You in Five Acts(69)

“Trouble in paradise?” Diego finally laughed, but no one joined him. Anyone could see what a joke we were. Everyone had seen it, months ago—except for me.

“All right,” you sighed. “I think that’s my cue to go to the ladies’ room.” You picked up your bag and sauntered off, and Roth took your seat, fidgeting with the straps on his messenger bag.

“You know, I think she’s actually trying pretty hard,” he said. “I mean, it’s getting better, right?”

I looked at him and frowned. “Depends on where you’re sitting,” I said.

“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Except for the obvious, I think we’ve got it down.”

“The obvious?”

“Yeah, I mean, the part we’re leaving to performance. The, uh, spur-of-the-moment choice.” He laughed uncomfortably, and I realized he meant the kiss. We’d skipped over it so many times I didn’t even read the stage directions anymore. I’d forgotten it was even there. Sitting right in front of me.

I’d tried everything to get you to crack . . . except for the obvious.

? ? ?


We did the cue-to-cue the next day. Since the main stage would host four different short plays in a row for Drama Showcase, the set had to be easy to load in and break down. My solution, a minimalist, single steel beam (made of spray-painted foam blocks—for once, the visual arts stoners had come in handy) that stretched from wing to wing, needed intricate lighting design to avoid looking as cheap as it was. So in addition to Chris, I had a junior tech geek named Faiqa up in the booth, adjusting the levels.

True to form, you and Roth arrived through doors on opposite ends of the theater, avoiding eye contact.

“There are my star-crossed lovers!” I cried, just to see if you would look at each other before looking at me.

“Looks great, man,” Roth said, keeping his eyes on the stage.

“Yeah, great,” you parroted, with unconvincing enthusiasm.

“Great!” I said. “We’re going to make this quick and dirty.” I opened my script, which I’d marked up in advance with the cues. “If all goes well, it will be very . . . illuminating.”

“Good one,” Faiqa said through her headset from the booth.

“Places!” I yelled.

I called the cues while you and Roth moved from mark to mark onstage, saying one-off lines to show Faiqa where you’d be standing when she changed the lighting. Per my instructions, she made it dark and moody, with a film noir spot in the center and colored gels to create a dark, midnight blue cast on the background, which would slowly fade to an early morning orange by the end of the play. There wasn’t much for you two to do—while I worked on finessing each cue with the tech team, you stood like bored mannequins. I was the only one who knew there was a surprise coming.

“OK, this is cue ten,” I said to the room at large, when the moment finally arrived. “This is the kiss after Viola says, ‘I just want to feel something real.’ Page seventeen.”

You and Dave, who were already sitting side by side on one of the blocks center stage, staring intently at the ground, didn’t move.

“OK, so they’re in the same place as cue nine, so I’ll just—” Faiqa said as she lowered the spotlight and brought up a backlight that cast you in hazy silhouette.

“I’d like to actually see it,” I said. “Their faces will be turned to the side, so I want to see what that looks like.”

You and Dave turned to face each other.

“Now say the line,” I called.

“I just want to feel something . . . real,” you said, substituting volume for emotion.

“Do it with your hand on his face. Faiqa needs to see it.”

“Actually, I don’t,” she said through the headset, but I ignored her.

You reached a hand up to Dave’s temple and brushed some hair off of his forehead. I saw the corners of his mouth twitch up.

“OK, now say it again . . .” I said, trying not to clench my teeth.

“I just want to feel something . . . real,” you repeated, gazing up at him.

“. . . and now kiss.”

“What?” Your eyes darted nervously over to me. “I thought that was supposed to be improvised.”

“I changed my mind,” I said. “I need to make sure it’s believable.”

Dave shifted uncomfortably. “Won’t it be more believable if it’s a first kiss?” he asked.

“It would be more believable if you were actually a teenaged welder, but we’re letting that slide.”

“Right. I just—” he looked at you helplessly. “Um.”

“Well, I’m glad we’re running it now if it’s such a struggle,” I said, feeling bile rise in my throat. Your pathetic protestations sealed the deal. I hadn’t been completely convinced my hunch was right until that moment.

That’s what you get for casting such a matinee idol in the part you wrote for yourself, dipshit.

It was true—I’d originally written Boroughed Trouble as a way to make sure I got to kiss you before graduation, and to show the VIPs in the audience that I was a triple-threat writer/actor/director. I was planning to play Rodolpho myself, after holding a casting call just for show. But then you’d kissed me, and everything changed. I’d let my guard down, just in time for Dave Roth to enter on cue.