Chapter 7 #3
“Okay,” bellows Sally. “Demetrius is following Lysander and Hermia into the woods; Helena follows in hot pursuit.” She looks around, smiling widely, hoping we will admire her flair. We don’t.
“Okay,” says my father. “Will is going to come in stage right, Helena follows. Helena, just naturally chase him. Will, avoid her, let’s just see what happens. Use the space, but can you try to end up on the blocks for ‘Tempt not the hatred of my spirit’?”
“Got it,” says Will. I nod.
We start the scene. He storms onstage, I follow.
Hot pursuit. He shouts abuse at me, I spew platitudes.
It’s a little choppy; I’m running underfoot like a puppy.
There’s a line—“Use me as you would use your dog!”—where I drop down and bat at his ankles.
I feel ridiculous. I wait for someone to call “cut,” then remember I am in a world where that doesn’t happen.
It’s not Will’s fault. He’s good, he’s read the scene, at least, and he leads up to our mark at the correct line.
“Dad,” I call out. He glances up. “Do you have any . . . like, direction?” He sighs a little, thinking.
“Don’t try so hard,” he says after a moment. “Don’t play it like a comedy.”
I look at my script. Right there on the cover, it says Shakespeare’s Most Beloved Comedy. What does he want from me?
“What genre would you prefer?” I call back. “Horror? Sci-fi?” A few people dare to titter, but my father looks up again at me sharply.
“Think of it as a different genre for each character,” he says. “Your work is to figure yours out.”
What does that even mean, what genre? It’s Shakespeare. That’s a whole genre in itself. It’s a comedy. God forbid I try to be funny in a comedy.
“Okay,” my father calls out. “Let’s go a little further: Demetrius will back Helena against the bench, forcing her down, so he ends hovering over her for the next few lines. Give it a try. Mira, take it from the ‘spaniel’ bit.”
I’m flustered. I’m annoyed at my dad. I haven’t done a theater rehearsal in so long, I am not prepared. I’m used to being prepared. I drop down to the ground, giving my spaniel speech again. Will turns on me, and I stumble to my feet.
“You do impeach your modesty too much . . .” He backs me up against the blocks.
I fall back as our legs meet, and he hovers over me.
“To trust the opportunity of night and the ill counsel of a desert place . . .” His voice is low, rumbling, but still bounces off the walls. A perfect theater whisper.
“Hold that!” calls my father, whispering to Sally some blocking detail. Will is over me, supporting himself easily on one arm.
“Are you okay with this?” he asks quietly. He smells good, like trees and something sweet I can’t place.
“What? Oh, yeah, sure,” I say. I’m surprised he asked. I’m a professional. I’m used to this.
“Will, can you get even closer to her?” Sally calls out.
Will raises an eyebrow at me, and I nod.
He lowers himself until we are inches apart.
I can feel his breath on my face. Our faces are close.
My heart is racing, and I have the sudden urge to tip my head up and kiss him.
The thought snags in my brain, a glitch. I catch his eye and swallow hard.
“Okay, that’s fine,” says my dad. “Okay. Thank you, that’s all for today.” I look at Will, who shrugs, raising himself up. He offers me his hand. I get up on my own.
What did I just feel? What the hell was that?
I stand hastily, brushing sawdust from the bench off my skirt. I’m thrown by the unexpected scene, and whatever primal instinct Will just stirred. There is no place for that, not here, not this time. I am here to work. I am here to redeem myself. I pack up my things in a huff.
Will catches me as I’m storming out of the room. “Hey, I know that annoyed you—” I stop short. Was I obvious? What exactly did he pick up on? “Your dad . . . I mean, listen, he’s your dad, you don’t need me to explain him to you.”
“No,” I snap, relieved that it’s just about the scene. “I don’t.” Suddenly this guy thinks he knows me. Good, that makes him less attractive. That helps. I pause. “Well, go on.”
“This is what he does. He likes to keep us guessing, keep us thinking. So, just . . . don’t take it personally.”
“I thought the head games would be over in community theater,” I mutter. Will steps back.
“You know, some of us are doing it for the love of it,” he says.
I can’t read if I’ve pissed him off. “For the record, I’m really looking forward to working with you.
” There’s a tightness to his smile that lets me know that, yes, I have, but he’s going to be a class act about it.
He raises a hand, in peace or goodbye, and walks away.
I feel bad. I could have been nicer. I have so much to be defensive about, but nobody is actually holding me to it. I could let go a little.
In the corner, I see the old fairies watching me. The pink-haired one leans into a long-haired one and whispers. There is nodding and murmuring, and furtive glances in my direction, and I wonder, not for the first time, if I am actually welcome here.