by Daryl Banner
Girls snicker in the back. The blonde one from costumes gawps at her partner, her stitching work forgotten in her lap.
“You think you’re the only one who got robbed of that Emily role? I wanted it, too,” says Victoria with a careless sweep of her hand. “Hell, I dreamed about that role all summer. Now, I get to sit backstage and watch Dessie perform it.”
Ariel folds her arms, her eyes seething with derision.
“And does that ruffle my pretty feathers? Sure,” says Victoria with a shrug. “You know what else does? The sheer lack of roles in the Theatre world for people of color. Am I barging into the dressing rooms of every all-white cast to tell them about all their precious privilege? Fuck no. I’m a big girl. I’ll keep auditioning for whatever the hell I want. I will play Emily someday in some other production. But Desdemona Lebeau, she can have this production.”
“Yeah,” agrees Ariel, her tone quickly converted from sugar to acid, “and she can invite her famous parents to have a big showy opening night, and that’s somehow fair, because—”
“Oh, trust me, I know all about embarrassing parents,” Victoria cuts her off, waving her hand in Ariel’s indignant face. “You don’t want to be moving into the dorms with your dad yelling Cantonese down the halls at twenty words a second, trust me. I can only imagine what kind of hell Dessie has to contend with, and why she had to run all the way down here to Texas to get the fuck away from it.” She whips her head around to face me. “Am I right?”
I suck on my own lips.
“And what do I say to that?” Victoria presses on, her eyes on me. “Kudos to Dessie. And what a shame that her damn paparazzi-drawing family had to follow her. I mean, look at her poor face. Does she look thrilled with your news that her parents are here, Ariel?” She turns back to Ariel, needles in her eyes. “Truth, you wanted. Go ahead. Look in her eyes. The truth’s been there all along. The only one who’s lying to themselves is you.”
Ariel looks at me now. I wonder if she’s looking for any truth in my face, or if she’s just imagining ninety-nine ways to murder me. Her eyes are a completely unreadable mix of confusion and resentment, which is about the farthest from how she’d treated me so far in acting class. For a second, I catch myself wondering if she, in fact, was the one dumped by Clayton. I never saw this side of her until now.
Less the mermaid. More the sea hag.
Ariel finally parts her lips, though it takes her a handful of seconds to make any words. “I don’t trust liars. I don’t like liars. Clayton. You. You’re made for each other, a pair of liars.”
“We’re all liars,” says Victoria with a roll of her eyes, “or did you not hear Dessie’s song? I’m a liar. You’re a liar. Yay, let’s throw a big ol’ liar party and get the fuck over it.” She takes two steps toward Ariel. “This is the dressing room. Where the cast belongs. Seeing as you’re not part of the cast, I suggest you go throw yourself a not-in-the-cast party, and get … over … it.”
To that, Ariel lifts her chin, too proud to show how deep Victoria’s words cut her, and strolls out of the dressing room. The others start to break into murmurs and scandalized whispers, even chuckling.
And I’d risen from my chair and didn’t even realize it. My back pressed against the makeup counter, I feel dozens of eyes on me. I have no idea how to feel about what just went down.
Then Marcy, who plays Rebecca Gibbs, tilts her head. In a light and curious voice, she asks, “Who are your parents?”
I swallow, facing her. The others in the room seem to await my answer. Well, out with it. “My mother is Winona Lebeau.”
I don’t even get my father’s name out before three of the girls gasp with their surprise. “You mean the Winona Lebeau who opened Telltale off-Broadway?” asks someone across the room.
“Oh my god. She did Hair on Broadway. And Hairspray, too.”
“Chicago,” throws in another voice.
“She won a Tony two years in a row,” hisses someone else.
“Wait, wait. That Lebeau??”
“Holy crap. You’re Theatre royalty!”
“She’s Theatre royalty.”
“Can I meet her? Oh, please let me get her autograph!”
The murmurs of scandal quickly somersault into a wave of joyous laughter and excitement as my castmates start to share stories amongst themselves, bolstered somehow by the news.
And above all that noise and gaiety, my eyes lift to find Victoria’s.
I step away from the makeup counter, drawing myself up to her. She smirks knowingly at me while I stand there wondering where the hell her sudden reversal came from.
Well, I do have a mouth I can use. “Why’d you stick up for me?” I ask.
Every lick of bitterness that lived in Victoria’s eyes drains away, and suddenly she’s the fun person I met in our dorm hallway over a month ago. “I wasn’t being fair to you,” she murmurs quietly, but I still hear her through the noise. “You wanted to have a life down here that you could call your own. I get it. I totally do. And I’m just awful for holding that against you.” She sighs. “We make better friends than enemies. Reading scripts until 3 AM with Chloe just isn’t as much fun.”
I feel my heart swell. I think I needed this, after the fast-spinning carousel my emotions have been on lately. I put on a teasing smile, then say, “You just want my mom’s autograph, don’t you.”
She glances to the left, to the right, then leans in and whispers, “I totally fucking do.”
I’m squinting through the glass of the lighting booth, curious what the hell’s happening in the front few rows. I can’t quite make anything out, so I pass it off as a bunch of rowdy freshmen, rolling my eyes and kicking my feet up, waiting for the show to start. Really, I don’t give a shit about anything until the part when Dessie comes onstage and lights up my fucking world.
I don’t care that I can’t have her. I don’t care that everything’s gone to shit, just as long as she’s focused, she’s happy, and she’s living the dream she wants to live.
Regardless of whether that dream includes me or not.
A tap on my shoulder nearly scares the shit out of me. I spin in my chair to find Dick standing there, an excited look on his face. He says some words to me that I miss. I lift my chin and furrow my brow.
“Wi-no-na Le-beau,” he mouths, punching each syllable. “She’s … here. The … lobby … is … a … fucking … madhouse.”
I blink. Dessie’s parents?
Dick slaps me on the back suddenly, then types something out on his phone and shows me the screen:
You do realize
who Dessie’s father is,
don’t you?
I bite the inside of my cheek. Of course I do.
I return his enthusiasm with a slow, cool-tempered nod. Dick says something else to me, then slaps my back once more before excitedly hopping out of the door and down the stairs to the lobby. I lean forward, staring through the glass and focusing on the front rows again. Is all the craziness over Dessie’s parents, the celebs who’ve apparently decided to come and show their support for their daughter?
A sting of resentment touches me. Dessie’s no longer mine. Doesn’t matter whose daughter she is. Once her father gets word of what a dark and unstable guy I am, he won’t want his daughter anywhere near me.
And haven’t I said it since day one? She deserves better. I’m no good for her.
I clench my teeth and watch listlessly through the window, waiting for my opportunity to darken one world and light up another.
Twenty minutes later, I get the cue on my phone, texted to me from the stage manager backstage—that is, the actual stage manager. I wait for the cue light to glow. The moment it does, I slowly fade out the houselights, casting the audience into darkness, before bringing up the lights for act one.
The actor Stage Manager, who acts basically as the narrator of the show, comes out onto the stage, greets the audience, and then presents the scene to them, telling them where the Gibbs house is, wher
e the Webb house is, and so on. Sullenly, I read along with my marked-up script in front of me, guesstimating the lines judging from who’s on stage and what’s happening.
This whole experience would be so much better if I hadn’t lost my fucking temper and punched those glasses off Kellen’s face. Sure, it felt good and I gained peace, but I lost something else. And I’m pretty sure knowing that I’d be going home with Dessie tonight would feel a hell of a lot better than that punch did.
This is my own fault. I’m married to my anger. I always will be.
Then the scene finally arrives. Desdemona Lebeau makes her stage debut entering as a young Emily Webb, dressed in a cute sort of early-1900s dress, her hair loose and flowing.
I’m so fucking proud to give her light.
I push a hand against my mouth, sighing into it as I watch Dessie.
It hurts, just to see her.
I saw her every day this week at rehearsal, and every day was a knife to my gut that drew no blood. The wound’s always too deep to see, and I went home every night with the pain of it. No amount of squeezing any fucking pillow could quiet the ache.
Against any scream in the world, emotional pain screams louder.
The first intermission almost catches me by surprise, so entranced and pained by watching Dessie onstage that I lose track of time. After a sigh, I suck in my lips and mash fingers into my phone.
ME
Is Brant still being weird?
Not ten seconds later, I get my reply.
DMITRI
It isn’t too bad.
You know him.
I think he’s bowling.
Hey, you do realize
I’m in the audience tonight,
right?
I snort. I was so wrapped up in worries and frustrations of Dessie that I completely forgot about him being here to support Eric who, I might add, plays a very convincing drunk choir director Simon.
ME
Yeah, of course.
Hope you liked act one.
There’s two more.
Get ready for some #feels
DMITRI
You should talk to her
after the show.
I sigh, pushing my phone away after that text. Doesn’t he realize there’s really no fucking use? Her parents are here. They pretty much serve as a wall of protection between us. I’ve already upset her enough.
It’s funny, how Kellen lost the fistfight, but won the battle.
I take deep breaths, count the minutes, and prepare for act two.
Houselights down. Stage lights up. We move into act two, taking place three years later—as explained by the helpful Stage Manager. I get to watch George and Emily in a flashback where they fall in love, and then they get married in the present, despite their misgivings.
Dessie kisses someone else’s lips onstage, and I feel my cock twitch. I know what power lives in those unassuming lips of hers, power I’ve had the joy of knowing intimately.
Shit. I’m getting hard. Not the appropriate reaction I was expecting to have.
Act two tumbles into the second intermission, during which I need to take a serious fucking leak. Since the lighting booth so intelligently empties into the lobby instead of backstage, I slip into the main lobby bathroom around the ten-minute mark, just to give enough of the audience members time to handle their own business before I do mine.
After releasing the Nile river into the farthest urinal, I flush it and push my hands under a running faucet, soaping up and scrubbing harder than necessary, letting out my frustration. I splash water over my face, sighing as the droplets race down to my chin.
When I open my eyes, the man at the other sink is staring at me, his eyebrows lifted searchingly.
Shit. Was he talking to me? “Sorry,” I tell him. “I’m deaf.”
The man seems amused for a moment. He has kind eyes, touched by his smile. Then, to my surprise, he raises his hands: Are you okay?
My unintended bathroom buddy signs. Not what I was expecting.
I sign back: Yeah, fine.
He doesn’t seem convinced. To be fair, I wasn’t very convincing. He signs: How are you liking the show?
I give a shrug: I think it’s good. Then, finding myself oddly at ease with this man suddenly, I add, I’m running the lights up in the booth. I also designed one third of the lighting in the show, though I’m not credited in the program. With half a smile, I shush him and say, “Don’t tell anyone.”
He smiles, impressed: Very nice. Which third?
The one you’re about to see, my hands return. But really, the only actor onstage who’s worth any light is Dessie. She’s the one who plays Emily Webb.
The man’s brow furrows: Why do you say that?
I don’t know what comes over me. This kind-eyed man is suddenly my best friend. He’s “speaking” my language. My chest tightens as I sign: She has so much talent. You don’t know this, but she also sings. And her voice … I can’t hear it, but … I close my eyes, the feelings I had at the Throng surging into my hands, making them move: But I can “hear” it. I see what her songs do to people. She doesn’t get it. My eyes flip open as I keep signing: I’m sorry if I seem a bit messed up about her. We … used to date.
Now, a real smile fills the man’s face. He leans against the sink, studying me as he signs: Used to date?
The sting of bitterness makes itself known in my stomach again: She dumped me. Kinda. Maybe. I’m not sure what we are.
He lifts a fist with the thumb and pinkie pointed out: Why?
I shrug: Because I … didn’t appreciate how amazing she is.
He smirks, giving my words some thought, then signs: Actually, it sounds like you do.
I tap my wrist, the universal—and actual—sign for “time”, then say, “I better get back before someone yells at me. Not that I’ll hear them.”
The man guffaws so loud, I swear I feel the vibrations through my feet. He nods curtly as I hold the door open, letting him out first.
The lonesomeness of the lighting booth swallows me whole again after that short interaction in the bathroom with Captain Kind-Eyes. I breathe a deep, despondent sigh before I settle back into my chair.
The little red cue light blinks just in time.
I lift the lights into the third and final act—a sobering departure from the first two. Nine years have passed now, and the townsfolk gather for a funeral.
Emily’s funeral.
Desdemona appears onstage near a spread of stark-looking chairs, in which are seated other characters from the show who have passed away, including Eric’s character, Simon Stimson, who hung himself. I can’t even follow her lines in the script, too glued to the sight of her onstage as she watches her own funeral, George crying over her grave.
She isn’t ready to join the dead. Dessie, with hope stinging her eyes, begs the Stage Manager to relive one day of her life. When her wish is granted, she quickly comes to regret it as the day speeds by too fast, none of its precious moments able to be held on to. Forlorn, she asks if any of the living really know what a gift each moment of their lives is.
I stare at her on that bleak stage standing in a pool of blue, chilly light, wondering if I know what a gift each moment spent with her was before I lost it all.
I don’t appreciate how amazing she is.
Then she surrenders, taking the one empty seat among the dead, the chair that was waiting for her all along. I drain all the saturation from her side of the stage—my brilliant lighting contribution—as the faces of the dead wash over in colorlessness.
I suck in a jagged breath of air, biting on my fist as I watch the third act draw to its sullen end.
How can she not see how beautiful she is?
Cue the lights.
Fade out.
When the curtains close, I feel weightless.
I breathe the deepest sigh of relief.
Eric’s hand fumbles for mine as I grip it tight for the curtain call, taking my bow with the rest of the
cast. Applause rushes over me in waves, filling my ears as the tears fill my eyes.
Not to sound all conceited or anything, but I’m really proud of myself. I’m, like, really damn proud of myself.
The curtains drop again, and Eric reels around and gives me the biggest, bone-crunching squeeze, then he squeals and says, “Oh, what a killer opening night! Dessie, that was just the best!”
“You were great,” I tell him.
“You know, the key to acting drunk …” he starts as we head back to the dressing rooms.
“Yes! Is to not act drunk! And you know what? I took that advice, so my secret was, I tried to suck really bad,” I explain to him, “in hopes that I would fail at sucking and, thus, do a decent job of Emily.”
He stops outside the women’s dressing room. “I think you did a more-than-decent job. Great leg-breaking, Dessie.” He gives me a little peck on the cheek, then giggles. “I can’t wait to see Dmitri after! Oh,” he says suddenly, his smile breaking. “I didn’t mean—”
“No, no, no,” I assure him. “Please. They’re roommates. It doesn’t—”
“I know, but still, y’know.” He bites his lip, shuffling his feet.
“Are you two a thing?” I prompt him with a nudge to his side. “You and Dmitri?”
Eric shrugs. “Not really. I think we make better friends. He’s sort of an oddball. I guess I kinda am too, but I don’t know. If he met a girl or another guy, I think I’d be more happy for him than jealous, if you get what I mean.”
I rub his shoulder encouragingly. “I do. You’re a good person, Eric. Oh, by the way, Vicki and I are totally talking again.”
“I heard! Don’t let her catch you calling her that or else it’s all over again,” he teases me.
“Sure thing, Other Eric.” I wink at him, then rush back into the dressing room to avoid him smacking me.
After washing all the makeup off my face, I slip out of Emily’s skin and jump into my post-show outfit: a sleek, black sleeveless dress cut just above the knee. I pair it with some cute flats (because after doing a whole play, fuck heels), then run a brush through my hair to tame it at least a little bit before I confront my family—and whatever insanity is likely to accompany it.