You in Five Acts(43)

I ran toward you, trying to arrange my features in a way that looked like I was “making a choice” about how to enter the scene instead of just moving from one place to another. You saw me and leapt up. Rodolpho was supposed to be shocked, but you just looked bored. At least we were both phoning it in.

I stopped short and turned around.

“Wait, wait!” you called. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

I looked back over my shoulder. Maybe I was hearing things, but I could swear that the line hadn’t always sounded so accusatory. Why are you here? Did you just want to see me? Then it dawned on me: we’d already done the scene at your apartment.

“Nothing,” I said, suddenly much more defensive than Viola was supposed to be. Maybe I did. But not anymore. “I was just leaving. I lost my way.”

“It’s the middle of the night,” you said. “This bridge isn’t finished.”

“Cut!” Ethan yelled. “You’re not supposed to be pissed that she’s there. You work the night shift with a bunch of old dudes who don’t talk to you—this is a beautiful woman your age. You want to keep her there forever, not scare her off.”

“Right,” you said, looking down at the stage.

“And Liv, you look like you don’t know where you’re going. Do you know where you’re going?”

“To jump off a bridge,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest, feeling the faint but manic thumpthumpthumpthumpthump that had become my heart. In the theater’s state-of-the-art acoustics, I wondered if everyone could hear it.

“Exactly,” Ethan sighed, “so that should be the only thing motivating you in this scene. You are determined to jump off that bridge and you’re not going to let some handsome stranger you just met get in your way.”

“Got it.”

“Do you?” Ethan narrowed his eyes, tapping his pen on his knee. “Do you get it? Because there’s a difference between being determined and being on speed.” He pushed up his glasses. “You look like the Roadrunner.”

Icy fear shot through my veins. How could he know? No one knew, that was the magic. Not that my parents even cared that I drank their wine or smoked pot in my room, but I was careful. I only drank from open bottles. I left my windows cracked and lit lavender-scented candles. I kept my weed folded up in a maxi pad at the bottom of a box of super-plus tampons. I took f*cking photos and put everything back, and I never got caught, I was careful.

I was trying to think of something to come back with, some explanation or defense, when Ethan just laughed and said, “Stop drinking so much diet soda, that stuff’ll kill you.”

The relief hit so quick it made me nauseated.

? ? ?


When I came back from the bathroom, you and Ethan were alone on stage. You both looked miserable, like you were waiting for Godot but with period cramps.

“Well,” Ethan shouted when he saw me, pacing back and forth across the “bridge” that was marked on the floor with three pieces of gaff tape, “Mr. Francisco thinks we’re not ready to go up in a month. He told me I should consider recasting.”

“What?!” The pill hadn’t even dropped into my stomach and I felt a rush of vertigo. I knew if one of us got recast it would be me. You were a name people recognized. They didn’t know everything you’d told me in confidence, how you’d never even wanted to act, how your mom had pushed you into it, or how the Saving Nathan shoot ended up being so stressful that by the end of filming your parents were sleeping in separate rooms. They didn’t know and you wouldn’t tell them, so it would be me on the chopping block. Showcase could come and go and everyone else would get handshakes and business cards from agents and casting directors and I would get some terrible gap-year job folding palazzo pants at Forever 21. Even worse, Showcase was a half course credit. Without it, I wouldn’t even graduate.

“Don’t worry, I’m not doing it,” Ethan said, walking over and putting his hand on my back. It wouldn’t have been so bad except he kept moving his fingers around like he was trying to give me the world’s tiniest massage. “He’s a bloviating hack, but he made some good points. I mean, Jesus. I should at least have cast some understudies.”

You and I looked up at each other at the same time. You’re not his understudy, I wanted to scream. Don’t you see? He’s yours.

“Whatever,” you said, stretching your arms over your head.

“Glad to see you care so much,” Ethan snapped. He stopped pacing and put his hands on his hips. “Listen, your performances make or break this play. Two weeks ago you were on point. I need you back there. I don’t care what it takes.”

I glanced over at you, but you were staring pointedly at the empty front row. I wondered if it had been the same for both of us, before: the secret thrill of seeing a text come in, the delicious possibility of an innocent sentence ended with a semicolon followed by a right parenthesis. What would it take for us to get back there? I already knew the answer; he was still drawing circles on my spine.

“We only have a couple weeks before spring break,” Ethan sighed, and I let myself float out of the conversation, into ten days of possibility I’d forgotten were getting so close. Just remembering they existed made my heart stop sputtering like an outboard motor for a second. Over spring break I could sleep all day. I could stop making myself stay up and just chill, reset, start to fix things.