On Screen & Off Again

Now Wilhelmina

Now WILHELMINA

T he marquee is golden in the cool, evening air. Outside the small theater, crinkled leaves skitter across the pavement over the feet of the gathering crowd. I keep my head down. My sunglasses on—even though it’s coming on night and they probably look ridiculous.

But I don’t want any press. Not yet.

I’m handed a playbill at the door, and when I get to my seat, I open it. There’s a square black-and-white headshot of Dax on top of a little paragraph about him that he’s clearly written himself:

PLAYBILL

DARCY / DAXON AVERY

Daxon is thrilled to step into the epic, curmudgeonly boots of Darcy. He would like to thank his sister, Rainie, for constantly reminding him that he’s “no Colin Firth or Matthew Macfadyen, but break a leg anyway. I mean, try not to actually break a leg. That would make those regency-style dance scenes really hard.” Daxon would also like to thank his long-suffering agent, Dolores, for sticking with him through thick and very, very thin. He comes to this production following Kill Switch (Amazon Prime) and Son of a Gun (Sony). Next summer, please enjoy Daxon in To the Stars (Edgeway)—though he’s well aware you’ll all be too mesmerized by Wilhelmina Chase to notice him.

I snort and laugh to myself, ignoring the looks from the people on either side of me. Inside my chest is that swelling feeling I’m used to getting with Daxon. Like the sun is rising inside my body. I love him in every way it’s possible to love someone. A friend, more than a friend, a piece of myself.

And I’m about to spend the next few hours watching him be the literal picture of a romantic hero. Someone who acts without thinking, determined to be right. Only to find that, for all the hours he spent wishing it away, it was love all along. The bold kind, all-encompassing.

They’ll probably have to scrape me off the floor once the curtain rises; there’s no way I’m leaving this performance not having turned into a puddle of lovesick goo.

The lights in the theater dim and people dip into their seats. There’s the uncomfortable scooting along full aisles for those that are late. Ushers bring an elderly couple to the end of my row who are dressed like this is the royal symphony, and I feel completely tacky and gross in my jeans and coat.

But when everything in the audience goes dark and the stage lights up, I don’t feel anything but peace.

That’s what it is to watch Daxon Avery perform—it’s peaceful. You feel safe. He’ll carry you through the story easily, like it’s nothing, across dialogue that would stumble on my tongue, but off of Dax’s, it flows. It’s easy. He’s perfect as Darcy. Dismissive and shy, curt and terrible, until he’s suddenly blooming and pining.

If I was any less spellbound, I’d probably feel a huge pang of jealousy for the woman playing Elizabeth. That she gets to spend a few hours dancing with him. Dancing . Daxon . Daxon who cannot dance at all, except for our little waltz. There he is. Light as air on his feet.

You have bewitched me, body and soul .

Yeah, no fucking kidding.

This, right here, this feeling, is what I want for myself. Forever. Tipping my cup, spilling a splash of my soul for an audience.

The next few months will be eaten up by press and excitement around To the Stars . And in so many ways, I’m ready. But in a thousand others, I’m trembling, terrified, looking for a good patch of sand to shove my head into.

You can’t have it both ways, but fuck, I wish I could.

I wish I’d gone to Yale, too. That we’d gone together. That I’d had the foresight to know that I needed more time to learn real craft and understand that the juiciest roles come when you’re ready for them. Not when you want them the most.

I wasn’t ready then. That summer. Watching Dax’s car drive into the morning sun.

I’m ready now.

My face is wet when the lights come up and the cast bows, but I can’t remember when I started crying. I’m on my feet, clapping so hard my hands are numb. And then, outside, I follow a gaggle of teenage girls who are apoplectic with excitement and giddiness as they wait at the stage door.

Piece by piece, the cast comes out. But it’s clear right away that Daxon is who everyone is waiting for. He’s swarmed with playbills and cameras, and I watch, tucked into a dark square of sidewalk, as he patiently, exuberantly, signs everything and anything they push at him. Posters and shoes. An iPhone. One girl cries with excitement and joy as he signs her forearm.

I take a mental picture. There’s a whole scrapbook inside my skull of good, precious memories that will live there forever. This is one.

And then the sidewalk is alive with flashing. Not from the phones of fans, but from paparazzi. Suddenly, two things happen. A fan negotiating the cramped sidewalk sidesteps onto my foot to avoid being trampled by a pap, looks into my face, and their eyes widen.

“Wil Chase?” they yell.

Next, the cameras pivot. Phones and tablets, but also the enormous flashes of paparazzi pushing in close.

By the time I turned fifteen, I had a bodyguard. He’d go most places with me when I was out in public—the mall, the movies, wherever, whenever. Not because I was vain and rolling around gleefully in being famous, but because I needed a bodyguard. Marnie was the biggest it ever was, and I couldn’t go anywhere without drawing a crowd.

When I was seventeen and Marnie was canceled, I let him go. Didn’t need him anymore. I could dodge people easily, and the number of interested fans was waning. New shows had premiered on Magicworks with shinier, newer stars. I was glad the day I went somewhere without him. Relieved.

But now, I get a rush of the same thing I used to get when I was in the middle of a store, trying on a sweater, and thirty excited, screaming—some even crying—teens, adults, whoever, pressed in close: fear.

I forgot this feeling.

My eyes hit the pavement, and there’s nowhere to step. Ican’t move. Bodies push closer. I can’t breathe.

Pieces of paper are shoved at me, some low from children, some high, from grown people who should know better. But they push and they cry out and there’s flashing, constant flashing, so that every time I blink, all I can see is blinding green.

I want to cry out, but I can’t take a breath. I’m drowning.

“Back up!”

I know his voice, but I’ve never heard it reach that pitch before. It’s never been dangerous, the way it is now. Snarling. There’s a small break in the wall of bodies and the night air hits me hard in the face, bitter and cold. I suck it in. A hand reaches for me, and I try to pull away, but it fastens around my forearm and yanks me forward.

“ Back up! ” It’s feral, the sound of it. Desperate adrenaline.