Look Both Ways(28)

“I think it might be easier if—” the long-haired guy starts, but Clark cuts him off.

“If you want to do things that are easy, you shouldn’t be here. On your feet, everyone! Start at the top.”

We move our chairs back, stand in a circle, and stare down at our pages of text, but nobody does anything. After about ten seconds, Natasha says, “I don’t really get what any of this means. Shouldn’t we do some table work first and talk about themes and stuff? Like what Alberto’s inspirations were for writing this?”

Alberto cringes back into his seat, and Clark shoots Natasha a death glare. “Who’s directing this project? You or me?”

“I mean, you. But I don’t understand your directions.”

“I don’t get it, either,” says bench-press guy. “Like, here at the bottom of the page, it says we’re supposed to sing. But what are we supposed to sing? We haven’t had a music rehearsal or anything.”

“Sing what you feel moved to sing! God!” Clark’s voice comes out high and hysterical. Personally, I feel moved to run out of the room. I send the universe an image of the fire alarm going off so I can go spend this evening hanging out with Zoe, but it remains annoyingly silent.



So I do what I always do when I don’t want to participate in a performance. I walk over to the piano, where I feel safe and comfortable, and I start playing. Nothing I know seems appropriate, so I improvise a low, creepy, meandering bass line to underscore Alberto’s nonsensical words. Everyone seems to relax a little now that something is happening, and they start reading aloud, talking over each other and trying to make their bodies into doorbells and concentric circles and masses of fury. It’s cool that my music is the thing that spurred everyone into action, but the result is still pretty abysmal. Clark nods like this is exactly what he wants from us, but I can’t imagine how this random chaos is ever going to become a presentable show.

I stay at the piano for the entire rehearsal, playing with melodies to go with my bass line. I feel a little guilty that I’m enjoying myself over here while everyone else is yelling and contorting and writhing in a pile on the floor, but much more than that, I’m relieved to have found a way out. As I play, I try to remember every detail of the “acting” going on across the room so I can recount it for Zoe later. My body is here in rehearsal, but my mind is already back in the room, doing a dramatic reading of this “script” and reducing her to helpless, tearful laughter. It felt so awesome to have all her attention focused on me when I described last week’s rehearsal. I can’t wait to make it happen again.

Rehearsal ends as abruptly as it did last time; when Clark has had enough, he scoops up his clipboard and walks out. Alberto drops a pencil as he scurries after him, and the guy with the long hair pockets it on his way out the door. Pandora dials her phone as she leaves, and from out in the hall, I hear her say something about “amateur bullshit” and “meeting with company management.”



Russell intercepts me before I can leave the piano bench. “My pain is like the rings of Saturn,” he says.

“I feel more like a furious supernova, personally.” I slump back against the wall. “What are we going to do?”

“I mean, what can we even do? We can’t make a play until that dude writes a play.”

“Do you think we could get the show canceled if enough of us complained? I’d honestly rather be in nothing than be in this.”

“Well, you wouldn’t be in nothing. What about your main stage show?”

“I’m not in one. Apparently I suck too much to be on the main stage.” It’s been long enough now that it doesn’t hurt to say those words anymore.

Russell scoots me over with his hip and sits down next to me on the bench. “I’m sure you don’t suck,” he says.

“Trust me, I kind of do.”

“Well, I guess I don’t know for sure, since I’ve never seen you act. But you were good enough to get in here in the first place, and it’s pretty competitive. Plus, you’re a kick-ass musician.” He puts his hands on the keys and starts trying to replicate the bass line I was playing. “I love this. Did you write it?”

I’ve never really thought of the silly little tunes I pick out as writing something, and I’m pretty sure nobody’s ever called me a musician before, either. To everyone at home, I’ve always been just an accompanist. “Yeah,” I say. “I made it up.”

“It’s really cool.” With his other hand, Russell adds some chords, and they harmonize better than the ones I was using earlier. “What about this?”

“Ooh, nice.” I start playing with a melody on the high keys, and pretty soon we’ve got an interesting little song going, melodic lines twining around each other in this cool, haunting way. Russell and I barely know each other, but somehow we’re each able to anticipate what the other is about to do, like we’ve been making music together for years. My pulse speeds up, and my brain starts feeling busier, somehow, like I’m using more parts of it than usual. I’m always so self-conscious when I’m acting or singing, but it’s totally different when I’m at the piano; I’m confident enough that I’m able to laugh off my mistakes like they don’t even matter. What Russell and I are doing feels like playing in the most literal sense.