“I think it might be easier if—” the long-haired guy starts, but Clark cuts him off.
“If you want to do things that are easy, you shouldn’t be here. On your feet, everyone! Start at the top.”
We move our chairs back, stand in a circle, and stare down at our pages of text, but nobody does anything. After about ten seconds, Natasha says, “I don’t really get what any of this means. Shouldn’t we do some table work first and talk about themes and stuff? Like what Alberto’s inspirations were for writing this?”
Alberto cringes back into his seat, and Clark shoots Natasha a death glare. “Who’s directing this project? You or me?”
“I mean, you. But I don’t understand your directions.”
“I don’t get it, either,” says bench-press guy. “Like, here at the bottom of the page, it says we’re supposed to sing. But what are we supposed to sing? We haven’t had a music rehearsal or anything.”
“Sing what you feel moved to sing! God!” Clark’s voice comes out high and hysterical. Personally, I feel moved to run out of the room. I send the universe an image of the fire alarm going off so I can go spend this evening hanging out with Zoe, but it remains annoyingly silent.
So I do what I always do when I don’t want to participate in a performance. I walk over to the piano, where I feel safe and comfortable, and I start playing. Nothing I know seems appropriate, so I improvise a low, creepy, meandering bass line to underscore Alberto’s nonsensical words. Everyone seems to relax a little now that something is happening, and they start reading aloud, talking over each other and trying to make their bodies into doorbells and concentric circles and masses of fury. It’s cool that my music is the thing that spurred everyone into action, but the result is still pretty abysmal. Clark nods like this is exactly what he wants from us, but I can’t imagine how this random chaos is ever going to become a presentable show.
I stay at the piano for the entire rehearsal, playing with melodies to go with my bass line. I feel a little guilty that I’m enjoying myself over here while everyone else is yelling and contorting and writhing in a pile on the floor, but much more than that, I’m relieved to have found a way out. As I play, I try to remember every detail of the “acting” going on across the room so I can recount it for Zoe later. My body is here in rehearsal, but my mind is already back in the room, doing a dramatic reading of this “script” and reducing her to helpless, tearful laughter. It felt so awesome to have all her attention focused on me when I described last week’s rehearsal. I can’t wait to make it happen again.
Rehearsal ends as abruptly as it did last time; when Clark has had enough, he scoops up his clipboard and walks out. Alberto drops a pencil as he scurries after him, and the guy with the long hair pockets it on his way out the door. Pandora dials her phone as she leaves, and from out in the hall, I hear her say something about “amateur bullshit” and “meeting with company management.”
Russell intercepts me before I can leave the piano bench. “My pain is like the rings of Saturn,” he says.
“I feel more like a furious supernova, personally.” I slump back against the wall. “What are we going to do?”
“I mean, what can we even do? We can’t make a play until that dude writes a play.”
“Do you think we could get the show canceled if enough of us complained? I’d honestly rather be in nothing than be in this.”
“Well, you wouldn’t be in nothing. What about your main stage show?”
“I’m not in one. Apparently I suck too much to be on the main stage.” It’s been long enough now that it doesn’t hurt to say those words anymore.
Russell scoots me over with his hip and sits down next to me on the bench. “I’m sure you don’t suck,” he says.
“Trust me, I kind of do.”
“Well, I guess I don’t know for sure, since I’ve never seen you act. But you were good enough to get in here in the first place, and it’s pretty competitive. Plus, you’re a kick-ass musician.” He puts his hands on the keys and starts trying to replicate the bass line I was playing. “I love this. Did you write it?”
I’ve never really thought of the silly little tunes I pick out as writing something, and I’m pretty sure nobody’s ever called me a musician before, either. To everyone at home, I’ve always been just an accompanist. “Yeah,” I say. “I made it up.”
“It’s really cool.” With his other hand, Russell adds some chords, and they harmonize better than the ones I was using earlier. “What about this?”
“Ooh, nice.” I start playing with a melody on the high keys, and pretty soon we’ve got an interesting little song going, melodic lines twining around each other in this cool, haunting way. Russell and I barely know each other, but somehow we’re each able to anticipate what the other is about to do, like we’ve been making music together for years. My pulse speeds up, and my brain starts feeling busier, somehow, like I’m using more parts of it than usual. I’m always so self-conscious when I’m acting or singing, but it’s totally different when I’m at the piano; I’m confident enough that I’m able to laugh off my mistakes like they don’t even matter. What Russell and I are doing feels like playing in the most literal sense.
We finish the song by getting slower and slower, tapering off like a music box that’s winding down. When the last note has faded away, we sit there for a second, motionless, still caught up in the web of what we’ve created together. Then Russell says, “That was awesome.”
“Wasn’t it?” I feel weirdly giddy.
“You’re really talented.”
I shrug and smile. “Not the kind of talented that matters around here. But thank you. So are you.”
“Are you a music major?”
“I don’t start college till next year, actually, but I wasn’t planning on it. I don’t have any formal training or anything. My uncle taught me to play.”
“That’s cool. Is he a professional pianist?”
“No, he’s a producer for the New York Musical Festival. He’s really good, though, and we both get a ton of practice accompanying my family. They’re all theater people, and everyone gets together every Monday night to eat dinner and get drunk and sing.”
“Like, show tunes and stuff?” I nod. “Nice. Today’s Monday; they’re probably doing it right now.”
I hadn’t even noticed it was Monday; when you work seven days a week, it’s easy to lose track. I picture everyone gathering without me—Marisol’s belly getting bigger, Sutton and Twyla growing taller, Skye getting closer and closer to everyone. I must have my feelings painted all over my face, because Russell says, “You miss them, huh?”
“Yeah. A lot, actually.”
“Play something for me.” He moves over a little so I can have access to the lower keys, but his shoulders are so broad that he’s still taking up most of the bench.
“What should I play?” I ask.
“I don’t know, anything. The Sound of Music.”
I start laughing. “Really? That’s the first thing you thought of?”
“Shut up and play it!”
I roll my eyes and play the introduction to “Edelweiss,” and Russell starts to sing. His voice is rough and untrained, but he wouldn’t embarrass himself doing karaoke or anything. Instead of the real lyrics, he makes up his own: “Crazy Clark, crazy Clark, never runs a rehearsal…We stand by, wond’ring why. Is this just universal?”
I smile and pick up where he leaves off. “This is so dumb, why’d I even come, when I could be sleeping? Crazy Clark, crazy Clark, you might make me start weeping.”
Russell laughs and high-fives me. “Damn. A stellar pianist and a master of parody, and you have a pretty voice. You didn’t list that stuff under your special skills.”
I blush a little and look down so he won’t see. “My uncle and I make up silly lyrics all the time. He loves this kind of stuff. He once produced a parody of Cats that took place in a tattoo shop. It was called—”
“Tats?”
“Qu
ick on the uptake,” I say.
“Was it funny?”
“I thought so. My mom left at intermission. She thinks stuff like that is an insult to real theater.”
“All theater is real theater. Except maybe Señor Hidalgo’s Circus of Wonders.” He puts his hands back on the keys. “Let’s do another one.”
Russell may not be a performer, but he knows his musicals inside and out, and we work our way through song after song, cracking each other up with ridiculous lyrics. It feels so relaxing and familiar that when Zoe finally texts to ask where I am, I can’t believe how late it is. Russell and I have been playing for almost an hour.
“Wow,” I say. “I’ve gotta run.”
“Meeting someone?” He says it casually, but I can tell he’s asking if I’ll have to bring doughnuts for my crew tomorrow. I can practically see him repressing a teasing eyebrow-waggle.
“Just my roommate,” I say, but there’s no just about it. She could be hanging out with anyone at all right now, but she wants to know where I am.
“Let’s play together again sometime, okay?” Russell says. “This was really fun.”
“Definitely,” I answer, but I’m already halfway out the door, hoping Zoe will be up for another epic game of Love or Hate.
The timeline for the first show of the season is unbelievably short, and tech rehearsals for Midsummer start at the end of our second week at Allerdale. I’m excited that I’ll finally get to be in the same room as Zoe twelve hours a day, but the performers and the run crew barely get to interact at all. I have only three jobs during the show—carry a chair onstage during a blackout, remove it during another blackout, plug in a set of twinkly LEDs on one of the moving set pieces—but I keep missing my cues because I’m too busy watching Zoe. It’s impossible to take my eyes off her as she leaps and spins and climbs the set, which is made of giant, architectural-looking flowers. Her costume is a long-sleeved unitard, but the lighting makes it look like she’s practically naked, decorated only with strategic swoops and swirls of glitter. Her hair is down, wound with tinsel and flowers. It doesn’t seem possible that this otherworldly creature is the same girl who sat on the floor of our room with me and talked about sex and George Clooney.
Opening night is a huge success. The music and choreography are beautiful, the actors do a phenomenal job, and even though I’m standing in the wings with a headset on, it’s easy to get swept up in the magic. When the curtain comes down at the end, everyone behind it squeals and jumps up and down, and despite the fact that I had practically nothing to do with the show, I feel that joyful, relieved swelling in my chest that a good performance always brings on. Zoe and Livvy and a bunch of the other fairies crush into a group hug, and I stand in the dark and watch them glitter.
The moment the curtain call is over, the whole cast rushes the wings and stampedes downstairs to the dressing rooms, chattering and laughing with high-pitched, adrenaline-spiked intensity. Livvy and Kenji and Todd high-five me as they zoom by, and even Pandora spares me a tiny, closed-mouthed smile. I position myself so Zoe will run into me before she hits the stairs, and my heart beats a little faster when I see her approaching. For a second I wish I’d gotten her flowers, but maybe that would’ve been weird.
“Hey,” I call when she’s within earshot. “You were really great. Congratulations.”
“Thank you!” Zoe throws her arms around me, and I can feel how warm she is underneath her unitard. When she lets go after only a second and moves toward the stairs again, disappointment floods through me. We’ve barely gotten to connect lately, and I want more of her than this.
“Do you feel like it went well?” I ask, to keep her from leaving. “It looked fantastic.”
“Yeah, it felt good!” She’s looking back and forth between me and the rest of the fairies, like she doesn’t want to be rude but also doesn’t want to lose track of them.
“Go ahead,” I say, even though it sucks, because I don’t want to be the weight that ties her down when she obviously wishes she were somewhere else.
“Okay. I’m gonna go change. I’ll see you at the cast party?”
I had assumed the cast party was an exclusive thing for people who were actually in the cast. “Am I invited?” I ask.
Zoe looks at me like I’m crazy. “Um, obviously! You worked on the show.”
I’m about to say I hardly did anything, but then I remember I’m supposed to be trying to disparage myself less often. Plus, I really want to go. “Yeah, sure, I’ll see you there,” I say.
“Great! Common room of Dewald.” Zoe blows me a kiss and runs off. Even in the dim blue lights of backstage, she sparkles.
My friends will probably take a while to make their way over to the party, and I don’t want to show up alone, so I go back to my dorm to change out of my black run-crew clothes. Even after I’m ready to go, I wait fifteen minutes to make sure I won’t be the first one to arrive. It starts to rain as I leave Ramsey, and I jog toward the party as quickly as I can, hoping my hair won’t be frizzy by the time I get there.
The Dewald common room is huge, and it’s decorated with the same giant, stylized flowers as the set; there must’ve been some left over. Russell waves to me from across the room, and I’m heading toward him when a girl I don’t know bounces up to me and extends a red plastic cup. “Midsummer cocktail?” she asks. She doesn’t seem to care who I am or whether I belong here.
“Sure, thanks,” I say. I’ve never really had any alcohol besides wine, but I guess tonight is a good night to start, so I take a sip. The drink tastes like pineapple mixed with nail polish remover, and I have to struggle not to cough. Hopefully I’ll get used to it.
My friends are sitting in a circle on the floor with a bunch of other apprentices and non-equity people, and Zoe scoots toward Livvy to make room for me. Both of them are wearing tank tops and shorts, but they haven’t bothered to remove their fairy makeup: lavender lipstick, glitter dusted across their cheekbones, feathery false eyelashes, and so much metallic eye shadow that I’m surprised they can blink. Zoe looks like a burlesque dancer who’s ready to get on the subway after her show. Livvy looks like a little girl who raided her older sister’s makeup drawer.
Zoe smiles. “Oh good, you already have a drink. We’re playing Never Have I Ever.”
I’m not a huge fan of games like this—I’ve never done any of the crazy things people come up with, and I’m not eager to seem boring in front of my new friends. But it would look much weirder if I refused to play, so I say, “Ooh, fun.” These kinds of situations generate the stories that will get retold for the rest of the summer, and even if I can’t really be part of it, I still want to be around to see it.
“Never have I ever smoked pot in my house while my parents were home,” Kenji announces.
Three of the other guys and a non-eq girl with a choppy haircut drink, and everyone else laughs. “You drink if you’ve done the thing, right?” I whisper to Zoe.
She nods. “Haven’t you played this before?”
“I have,” I say. “Just checking.” After the doughnut incident, I figure it’s always safest to make sure of the rules. I want to take a sip of my drink so I’ll have something to do with my hands, but then it would look like I was reacting to the pot question, so I spin the cup around and around on the floor in front of me instead.
It’s Pandora’s turn now, and she makes a big show of choosing her topic. “Let’s seeee,” she says. “Never have I ever had sex in a bathtub full of ice cubes.”
Unsurprisingly, nobody drinks. Pandora looks around, gives a sly smile, and then raises her cup to her lips. Of course she would be that person who picks something weirdly specific in order to showcase how adventurous she is. Zoe rolls her eyes, and I know she’s thinking the same thing.
“I’m sorry, you’ve had sex in a bathtub full of ice cubes?” says the next guy in line, a non-eq with a face so round, it’s almost a perfect circle.
Pandora shrugs like it’s no big deal. “It was hot.”
“Hot like sexy or hot like too warm?”
“Both,” she says. The guy nods slowly, and I can tell he’s thinking about doughnuts. He clears his throat.
“Never have I ever had a crush on someone at this festival,” he says, then immediately drinks. Pandora flushes with pleasure but keeps her own cup on the ground. The choppy-haired non-eq drinks, and so do Kenji and Todd, who share a sweet little kiss afterward. Russell drinks, and then he glances around the room, like he’s checking to make sure no one saw him. I assume he’s thinking about Olivier. It must suck when you have to see someone every day but you can’t express how you really feel about them.
There’s a sudden clap of thunder so loud that I feel it all the way to my core, and everyone squeals. The rain is coming down hard now, and the girl who played Helena in Midsummer starts closing the common room windows so the water won’t blow in and wreck the decorations. I wish she’d leave them open. We rarely get summer storms like this in the city, and I love the raw power of them, the way they make you feel edgy and dangerous even if you’re actually safe and dry.
It’s my turn now, so I say, “Never have I ever cheated on my significant other.”
One of the non-eq girls half raises her cup, then lowers it, then raises it again. “Does it count if your significant other knew about it and said it was okay?” she asks.
“That’s not cheating,” Zoe says. “That’s an open relationship. Totally different.”
“Oh, actually, wait,” the non-eq says, and then she drinks anyway, and everyone laughs.
Another flash of lightning bathes us all in blue-white for a split second. The thunder is almost simultaneous, and this time the common room lights flicker and die. Everyone goes “Oooooh!” at the same time, and then we’re all laughing and talking over each other much louder than usual, like our noise will chase away the dark. Cell phone screens blink to life everywhere and float around like a swarm of giant, rectangular fireflies.
It seems like our game is over; there’s no point in playing Never Have I Ever if you can’t see who’s drinking. But then the choppy-haired non-eq digs an LED flashlight keychain out of her bag and tosses it into the center of the circle. It’s not superbright, but when we scoot in a little closer, it’s enough to see each other. Zoe’s knee is pressing against my thigh, and I think about moving away to give her more space, but I don’t.
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