4 #3
“Can you read a bit more with Harry?” Trevor asked, for a moment ignoring Cynthia, who seemed more curious than threatened. It wasn’t really possible to upstage Cynthia at SUDS. Whenever she was in a play, the performances were guaranteed to sell out.
Harry continued to read as Otto, and Mido picked up where she had left off, not needing to scan the pages.
OTTO
You can’t mean to leave me again, Mona.
MONA
Why can’t you see that I want my work?
OTTO
I’m a rich man, and I can make you rich.
MONA
You and I can keep our love separate. It’ll be best if I record elsewhere.
Harry was about to read Otto’s next line, and Trevor raised his right hand to stop him.
“Let’s try now with Cynthia,” the director said. “Make it softer, Cynthia darling. We’ll lean in more if you’re quieter.”
The rehearsal improved, and Cynthia, an acting whiz, took the notes well and did exactly what was needed for the first scene in the one-act.
When the rehearsal ended, Trevor held Mido back.
“Mate, your play’s good, and you can act.”
Mido laughed.
“No. I’ve no interest in acting. I don’t even know if I’ll write more plays. But I learned something tonight. It’s easier to speak when I write my own words.”
Trevor didn’t understand, but it didn’t matter.
Mido couldn’t imagine how to explain something she’d been struggling with for most of her life.
It had never occurred to her before that writing could make talking easier because writing could direct her thoughts and prepare her for when she’d eventually need to say something.
Mido closed the theater door and climbed the concrete steps to wait outside for Tek to arrive in his old green Ford.
From her bag, Mido pulled out her needles and yarn.
She was knitting a cardigan for her mother and working on the buttonholes.
When she heard the familiar honk, Mido raised her head and waved, then put away her unfinished cardigan before easing into the passenger seat.
“How was rehearsal?” Tek asked, leaning closer to give her a kiss.
“I feel like I understand the play better. That’s weird to say, but somehow, I inhabited the words this time. The director said he wants to see more of my plays.” Mido shook her head. “He said I can act.”
“Yeah?” Tek smiled. “Very cool. I’m glad he’s got sense as a director.”
“I mean, I don’t have the right look to be an actor, but—”
“My girlfriend’s lovely,” Tek said, glancing at her with a smile before checking his mirrors to reenter traffic.
Mido buckled her seat belt. Uncharacteristically, she pulled down the dashboard mirror and studied her face.
She winced a little, disappointed by her pale reflection, seeing her round unblinking eyes and the unremarkable nose.
There was nothing wrong with her appearance.
She looked friendly and nice. During Year 12, right before final exams, she’d once overheard Franky Alcott, a swimmer at her high school, say to a teammate, “Mido’s fine, but she won’t win Miss Australia. ”
Mido would never have thought to enter any beauty pageant, but hearing a popular athlete’s offhand assessment of her looks was hard to forget.
Often, Tek told her that she was attractive, and she would just shrug, remembering what the swimmer, whom she barely knew, had said to another faceless boy in their class.
She examined herself in the mirror so rarely that it was possible for her to forget she had a face at all.
“Well, I didn’t join SUDS to be an actor, you know that. I can’t do this for a living. There’s no money in experimental theater.”
“Hey, you shouldn’t say that.” Tek sounded serious and reproving. “You’ve only been at it for a semester, but you’ve been so engaged. Lately it’s just school, work, and SUDS.”
“Well, I have to be realistic. I’m going to teach when I graduate. Be a grown-up. Make a good income.”
“After graduation, you can live with me. Focus on your playwriting. Or acting. Maybe we can have kids.”
Mido smiled at the possibility of children. She wanted at least two.
“My mum always worked. When Dad was fired, she was the only one making money. I’ll never forget that.”
“Your dad was fired?” Tek laughed briefly.
“In Seoul. A few years ago. He has a job now.” Her father was still a manager at the HRI Sydney offices, but Bo had explained that their father had a lesser-paying job.
Tek waited for her to continue.
“Mum used to keep these envelopes where she’d save money for each of us. There was always a budget. If she didn’t work, there’d be no money for extras for my brothers and me. For tuition overseas and tutoring fees. I wouldn’t want you to have all that pressure. Doesn’t seem fair.”
“There’s always pressure, with a paying job or not. If you stayed at home and wrote plays and took care of the kids, then I could make money. I’m going to be a barrister and make loads of it. You watch.”
“As a teacher, I’ll take care of kids and get paid to do it. Like your parents.”
“My parents are university professors. It’s different. They make a lot more than a primary school teacher.”
Mido said nothing, staring through the windshield at the road ahead.
“You should focus on this play. Finish what you started,” Tek said, thinking it would be cool if his wife was a playwright.