In Harmony(49)

“Martin also likes to clap,” Isaac said. “A lot.”

I laughed. “I noticed.”

“Just a friendly reminder about memorization. It’s been two weeks.” Martin said. “How is everyone doing getting off-book?”

A few murmurs and nods, a few groans. Len Hostetler grabbed his own throat with both hands and mimed being choked to death. Then he smiled brightly and gave a thumbs up. “Going great, Marty.”

Justin raised his hand. “I have a question. Willow and I are going to the Spring Fling dance next Friday night at the school. Are we going to be able to get the night off?”

An icy cold bloomed in the pit of my stomach and spread out. I looked at Isaac. He stared back. For half a second, the hurt was evident in his eyes. A little boat floating in the green-gray waves, then swiftly sinking. His face closed up and he looked away.

“You have to say yes, Herr Direktor,” Len said in his booming voice.

“Indeed,” Lorraine said. “A spring dance is a milestone in any high school experience.”

“I will make an exception this time,” Martin said, frowning a little. “But one night is all I can spare. Anyone else? Put your hand down, Len.”

Everyone laughed and Justin looked pleased with himself. The weight of my guilt and embarrassment was so heavy I couldn’t lift my eyes to meet Isaac’s.

Why do you feel guilty? He’s leaving town. He said he’s done with high school…

“Okay,” Martin said, with a clap of his hands. “Let’s get back to work. Willow? Isaac?”

We ran the scene again, this time with no flirtation. No niceness. Isaac delivered his lines with barely-concealed disdain. A wounded prince mocking the lover who betrayed him. His head in my lap was a heavy stone. We weren’t playing roles now. We were just being ourselves.

It had only taken one Saturday afternoon to make a connection. Isaac shared private information with me. I let him come closer to my story than anyone. The time we spent together was the foundation of the scene. My going to the dance with Justin was the betrayal. Hamlet’s pain was Isaac’s. Ophelia’s regret was mine.

When it ended, Martin clapped again and this time it was applause.

“Perfect,” he said. “That was perfect. It adds so much more dimension to the scene. Good work everyone. Moving on…”

At the end of rehearsal, I hurried to grab my stuff and get out. Then I remembered Justin was my ride home. He was waiting for me at the theater entrance, looking smug and triumphant. I hated him a little for that.

I tried to jam my script into my bag too quickly, dropped it and the three-ring binder busted open as it hit the floor. Pages spilled out and I kneeled to gather them up. A figure crouched beside me and I smelled gasoline, aftershave and cigarette smoke.

“I thought you said you weren’t going to go,” he said, muscles showing in his clenched jaw.

You said you were done with high school, I wanted to shout.

“I changed my mind,” I said, thrusting my own chin out. “I’m allowed.”

He sniffed a short, hard laugh. “Yeah, you are.”

He started to hand me the stack of papers, then froze, his brow furrowed over the crawl of little black X’s in the margins, like an infestation of insects.

“Are rehearsals that boring?”

“They’re not. It’s just doodling.”

“You said you doodle when you’re bor—”

“Give me those, please.”

The hard angles and lines of his expression softened as he handed over the pages. Almost reluctantly. As if he didn’t want to give all those black X’s back to me.

“Night, Willow,” he said softly, and rose to his feet.

“Good night, Isaac,” I said, but he’d already walked away.





Isaac



“What the fuck was that, Marty?” I asked, when the last cast member left for the night. “Smitten? I looked fucking smitten?”

Martin just regarded me placidly. “I’m not going to change how I direct my show,” he said. “I call it as I see it. But I was hoping…”

“Cut it out with the hoping. Direct the show however you want, but keep your matchmaking bullshit out of it.”

His eyes hardened and he crossed his arms over his chest. “I call it like I see it,” he said again. “If you give it to me, I’m going to incorporate it into the scene.” He took a step toward me. “Nothing you can do about that, but there’s something you can do about her.”

“It’s too late, Marty,” I said, the anger draining out of me. “I’m moving out of Harmony. Whether your talent scouts take me or not.”

“I hope you find whatever you’re looking for when you do. But I also hope you don’t miss what’s right in front of you.” He clapped my shoulder. “It’s never too late. Those two words are the greatest, most powerful killer of hope mankind has ever invented for itself.”





I opened the door to my trailer and found Pops passed out on the couch, a lit cigarette still smoldering in the ashtray on the coffee table. A pile of unpaid bills served as a coaster, stained by beer and whiskey and the remnants of his fast food dinner. If hopelessness had a smell, it was stale beer, grease and an overflowing ashtray.