Chapter 2
Salad Shame
Every person in the room crowded into a loose semicircle around Neil, Stephanie, and Rebecca while I stayed where I was.
A vague whisper reached my ears: Can a woman even be a wunderkind?
I gauged the least conspicuous spot in the crowd and wondered if one could make it through an entire rehearsal process without ever interacting with the director. Seemed unlikely.
A hand lightly touched my arm, and even though Rebecca was still several feet away shaking hands and introducing herself, I jumped as if it was her hand on me.
“Jesus, Tess,” hissed my publicist, Erica, dressed in her usual black dress and four-inch heels, ninja-like if ninjas had strawberry-blonde ponytails, appearing seemingly out of nowhere. “Everything good here?”
“Of course,” I said quickly, politely, in-no-way-was-my-ex-girlfriend-standing-a-few-feet-from-me-ly. Erica was right to wonder, though; I was used to being guided gently via light touches to my elbow. Publicists were like well-dressed herding dogs. Herding dogs who bit, though.
“The social media team and the LA Times need a few group photos,” Erica said, leading me away from the gathering cluster of people into the hallway.
A photographer stood, camera-ready, next to a very young person with aqua hair who was wielding two iPhones.
“Hi, Tess,” the person said. “I’m Verne, they/them pronouns, director of social media for DTA.”
Erica stepped in front of me as if to protect me from a bullet, and not just a Gen Z individual addressing me directly instead of looking only to her.
I leaned around Erica and held up my hand in a wave that I hoped looked casual and friendly and not as if my publicist was literally trying to block access to me.
Erica wished she was Tree Paine but I was the wrong kind of famous (i.e.
, quite but still not anywhere enough) for that kind of control. “It’s nice to meet you, Verne.”
They nodded and glanced back down at one of their phones. “I’m going to record a lot of content today to release throughout the rehearsal period and into the run. We encourage you to share with your followers across platforms. Box office and donations really benefit from cast participation.”
“We can discuss Tess’s social media presence,” Erica said, but I waved her off and stepped around her.
“Sure, just let me know what you need, though keep Erica looped in on everything so she can keep my social team updated, too.”
Erica sighed audibly as she guided me into place for the LA Times photos.
“I thought you said it was a group shot,” I whispered, as I saw the rest of the group assembling farther down the hallway.
Did that include Rebecca? Was it better or worse if it did?
Could I look neutral near Rebecca? Was it possible to blow up a career’s worth of hiding who I was in one press photoshoot?
“Eventually,” Erica said. “Solo shots of you first. You’re the only one anyone cares about. Look theatrical! I’m kidding. Who the hell cares.”
My team had made no secret of their thoughts about me taking this job.
Six weeks for rehearsal and previews, six weeks of performances, nearly three months in which I wasn’t shooting something that would make us all a lot of money.
Why do theatre for practically free when I could be screaming from the back seat of a car driven by one of the Chrises in front of a green screen?
Why play a role that figuratively no one would see when I could be stepping into my platinum bodysuit and speaking up as one of the voices pressuring Pantheon Studios into expanding Vindicators from a trilogy to a quadrilogy?
After I posed for a few minutes’ worth of photos, Verne led over members of the creative team for the next shots.
I shifted with the arrivals, even as Erica commanded with a look to stay right in the center.
Right in the center? Where Rebecca would see me and potentially be unknowingly-cruelly forced to throw her arm around my shoulders in a show of theatrical camaraderie? No thank you, Erica!
I was certain I’d sense Rebecca’s presence, so it was with more than a mild jolt to realize she had already lined up, a few people down the line from me.
It had gone unnoticed because she didn’t move the same way, didn’t pass through life the way she had a dozen-ish years ago.
Despite the attention I’d paid to the brief New York Times Magazine profile, sartorial features on The Cut, her face onscreen split-seconds before she lost last season’s Tony, the occasional light stalking of her Instagram grid, I hadn’t been prepared for that.
The photographer and Verne snapped a few minutes’ worth of shots.
I prided myself on being good at the entirety of my job.
Sure, there was acting, which I knew I excelled at.
But there was also this, giving face in a fluorescent-lit hallway at 10:00 a.m. on a Monday morning.
Playing nice with social media teams. Smiling like the girl who was best friends with everyone while standing next to men who were figuratively Michael Madden, and who were literally Michael Madden.
Throw Rebecca Frisch into the mix, though, and those skills felt tenuous at best. Every subtle shift of my body for the camera gave a flash of Rebecca in my peripheral vision, every flash felt like the world had been blotted out except for her, every moment pulsed with the danger of a truth revealing itself.
“OK, everyone,” Rebecca said, as the camera’s clicks slowed. Even though she’d used the word everyone it felt like she was speaking directly to me. “Let’s get to work.”
The hallway full of people burst into enthusiastic applause, and I joined in while deciding whether or not to attempt eye contact.
When had I ever felt like this? I’d never set out to be someone who could easily command any room, but I’d discovered early on that I could.
Yet here I was, about twenty-seven minutes into my time at the Downtown Theatre Association, and I’d never felt so inept in my life.
Rebecca, though, glanced my way as she walked by. As my heartbeat shook throughout me while I tried to figure out what to do, she held up her hand in a casual wave. “Hey.”
It didn’t matter that I hadn’t figured out what to do, because Rebecca kept walking purposefully as if my response didn’t matter. As if I didn’t matter.
The entire group filed into the rehearsal room, and I reminded myself that it was fine that Rebecca Frisch thought nothing of me.
I didn’t deserve more than nothing! And we were getting to work, the very work I was here for.
Despite that Geoffrey Gordan wasn’t here and my ex-girlfriend was, the rush I’d felt when I was young washed over me as I sat down at the table with my script.
This room full of people was about to make something that had never existed before and that would disappear into the ether when it was over. That was nothing short of magical.
Also, luckily, Rebecca was a few seats to my right, and it would have been nearly impossible to make accidental eye contact with her. For the moment, I was safe again.
Neil Bryant, front and center by the cluster of chairs facing our table, stayed standing as the rest of the room took their seats.
For years, DTA had been run by a series of middle-aged white man after middle-aged white man, and I’d been ecstatic to read the press announcement a couple of years ago that the organization had selected a Black man who wasn’t much older than I was for the role.
I wanted to prove something to him, that I could be part of the new era he was ushering in and not just a name to boost ticket sales.
“It probably goes without saying that this is a different speech than I’d planned to give a couple days ago,” Neil said with a mild chuckle. “But I’m honestly thrilled to be giving this one instead. I’ve been a huge fan of Rebecca’s since I saw her production at the Bushwick Starr—”
“Oh, god,” Rebecca said with a laugh as if Neil had held up a photo of her as an awkward tween. “You’re the only one, Neil.”
I tried to make sense of it, of her. The Rebecca I knew hadn’t raised her voice in rooms unless a script demanded it of her.
Of course I’d watched her rise from afar and known that she couldn’t still be the girl who sat quietly at my side while I’d commandeered all the attention in the room.
Witnessing her, though, I could barely comprehend the shift.
Her confident posture never appeared offstage then.
The way her voice filled the room. Not even the clothes—though of course the clothes—it was the way she wore them with all the certainty in the world.
Thank god my view was blocked by Kathleen and Stephanie; seeing her as she spoke would have been too much.
“Yep, just me and a bunch of rhapsodic critics, that’s exactly how it went,” Neil said, still grinning. “On behalf of the entire team at DTA, I’m thrilled to welcome Rebecca Frisch to direct the world premiere of Stephanie Hoff’s beautiful play Hometown, starring this incredible cast.”
Neil raised a water bottle as if it was a glass of champagne. “I can’t wait to see this show come together. Here’s to new productions, and of course to our new director.”
Everyone else hoisted their water bottles in the air as well.
“I don’t have a water,” I said softly. “Is there a PA who’s bringing them I could flag down?”
“There’s no PA,” Michael said, even though I’d all but forgotten he was sitting on my other side. “A PA, wow.”
“Sorry,” I said lightly in my nicest tone. “It’s been a while and—”
“There’s a water cooler right there,” he said with a nod to the side of the room. “Though you will have to bring your own container and walk it over there yourself.”