by Andy Mientus
“What time is it?” Hunter asked blearily as they finally crossed the Unsafe line into the Club Room and back to the mundane world of the St. Genesius auditorium.
“Nine forty-five,” Jamie replied through a yawn. “Like I said, you need to rest.”
Hunter’s blood turned to ice water. He was supposed to meet Jory at the ice cream shop at 8:30. The backstage had once again messed with his internal clock and what had felt like forty minutes had actually been five hours.
“I gotta run,” Hunter explained as he clumsily tugged on his coat and scurried up the stairs toward the auditorium level.
“REST,” Jamie called after him, sounding eerily like his own mother.
Hunter ran all the way from St. Genesius to the downtown strip mall ice cream shop where Jory was waiting. He was completely drained from hours and hours of training, but his fear of disappointing Jory was a new fire in his furnace, and he raced at an uncharacteristic clip.
When he finally reached the shop, sweating like a marathon runner crossing the finish line, he was greeted not by cheering onlookers and flashing cameras, but by the saddest thing he had ever seen. There, sitting alone in a window seat, illuminated by a flickering halogen light, was Jory, filling his spoon with melted ice cream and pouring it back into its soggy cup, again and again.
Hunter tamed his shock of hair into its normal sculpture and entered the shop with a ring of the doorbell. Jory looked up at him and smiled weakly.
“Hey!” Hunter said, trying not to sound like a crazy person or the biggest jerk in the world while simultaneously sweating his guts out and wondering if he might need medical attention from the physical strain he had just endured. “Sorry I’m so late. I was—”
“Training,” Jory interrupted. “I know. How did it go?”
“It was fine, but forget that, let’s talk about anything else. What are we having?!”
“It was mint chocolate chip, but it’s more of a soup now.”
“It’s okay! I like it that way!”
“Seriously, Hunter?”
“No, I mean it! It’s getting kinda cold out for ice cream anyway.”
“Yeah, I guess ice cream was a stupid idea.”
“That’s not what I meant, Jory . . .”
Jory looked down at the mint chocolate puddle and fought back tears.
“Jory, what’s wrong?”
“Well . . .” Jory gathered his strength and tried to find the words to say what he meant and not what he didn’t. “I know how important the training is. I would never want to get in the way of that. Still, it’s been kind of lonely without you around so much. I feel so stupid even saying that—I don’t want you to think that I’m the kind of guy who can’t have a life if his boyfriend isn’t around every second of the day, but I’m still new here and I don’t really have many friends.”
“What? Jory, the Backstagers adore you! They love hanging out with you!”
“Well, yeah, but it can be hard,” Jory said. He tried for a moment to meet Hunter’s concerned gaze but knew that it would put him over the edge. He kept his eyes safely fixed on the counter in front of him as he continued. “Aziz and Sasha have been friends forever and play the same games and stuff. We all know Beckett prefers to be on his own in the booth. And Timothy and Jamie have college prep in addition to training you. I just kinda fall through the cracks.”
“Oh my gosh, Jory, I’m so sorry you’ve been feeling like that—I had no idea. Do you want me to tell the guys I need to lighten up on training hours?”
“Of course not! I would never want to hold you back, Hunter. This is your dream. I would feel terrible if you weren’t focused on it one hundred percent.”
Hunter thought about his flub at training today. He knew Jory was right, and he knew that he definitely wasn’t operating at one hundred percent right now.
“Actually,” Hunter said, finding the words slowly, “my focus has been a problem. Today I made a really stupid mistake during a practice run. Jamie could tell something was bothering me and I said I was fine, but when he said it, I knew it was this. Missing you.”
“Hunter, that breaks my heart. I don’t want to be something that is causing you even more stress.”
“No, it’s not like that at all. I just feel so awful that I don’t have more time for us.”
“No, I feel awful that I’m something you need to make time for.”
“Well that’s . . . tricky.”
“. . . Yeah.”
The boys sat at the counter for a long moment, stuck. The halogen bulb above hummed and clicked as it flickered, but everything else was horribly quiet.
“Hey, guys,” the shopkeeper called from his counter, “I gotta close up, I’m sorry. I stayed open as late as I could.”
“No problem, thanks,” Jory said, grateful to have something break the silence.
They threw the melted ice cream away and walked out into the crisp winter night. The sky above was something like the starry sky that blanketed the tunnels of the backstage, but this sky felt less magically vast and more darkly empty. The shopkeeper flicked off the light, locked up the store, and headed to his car, giving Hunter and Jory a sympathetic nod on his way. Now it was deadly quiet. Jory spoke at last.
“Hunter, I won’t be able to sleep if I think I’m getting in the way of you doing your very best at the trials. It’s too important, and I care too much about you to be in the way. You have to focus on it completely. And maybe it is a good thing that I will have to find myself at Genesius independent from you. I’m brand-new here. Maybe a little time apart from each other will be good for both of us.”
“You mean like a break?” Hunter asked. That last word hung horribly in the air.
“I guess I do, yeah. Until you’re done with the trials. I won’t be a boyfriend you have to make time for, I’ll be just another one of the Backstagers. Just for now.”
“Okay. You’re probably right. Okay.” Hunter was trying to sound fine, but even though he knew this was the right thing, it wasn’t at all what he wanted. All he wanted was to go back in time and share that ice cream like they’d planned and talk about normal kid stuff.
“Okay. Well, get some rest and I’ll see you around,” Jory said. He extended his hand for a handshake, trying to lighten the moment with a joke. He smiled. Hunter took his hand and pulled him into a bear hug. They held on to each other tightly as the cold wind caught in the trees around the empty parking lot. Eventually, they let go and went their separate ways.
Jory made it about two hundred yards before he felt warm tears well up in the cold air. They weren’t breakup tears—it wasn’t exactly a breakup and he knew he was doing the right thing. They were something deeper. It was the relief of saying out loud what he had been pushing down for weeks now—he was still adjusting to this new place, and it was hard, and it was going to take time. It turned out that confiding in Hunter was what he needed most.
As sad as he was to put a hold on things, he felt something shift inside him. It was growing up.
He felt a buzz in his pocket. Oh gosh, he thought, please don’t be Hunter saying he regretted their decision. He took his phone out. It was worse.
MISSED CALLS: 10
TEXTS:
Mom: Jory it’s 11:30 where ARE YOU CALL ME RIGHTTHISINSTANT
“Hey, Mom.” Jory had called her before he even finished reading the message. “Sorry, I got caught up with some school stuff . . . No, not Backstager stuff . . . health class stuff. A paper on . . . B.O.? Anyway, I’m almost home, sorry to worry you, BYE!” He hung up before she could quiz him any more and took off in a sprint toward home.
He took the shortcut through the woods—it was a bit creepy at night, but honestly, after getting lost in the backstage, it really didn’t seem so bad. Plus, absolutely nothing was scarier than his mom when she was angry.
His lungs stung in the winter wind, but he was nearly there—he just needed to pass the clearing and then it was a straight shot to his backyard. He rounded a few
trees and leaped over logs, stones, and streams, never slowing his pace until he was met in the clearing by a sight that froze him dead in his tracks.
In the center of the clearing, beneath that black sky, sat an even darker figure, hooded, surrounded by a circle of half-melted white candles. Before it lay a strange collection of mysterious-looking materials. There was an altar of some kind with a bowl of a pungent herbal mixture burning on it, its smoke curling into the air in ghostly tendrils. The figure looked up from the altar, straight at Jory. It stood. Jory screamed his lungs out and took off in the other direction. The figure gave chase.
“Help me! Someone! It’s a ghost!” Jory cried. He bounded back into the woods, searching for cover, but the figure was right on his heels, running after him with arms outstretched. Jory tripped on a snarl of branches, crashing to the forest floor.
“No, please!” Jory pleaded, raising his arms to cover his head, awaiting certain doom.
“Jory!” the figure shouted as it caught up to him. “It’s me! Gosh, are you okay? That looked like it hurt, dude!”
Pulling his hood down, the ghostly figure haunting the woods revealed himself to be Reo, the witch. He reached out his hand to Jory, who took it, still stunned and winded. Reo pulled him up off the ground and dusted leaves from his hair and clothes.
“I am SO sorry! I really didn’t think anyone ever came out this way. Especially not this time of night,” Reo said.
“N-no, I’m sorry,” Jory stammered, “. . . to interrupt. You just looked—”
“Terrifying? Yeah, I know it all looks a little spooky.”
“What . . . what were you doing?”
“Moonbathing!”
“What?”
“Or, that’s what I call it. It’s a full moon tonight—see?”
Jory looked up and noticed for the first time that the moon was like a perfect spotlight in the sky, pouring silver light into the clearing.
“The moon is very important to witches,” Reo explained. “We try to live in rhythm with her phases—new moons are for beginnings, waxing moons are for growth, waning moons are for cleaning, dark moons are for rest, and when she’s full?” Reo looked up at the sky affectionately. “She’s at her peak power. Full moons are for wishing. I like to come out here and try to soak up some of that power, so I can carry it with me to school for when the bullies come around or there’s a pop quiz or I get picked last in gym or whatever. I can think back on nights like this and feel her power backing me up. Moonbathing.”
Jory looked toward Reo’s setup in the clearing. On second viewing, it was less spooky and actually quite beautiful, the candlelight casting a warm, pulsing circle on the forest floor.
“And what’s all this stuff?” Jory asked, walking with crunching steps back into the clearing, toward the inviting amber light.
“The candles and incense? For protection. I know this town is, like, the safest, most boring place on Earth, but the woods kind of freak me out at night.”
Jory had to chuckle at the idea of a witch afraid of the woods and the dark.
“Anyway,” Reo said. “I know it’s pretty weird. I’m sorry I scared you.”
“It’s lovely,” Jory said. “I could definitely use some moon power sometimes. Tonight, for sure.”
“Why don’t you join me, then?” Reo said, his eyes lighting up.
“Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to, like, take any of your moonbeams.”
“I think there are enough for both of us. She’s really got her shine on tonight.”
“My mom is waiting for me at home.”
“Just for five minutes. You can get some good moon-beams in five minutes.”
“What do I do?”
“Step into the circle here and get comfortable.”
They stepped into the center of the circle of candles and sat, cross-legged, back to back. The incense swirled around them, fragrant and inviting.
“Now,” Reo said, “shut your eyes. Feel her up there, lighting up the night for everyone. And when you’re ready, introduce yourself.”
“. . . Hi, Moon, I’m Jor—”
“Not like that,” Reo chuckled. “Just think it. She’ll understand.”
“Sorry. Right.”
“And then, once you do . . . just listen.”
The boys sat in silence on the forest floor, listening to the mysterious chatter of the forest around them.
If you’re up there listening, Jory thought, I could use some help right now. But then, sensing Reo just behind him, having his own private conversation with the night, a new friend who had literally appeared in the darkness, he knew help had arrived before he even had to ask.
CHAPTER 10
Holy crap, Chloe had been right.
The candelabra set piece exploded gorgeously, and all of the pieces fell neatly into the pallet that Aziz had constructed at her suggestion, making for an easy transition into the next scene.
Rehearsal was about to begin and actors milled about the stage, performing strange facial stretches, doing vocal sirens, and drinking what seemed like excessive, possibly dangerous, amounts of water.
Aziz, working alone in an upstage corner, had a private moment of celebration as his final test of the effect went perfectly. Or what he thought was a private moment. A voice behind him cut his celebration short.
“Aziz, that looks fantastic!” It was Chloe, her silver hair framing the glow of her smile.
“Thanks. Your idea was a great one.”
“Oh, you would have figured it out; you were almost there. But I’m glad I could help.”
“I don’t know, man, a pallet with a lip on it? That’s really good thinking. You ever think about Backstaging?”
“I have my place onstage.”
“Maybe you should get out of your bubble sometime,” he joked.
“Touché. What about you, would you ever try Onstaging?”
“Me?! Oh gosh, no. That would be a disaster.”
“Why? You love theater.”
“I love working on theater.”
“That is loving theater, weirdo. You love theater, and you demonstrated the other day how much of a leader you are, taking responsibility for that prop mess-up.”
“That was nothing.”
“That was amazing, Aziz! You should take more credit for all the work you do around here. I get that being a Backstager is about being invisible, but I don’t know, for me, I think it’s nice to get some credit for my hard work every now and then. I don’t think there is anything wrong with that. Otherwise, your work just happens under the cover of darkness and no one ever stops to think about who made it happen. You’re like a ghost.”
Aziz’s ears pricked up. Before he could think too hard about what she had said, Blake McQueen swept onto the stage, eclipsing all the energy in the room with his dramatic entrance.
“ACTORS!” he bellowed. “Today we are tackling the climactic sewer scene, in which the dashing Rupert, played by yours truly, duels thrillingly with the Phantasm as the townsfolk descend into his lair, torches blazing. We will need everyone’s best work for such a complex scene—a real sense of risk and play! Thus, for today’s warm-up, I propose we . . . PASS THE IMPULSE!”
The room squealed with excitement as the actors formed a circle. Chloe’s eyes flashed as she looked at Aziz the way a cat looks at a mouse just before it pounces.
“Yes,” she said. “This is perfect. You’re trying it.”
“WHAT?!” Aziz would under no circumstances be trying it.
“Warm up with us. You’ll love it.”
“I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“There’s nothing to know! Come on.”
“Chloe, I can’t.”
“That attitude is your worst enemy, Aziz. You can do anything. Get over here!”
She pulled him into the circle of actors the way a mom pulls a stubborn kid into a dentist’s office.
The actors (plus Aziz) held hands and took a few deep breaths all together. Aziz felt ridic
ulous and a bit like he was joining a cult, but he looked pitifully to Chloe and she gave him an encouraging nod.
After they broke hands, one of the actors made a terrifying, abstract wail, flinging his body into an unnatural contortion. Aziz wondered for a moment if he had been possessed by the ghost. But then the actor next to him made the same bizarre sound and movement and then the next actor did the same.
As this animalistic gesture made its way around the circle, Chloe leaned over and explained that each actor made up an impulse—literally the first sound and movement that came to mind—and every other actor had to mimic it, passing it around, until it made it back to whoever started it. Then the next actor would come up with a new impulse and pass that one around. It taught them to take risks and let their creativity out, unfiltered.
The impulse came around to Chloe and she mimicked the flailing perfectly without any self-consciousness. Then it was Aziz’s turn. He gave a sort of fifty-percent version, fearing he would look stupid if he did it full out. But the funny thing was, with everyone committing to the exercise with such abandon, doing it timidly was what actually made him stand out and look stupid. Looking stupid was the point.
When the next impulse came around, a sort of tongue-wagging maniac dance, he tried harder to nail the details and not worry so much about what people would think of it. By his third or fourth turn, he was truly enjoying it and feeling freer than he had in ages. That is, until the time came for him to come up with an impulse of his own.
When it was his turn to actually launch a movement, he froze up and the game came to a conspicuous halt. He turned to Chloe, suddenly terrified. She gave him a look that said, “You’re on your own, dude!”
He managed to muster a tiny “. . . hey . . .” with an accompanying humiliated wave of his hand and slump of his shoulders. As he saw his timid “. . . hey . . .” mirrored by actor after actor with each one completely nailing his expression of wanting to disappear into the floor, he had to laugh in spite of himself. Everyone joined him in laughter.