If I have to murder an actor during dress rehearsal, does that count as first or second degree?
The last week of techs were fine: Paige wrangled the stage crew for scene changes; Denise and I worked out all the lighting cues; Dr. L and Mr. Cartwright and Miss Benayoun, the conductor, argued about sound cues and how many bars of music to give each scene change.
The show came together. Became something more than the sum of its parts.
But now that everyone’s in costume, it’s like they’ve forgotten how to do a show. Actors run from one side of backstage to the other, like they haven’t been making the exact same entrances for weeks. Asher accidentally sings the same verse three times in a row. Poor Liam nearly falls into the pit at one point, but in a surprising display of moral fortitude, Cam yanks him back.
I never thought I’d actually be grateful to Cameron for anything.
I’m seated at the tech table, hemmed in with Dr. Lochley to my right, Denise to my left, with a huge bag of forbidden mini candy canes in front of her.
I’ve got an iPad mirroring the screen of the lighting console back in the booth; its glow lights up my stage manager notebook.
“Light cue 158 go,” I say over my headset. It’s a special in-ear one Denise found online, that I can wear instead of my right hearing aid. It’s not perfect (then again, neither are my hearing aids), but it’s enough to get by—as long as Dr. L or Denise is on comm too, to catch what I miss.
“Spot Jesus, go.”
Liam stands at center stage, in his costume of ripped black jeans and a clean white T-shirt, except it’s not so clean anymore, as his makeup has stained the collar beige and there’s a black streak of eyeliner on one shoulder. His hair has been gelled and styled into an angular, aggressive rock star look. Heavy eyeliner frames his blue eyes. They shine when the lights catch them, like someone stole a bit of the summer sky to make them.
“Light cue 159 go.” The stage goes darker, leaving Liam bathed in blue backlight, with only the followspots lighting his face.
He’s a glowing sun.
If I weren’t such a heathen an atheist I would probably appreciate the symbolism.
The soldiers appear in the wings as he’s singing the last notes of the song, and he looks right at the tech table, right at me, and I lose my breath. I know he’s doing it because I’m a friendly face, a familiar presence in the audience, but I wish he’d look away. Look at Dr. L, who is obsessed with proud of him; look at Denise, who he’s spent every work day learning tech from; even at Cam, who’s waiting in the wings to kiss him.
He doesn’t know the ache he kindles every time he looks at me. He doesn’t know what it’s like to watch him onstage, a blazing star, and want him to shine on me instead of on my sister.
And then he does that thing some people can do where he lets a single tear roll down his cheek. And it’s gentle, not a squint-and-squeeze-it-out type tear but a true oh-I-didn’t-realize-I-was-crying tear, and it feels like he’s reached into my chest and ripped my still-beating heart out.
I forget to breathe. Denise elbows me.
Time for Judas to kiss betray him.
“Light cue 160 go.”
“Have I polished my shoes?” Dr. Lochley asks slowly, rhythmically, raising her hands over her head. Onstage, the cast mirrors her.
“Yes, I’ve polished my shoes,” they chant, bowing and rising in (nearly) perfect sync, smiling into the empty house.
I’m smiling too: no emergency stops, no scene change disasters, like the time someone dropped the jar of Eliza’s marbles in My Fair Lady during the scene change and Miss Benayoun had to vamp the orchestra for three straight minutes while we chased them down.
Liam’s standing center stage, shirtless, our perfectly formulated fake blood running down the valley of his chest and sticking to the ridges of his abs. His hair is held down by the plastic crown of thorns I found at a religious supply store.
I was worried I might burst into flames the moment I stepped through the door, but I made it out unscathed, except for the handful of pamphlets stuffed into my bag at the checkout counter.
Liam catches my eye and beams at me. He’s breathing hard, like he just swam a race, and even though there aren’t any followspots on him right now, he’s still so luminous I have to look away.
Dr. Lochley claps her hands once, says something to the cast I can’t catch, and they all scatter to get out of costume and ready for notes.
As I gather my stuff, Dr. Lochley pops back to the tech table.
“Nicely done, Jackson,” she says.
I hide my smile as I stuff my binder into my backpack.
“You’ve really come into your own as a somethingsomething. I’m proud of you.”
I think my face might set the theatre on fire. Maybe it’s good the fire marshal came by this semester.
“Thanks,” I manage.
She squeezes my shoulder and heads back toward the stage, where Cam is crouched on the apron, trying to get her attention.
Denise elbows my side. “She’s right. You did good.”
“Nah.” But my smile might actually break my jaw. It’s nearly enough to make me forget my exhaustion. After a full day of classes, then a dress rehearsal, my brain feels like a shmoodie left in the car on a sunny day.
I climb the woogedy stairs from the house to the stage—we’ll pull them out before the show—and head backstage.
In the wings, actors elbow each other, making their way to the dressing room or the scene shop, which we’re using as a makeshift dressing room as well. Most people try to get the real thing, though; no matter how much I sweep or vacuum, there’s always the risk of sawdust and splinters in the scene shop.
I check the props table, make sure the dimmer rack didn’t throw any errors. Paige pulls the cross offstage and sweeps. She’s honestly amazing: If I mentor her well, maybe she can take over for me when I graduate.
When we finish, Paige goes to check the dressing room, while I take the scene shop. I open the door slowly—so anyone indecent has a chance to get decent—then let myself in. It’s empty, except for a very shirtless Liam.
He’s cleaned the fake blood off his chest, and wiped off his makeup, but his cheeks are still pink. And when he spots me, he signs, “Help.”
He points to the crown of thorns, tangled in his feathery hair.
“Hold on.” The scene shop has been transformed for tech week: its gray brick walls no longer lit by harsh fluorescents but by the warm glow of incandescent PARs stationed around the room. Two huge mirrors have been laid on their sides on the worktable, propped up by the miter saw and the band saw, to serve as makeup mirrors; on the opposite wall, where we store flats in huge steel racks, are more mirrors, regular IKEA ones standing up for people to check their costumes.
I gently shove Liam into a seat so I can reach him better. He’s still too tall, and he’s radiating more heat than usual, even though the scene shop is chilly. I untangle a strand from the back of his head, right where there are two whorls. I never noticed Liam has two whorls. He’s quiet as I work, though he winces when I accidentally tug too hard.
“Sorry.”
“It’s fine. Keep going,” he signs. His eyes in the mirror follow me as I work, slowly disentangling the crown. Once I get the back free, I move to his front. This close I can really see the effect of the eyeliner. His eyes are two pools of water, and I think I might drown in them. He’s still looking right at me, and between that and his bare chest, throwing off heat like a furnace, I think I might pass out.
I can’t look down: I’ll just see more of his chest. Even though he’s slouching, his abs still show, which I didn’t think was actually possible. There’s a sheen of sweat coating him, so the light catches on all the ripples and ridges that make up his front. I focus on the center of his forehead instead, willing him to not look anywhere in the vicinity of my jeans, which are feeling tight and uncomfortable.
I think about light cues and Dr. Lochley’s notes and to-do lists until I finally free the last lock of hair and hoist the crown overhead. “Got it!”
Liam laughs and stands, and suddenly he’s looming over me again, his chest still flushed from the show.
I try to back away, but I’m trapped against the workbench. All I can do is curve myself away from him so he hopefully won’t feel notice the front of my jeans.
“You okay?” I ask. “I didn’t hurt you?”
“I’m good.”
“Good.” It’s hurting me, standing next to him.
I never want to stop. He is Jasmine’s boyfriend.
“You should get dressed for notes. I’ll put this away.”
“Yeah, I better . . .” He steps back, letting me out.
I don’t look back as I run out of the scene shop.