All's Well(5)

They murmur hello back. Their smallness, their radiant faces, their youth, usually move me a little. So adorable, really. Today though, I only feel fear.

Have you ever directed a play before? the dean asked in the interview.

Oh, yes, I lied, nodding. Shakespeare. Brecht. Chekhov. Beckett, obviously. Lots of Beckett.

They look at me now. Waiting, I realize, for me to speak. Because there are things I say, apparently, aren’t there things I say? That light them up? That sway them? I have forgotten these things that I say. Tonight even more is required, I can tell. A stirring up of morale. They’ve read the play a few times now, the play I have chosen over the play they wanted. And there are hurt feelings. There is incomprehension. Ms. Fitch, we don’t understand. Why? Why are you making us do this play?

I feel cold sweat down my back, and my right leg seizes up even more. I become terribly aware of my limp, my hunched hobble. I lean against the table. I try to smile more warmly. I’m their friend, yes? Remember? I imagine the student evaluation: It’s clear that Ms. Fitch is trying her best, but she’s really disorganized and loses control of group discussion a lot. I feel we would get more out of the experience if she were more like a real director.

“And how is everyone?” I ask. Trying for a soft voice, for brightness. This fails. I am met with only dead-eyed faces. So I switch gears. I try for a certain mysteriousness. I make a fog machine of my expression, a hard line of my mouth. But I’m a bad actress these days. Even they can see that. I don’t convince.

“Good,” they murmur. Or else they say nothing. Or else they just blink. Briana, my lead, doesn’t even blink. Briana keeps her leaf-green eyes wide open. They stare with wondrous bitchiness at my entire body. She looks at my teal tea dress, its sad pattern of orange flowers, which is the dress I’m just realizing I also wore to class and to rehearsal last week. Ditto the oversize, worn black cardigan with its gaping-open pockets rattling with pills.

She is judging me, her eyes say this.

Don’t judge me, you little bitch.

“What was that, Miranda?” Grace says.

“What?”

“You mumbled something.”

“No. No, I didn’t.”

Silence from Grace. Silence from the students.

Not only is Ms. Fitch late for rehearsals these days but she is also insane.

Ms. Fitch talks to herself. I totally heard her.

“Well,” I say to them. My tone is so pleasant. My tone is daisies swaying in a field, the field of the drug commercial. “Why don’t we just dive in, yes? Act One, Scene One? Helen’s soliloquy?”

They don’t move.

“Shall we begin? Please?”

Nothing. I’m actually pleading with them, has it really come to this? I have no vision; that’s clear. They still hate this play; that’s obvious. All of them are staring at me now, all limply holding the scripts in their half-open hands like they could let go at any time.

I recall the disastrous table reading, held a month ago on this very stage. The questions, no, the accusations.

All’s Well That Ends Well, Ms. Fitch? I mean, is it even a Shakespeare play?

Why are we doing this play, Ms. Fitch?

Weren’t we supposed to do the Scottish Play this year?

I don’t get this play, Ms. Fitch. I mean, a girl is so into this guy who doesn’t even want her? It’s kind of lame, honestly.

Also, Ms. Fitch, weren’t we supposed to do the Scottish Play this year?

Yes, Ms. Fitch, my understanding was that we were doing the Scottish Play this year.

And I failed to win them over to it with my Valium-laced vision, which I delivered with my voice faltering. They did not nod. They did not smile. They did not blink. They exchanged contemptuous glances, and they did not care if I saw this or not. If I hadn’t stumbled so much through my director’s speech perhaps they would all be on board. Long pauses there were, during my speech, where I admit I just zoned out completely. Every now and then Grace would cough, clear her throat, call my name. Miranda? Miranda. Miranda!

What?

You were saying?

Oh, yes. I was saying… what was I saying? And I actually asked them.

They stared at me then as they are staring at me now.

Look, it’s not like any of these kids are going to go on to be professional actors. We have no real legitimate theater department anymore, just a burgeoning minor thanks to me and Grace. The annual Shakespeare production is purely extracurricular. A club, basically. I have no real credentials to be directing them. Not really. I’m faking it mostly. I want to tell them this now. I’m faking it and you’re faking it and we’re all fucked, basically. And yet. And yet look how far we have come. Two regional Shakespeare competitions. In which we placed ninth both times.

A cough. I turn to see a tall man in paint-splattered jeans and a Black Sabbath T-shirt standing in the side entrance of the theater. Long golden hair in his face. Smiling apologetically. My set designer and builder, Hugo. At the sight of him, my chest tightens, catches useless fire. Oh god, what is he doing here? He can’t see me like this, he—but Hugo’s not looking at me, never looking at me. He’s looking past me at the planks of wood stacked against the back wall of the stage.

“Sorry to disturb,” he says to the students. He points to the wood. “I’ll be gone in a flash.”

“Of course,” I say, and I actually run a hand through my hair like a fool. But Hugo’s already headed upstage. I catch a scent of wood as he passes me and almost close my eyes.