All's Well(64)

“Briana,” I say, “we’re so happy to have you up and about, aren’t we?”

No one says a word. I can feel Grace in shock behind me. All of them just stand there like slack-jawed idiots, looking at Briana hunched crookedly on the stage. Breathing like she’s been for a run.

“So happy we are,” I say. “But we are about to rehearse. Probably not the best place for you to sit and watch with your back to the stage like that. Why don’t you sit in the audience, over by Grace?”

I gesture to Grace, who’s sitting in the auditorium seats with a hand over her mouth. Briana doesn’t move. She just stares with the voids of her eyes.

Thou hast no speculation in those eyes which thou dost glare with!

“I think sitting in the audience would be far more comfortable for you,” I add softly.

“I’m not here to watch, Miranda,” she says at last in a low voice. “I’m here to perform.” Her voice is a husk of itself. Her breath is shallow.

Bolt of electricity down my leg. I feel it like a flash, and then it’s gone.

“Perform?”

“In the play,” she says. “I’m the lead, after all.” Not a question.

Pain flashes brightly across my back. Two wings of fire. I pray for my face not to betray me. Keep smiling, that’s it. “Well, we’ve had to make a few changes.”

“I’m the lead!”

“Briana, do you really think that’s a good idea given…” And here I trail off.

“Given what?” She looks at me. She waits.

“Given how long you’ve been away.” I smile.

She looks at me in my new poppy dress, taking me in as only she can. The S waves in my hair, my legs in their spiked heels, which are not buckling before her for once. Perhaps she can even smell the sex on me, the new life. It hurts her, all of it. The sight of me standing straight smarts her eyes. She even appears to wince.

“Well, I’m back now,” she says. “And I want to be in the play. And I will be in the play.”

She’s gripping the edge of the stage with her fists. A little hysteria in her voice. A pained wobble. A whine I know all too well. It gives me courage.

“It’s the week before tech week, Briana,” I say sadly. “We can’t have you play Helen. We’ve already made other arrangements for the lead, I’m afraid.” Don’t look afraid, don’t look afraid. You are not afraid of this dead-eyed child staring at you like she knows your soul, like you’re guilty of something. Is she going to insist? She can’t insist; look at her. She can barely sit up on the stage. She’s literally holding her body upright by white-knuckling the edge. Lopsided like she’s afraid of the right side of her body, oh god—

“I’ll be the King, then,” she says. “I heard that part just opened up.”

Beside her, Ellie’s back to looking at the floor.

“And look at me, I’d be perfect for the role now, wouldn’t I, Miranda.”

Not a question. An accusation. A blatant accusation. But what is there to admit? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Thou canst not say I did it. Never shake thy gory locks at me.

“Briana, do you think it’s a good idea?” Grace says from the audience. “You really don’t look well.”

“Don’t I look well, Grace?” She looks at me and grins, but it’s twisted, like she’s smiling through something. I know the something. Her mouth begins to tremble. She looks about to cry, but she holds it together.

“The doctors say it could be good for me to get out. And who knows?” She turns to Ellie, who’s shaking at this point, her eyes glassy. Looking at Briana as though she isn’t sure whether to hug her or run away. Briana just smiles weakly at her.

“Maybe Helen here will heal me,” she says. “The theater is a magical place. Am I right, Miranda?”

“The King has a lot of lines,” Grace says.

“That’s right,” I say. “Very true, Grace. A lot of lines. There’s that whole speech, isn’t there? About soldiership?”

“I already memorized them,” she says. “I’ve had so little to do for the past few weeks.” Her gaze is a sword. Pointed right at me. “I’ve had a lot of time with the King. A lot of time. I feel like I have a new insight into his character now. I can show you.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Briana,” Grace says. “Miranda?”

I look at this sickly creature, sitting crookedly on the stage. Withered. Pale. Lopsided. The once burnished glory of her auburn hair now falling darkly, flatly, in greasy locks around her gaunt face. Her lithe body a husk of itself, drowning in that black fleece sack. Her voice a shrill, faltering shadow of what it was. Looking at us both with the remnants of a countenance that used to make me tremble, cower. Now? She attempts threat, confrontation, but she can only manage so much through the veil of pain.

“Miranda?” Grace prompts.

“Show us,” I hear myself say.

“Everyone,” I say, keeping my eyes on Briana. “Act Two, Scene One. Helen and the King.” I feel them all around us, frozen as though in tableau.

Ellie looks at me, terrified. Don’t make me do this, Miranda, please.

But that’s all the more reason to keep calm. All the more reason to look like all is well. Ha.