Crossing

by Stacey Wallace Benefiel

  His phone rings and he stands, pulling it from the front pocket of his jeans. “Sorry,” he says and then looks at the phone. He hits a button. “Hey, India.” Liam mouths sorry again. “Yeah. Yes. I’m going to go after all.” He pauses for a second, crossing his eyes at me. “I don’t know yet. I’ll figure something out. Dani thinks I should be Tarzan.”

  I pretend to finish my drink, and then take out my phone, making a big show of looking at it and pointing to the time. Slinging my backpack on, I give him a quick wave and walk away before Liam can finish arranging his date in front of me.

  All I know is that, as entertaining as I am, I’m no match for someone like India.

  X

  “Hide me, please.”

  I peel apart the Velcro on my enormous plaid coat. “Here, get in my pants.”

  Liam chokes on his beer and quickly steps behind the fake ficus that’s been keeping me company all night.

  “Who are you hiding from?” I stage whisper out the corner of my mouth, all incognito-like.

  “Who do you think?” he for real whispers in reply. “Fucking India.”

  I take a step back and give him a once over. His tan and toned thighs are peeking out from underneath the hem of a leopard print mini toga. My gaze trips over his pecs and scurries up to the ends of the cheap, shaggy brown wig skimming his broad shoulders then down to his arm with the tattoo. The make-up worked!

  “A word of advice,” I say, acting like I didn’t just eye-hump him, “if you don’t want a girl to think that you like her, don’t go to a costume party with her in a couples costume.”

  Liam shakes his head vehemently, his wig slipping to the side. He’s adorable. “I didn’t know she was going to dress like that!”

  Like that referred to India’s leopard print bikini. Like that referred to how tiny and thin and spectacular she looked in said leopard print bikini.

  I cock my head to the side. “But you told her what you were going to be wearing and you accepted a ride to the party from her, right?”

  He takes a deep breath and exhales. “I did. I’m an idiot.” Liam looks down at himself. “A half-naked idiot.”

  I take off my coat and offer it to him. “Put this on.”

  “You won’t be cold in just a tank top?”

  “Nah.” I pat my belly. “Plenty of natural insulation.”

  He hands me his keg cup and puts the coat on, wrapping it around his body like a robe and then takes his cup back, finishing off his beer. “Thanks.”

  I empty my cup as well. “No problem. It’s very brave of you to be wearing clown paraphernalia.”

  Liam grins and looks down at himself again. “I must only be afraid of male clowns, because you don’t scare me at all, even with the white face and red nose. You’re kinda cute, even.”

  Puh-lease. “You’ve been hanging out with a scantily clad dancer all night and you think I look kinda cute?”

  He shrugs. “I’m over skinny, flat, and bitchy. I’ve played that record.”

  My nipples get all tingly, and within my body that’s the international sign for, You dreamin’ girl.

  “Stay here. I’ll go get reinfreshments.” I grab his cup and head into the kitchen.

  Under normal circumstances, I’m sure Steve’s house is nice enough, but filled to capacity with drunken college students…the atmosphere is definitely…sticky.

  Some lurch-y tall dude dressed as The Governor from The Walking Dead pumps the keg and holds the tap out for me. “Hey Big Pants Lady,” he says, his half-grin matching his half-gaze.

  “Hey.” I stick the cups underneath the tap, one-by-one, tilting them to the side. “I’m actually a garden-variety asexual clown, but Big Pants Lady works too.”

  He reaches out and tweaks my nose with his free hand. “Honk.” He laughs. “I’m Brian.”

  “Dani,” I say, nodding.

  He nods back and his one eye travels deliberately south to my chest.

  “I don’t know about asexual. I’m thinking I could call you Big Rack Lady too, huh?”

  Does this joker think he’s charming?

  “No, you better not,” Liam says from behind me. He reaches around and takes the tap out of the guy’s hand.

  The Governor stands there, flummoxed. “Sorry, dude.”

  Liam narrows his eyes. “Not me you need to apologize to.”

  “I’m drunk.” Lurch flips his eye patch up and walks away toward the deck.

  “Annnd that’s why I love a kegger,” I say, taking my beer from Liam.

  “What a tool. I didn’t like the way he was gawking at you.”

  I snort and give him an oh, really stare. “You realize just yesterday you flagrantly checked out my goods. Topside and rear.”

  Liam rolls his eyes. “Yes, but that’s different. We’re friends.” He flashes me a devious grin. “Plus, we were even ’cause I bought you a beverage. Isn’t that how it works?”

  With him, that is definitely how it works.

  “Tit for tat…cover up?” I cringe.

  He cringes. “Not your best.”

  “I’m a tipsy clown, whaddya want,” I say, taking off my nose and chucking it at his forehead.

  “There you are!” India saunters over all smiles until she sees that Liam is wearing my coat. She pinches the fabric between her fingertips and pretends to gag. Completely ignoring my presence, she hangs on Liam’s shoulder and leans into his ear. “Wanna get out of here?”

  I stand there, feeling my face get hot, and look away. Liam may have been hiding from India, because, let’s face it, she is a pretentious bitch-face and painful to talk to, but he’s also a guy…with needs. And India appears more than ready to help him out.

  “What are you even still doing here?” India asks. I feel her glare directed at me and look up, ready to come back with something stupid like, it’s a free country kitchen, bitch.

  “You know,” Liam says, as he is shrugging out from under India’s grasp, “I’m going to go catch the bus. I saw a stop about a block from here—”

  “I can give you a ride,” India scoffs. “If you want.” She thrusts her hip out to the side and rests her hand on it, as if to say, you’re passing on this?

  Liam sets his beer down on the nearest counter. “Sorry, India, but I don’t want anything from you.”

  Before she can pout and throw a shit-fit, he gets in between us, blocking her from my view. I hear her mutter, “Losers,” and stomp away.

  Liam sighs, sounding relieved. “Is it okay if I borrow your coat? I’ll return it on Monday.”

  I grin up at him like a buffoon. “Keep it. I have another one.”

  Chapter Five

  “Wanna read through it one more time and then try to block it?” Liam asks, ducking his head into a classroom to see if it’s empty.

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  After two weeks of creating the “world of our characters” I know everything about Clara except for her lines. We’ve delved into our characters’ childhoods, their Mommy issues, their physicality, the tone of their voice, and the way they wear their hair on their birthday. Instead of memorizing our lines, we’ve been taught to move and speak with the intention of the words.

  This ain’t high school, I’ll tell you what.

  And while all of that has been fun, and spending three hours a week getting to know Liam has been eye-opening and eye-pleasing, I’m champing at the bit to actually act. Maren has left the blocking up to us, but suggests we use the stage directions as a guide. So, the unspoken deal is if Liam doesn’t want to kiss me, he doesn’t have to.

  We push our desks head-to-head and read through the scene again, this time acting it a little more, using our dramahhhhh. He’s actually pretty good and I wonder why he waited until now to move out from behind the curtain.

  “I liked your reading of the line about the sunset,” I say. “I believed you that it reminded you of your summers on the Cape.”

  He smirks. “Thanks. I haven’t ever been to Massachusetts,
so I guess that’s a good thing. Look at you, complimenting me.”

  “I know. I’ve transformed from an asshole into a gracious acting companion.”

  “What happened?”

  I shrug. “Nothing exciting. I’ve been doing yoga and yesterday I hit the Safeway with Elizabeth in the afternoon because we literally had non-dairy creamer and applesauce to eat for breakfast. Maybe my chakras or my blood sugar evened out.”

  “So what you’re saying is, assholia is really hypoglycemia?” He smirks. “In addition to carrying your cardigan around for you, I think I’ll start packing extra Kind bars, too.”

  I think it’s way cool that he’s so accommodating. Obviously, Ariana trained him well at being a good boyfriend. I wonder if he misses being someone’s partner and I get the job by default?

  “All right, let’s block this bitch,” I say. “Is there anything you want to do a different way?”

  He shakes his head. “No, I think what’s written is good.” Liam stands and pulls our desks together “stage right” to make a “bench.”

  We run the scene again, this time trying to suss out the intention of the words moreso than the dialogue itself. We both do a little moving across the stage – the blocking is super simple – and then when we hit the middle of the third page we’ve both made it onto the bench as directed.

  Liam says his last line and then puts his arm around my shoulders while I finish off my mini-monologue. I say it word for word (Quelle surprise! I have my lines memorized) because I’m too nervous to even think about intention.

  I finish talking and then Liam brings his face to mine, our lips mere inches apart and says, “And then I plant one on you.”

  I open my eyes, embarrassed that I’d closed them and that he’d had his open and seen me preparing to get kissed and then he didn’t fucking kiss me!

  He stands up and stretches his arms above his head. “I don’t know, what do you think of the last bit? It all seemed pretty organic until then.”

  I’m quiet for a second, chastising myself for feeling like I’m going to cry because the cute boy won’t fake kiss me. It hasn’t been that long since his relationship ended! He’s nervous. It’s fine. He turned down India for crying out loud. It’s not about me.

  I always make everything about me.

  “Um,” I say, shrugging. “We could try it with you sitting down and me standing behind you during the final monologue. I feel like there should be some sort of physical connection at that point. I can just put my hands on your shoulders or something.”

  He comes back over to the bench and sits down. “Let’s try that.”

  I get up and stand behind him, saying my lines again. While I’m talking, I place my hands on top of his shoulders and he reaches up with his right hand, stroking my right forearm. When it comes time for the They kiss, he lifts my palm up and brings it to his lips, kissing it instead.

  Somehow, Liam has managed to make our more innocent actions about a hundred times hotter than simply They kiss. I increase my grip on his shoulder with my other hand because I’m not entirely sure that my knees are going to hold me up.

  I blurt out my final line.

  “That blocking works for me,” I say, my voice sounding totally wonky. A shiver runs through my body.

  Liam turns in his chair and smiles up at me. “Yeah, that felt more realistic to me. I mean, Stan and Clara have known each other since they were kids. They have a history. I don’t necessarily think he’d suck her face at such an intimate moment.”

  I realize I’m still touching his shoulders and actually kind of massaging them. I back up a step.

  “Damn, I was hoping you weren’t going to notice you were doing that. It felt good.” He scrunches his shoulders up and twists his neck from side to side.

  I go back over to him and resume the massage. “All you had to do was ask, you know. You needn’t be a rubdown opportunist.”

  Liam leans his head forward and lets out a little moan.

  I press my thighs together in case he decides to make anymore of his pretty, pretty noises and I start to spontaneously orgasm right here and now.

  Talking. It’s a thing people do.

  “So, are you going to try out for Townsend House tomorrow? I think practically everyone else in class is.”

  He shakes his head slightly. “Nah, I already talked to the director. I’m going to be helping with costumes.”

  “Really? Do you have any experience with that? I know you said you used to run crew in high school, but I assumed that meant building sets and props and stuff.”

  Liam snorts, turning his face up to look at me. “Sexist much? That’s like me assuming your favorite part of theatre is the make-up.”

  “That is my favorite part, duh.” I dig my thumb into his neck and he drops his head back down, moaning again. “So, you like costuming. Okay. All I was saying was that in my vast theatrical experience, the girls and the gays are the ones that are into the clothes.”

  “Maybe I’m gay,” he says. “Did you consider that? Maybe Ariana cheated on me because she sensed I secretly liked guys.”

  Figures. Freaking figures a million and one times. I knew he was too good to be true. “Is this your really, really roundabout way of coming out to me, because I am fine with you either way. Straight costumer, gay set builder, bisexual make-up artist. Whatever.”

  He laughs. “I’m not gay, I’m just teasing. People assume things about you when you look a certain way or like a certain thing. And even though you are one of the more accepting and liberal people I know, even you do it. That’s all I was pointing out.”

  “So why did things between you and Ariana fall apart?” I mean, if we’re having sharing time…

  He pulls away from me and stands. “Your turn.” He gestures to the desk he was sitting in and I walk around the front of it and sit down. His hands are strong and warm. I revel in the pleasant for about two seconds before he goes all deep tissue on me.

  “Fucking A, I know I’m built like a linebacker, but ease up a bit will ya?”

  His touch becomes considerably lighter.

  “Well, you can do it harder than that.”

  He increases the pressure a hair more and it’s perfect. My turn to inappropriately moan.

  “Like that?” he asks.

  “Liiiiiiiike. Thaaaat.”

  Liam chuckles.

  “You didn’t answer my question before.” I push my chin toward my chest, getting an eyeful of cleavage. Cleavage that he’s probably getting an eyeful of as well. I have another flash of rack pride. He still doesn’t respond to my question. “Not that you have to answer it. I’m being incredibly nosy. It’s just I’ve never had a boyfriend. I’m interested in how the whole relationship thing works, or doesn’t.”

  “You’ve really never had a boyfriend? That’s hard to believe.” His fingertips brush against my collarbone and I shiver involuntarily again.

  Jesus, I might as well be coming in front of him. Like he doesn’t know what all my shivering is about.

  “Why is it hard to believe?”

  “Because, you’re you. You dance with drag queens and say whatever is on your mind. You’re loud and funny and weird. You’ve probably had tons of guys that were in love with you and you just didn’t know about it because you intimidated the hell out of them.”

  “I wish…”

  Not missing a beat, he says, “I want…”

  I giggle. “Where the hell were you when I had to go stag to my senior prom and was forced to interpretive dance like I meant it while the rest of my graduating class simulated sex in their shiny dresses and rented tuxes?”

  “See? People don’t just say shit like that. If the acting thing doesn’t work out for you, and I’m not saying it won’t, but if it doesn’t, you should be a writer. You’ve got a way with words, Dani.”

  If it’s possible, my shoulders melt down even more. He’s turning me to mush. “You want to hear my monologue for the auditions on Saturday? I wrote it.” />
  “Hell yeah.”

  He removes his hands from me and my body feels a little bit colder and sadder for it.

  I stand and motion for him to sit back down. He slides into the chair and looks up at me attentively.

  I stand before him and bow my head. Here goes nothing.

  I lift my face and look directly at Liam.

  “I thought I’d had enough of harsh words,

  And when I said to Chase, ‘If THEY call me a desperate fag-hag one more time I’m going to shoot myself in the face,” I didn’t mean it.

  I didn’t mean it.

  But my words, like THEIRS, bloomed in his brain.

  The fag to my hag. My best friend.

  My heart since we were thirteen-year-old embodiments of confusion riding bus #86 to Heartland Middle School.”

  I take a step closer to Liam and hold my hands up like I’m a coach drawing a play on a dry erase board.

  “After four years of relentless. After four years of IGNORE THEM and IT GETS BETTER, Chase’s first and last fist fight went down like this:

  I mark an X.

  “He was grabbed by the collar of his jacket by a boy not much bigger than him, but who had heterosexual macho man confidence on his side, and yanked down hard on to the asphalt. Chase’s head bounced once and then he rolled onto his side.”

  I mimic drawing arrows.

  “I’m walking from the school to the parking lot to meet Chase at his car and I watch this happen.

  Get up! The voice in my head screams. But instead all Chase does is cover his face with his hands.

  Other people see. Some walk on by and some join in. The hum of their accusations reaches my ears.

  I stand frozen clutching my Hello Kitty binder to my chest, my fingernails clawing that pussy’s eyes out, as two boys start kicking the crap out of my best friend.

  In the kidneys, in the balls. A heel to his shoulder. A crack!