Chapter 10
Dafne
It is finally Friday afternoon, and even third year acting students get some time off, even though they’re playing the main character in their final showcase. And they also have rehearsals first thing in the morning. I’ve been consciously delaying thinking about when all of this is going to end, though, to be honest. As excited as I am when I think of the day of the play, when casting directors from talent agencies are going to be there, taking notes on our every move and inflection, it will also mean time is up. If I imagine what life is going to be like when I don’t have Phoebe and Ollie by my side every day … I’d just rather not. Thankfully, my phone buzzes and interrupts the intrusive thoughts. There’s a message from an unknown number, but it doesn’t take a master’s degree in physics to realise who the sender is. Suddenly, intrusive thoughts don’t sound like such a bad way to entertain myself with .
Come in an hour earlier tomorrow, so
we can work on Act Two.
Sent: 14:43 p.m.
Not a please or thank you in sight. As lovely as a drill on a cavity. I assume he’s still mad over the other night, and although I’d realistically be pissed too in his place, I can’t bring myself to brush over the curtness.
And by the way, how did he get my number? I ponder my answer for a minute, then I decide to go for sarcasm. That’s at the core of all our interactions anyway.
Yes, Master. Your wish is my command.
If you wanted my number so badly,
you could have asked me rather than coerce one of our castmates to hand it over.
Was it Isabel? Or Margaret? :)
Sent: 14:45 p.m.
How highly you must think of yourself.
I found it in the Group Chat.
Sent: 14:47 p.m.
...Of course. Enjoy your stay at Arsehole Town.
Population: Theodore Price.
After a sleepless night, mostly due to nightmares of me toppling down the balcony during opening night and slicing my forehead open or worse, like letting Theodore take all the glory, I make my way to the theatre, stifling a yawn as I push with a little too much force on the heavy stage door and let out a hiss when it doesn’t budge. Yep, it’s locked. Why not add a dislocated shoulder on top of only twenty minutes of sleep? I release a huff of the freezing February air, typing aggressively at Theodore to get his arse over here before I do something impulsive, like cut holes through his script as soon as I get my hands on it.
A thought strikes me then. What if he’s pulled this elaborate joke by making me wake up at the crack of dawn just so he can shove it in my face that I came as soon as he called?
When a few minutes pass, and he’s not replying to the damn texts, I remind myself I can’t let him get to me any more than I already have. Never mind late-night, soft-spoken tales about his grandmother.
He wants to play? He’ll have to find a different toy–“You actually showed up,” Theodore huffs as the stage door creaks open from the inside. “Pigs are going to start flying above us any second now,” he considers, squinting his eyes as he pops his head out the door and looks up.
“Ever thought about doing stand-up instead of acting?”
I ask, the utmost serious expression on my face, as he purses his lips unimpressed.
“Why weren’t you answering your phone?” I shrug my coat off as he pulls the door closed behind me.
“I wasn’t texting my side piece if that’s why you’re asking,” he replies drily, and I try to ignore how the poor choice of words affects me. It’s not like he could know. Without saying another word, I turn and walk towards the stage.
“We can use the balcony,” Theodore says after I’ve stretched and done some vocal warming, his eyes roaming over his script. “Mr. Hackle said it was fine.”
I give him a mock salute and head to the few stairs that lead to the small platform where the makeshift balcony has been built, even though this self-proclaimed Assistant Director vibe I’m getting from him is already annoying me beyond repair. Once in position, I secure my hair in a high ponytail and wince a little at how stiff my neck and shoulders feel. Theodore clears his throat and mumbles, “You alright?”
It’s almost as if being nice to me brings him physical pain. Which I’m sure is true enough. I also hadn’t realised he was watching me.
“Yeah, I’ve just been having trouble sleeping, is all. Let’s just get on with this, we’re wasting precious time,” I say impatiently.
He simply nods and takes a few steps back to re-enter for the scene, and I do the same.
“ But soft! What light through yonder window breaks ?”
he starts. I step on the small balcony and lightly place my hands on the Styrofoam cornice when he adds,“ It is the East, and Juliet is the sun!”
I internally smile, because poison business aside, I get why Juliet would fall for this guy. He knew how to talk to and about a woman. He gets through his monologue, and listening to him like this is so pleasant, for a moment I let myself pretend he’s actually a teenager who speaks in verse, rather than a bloke who enjoys the sound of his own voice too much.
“O Romeo, Romeo–wherefore art thou, Romeo? Deny thy father and refuse thy name. Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love. And I’ll no longer be a Capulet,” I say as a stray thread from on my jumper’s sleeve snags my attention and makes me wonder how that happened. Didn’t I buy this barely a month ago?
I assume he’s trying something new by not saying his next line back, but the silence stretches for too long, so I look down at him. He’s staring at me with an unreadable expression, and my skin prickles with unease.
“What?” I snap, crossing my arms over my chest.
“You’re not doing what you and Mr. Hackle agreed on,” he says, a displeased edge to his voice that I don’t like one bit. “How would you know what Mr. Hackle and I agreed on?” I huff, making my way down the steep staircase that leads back to the stage.
“You left your script next to mine the other day,” he explains once I’m standing in front of him.
“I read the new directions he gave you. You’re supposed to think about something you really wanted, but never had when you say this line.”
I bat my eyes rapidly at him. “Who gave you the right to read through my personal notes?” He’s about to answer, but I’m not done. “And how on earth would you know what I’m thinking? Are you a mind reader now, too?” I know I’m losing my temper over something that might not be that big of a deal, but the fact that he would be so presumptuous to think he knows me–as an actor, or at all–rubs me the wrong way. He made sure he wouldn’t get to know me, so that’s on him and him only.
He looks at the ground with his hands on his hips, seemingly pondering his next words. Wise choice, because I’m running on far too little sleep, a tiny paper cup of watered-down coffee, and a good amount of slightly irrational anger.
“I want this performance to be perfect. I need it, us , to be perfect. Look, Dafne, I’m going to tell you something now, and you probably won’t like it. I know–I know you can do more. So much more. All I ask is that you do it. All of it, no matter if we’re rehearsing or if it’s opening night. Don’t hold back.”
My shoulders sag, and my eyes roam all over his face, as if in doing so I could figure out whatever he meant by that– and for some reason, I can’t bring myself to be mad anymore. I’d just never heard him be so … honest. When he’s not acting, that is; I always thought him nothing but irrevocably real on stage. The idea that each time he teased me or put up a fight could be any less than true had never crossed my mind before. But now? I’m not so sure. Which is the real Theodore? The one that acts like he owns the theatre and could singlehandedly take on the world, or the one that looks almost afraid that the result will be any less than outstanding? If the sorrow that laced his words means anything, is that he cares about this show going well more than I could imagine. The reason for that, though–besides the normalcy of wanting a play you’ve worked on for months to succeed–is rooted somewhere deeper, I think. I suddenly feel guilty.
The lights are unforgiving in their brightness, and now that I’m closer I notice the white speckles reflected in his eyes, honey brown amongst the green bursting from the pupil. His hair is, for the first time, slightly tousled, and for a split second I wonder what he looks like in the morning–guard down and all.
“I told you, I’m just tired, is all,” I say simply.
“We can try again in a few minutes,” he adds quietly. He’s about to turn around, but I shake my head firmly. “No, I don’t need a few minutes. I’ve got it.” He searches my face and nods, but before he can walk back to his mark, I call his name. “I’m sorry, by the way. For what I said about you. I don’t think you’re a coward. And … I should have let you apologise. For the interview. I think yo u really were sorry.”
He looks positively stunned and he blinks a few times, like I’ve told him he’s just grown horns.
“Thank you,” he says with a furrowed brow.
When he turns again I release a breath, slap myself lightly in the face, and jog up the staircase to the balcony. We repeat the scene, and this time I really think about it. Something I wanted but never had? I have something close enough. So close that I’ve been gingerly avoiding thinking about it, if you can believe that, and the fact that Theodore somehow figured that out is disturbing.
So I think of how Peter, Phoebe’s boyfriend, kisses her hand in greeting, how it makes her giggle every time; how he never fails to support her dreams. How his thumb brushes over her knuckles whenever they’re sitting together, a silent reminder that he’s got her back, always.
That’s something I want, or at least I used to. And I had it, for a while, until it got lost. I suppose that’ll have to do.
Theodore
“I gave thee mine before thou didst request it,” she says, a hand to her heart. “And yet I would it were to give again.”
I take another small step back. “ Wouldst thou withdraw it? For what purpose, love? ” She smiles softly. I’m suddenly and uncomfortably really grateful for changing my monthly contact lenses this morning–I can see everything so clearly, even from afar. Provided, the balcony is really not that high, but still. She leans slightly on the parapet. “Sweet Montague, be true. Stay but a little, I will come again.”
The scene continues, but this is as far as we worked on it during rehearsals . I’m trying really hard to ignore the part of my brain that wants to go on and see what we can do with it, but I refrain from voicing that; in hindsight, I’ve probably dashed out enough unsolicited advice for today, and I’d better not push my luck.
“That was good!” Dafne says.
“Yeah, better,” I concede, because apparently I’m not mature enough to admit the past three times were very good and I thought she was great. Just like I knew she could be–and is, usually. I also cannot believe she apologised, nor that some part of me is relieved to know that’s not what she really thinks of me.
“Do you want to go through the ball scene once? Just to make sure we’re still on track?” I ask.
She looks at me intently, and it seems she’s having a conversation with herself, but eventually settles on a quiet, “Sure.” She comes down from the stairs, and we settle into the familiar rhythm of Act One, Scene Five. Considering the number of times we’ve already kissed, it should be best known as the Thirty Kisses Scene. I must be low on sleep too, especially because it takes more than a few seconds to register she’s skipped right to the lines that precede the actual kiss. I try not to show my surprise at how abrupt this is, and I go along with it; hell, I’m even pleased that she’s taking the lead. She says her line. “Then move not while my prayer’s effect I take.” I reply. We gaze at each other for a moment, then she leans in that much more, bringing us dangerously close. Her left hand grips my elbow to bring me even closer. This is definitely not what we rehearsed before.
“What about you, Price? Are you holding back?” she says then, her voice unwavering, her gaze fierce, and I find myself completely, wholly, unquestionably turned on.
For fuck’s sake.
I open my mouth to say something, anything –
The lights in the audience turn on, a door slams, and Dafne lets go of her hold on me so suddenly I would think it was all just a fever dream.
“Lookie, lookie,” Devon shouts across the theatre, hopping down the velvet corridor that leads to the stage, immediately followed by Margaret, Jack, and other figures in the distance whose names I can’t be bothered to remember right now. “I didn’t know we were doing Method Acting,” he beams, lifting himself on stage and winking in my direction. “Sneaking around just like a proper Romeo and Juliet,” he nods approvingly. I make my way towards the proscenium and shake my head once at him in warning. When I look over at Dafne, her cheeks are pinker than they were before, but other than that looks like everything is perfectly fine. She reaches us and leans a hand on my friend’s shoulder, uttering Devon’s name in greeting before moving to his left, her hand lingering for a second longer than necessary. I cannot for the life of me see why it should bother me–but it does. Whether it’s because I’m quite sure we were on the verge of making out or if it’s just because centuries of patriarchal society have instilled in me some latent, awful to God possessive instincts, that remains to be seen. Possessive of what, exactly? I’d slap myself if I were alone. Now I need to decide whether I’m more bothered by that, by whatever the hell just happened, or the fact that I’m even bothered at all. My brain is really not a fun place to be sometimes.
I watch her retrieve her script from the proscenium where she’d left it, then place it over a trunk the others are trying to lift onto the stage as she picks one side of it up herself.
“Was that you hitting on Ethan’s girl?” Devon jokes, and a choking sound escapes me and I fake a cough to hide it.
“You refer to any girl as Ethan’s girl ever again I will report you to the local authorities,” I say, trying to keep my tone light.
“You could end your suffering by admitting defeat,” he drawls, coming to stand casually next to me.
I know he’s right; calling the bet off would be so easy and spare me unnecessary stress and confusion. If I had any amount of self-preservation, I would tell him he’s right and we could just move on. Just because now that I’ve been close to her–quite literally–I keep thinking about the next time it’ll happen, it doesn’t mean I like her that way . Or at all, if the past three years are of any indication. I can find her attractive and intolerable–the two things aren’t mutually exclusive–even now that we’ve shared unthinkable amounts of saliva. It doesn’t mean I want to move in a studio flat with her and adopt a couple of Dalmatians. Devon eyes me like he can hear the monologue unraveling inside my head, his face breaking into a pitying smile. He starts toward Dafne to help with the trunk, whistling like he just won the lottery. I am miserably aware of how thoroughly unequipped I am to handle each part of this mess, and especially–her.