Chapter 68
I walked into the theater right before seven. An elderly usher showed me to my row. A few seats ahead, Ryen was laughing with friends. I was suddenly afraid Tristan was there. He’d texted me after I bolted out of Nia’s, but I hadn’t responded. I didn’t know what to say.
The lights dimmed like an eyelid shutting on the room.
A deep voice told us to turn off our phones.
My elementary school used to take us to see The Nutcracker every Christmas at the Kennedy Center: the thrill we got when the theater fell dark.
I didn’t know what would play there now that the president was its chairman.
Dancers had danced in an elegant line around the center to protest the takeover when it happened.
This is what a protest should be, I’d thought, a striking performance.
Milan stormed onto the bright stage, drawing all the energy toward her, kicking an abandoned can.
“Thou must be married to no man but me,” Petruchio cried. “For I am he born to tame you, Kate. To bring you from a wildcat to a Kate. Comfortable household Kates.”
Milan pulled herself up a ladder, bellowing, “I’d rather die!”
The two married.
The parts of the play I’d forgotten returned: Petruchio destroying Kate’s dress, denying her reality. People shifted quietly in their seats. I mindlessly picked at the bandages on my fingers, damp and loose from washing my hands.
In the play’s final scenes, the stage lights turned up. People’s hands raised to shield their eyes. I thought something was wrong, angling around to see the tech booth, but no one seemed concerned.
Milan’s makeup was caked and smeared with sweat beneath the lights. This final image of a solid woman dissolving opened my chest, rattling my rib cage.
The outro music broke the spell. The cast filed onstage, bowing, beaming accomplished smiles, their sweaty faces evidence of their labor. The flowers I’d bought had tumbled onto the floor. I bent to pick them up, then shouldered past the people in my row, backstage.
Milan and Petruchio were talking in the corner, still costumed, the other cast members dancing and being loud, a whirlwind of adrenaline and excitement.
I ran up and threw my arms around her. “You talented genius!”
“Ew, stop, I stink.”
I handed her the slightly crushed carnations then turned to the man who played Petruchio. “You were great too.”
“Well, I had the best sparring partner a guy could ask for. Great job, Mi.”
Milan smiled at him. I wondered if I’d intruded on something.
Ryen poked his head through the curtain with several bouquets, expensive ones that made my grocery-bought selection look gaudy. I stepped aside while he kissed Milan, her arms cradling the bouquets like newborns.
When Ryen pulled back, we exchanged a look. I forced a smile too big for my mouth. He turned away from me, wrapping his big arms around Milan, lifting her into the air.