The cast, aware of her needs, stayed back a respectful distance, not talking or interacting. Anyway, they each had their own routine. Karl liked to do pushups, then roar once to himself like a lion. LaTisha preferred to talk to herself in a low undertone, a murmur for her ears only, nodding to herself. It didn’t matter, as long as it worked, really.
She thought they were all like people getting ready before a sprint, standing there, stretching, jogging in place. She had a lot of sympathy for runners before races. Every time she watched the Olympics, or any sport, she paid just as much attention to the preparations, understanding the butterflies and nervous energy they must surely feel.
The show was spectacular for an opening night, for any night, and the mood backstage after the last curtain call was one of frantic relieved joy. Screams, laughs, and guffaws burst out from all directions, grand gestures and sloppy hugs abounded. The place was alight with smiles, shining eyes, chatter. High fives. Back slaps. Kisses.
Cleo let out a deep sigh, and her whole body shuddered. She loved this feeling, of exultant accomplishment. The moment after, indeed, was just as glorious as the moment itself.
Axel was busy talking to a reporter from the Chicago Tribune and a news camera followed his gestures—this was going to be good publicity for them, and she was glad for it. Still, seeing him made a lump grow in her throat. Nothing between them was resolved, nor did tonight seem a likely time to figure it out.
But then he gestured to her and Martin; as the leads of the play, they were wanted for quotes and airtime too, so she put on her happy face and spoke about the dedication, the rehearsals, and answered the repetitive questions about the nature of the play. By now, she had a nearly stock reply to the question about whether or not the play was anti-feminist.
“No,” she said to the female reporter. “If you follow the narrative of the play, you understand that everything is done with consent and that Anna had the ability to revoke consent at any time. She likes this and enjoys it, and the juxtaposition of this private submissive side with her dominant work side is a fascinating reflection on what some people enjoy for stress relief or pure pleasure. It’s not anti-feminist, because she has the right and the power to do this or not to do it, and the power’s real: It’s not in name only. She really chooses this, of her free will. And her life doesn’t suffer for it. At the end of the play, you see how she managed to balance everything in her life so that it all works together. Yes, she struggled to make it work at first, but she figured it out.”
Axel smiled at her in approval, and she glowed, even though it was an endorsement of her acting and understanding.
After Martin shared his views, the reporters took off, and Axel nodded to Cleo. “Great job out there tonight.”
“Thanks.” She cleared her throat. “Full house, and tickets are booked and sold out for the rest of the performances, I hear.”
Axel chuckled. “Yes. It’s awesome.” He paused, took a step closer, and lowered his voice. “Look, Cleo. I need to talk to you about—” but was interrupted by Chelsea.
“Axel! Oh, my God! It went so great!” She threw her arms around him and he hugged her back. “Cleo, you only messed up two lines, so that was really pretty well done, I have to say. I’ve memorized it perfectly so if you need any additional coaching, I’d be glad to help. I can think of a few places where you need to polish. Like, on the line where you said, ‘Aaron, it’s all about the timing,’ you need to really project more, and take another step back. You missed that.”
Cleo gave her a tight smile. “Thanks, Chelsea. Your concern is touching. I appreciate it.”
“Oh, I’m here to help!” Chelsea stepped back from Axel, but remained a barrier between her and Axel. Behind Axel’s back, she smirked. Cleo was mortified to see that some of the crew had noticed, and were curious, directing looks their way. Fuck Chelsea.
She’s the prettiest, largest cock-block in existence, Cleo thought. Imagining Chelsea as a large human-sized penis with that same blonde hair and lipstick was a good, refreshing thought, and she thought it for several seconds. She gave Chelsea a bright smile. “Oh, we all know why you’re here,” she said, just as sweetly.
Axel’s smile faded as he looked from one woman to the next, but his voice was smooth. “Chelsea, I look forward to seeing what you’ll bring to the role on your nights. A diverse take on the role is great for the play and for our audiences.”
Chelsea shot Cleo a victorious smile, which seemed a little overkill, because it wasn’t like Axel had said she was in any way better. “I look forward to impressing the critics.”
Cleo couldn’t resist snapping, “Oh, I sure bet you do.”
Axel’s attention was momentarily diverted by a passing person who wanted to shake hands, so Cleo added in an undertone, “On your knees, right?” One of the extras giggled and shot a look at her friend, and a few others glanced over. That didn’t even really make sense, “On your knees,” but it felt good to snap.
Axel looked back, and this time his frown was more noticeable, and directed at her. “I think what impressed the critics is our skill. And we can’t showcase that if we don’t work as a team and accept the feedback of our peers regarding our performances. Right, Cleo?” The look he gave her was direct, chiding. “When we support each other, it shows. And when we don’t, it shows even more.”
It felt like a slap, and she felt her face get hot. Okay, so she had bitched at Chelsea. Didn’t he understand that it wasn’t the tone of voice, it was the intent? Did he—for all of his expertise—fail to see that a saccharine tone was just as evil as a raucous one?
Feeling ill, she took a step back. “For sure, Axel,” she managed, her voice stiff. “I’m going to go congratulate the rest of the crew. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” She turned abruptly on her heel. Fuck him, then. Let him sit there and talk trash with Chelsea, if that’s what he wanted. Fine!
“Cleo?” he called, but she just raised a hand and kept walking. She heard Chelsea giggle and her frustration mounted, so she grabbed her things and took off.
The evening was cool and the air felt good on her face. She smelled the cakey makeup and the sweat in her hair, and longed to get home and scrub off all the gunk, and with it, all of the other shit, too: Chelsea’s attitude, Axel’s lack of support, everything. She loved acting, always had, but this play was really pushing her to the edge of her tolerance. Not just for the content, but for her ability to work with difficult people in difficult situations.
First world problems, she mouthed silently. It was the motto she and Laska echoed to each other when things got tough; a half-joking reminder that it could be far worse, these things were solvable, and they were lucky to have these issues. Still, it was her life, full and real and full of obstacles that seemed unpleasant at best, insurmountable, even, if she was down. Just because it was a first world problem didn’t mean it was trivial or easily fixed in a day, or ever. She sighed.
She hoped Axel would call, apologize, or offer to explain. But although her phone lit up like fireworks with texts full of emojis and hearts, popping wine bottle GIFs, and congratulatory calls from friends, one number was conspicuously absent. He didn’t reach out to her, at all.
* * *
The next day, she came to the theater early, hoping to be the first one to arrive. To her relief, only silence greeted her when she unlocked the battered metal side door marked ‘Ca ts and Brew Only’ in faded stenciled letters and black Sharpie, and stepped in the cluttered space. No sound checks, no echoing voices from the auditorium, nothing.
She took a deep breath, savoring the scent of the air: Dusty boxes, old cloth, the bitter tang of electrical tape and warm electronics, a faint haze of perfume and sweat. It was like a drug to her veins, and it instantly transported her to another place, if she let it, if she was in the zone.
Today, she needed to zone. She took another breath, feeling like a smoker sucking in desperate lungfuls of nicotine-laden smog, and her body relaxed into itself, muscles unlocki
ng. She shook out her arms as if about to swim a lap. “That’s better,” she murmured, walking to the dressing room area.
Her Anna costume hung, pressed and ready, aside a small table. She switched on the bright makeup lights and dropped her backpack, and stood still, listening to the silence. Just the hum of the fluorescent lights answered, along with a distant tapping in some subterranean pipes, a low grumble that could nearly disappear into the background rush of sound in her ears.
As lead in the play, she got a private room, and although it was small and battered—and the walls were covered in some kind of ugly pine boarding—it gave her the solitude that she needed. Actors assigned to rooms were allowed to decorate within limits, but she’d not done much. The old, yellowed posters of Marilyn Monroe, Andy Warhol style, and a World’s Fair 1902 replica ad seemed to belong to the room. The old couch with stuffing coming out of one arm was stable and comforting, saying, “I’ve been here forever. You can be, too. You got this.” It seemed almost sacrosanct, this space; she didn’t want to alter it and wreck the mood. Maybe it was her own version of lucky socks.
A knock on the door startled her. “Who is it?” she called, turning.
“It’s me. Axel.”
“You can come in.” She remained standing as he entered. His jeans encased his legs to perfection, and his cologne drifted over to her in his wake. His eyes were dark and deep. She tried not to stare at his arms, the muscles shown in the T-shirt.
“How are you doing?” He examined her face.
“Fine. I came early to prepare and get into the role.” She kept her voice calm, neutral.
“I was hoping to talk to you.” He took a step forward and her heart started to pound.
“About?” She crossed her arms.
He looked at her evenly. “Your behavior yesterday.”
“You mean my stellar performance in your play, Axel? The one that got us rave reviews in the papers today?” Her voice rose.
“I’m glad about that, but no.”
“Which you could have called last night to talk to me about, you know. I could have used the positive feedback and encouragement.”
He didn’t respond to that directly. “I am proud of you. But that isn’t what we need to discuss.”
“What, then?” But she knew what he was going to say.
“About Chelsea, and the way you react to her.”
“So, go ahead then. Say what you need to say.” She hugged herself more tightly with her arms.
“Remember when I told you that as lead in the play, you have more responsibility than the other actors?” He waited for her slow nod before continuing. “Your behavior sets a tone for everyone. When you act like a leader, they will follow. But when you act like a petulant child who gets into high-school-type cat fights, they’ll mimic that too.”
“Axel, I find it hard to believe that everyone engages in a big old game of Simon Says. If I jumped off a cliff, you’re saying they’ll all do it too? I think there’s at least some semblance of free will around here, just saying.”
“It’s a subconscious motivator, Cleo.” He sounded irritated. “No, they won’t outright mimic you. But I’ve worked on dozens of performances like this one, and I’m telling you, the attitude and behaviors of the lead actors do make a difference in a very real way. And right now, I don’t like what I’m seeing from you.”
“Well, what about from her? She’s the understudy, and she’ll be the lead herself in several performances. Some of which I even gave to her, if you remember, out of the generosity of my own heart. Does anyone notice that, or care about that? Are you pleased with her attitude? If it passed your attention, let me just point out, for the record, that she’s a grade A bitch. In case you didn’t know.”
“I know that, Cleo,” he said, his voice sharp. “Everyone knows that. And right now she’s in this cast, and we all need to make the best of it. She controls her own destiny and her behavior now will affect her future roles. I’m holding you to a higher standard. What’s the way to deal with a bully? Is it to lash out in kind? I’m sure you’re clever and capable enough to figure out a better way.”
She sputtered. “But…”
“It’s not a but thing, Cleo. Look. You’re talented, and you’ve got a temper. I’ve seen it firsthand. Don’t show it to the cast this way, not again. People saw how you talked to her yesterday and they’re storing that up, okay? Remembering. Judging. Whether it’s fair or not doesn’t matter. Whether she provoked it deliberately doesn’t matter. You responded in a way that looked unprofessional, and I think you’re better than that.”
“You know what, Axel?” she snapped. “I don’t need this right now. I came here early to get myself into the role, not to be chastised. I’ve been dealing with her shitty attitude from day one, and nothing I do helps. I’ve tried to be nice, I’ve tried to be firm, and now I’m trying to out-bitch her. It’s my business how I handle her. Do you know how fucking stressed she makes me? With her constant negative attitude and little snips and bites and put-downs? It’s like she wants me to fail! Do you know how hard that is? I needed to come here to get away from her and forget about that. And you’re not helping matters right now. And after not standing up for me yesterday, I’m really pissed that you didn’t even call me! That’s just mean. And not to mention not calling the other day, after you—never mind.” She glared at him.
He looked away quickly. “Cleo, I’m not—I enjoy time with you very much. But I’m not a phone person. And I don’t think we’re at the point where we need to call each other all the—I don’t want to mislead you into thinking we have a more serious—” He looked back up; broke off at her expression.
To her horror, she started to cry. “Just leave me alone, please,” she said, her voice muffled, as she sank into the metal folding chair beside her table and put her face into her hands. “If you can’t help me feel better, then get the fuck out. Now. While I try to salvage what’s left of my nerves, so I can try not to mess everything the fuck up tonight, okay? If you don’t care about me, I know you at least care about the play.”
There was no reply, and for a minute she thought he’d left. But then he spoke, his voice soft and dangerous. “Oh, I can help you, Cleo.”
Her head shot up. “What do you mean?”
He crossed his arms. “I think I have just what you need to fix your own attitude problem right now.”
Her eyes widened in comprehension, but she didn’t admit that she knew. “What are you talking about?” She could hear the defensiveness in her tone.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about.” His voice was even.
“I don’t know, though,” she said. She was mesmerized with his eyes, and her voice came out low and hot. Just the threat implicit in his voice made her start to feel aroused.
“Well, give a guess.” He didn’t smile but the edge of his lip twitched as if he wanted to. “See if you can figure it out.”
She was still irritated, though, and anger flashed up, overwhelming the whisper of desire.
“Apparently I’m not good at that,” she snapped. “So I guess you’ll have to help me, the big idiot, learn what you mean.”
He moved like lightning to grab her, and the next thing she knew, she was over his lap on the couch. “Axel!” she squealed, pushing at the cushions to get up. “What are you doing? Stop it.”
He held her down firmly, one hand on the small of her back, the other on her thighs. “I don’t want to hear you talk about yourself like that,” he said. “Don’t ever call yourself an idiot.”
“I was being sarcastic, Axel. In case you don’t understand sarcasm, let me translate: The idiot, far from being me, is actually you. Get it? It’s like reverse day. Remember that for next—Ow!”
She was caught off guard by a sharp spank. “Are you sure you want to keep on with that train of conversation?” he asked, slapping her again on the other side.
“I can talk any way I want—Ouch. Ouch. Axel, ow! Stop it!” She twisted to look
up at him, but he casually rearranged her. “Head down, Cleo. Lie still.” He smacked her ass a few more times, good hard cracks that echoed in the small room. “Focus. Stop trying to deflect.”
“I’m not deflecting, I’m—yaaaiii. Ow, ow!” He pulled up her skirt and landed a flurry of spanks on her panties. But she didn’t move from his lap, or make a serious effort to get free.
“Yeah? What were you doing, then?” he asked, continuing to spank her. He slowed the pace, hitting once every few seconds, several in a row in the same spot before moving to the other side and repeating.
She sucked in her breath. “I was just saying, ssssssss, that aaaaaaa, she’s not very nice. Okay? Aiks. Can we not do this right, eeee, aik, now, Axel?”
“I think now is the perfect time,” he returned. “Call it a mixture of punishment and stress relief.”
“That is a stupid mixture,” she observed, then cried out as he gave her a rapid series of spanks on her upper thighs. “Stop it!”
“I don’t know,” he said, his voice low and silky. “To me, it seems like exactly what you need to get your head back on straight. We already know you like spankings,” he mused. “You got wet enough the other day. And in addition, you’ve certainly earned yourself a good punishment by being mouthy and bitchy.”
“I’m not bitchy!” she cried out, hurt, only to wish she hadn’t, at least not right then, when he gave her another series of sharp spanks on her thighs and then her sit spots. She moaned and tried to pull away, but he had her tightly in his grip.
“You’re not,” he agreed immediately. “I shouldn’t have said it like that. You’re not a bitch. But you were acting that way, and you’re better than that. Tell me you’re going to act like the capable, mature, problem-solving woman that you are.”
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