space of seconds, they’re shouting at each other.
How quickly things can change.
“We sent you to Italy,” my dad goes on, “but that slipper didn’t fit. Claudio & Rigby’s was a great opportunity for you, but that ended with an unfortunate exit scene and … regrettable consequences. Did you ever consider the backlash, Dessie? We sent you on countless auditions and you even got to audit those acting workshops at NYU. We—”
“And so you sent me here,” I say, watching the sweet couple tear each other apart through the glass, “but couldn’t bear for me to have a normal experience like I wanted, so you made sure to package it all up nice and pretty, dust it with promises of success and a handshake, and let your daughter believe in the lie.”
“Dessie …”
“I have to get back to rehearsal, Dad.” My voice is heavy and broken. “You know, to rehearse that role I don’t really deserve.”
“You deserve the world, sweetheart.”
I hang up, clenching the phone as tightly as I am my jaw. The lovers outside walk away, and so do I.
The rest of the rehearsal is considerably less pleasant, and when Eric asks me what’s wrong, that’s when I engage in my first true bit of acting, putting on a light smile and convincing him that I’m totally fine and can’t wait to sing my heart out. And for the first time in any rehearsal in my life, a person is actually convinced by my performance; Eric grins, squeezes my shoulder, and advises me to “up the sexy-sexy” in my song tonight. “Get Clay-boy all hot and bothered.”
And until I’m up on that stage and singing, I’ll sit here and hug my knees to my chest, leaning against the wall and waiting patiently for the storm of my father’s words to clear.
I wanted to sit in the back where I usually do, but Brant thought it’d be a better idea to sit up close so we can really see her. Surrounded on all sides by other college dudes makes me nervous. I constantly check over my shoulders to make sure nothing weird is happening.
Dmitri’s on the other side of the tall table we’re all sitting around and he’s signing to me what he’s saying as he tells Brant about his latest short story, which involves a video game that fulfills any sexual fantasy the player has, and the player in Dmitri’s story turns out to have sick, crazy-extreme interests that basically turns the video game into a murderous monster.
Meanwhile, I’m having fun negotiating with a fucking barstool. It’s one of those tall seat-like ones where I don’t know whether to sit in it or lean on it.
Brant hits my shoulder, then points. I turn to find three people coming in through the doors. Eric, who I met last year but never got to know, leads the trio with Chloe at his side, who looks like the scary byproduct of a raven, Death itself, and an extra from some unreleased Tim Burton flick, if I had to guess.
Behind them is Dessie, the beauty who owns a room the moment she walks in. She changed, wearing a sexy sleeveless red top and tight jeans. Fuck me …
But her face seems pensive. I see the tension in her body before she’s reached us. Her foot kicks into a chair and she glares down at it, annoyed. She squints against the smoke in the air, a scowl on her face for a moment as she gazes over the room.
Then her eyes land on me and her expression changes. The tension there drops away. The trace of a smile crosses her face and her stride becomes lighter.
Did I do that to her?
I’m fucking floating right now at the sight of her.
I hope I’m not grinning like a dumb shit, because I’m definitely grinning like a dumb shit in my mind.
“Dessie,” I say when she’s come to a stop in front of me.
“Clayton,” her lips say.
I’m really holding back right now. I want to grab hold of her and claim her as mine in front of everyone in this room. I want every ogling dude in this room to know that she’s taken. I want to put my mouth on her pretty pink lips and taste her.
Her gaze shifts, and in the next instant, she’s greeting my roommates. Brant gives her half a hug, which is more than I even gave her, the big drooling ogre that I am, and Dmitri offers her a curt nod and a dimply smile after readjusting his glasses. The table only has two more chairs, so Brant offers his to Dessie, opting to just stand squished between Dmitri and her. Eric and Chloe take the two that remain, making our table an unnecessarily crowded one.
Eric reaches his hand over the table, introducing himself to Dmitri, if I had to guess. It belatedly occurs to me that Eric’s gay. I snort, amused at the prospect of anything happening between those two. Good luck cracking Dmitri’s bisexual-slash-asexual egg, I’d tell him.
Dessie touches my arm, getting my attention, then asks what I snorted about. I shake my head, smiling. “Nothing. Want something to drink?” She shakes her head and smiles back. I study the side of her face for a while as she watches the others chat away. I love how her eyes light up, her face turning as she listens to the conversations that break out over the table. I’m not a part of any of them, yet vicariously through her, I feel somehow connected to it all. Chloe says something and Dessie laughs. Eric reaches out and runs a finger down Dmitri’s tattoo, seeming to ask about it. Brant leans over the table to shout what I can only assume is something lewd and suggestive to Chloe, who doesn’t seem amused by the humor, rolling her eyes. Dessie, however, laughs so hard that she falls into me, her hands clinging to my shoulder as she laughs.
God, I want her to stay right there on my shoulder and make a fucking home. I love when she clings to me. Before this night is over, I vow to myself, I’m gonna get her to claw those sexy fingers of hers down my back.
Over the next half hour, more people start to pack into the Throng, and I feel pretty fortunate that we all got a table when we did. What the fuck with Tuesday nights? It’s never this busy unless it’s a weekend.
Dessie seems to notice the same thing, because she nudges me and says, “It got really loud!”
I smirk and take the opportunity for a joke. “Totally loud,” I agree. “Can you ask them to keep it down? Having trouble hearing my friends here.”
She laughs too hard at that, then slaps me on the arm and says something.
I focus on her lips. “What?”
She says, “I’m happy I came.”
Squeezed into the table like she is, her breasts rise and fall with every breath. I don’t know if that’s due to her bra, or her top, or being squeezed between me and Brant, or fucking magic or what, but I’m enjoying the view as I peer down at her in all her glory.
I lean in and say, “Can’t wait ‘til you’re up there.”
She studies my eyes too long, her own glowing in the dim light that hangs above our table. If I’m not mistaking that look, I’m feeling a pull toward her lips. She’s inviting me to kiss her, just with that daring, mischievous look in her eyes.
Then she looks up at the stage. I look too, only to discover everyone applauding suddenly.
The very next moment, Dessie’s left my side. I watch as the guitarist relinquishes his stool to her, sliding to the side of the pianist as Dessie steps onto the stage. Everyone at my table is clapping, so I do the same, following their lead until I see their hands stop moving. Then the only thing in the room that’s got my attention is Dessie.
And she’s looking right at me from the stage. Her body glows under the harsh stage light. I have to say, from my experience in technical theatre, it takes a special kind of person to make ugly light look pretty.
And fuck, she does that job without trying.
Dessie’s hand runs up the microphone. She brings her lips to it, then introduces herself to the room.
But I can’t catch any of the words. Frustrated, I pull out my phone, determined to find that horrible speech-to-text app I’d downloaded. Then, coming to my rescue, Dmitri starts moving his hands for me, and I could kiss him for his keen intuition.
Hey, I’m Dessie, my awesome roommate interprets for me. Some of you know me from last time. Or last night. Or whatever, I’m not good at these things. Ha! These crazy musicians, Dirk and—what’s your name?—Lorenzo, wanted me back here to sing one of my little tunes. Want to hear it? I have something … but it’s a little angsty. I … Dmitri stops, looking up at Dessie to gather what’s happening, because she’s laughing. When she starts speaking again, he resumes: Alright, then! I’ll sing it. I hope you like it. I have no idea what the musicians are going to do, but they’re good at improvising. This one’s called, “The Liar”.
Dessie closes her eyes to bring herself to that place where all the music and beauty comes from. All that tension I saw the moment she came in, it’s like it was never there. Totally relaxed, loose as the breeze, she holds the microphone and kisses it to her pink lips.
And through Dmitri, I watch the words flow:
These nails that I wear,
the curls in my hair,