by Mindy Klasky
At least the supertitles would cast a little bit of light onto the set.
I would have to order dozens of flashlights and scores of rechargeable batteries. We’d need a crew member to swap out old batteries for new after every performance. It would take a couple of hours to unscrew each flashlight, drop in fresh cells, screw the things back together, test, and plug the dead batteries in for recharge. Overtime at union wages, countless batteries, the flashlights themselves…More fodder for the “it’s only money” campaign.
Of course, all afternoon the actors had been worried about little things (Read: Their safety, life, and limb). They were afraid of slipping on the slimy plastic set and braining themselves on wrought-iron frames while their wet suit costumes split open to reveal their sweat-slicked bodies and the supertitles raced on overhead, getting ahead of whatever lines other characters were actually emoting on stage.
I had to admit, they had a point.
Drew looked up as I approached. “Dude, this isn’t going to work. Tell him, Kira.” He settled his arm around my waist as I stepped up to the table, and I squelched a tiny flame of annoyance. John’s glance flickered toward Drew’s hand, and he nodded slowly, as if I’d confirmed some close-held suspicion. I stepped away, pretending that I needed to move so that I could make out the latest version of John’s plans.
The drawings were as masterful as ever, every line clear and dramatic. Bill had recently decided to go without any of the painted backdrops John had already created. Despite their grays and blacks, their subdued metallic malevolence, they were now deemed too soft for our hard-edged Verona. Too conventional. Besides, the flashlights weren’t going to have enough power to reach that far upstage.
Instead, Bill had mandated hand-forged wrought-iron fencing, huge panels of it, making a jagged barrier across the back of the set. John had shouted him down, citing the weight and the time it would take to complete the welding. They’d finally compromised on lengths of standard hurricane fencing, painted black. John had reluctantly conceded the need for iron support posts instead of aluminum—only iron would have the right tone as the actors clanged against it with their pipe swords.
Drew pointed to a particularly narrow passage that now existed upstage. “We’ll never find that in the dark. Right, Kira?”
Despite my initial annoyance at his physicality, I smiled at Drew, touched that he thought I could solve all of his problems. “What do you think, John? Can we add more glow-tape?”
“We might as well paint the whole damn thing fluorescent orange,” John snarled. Drew leaped back like a kicked puppy.
I hurried to smooth ruffled feathers. “Come on now, it could be worse. We could have the producers breathing down our necks.”
In a stroke of genius, Bill had convinced all of the show’s producers, all of the dreaded moneymen, to stay away from our rehearsals. He’d argued that they’d hired him to blow their minds with a radical new production. If they watched it change incrementally, from day to day, they’d never experience the full body blow of everything that Bill envisioned. Okay, I’d been a little surprised that they’d actually bought the argument, but I was relieved to have one less pressure as we raced toward our opening.
I continued to placate both men beside me. “Shows always feel like this a few weeks out. It’s totally normal to worry about pulling everything together.” John tapped his drawings into a neat cylinder, and I smiled at him. “Bill being Bill, remember?”
John darted a glance at me. “Franklin, you and I both know it’s way too late to make changes this drastic. Bill’s never been like this before. Not with his wildest concepts.”
It felt odd to have him talking to me this way, so directly, so personally. It was like we were continuing the phone conversation that had started a week before, even though Drew was now standing right there. Of course, Drew was more interested in twisting a lock of my hair around his finger than he was in the latest tangle of aluminum and iron Maginot Lines that Bill was demanding upstage.
“It’s going to be fine, John,” I said with as much confidence as I could muster. Drew nodded his passionate agreement.
John barely spared our leading man a frown as he said, “My name is going on that design, Franklin. My name is associated with this production.”
“So is mine,” I said, and I sighed. “It’s the Landmark, John. We’re supposed to—”
“Supposed to take the lead in contemporary American theater.” He rubbed his face, as if he were waking up from a bad dream.
“Kira’s right,” Drew said. “She’s totally…” He trailed off, as if he were trying to string together words in a foreign language.
His loyalty was touching, but I came close to wincing as he struggled to shore up his statement with facts. He was supportive, always, almost to a fault. That was one of the things I loved about him, one of the things that made me most grateful to Teel. I just wished that sometimes Drew would think things through before he spoke, that just once, he would demonstrate that there were brains inside that gorgeous head.
John waited politely for Drew to finish making his point, but accepted that no other argument was forthcoming when Drew bent to nuzzle my neck. I edged away, thoroughly embarrassed. I was grateful when John changed the topic of conversation. “Where are y’all going?”
Surprisingly, I had trouble meeting his eyes when I said, “Mephisto’s. Just to grab a burger.”
“Did Mike change the dress code?”
I forced myself to shrug, to act like our destination was no place special. “I’ve been living in my theater clothes. I wanted a change.”
“Oh, you have a change, all right.” Once again, I had that eerie feeling that he and I were back to the previous week’s phone conversation, that we were having a private dialogue, with half our lines unspoken. My fingers prickled as I brushed my hair back from my suddenly flushed cheeks.
“Come on, Kira,” Drew said. “I’m hungry.” He offset his whine with a goofy grin, reminding me once again that I actually was enjoying his attention. I loved my dating life as belle of the ball. I had never been happier.
Drew picked up my coat and shook it out, holding it behind me. I swallowed a flash of annoyance and caught my sweater sleeves with my fingertips, sparing them from riding up to my elbows as I fumbled to find the coat sleeves. What would I have to do to break the New and Improved Drew of that little etiquette tradition?
Fishing my hair out from the coat’s collar, I asked John, “Coming with?” It would have been rude to just walk out on him.
“I’m going to wrap up a couple of things here,” he said. “I’ll see you later. If you’re still there.”
I wasn’t sure why he thought that I’d be gone—if he was alluding to my fleeing from TEWSBU, or if he thought that Drew and I would be…otherwise engaged. Neither possibility left me with an easy answer, so I just shrugged and said, “Don’t worry about the show. It’s all coming together. The play will be fine.”
“Isn’t it pretty to think so?”
Drew cocked his head to one side, his eyes creasing into an adorable—if maddening—squint. “What’s that from? Peanuts?”
Peanuts? He thought the line was from a comic strip? “Hemingway,” John and I said at the same time. I hurried toward the door before Drew could ask which play.
It was bitterly cold outside, but no snow was falling. We’d driven to rehearsal together; Drew’s Mazda was parked three blocks away, halfway to Mephisto’s. As we started walking, he reached for my hand, lacing his fingers between my own.
“Hey, Drew,” I said.
“Hmm?” Again with the goofy grin.
“I thought we had an agreement.”
“I’ll agree to anything you want, Kira. You know that.”
Yeah. I did. He’d agree to anything, say any words I wanted, just to keep me happy. And he honestly meant it, too. At least until he forgot, five minutes later.
A sudden realization smacked me between the eyes, and I stumbled to a stop.
I was dating a golden retriever puppy. A really beautiful, totally loyal, wonderfully intentioned, incredibly dumb golden retriever puppy.
Drew turned to look at me, concern creasing his forehead. He leaned in and planted a quick kiss on my lips, the sort of casual affection that was guaranteed to make my belly swoop, even in the face of other, less positive, realizations. “What, Kira? What’s wrong?”
He wanted to please me. He wanted so badly to please me.
“Nothing,” I said, forcing a smile. “It’s just that you promised. You promised that you wouldn’t touch me in front of the cast or crew, and back there, in front of John…”
Drew pulled his hand away from mine, as if my fingers had burned him. “I’m sorry! I thought that you liked me to touch you!”
“No!” I said, feeling like an idiot. “I mean, I do! I love it! It’s just that when we’re in the theater, when we’re surrounded by all of our coworkers, I don’t think it’s appropriate.”
“We weren’t surrounded by coworkers. That was just John.”
I pictured the set designer’s slow appraisal, his gaze flicking over Drew’s hands, his laconic nod as he accepted the public display of affection. My cheeks burned. “John counts,” I said to Drew.
“It’s not like he’s the director, or anything. He’s not in the cast. He’s just the set designer.”
My throat worked; I wasn’t even sure how to respond to that. Too many actors looked at their technical crew as “just” those people. Some actors truly believed that they could do the show on their own, that they could perform without the bother of a lighting designer, a costume designer, a set designer. A stage manager.
When my silence became uncomfortable, even for happy-go-lucky Drew, he said, “Okay, Kira. I get it.” But he really didn’t. He said, “I don’t want to make anything more difficult for you.”
I shivered and took the easy route. “I know you don’t,” I said. I pulled my coat closer around me. “Come on. It’s freezing out here.”
It was plenty warm at Mephisto’s. Mike was standing behind the bar, setting a Jack and Coke onto an already-laden tray. The tables in the front room were filled with customers; the restaurant was steeped in a healthy weekend buzz. Nevertheless, Mike looked up automatically as we walked in. He nodded, then did a classic double take as he recognized me. I could only flash a smile as Drew reached for my collar, eager to take my coat. I picked a path through the tables, navigating so that Drew and I ended up beside the bar just as a harried waitress swooped in for the tray of drinks.
Mike took advantage of the temporary lull in hostilities to give me an appraising look. “Kira,” he said. And then he seemed to notice the man standing beside me. “Drew! I haven’t seen you here in a while.”
Drew smiled, his best, happy grin. “I’ve been too busy, dude. This Kira, she’s a slave driver.”
Mike looked at me, with an expression that was at least halfway down the road to disbelief. He recovered quickly, though. “Well, you know you two are always welcome. The Landmark group is back in the Shakespeare Room.”
“Fitting,” I said. And then I concentrated on making a question sound offhand. “Is, um, Stephanie there?”
“No,” Mike said, shaking his head as he finished shoving limes onto the rim of my glass of tonic water. “They’re not back there.”
Drew didn’t catch the plural pronoun as he accepted his Sam Adams. I, though, flashed a grateful smile at Mike. “Thanks,” I said.
“Just part of the service at Mike’s Bar and Grill.” He gave me a mock leer, looking exactly like the debauched devil that had earned the place its nickname. Before I could express my appreciation, Mike got pulled away to mix a half-dozen cocktails.
Drew and I made our way back to the Shakespeare Room. I nodded to the assembled cast members, slipping into a seat on the far side of the table. Drew immediately joined me, resting a casual hand across the back of my chair. As his fingers traveled to the back of my neck, I was irritated by the physical attention, particularly since we’d just discussed it five minutes before. I offered him one pointed look, but I decided not to build mountains out of molehills. When the waitress came in, we both ordered burgers and fries. I was really hungry—I went with the black and blue, and I asked her to add bacon.
I resisted the urge to whip out my food diary then and there. Even if I left half the food on my plate, the fat and cholesterol should go a long way toward satisfying my overconcerned housemates and father.
I still hadn’t reconciled myself to their stupid food diary. I found myself thinking about it at odd times, obsessing over whether I had recorded something, whether I had accurately estimated the weight of a chicken breast cut up on a salad, whether I had been fair when I said that I ate half a cup of mashed potatoes. The diary was almost having the opposite of my loved ones’ desired effect—it was so damn hard to write down everything that I ate, that I was tempted to just eat nothing.
But that would only bring about more problems. It was easier to give in now. Easier to prove that they were all wrong, with their overprotective stance. Easier to manage the situation than to let it continue deteriorating.
“Kira?” I looked up to see Jennifer Galland at the far end of the table. She had her fingers wrapped around a stein of some light beer, and even at this distance, I could make out a couple of nasty bruises on her forearm. Rehearsals had not been kind to our gentle Romeo. Her iron pipe sword had tripped her up just yesterday. She likely would have kept herself from falling, if her wet suit–clad feet hadn’t slipped on the slimy plastic sheeting.
Bill had been impressed with the string of profanity that Jennifer had let loose. He’d decided that Romeo would be thinking in just those terms as he contemplated fighting the hated Capulet crowd. It had only taken me three phone calls to determine that we could, in fact, change the supertitles, to make the language more foul, even though they’d all supposedly been finalized the week before. There would be a charge, of course, a substantial one, but Bill insisted it was all worthwhile.
I’d needed to deliver the new supertitles over the phone to jump-start the modification. I wondered what my father would have thought if he’d seen me standing in the Landmark lobby, seeking out the best pocket of cell phone reception so that I could enunciate words that would have guaranteed my mouth being washed out with soap when I was a kid. I had to spell some of them, too. All those years of playing Scrabble with Maddy and Jules came in handy. Sort of.
“Kira,” Jennifer said again, when she had my attention. “Can’t you talk to Bill? Ask him if we could carry flashlights, too?”
I shook my head. “I already tried that. He wouldn’t go for the idea. I think he’s afraid it’ll look silly, like kids around a campfire.” I mimed holding a flashlight under my chin. “You know, ‘There was a hook, caught in the car door.’”
They all laughed, and Drew leaned over to kiss my cheek, as if he were rewarding me for a great witticism. I would have pushed him away, but our waitress chose that moment to come in with our food. The aroma of the burger made my mouth water; I was hungrier than I thought. I closed my eyes and took a bite, actually moaning a little as the bacon crunched between my teeth, as the Cajun spice danced at the tip of my tongue, and the creamy melted blue cheese flooded my mouth with flavor.
Heaven. Sheer culinary heaven.
Even if I did need to grab for my napkin to wipe juices from my chin.
“You’ll need this for your fries, Franklin.” I looked up to see John laughing at me from the doorway, holding out the bottle of ketchup that the waitress had just passed into our crowded room.
“Hi!” I said, surprised. “I didn’t think you’d make it.”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” I wasn’t sure what his tone meant. It was steady and calm, merely stating a fact. He’d clearly made a conscious decision to set aside his frustration over Bill, over the ever-changing set design. I felt guilty, though, that I hadn’t insisted that he join us, back at t
he theater. “If I’d known y’all would be telling campfire stories, I’d’ve brought along some s’mores.”
I laughed. Before I could think of something else to say, though, two more people ducked through the curtain.
Stephanie Michaelson. And TEWSBU.
The bite of burger in my belly turned cold. Stephanie and my ex were laughing too loudly, holding each other up as they stumbled into the room. “Sorry we’re late,” Stephanie brayed. “We stopped off at Orlando’s for a drink after rehearsal.”
More like for a bottle, I thought. They were both drunk. Not a pleasantly giddy, Friday-night flush after a week of hard-won rehearsals. No, Stephanie actually swayed as she stepped into the room. TEWSBU didn’t help her; he was peering around the room, his head held a little too far forward on his neck, his gaze a little too uneven to be sober.
I realized that neither of them had drinks in their hands. I couldn’t be certain, but I suspected that Mike had taken one look at their condition and declined to serve them further. I gritted my teeth. I had a problem with TEWSBU under the best of circumstances, but I remembered all too well that he could be a heartless drunk.
It was just my luck that the only empty chairs were on my side of the table. Drew was already scrambling to his feet, pushing in his own seat and edging toward the wall to make it easier for the newcomers to get by. I thought about scooting up as close as I could to the table, but it was easier to follow Drew’s lead, to stand against the wall and let them go by.
Stephanie edged past first. The smell of alcohol was so strong that I wondered if she’d spilled at least one drink down her front. She giggled as she walked by, clutching the back of my chair to keep her balance.