All's Well(40)

“Cat got your tongue, Jacob?” I say. I try to sound playful. So he’ll relax and stop looking at me this way. I don’t bite, Jacob. Promise.

Jacob shakes his head. “No, Professor.”

“Oh, good. Looking forward to rehearsal today?”

“Yes.”

You’re a bad actor, Jacob. We’ll have to work on that.

“I’m so glad. Such wonderful news we received yesterday.” Smile. Emphasize the high note. “I’m excited for us. Especially for you, Jacob,” I lie.

Jacob just blinks. I’m excited for him? Really?

“Absolutely. Parolles is a very exciting role. Much better than Duncan, who dies so quickly.”

I attempt to beam.

He stares at me.

“And villains are far more interesting, anyway,” I continue. I’m babbling now. “Don’t you think, Jacob?”

I look at Jacob as though I’m interested, truly, in what he has to say.

Jacob says nothing. Merely blinks again. Maybe I’ve put him on the spot. It’s true I talk to no one outside of class or rehearsal. No one except Ellie, of course, and she’s the one who comes to me. Seeks me out in my office hours. Her tremulous knock, knock on the doorframe. Professor Fitch? I hope I’m not disturbing you. And her voice is an immediate balm for my mangled nerves. Sometimes she’ll just stand in the office doorway and wait for me to become aware of her presence. And I will. And I’ll scream. And she’ll look apologetic. And then I’ll smile. Oh, Ellie. It’s you. Come in, come in.

Perhaps it catches Jacob off guard, my sudden interest. Wanting to hear his, Jacob’s, thoughts about the play when probably Jacob has no thoughts.

“Such an archetypal villain, Parolles,” I continue. “A villain who outvillains villainy.” I smile. I’m quoting the play. Engaging him in a textual discussion. “Good for your CV, am I right?”

He looks at me like I’m a black funnel of wind, gathering force. Heading his way. “Yes, Professor.”

“Well. See you in rehearsal, Jacob. I’m looking forward to seeing what you bring to the part.” I’m trying to encourage him, but he doesn’t look encouraged at all. Fine. Have it your way, Jacob.

I leave him, humming that tune I was humming before. And Jacob watches me go, and behind me, I hear him sigh with relief. Strange. Was he afraid of me? Impossible. No one is afraid of me. How long since anyone has been afraid of me, really?





CHAPTER 12


ENTERING REHEARSAL, I had no idea what I would face. Would they refuse me still? Would they hold out? Would I come in to find a cauldron nailed to the stage? The Ashley/Michelles gathered around it, clad in shredded black dresses and witch hats, making abracadabra hands over paper flames? Trevor clutching a tinfoil dagger, ready to wave it in my face in protest? Briana still in her bell sleeves, chin tilted up, screwing her courage to the sticking place?

No. They’re sitting in a silent circle on the stage. They’re watching me walk toward them. They’re watching me, rapt, as though I am a play all my own. They don’t want to miss a beat. All eyes fixed on me, not their phones, not the floor, not one another. All mouths closed. No munching of food, no guzzling of drinks. No murmuring. No whispering. No giggling. No yawning in my face. They are absolutely still. I don’t even hear them breathing, are they breathing? I hear every click of my shoes as I make my way toward them. Smiling as I approach.

“Hello, all,” I say.

“Hello, Professor Fitch,” they say in near unison. A rippling of my name. A first. It sends a shiver through me.

I see they have the scripts in their hands. The old scripts. My director’s cut of All’s Well. They’re gripping them close. I exhale. I could laugh. I could weep. Ellie is looking at me, flushed, excited. She’s smiling. Jacob is looking at me just like he did in the hallway. Even Trevor, his blue eyes wide open, appears enthralled. And then I see the empty space beside Trevor, where Briana should be sitting, in her bell sleeves, her gold cross dangling from her white neck, her burnished hair tumbling over one sharp shoulder. I stare at the air that should be Briana’s body. She has never once missed rehearsal. No matter how many I schedule. No matter the weather. She is always there, always ready, always on time, like only the truly mediocre are. I look at the empty space, and I see refusal. Protest. So this is her way of fighting me. Her last gasp.

A lash of panic. A lick of fear.

I want to ask them, Where is mine enemy? Speak up. Speak!

Instead I say, “Well, shall we warm up?”

“They’re already warmed up, Miranda.” This from Grace. Also watching me like I’m the show. No laptop. No phone. She isn’t even whittling something out of wood. I look back at my children. Still unmoving. Still not appearing to breathe. Like they’re frozen from yesterday. Almost like they never left the theater. They were waiting for me this whole time.

I sit down in their circle—I’m actually able to sit down on the floor with only a little laboring. I sit between Ellie and Jacob, who make room for me. I smile at them.

“Wonderful. Well, let’s have a read-through of the play, shall we? To reacquaint ourselves. To reconnect?”

And just like that, they gaze down at their scripts. And Ashley/Michelle reads the opening lines of the Countess. “?‘In delivering my son from me, I bury a second husband.’?”