Exit Stage Left

by Larsen, Patti

  It hits me like a blow.

  “Now, then,” the girl leaned toward me on one elbow, obviously unaware I’m falling apart inside, as her two friends wrap up their song. “Our real reason for being.”

  “Can anyone ever know their real reason?” Handsome finally speaks, breaks my loop of self-hate and the need to sob over Ian despite the fact I know—I’ve known for ages—my love is gone. This delicious stranger distracts me with his words. I thought her voice was melodic. His strokes my ears with heat and softness, also trained and trained well. “For being, I mean?”

  The girl turns on him, shrugs. “In this instance,” she says, radiating so much confidence I wish I could be like her in a stab of sudden envy. “We do.” Spins back to me, chin dropping, arms opening. “We require a bouquet, fair maid. But not just any bouquet.” The two behind her hum in harmony, back dropping her little performance. “A bouquet to rival all that came before. To stun and amaze in its beauty and grace.” Her voice alters from its deep pitch to a softer, higher tone full of angst and sorrow. “Precious flowers to give their lives so that we,” she pats her chest with both hands while her choir modulates their hum, “might show our undying love and faithfulness to one we would honor with their deaths.”

  Her two friends immediately clap as she bows her head, smiling at their false patter of applause. While handsome laughs at them. Turns back to me from his casual observation.

  “Just a dozen roses, please,” he says.

  His two friends—Backup #1and Backup#2—swoon.

  “Just!” They say together.

  The black girl stomps her foot, but she’s grinning behind her scowl. “Such a cruel way to crush the heart of a performer,” she says.

  He hands over a credit card before I can turn to fill the order, heart pounding, lost in the need to keep listening, the longing to be like them, to join them in their easy way with each other. “Aleah,” he says, giving her talent a name, “I have no fear for your heart.” He shrugs at me. “Just,” stresses it, “the roses. And I’ll do my best to keep my companions from scaring off your customers while we wait.”

  My lips twitch in a grin even as I whisper, “It’s okay,” and spin away. Realize I still have his credit card in my hand. I slip it into my apron, rush to the refrigerated case. Aunt Vonda back behind her arrangement, catches my eye.

  Grins and leaves me to them.

  They must be actors. I’m shivering with excitement, cursing my sudden shyness, wishing I could blurt out I want to be like them even as I look up.

  And see Ian’s reflection in the glass. He’s smiling at me. Is this what he wants? For me to be like them? I hope so.

  I really hope so.

  My hands fumble in the bucket full of blooms as I wander over the roses, carefully selecting the very best and arrange them in the plastic sleeve, hands shaking.

  Try to slow my pounding heart. Why am I acting like a little kid? They are just people. I have to remind myself. But I’m still in awe, and, as I staple the paper over the deep, red roses, almost puncturing my index finger in the process, the jab of pain tells me why.

  Mom. They act like Mom. She was huge to me despite her slim body. With a towering personality, extravagant with her love and in her manner, always on, always an actress. Boisterous and confident like the girl, Aleah. Full of charisma, filling a room with her presence wherever she went. Like Ian did, despite his illness.

  I crave such a life. To be just like Mom. Like Ian. But as I carry the wrapped bouquet to the counter, thinking about my mother and the time we spent together, I feel myself sigh.

  Who am I kidding? I’m not my mother. And no matter the plays I did, the roles I filled, Ian was always the star.

  I set down the flowers down, feeling my nerves finally calm. Mom took the time when I was little to teach me what she knew. We spent hours acting out scenes she made up for me, at least when she was home. Her career was in film and on stage, but she insisted I learn, and seemed to love to teach me. I absorbed every bit I could, and adored it. I thought I lost all of that when she died, Dad’s disapproval quashing my acting passion. And even though I struck out into acting again in high school, it never felt the same without Mom there to guide me.

  Standing here, with the girl Aleah and her friends still messing around, their clear love of the craft pouring out of them, I feel like that part of me has awoken all over again, the dream a sudden reality presented to me in stark relief. And I’m a starving woman who finally found a banquet.

  Acting classes. No more thinking, planning, imagining. I have to start acting classes, now.

  My eyes meet crystal blue and I freeze again. Hold my breath. He smiles, looks down at my waist.

  “I’d love to pay,” he says. “But you seem to be attached to my card.”

  How can I be so stupid? I’ve spent too much time in my own head lately. Not enough focusing on the real world. I fumble in my pocket, red all over again and knowing I’ve made a fool of myself even while I wonder what it is about him that makes me care. That drives Ian to the back of my mind when he’s dominated it for so long.

  I fish out the card and, with hands that won’t stop shaking, ring in the flowers.

  When I hand back his card, his fingers brush mine and he smiles again, gentle and kind. “I see you have a copy of Backstage,” he says. I spin, eyes wide, mortified the magazine is making things worse though I’m not sure why they are worse. “Are you an actress?”

  I choke on my tongue before I’m able to speak. “My mother was,” I say as Aleah and her two buddies lean in. Draw a breath. “And I’ve done some. Just local stuff. Back home.”

  I’m a lame duck, fatally injured and wish someone would just come and put me out of my misery. Can I possibly sound more pathetic to their obviously cultured ears? But he nods like he understands, Aleah smiling brighter.

  “Not sure if you’re in classes or not,” he says, casual, as though it’s no big deal to him even as my heart feels like it’s going to leap out of my chest. “But there’s a great one we all go to every other night. If you’re interested.”

  Aleah bounces on her toes, nodding. “Yes, please come.” She jerks her thumb at the two behind her. “We need more women, and queens don’t count.”

  This time I really choke. Have to cough a few times to clear my throat. Sure, I have a few friends back home who are gay. But no one really talks about it in the open. And I’ve always been sensitive about labels.

  The pair fake shock, spin on their heels and march out while Aleah laughs and goes after them with a wave goodbye and a blown kiss. I watch her go, wishing I could follow.

  Lock eyes with handsome who waits, patient and silent.

  For what? I gave him his card, his flowers.

  Dear God. His question.

  “Sure.” The word erupts out of me.

  He leans in, the scent of coffee and something sweet carrying with him as he reaches for a pen. Takes my hand. I can barely feel the tickle of the nib as he writes down an address and a name on my palm. I’m too distracted by the fact he’s touching me.

  The click of the pen retracting under his thumb breaks me out of a trance created by the warmth of his strong fingers. I miss his touch when he steps back, lifting the bouquet into his arms.

  “Tomorrow night,” he says. “See you then.”

  I wave, a half-hearted and measly attempt at a goodbye, as he turns and leaves. My eyes descend from the back of his head to the pull of his shoulders inside his t-shirt. How his back seems wide despite his leanness.

  How the back pockets of his jeans do a great job showing off his—

  The doorbell jingles and he’s gone out the storefront into the sunlight. He and his friends walk past the window, smiling, laughing, a silent film of joy I long for with so much sudden need my hands clench around the edge of the counter to keep me in place.

  I thought the best part of dreaming was imagining how things could be. Now I know better.

  I was so wrong. I know wh
at perfect looks like. And I want it for myself.

  ***

  Chapter Four

  My heart is thudding so loud I’m sure everyone can hear it as I walk down the street with confidence I don’t feel toward the address I carefully copied from my sweaty palm the afternoon before. Aunt Vonda pounced almost immediately after the foursome left the shop, beaming and bouncy.

  “He was so cute,” she breathed before giggling like a girl. “And his friends seemed fun.”

  I loved her so much right then, more than I ever thought possible, as I giggled back. I would never have been able to have this nervously excited moment with anyone else.

  She grabbed my hand, read the address before looking up into my eyes, her green ones hopeful. “You’re going to go?”

  Why else have I been combing through Backstage the last three days? Despite my growing nervousness as I thought about it, I nodded, decision made. I wanted to be like them so badly. I felt bits and pieces of what Aleah and her friends exuded during my stints in school plays and small community theater productions I’d used as an escape from Ian’s illness. The only escape I allowed myself because he loved to see me perform.

  “I’m going to go.” She turned away, satisfied, still chattering about how amazing it was going to be and I was already a wonderful actress, she loved me in my last play. Meanwhile, I read the name below the address.

  Miller. Was that the teacher? I ran to the register and checked his slip with trembling fingers. Handsome’s name is Miller Hill.

  The perfect name for an actor.

  I spent the whole night at home suffering a case of nerves even as guilt about my attraction to Miller fought with memories of Ian. I missed him, my lost love. He didn’t appear all night, not lying on my bed with his crooked smile, not whispering in my ear. It made me sad, worried he’d gone. I finally forced myself to stop, relax.

  Ian would always be with me. As for this silly attraction to a guy I just met… I wasn’t going to sleep with him or anything. I was going to an acting class.

  I stared at my reflection in the mirror and had a pep talk with myself for once.

  “You, Miss Riley James,” I poked a finger at myself, doing my best Ian impersonation, “are a grown woman. With a backbone. Find it already.”

  So there.

  Work the next day alternately dragged and flew by, Aunt Vonda finally shooing me off an hour before the class was supposed to start.

  “Go make yourself pretty,” she’d said. While I blushed all over again.

  And now, not even sixty minutes later, I’m walking down the street, heading for the address Miller gave me. Doing my best not to turn and throw up.

  The only thing keeping me from public puking is the fact Ian is back. Smiling down at me as he strides along beside me, his memory passing through strangers, the fantasy of his presence enough to keep me moving.

  I cross at a green light, past a silver car, spotting the street I’m looking for marked clearly on the sign above. The driver revs his engine, the thumping sound of heavy bass emerging from inside, windows blacked out. I hurry, hating the trickle of fear spreading through me as the phantom of Ian gives the driver the finger and laughs.

  I will not be afraid, not of anything. Not while he’s beside me.

  (We) pause on the corner, just to breathe. I see a handful of people walking up some steps and into a building. The glass doorway flashes in the failing light, the number written clearly across it, reflected back. The one I’m looking for.

  My destination is a blunt little building with a crumbling front foundation, the stairs pitted, the railing rusty. But the door looks clean. I double check the number against the piece of paper in my hand. This is the place.

  I’m here. I’m really doing this.

  My feet won’t move though I’m telling them to. And then I’m not doing this after all, I’m half-turning to leave, mouth dry, chest tight. It’s so much easier to just imagine I’m an actor, to dream about it. The doing, not so much.

  Trust me, Rye, Ian whispers in my memory. You’ll be fantastic.

  My breathing is shaky, but I’m spinning back. My legs move, carrying me forward while Ian’s imagined presence keeps urging me on. Up the stairs, the rail gritty under my hand. The door sighs with cool air rushing at me as I pull it open and enter the small foyer.

  Musty disuse hits me in the face, mixed with the faint scent of urine. But a hand-written sign says “ACTING CLASS TONIGHT” and an equally wavering arrow points up the narrow stairs.

  Ian drifts past me, pauses to look down. Coming?

  I take the first step, boots crunching over debris, hand clutching reflexively around the railing as I walk through his ghost and up the flight. My fingers trace across the paint on the other wall, for balance. To keep me connected to the world. It’s not until I reach the second floor I realize I’m probably going to want to wash my hands now.

  And maybe throw up for real. Instead, I force my feet to move, my lungs to breathe, and stuff my hands in my pockets as I walk down the hall under the flickering bulb of the main light. The ceiling arches high overhead. A shame, someone painted the period trim and crown moldings a hideous brown, the industrial tile floor adding an air of dingy, trying-to-be chic. The scent of mustiness is reduced up here, though I can smell other things that make me wince.

  I keep my focus on the open door ahead, a second sign hanging from the frosted glass. And Ian appearing again, beckoning for me to walk through. I think about running. What kind of class is this in a place bums likely used for a toilet?

  Trust me, Ian says again.

  And I do, even as I doubt my sanity.

  It's too late to retreat, in any case. I’m at the door, peeking in. I see Aleah just before she spots me and shrieks.

  “Flower girl!” She’s around the rickety desk and throwing herself at me before I can back away, hugging me around the neck. Her body feels hot and hard, hair coarse on my skin, lips wet when she kisses my cheek before smacking my shoulder with one hand. “I really didn’t think you’d come.”

  I can barely muster a smile despite the fact my insides are now singing. I have to shake this off, drop the need to bolt. I’ve never been shy. I refuse to let this weirdness tugging on me, begging me to leave, to drag me out when I know I’m in the right place.

  At last. Ian smiles over Aleah’s shoulder before fading away.

  “It sounded like fun,” I say. Wanting to tell her the reason I’m here is because of her and her funny friends. Because Miller invited me.

  And because Ian believes in me still.

  “Girl,” she retreats around her table again, opens a cashbox, “you have no idea. Ten bucks for your first session. You like it, there’s a monthly sign up.”

  I hand over my money, needing my smile to be confident, yet knowing it’s more church mouse than charismatic. “Thank you.”

  Aleah grabs my arm even as she stands on her tiptoes. I finally look into the room, a ring of mismatched chairs around the outside, leaving the center empty. No, not empty. Full of people.

  Other actors. Real ones.

  I’m going to be sick.

  “There’s Piper,” she points as though she has no idea I’m so nervous I feel like I’m going to leave what little I managed to eat on her lovely shoes. And I hope she doesn’t notice. I follow her finger with my gaze, see one of the guys she was with earlier, the Goth one. “And Ruben.” Her Hispanic friend stands beside Piper. “Go hang out with them until I’m done here.”

  I nod to her, step away as she turns to greet someone at the door. Freeze up.

  I can’t do this. But I have to. Aleah is right behind me and I have a feeling she won’t let me leave.

  Someone touches my shoulder and I turn with a gasp, expecting Ian.

  My gaze meets blue eyes so clear they sparkle.

  “Nice to see you made it,” Miller says.

  Say something. Just open your stupid mouth and say some—

  “Hi,” I say, while inside I
roll my eyes and groan, “Miller.” I’ve never felt so awkward in my life.

  “Hi, yourself,” he says, shrugging out of a jacket he tosses onto the nearest chair, at the back wall. He holds out his hand and I shake it. “You know my name,” he says at last.

  “Riley.” At least my voice isn’t shaking. Much. “Riley James.”

  He grins, releases my hand. “Nice to meet you, Riley James.”

  I survived the introduction. And I’m walking with Miller, toward Piper and Ruben who finally spot me and squeal at the top of their lungs, bouncing up and down in place until I’m beside them, and they are hugging me.

  Like I’m some long-lost friend.

  “Oh, pumpkin,” Ruben says, tsking as he looks at my boots. “Those are so last year.”

  I’m hurt, even though I know he doesn’t mean anything by it. But I love my boots. Piper pushes Ruben out of the way. “I adore them,” he says. “Don’t mind the bitch, here.” He thumbs over his shoulder at his friend. “She’s such a diva.”

  I laugh before I can stop myself.

  And relax all of a sudden. This was the right decision. And I’m very glad I’m here.

  A tall, older man in a scruffy t-shirt, long hair hanging behind him in a ponytail, strides into the room. Everyone turns to face him, some of the young actors rushing to his side. I catch one of them watching me. I'm stunned by how beautiful she is. Flawless skin, flowing blonde hair, perfect figure, statuesque. She should be in movies.

  From the way she turns from me, arrogant nose in the air, she probably thinks so, too.

  It's difficult not to feel intimidated. I allow a single, “bitch,” to roll around in my head before Aleah slams the door shut and runs to join us.

  “Welcome, students.” The man might look scruffy, at least twice our age if not older, but he has the voice of an actor and a singer. “Those of you who know me, you’ll be bored by my introduction to those who don’t.” Laughter, though almost canned, as if this is an old joke. So he’s a comedian. I think I can handle that, feel myself relax further. “I am Roger Osmore, lord of stage and screen. And I am your teacher.”