Monday brings our first read-through. While Dr. Lochley continues her Shakespeare unit in Theatre IV, showing clips of the David Tennant and Patrick Stewart Hamlet, I sit on the stage, wrangling scripts.
Since Twelfth Night is in the public domain, Dr. L printed copies herself—but she forgot to collate them. So I spend the whole class sorting the still-warm pages like some frenzied card shark, dealing out acts and scenes for thirty-three players, until my hands are covered in paper cuts and smell like toner.
The bell rings, bringing its usual mad dash for snacks or the restroom before rehearsals start and the rest of the cast arrives. Paige is quick to show up; she gives me a wave before getting drawn into conversation with Jamilah.
Philip and Cam aren’t far behind, but something weird is going on with them. They spent the last hour sitting upright, with a couple inches between their shoulders, instead of intertwined like usual. I wonder if it’s because Philip got a bit part. Or because Cameron is still stewing over being rejected by NYU. I feel bad for him, but maybe it’s healthy for him to experience being the rejectee, rather than the rejecter, every once in a while.
When Liam shows up, he doesn’t even ask if I need help; he just tucks in my tag, grabs a stack of folding chairs, and gets to work. I stare at him, following the flexing cords in his forearms as he unfolds the chairs. My heart tries to switch places with my lungs.
He catches me looking, and for once I’m thankful for the abysmal work lights in the Little Theatre, because the ghoulish downlight will make it hard to see my blush.
He gives me a toothy grin and keeps working. I pick up the pile of scripts and follow behind, saving one of the nicer ones for him.
When read-through is finally done, I turn my hearing aids off as I clean up. Trying to keep up with all that old-timey language iambic pentameter while the cast mumbled their way through the first reading has my brain feeling like a bruised persimmon.
“What can I do?” Liam signs as I sweep the stage.
“Stack the chairs?”
“Got it.”
When that’s done, I set the ghost light and close the doors behind us. Dr. L is in front of her office, the door closed behind her and her scarf wound around her face, stuck talking with Cam. I give her a little wave, but she doesn’t notice.
“Hey,” Liam asks. “You want to help me study lines? This is way harder than the musical.”
“I don’t know how much help I’ll be.”
“Come on. I bet you already have the whole play memorized.”
I don’t. Not yet, at least.
“Please?”
But helping him means spending time with him. And I can’t quite stop myself.
“Okay.”
Every day after rehearsal, Liam drives his crappy car to TJ’s, where he insists on paying for my tea with the spending money his dad keeps giving him out of guilt love.
Which means every day, when Jasmine asks me if I need a ride, I tell her I’m getting one from Bowie. Or from one of the cast members. Or taking the activities bus, which generally leaves well before rehearsals are over, but she doesn’t seem to notice the discrepancy.
And then Liam and I sit together at the little corner table that’s somehow become our usual spot over the last two weeks.
He cups his hands around his mocha to keep them warm—the polar vortex is so bad, even he’s cold—while I recite Orsino’s lines.
“Come, boy, with me; my thoughts—”
But I’m cut off when the back door opens again, letting in a burst of air so frigid my spine seizes and my jaw clenches shut.
“Come on,” Liam signs. “Sit here. You’re freezing.”
“I’m fine.” Unfortunately, my body chooses that moment to give an involuntary shudder.
“Really. The heater’s closer.” He points toward the vent in the ceiling.
“It’s easier to see you from here.”
“We’re nearly done.” He scoots his chair closer to the wall, makes room for me. “Come on.”
I sigh but finally give in, scooting my seat around to sit next to him, but accidentally tip over my binder. When I pull it up my heart does a divebomb toward my stomach, because it’s open to a breakup list. But thankfully it’s just Jason’s.
Liam laughs. “Neck beard?”
“It was bad.” Neck Beard Jason was a year ahead of Jasmine (and Liam). In addition to the neck beard, he also had halitosis and was an overly aggressive Xbox apologist.
He sighs. “I guess you did end up making one of those for me, huh?”
“What?” My heart flutters. “Of course not.”
The lie’s out of my mouth before I can stop it.
“Really?”
I nod, keeping my lips sealed before I can say anything else.
Liam sighs. “I probably deserved one.”
I don’t know why he would think that; he didn’t do anything wrong. But before I can argue with him, he shakes himself.
“Now come on. It really is warmer over here.”
He’s right, it really is, though how much is the heater and how much is his body I’m not sure.
“Better?” Liam scooches over until our shoulders are touching.
I nod, because I’ve lost the power of speech. Does he not notice how close we are?
“Great. Where did we leave off?”
I flip back, find my spot, clear my throat. “Come, boy, with me; my thoughts are ripe in mischief. I’ll sacrifice the lamb that I do love, to spite a raven’s heart within a dove.”
“And I most . . . uh . . .”
“Jocund, apt . . .” I prompt.
“Jocund, apt, and willingly, to do you rest, a thousand deaths would die.” Liam slouches a bit, and his knee accidentally presses against mine. But he doesn’t move it. “This is impossible.”
“Come on. You’re nearly to the end.” I do my best impression of Cam as Olivia, which basically means trying to sound as self-important as possible. “Where goes Cesario?”
Liam snorts at me. “Okay, Cam. You sure you don’t want to act?”
“Positive.”
“Okay, okay.” He takes a sip of his mocha and then rests a hand on my knee. The knee he’s pressing against. And even though the rest of me is still chilly, that knee might actually be on fire. It’s hard to breathe with him so close, with him pressed against my shoulder and touching my knee. Two points of contact. His warmth and scent wrap around me like an electric blanket.
I shake myself. “Where goes Cesario?”
“After him I love, more than I love these eyes, more than my life, more, by all mores, than e’er I shall love wife.”
Liam’s looking right at me as he says it, and I can’t look away, even though I don’t remember what comes next, because he’s too close to me, and he’s talking about love, and I’ve spent the last two weeks pretending to be Orsino, who Viola loves.
My own lips are chapped, and I lick them, and do Liam’s eyes track the movement? But that doesn’t make sense. He’s not talking anymore. Did he lose the spot?
He leans closer. I think he’s angling for the script, but instead his shoulder brushes mine. The hand on my knee is still warm, and my heart’s pounding hard. Can he feel my heartbeat? Do knees have a pulse point?
But he’s so warm, and the coffee shop is so cold, so I lean a little closer too.
Liam swallows, and his hand grips my knee even tighter, and it’s so nice and warm that I lay my own hand on top of his. And I’m not sure, but did he look at my lips again?
“Liam?” I manage to say.
Jackson. His lips make my name but I can’t hear anything over my own pounding heart. And is he learning closer or am I?
What is happening?
No, I’m definitely leaning in, because he’s warm and he smells nice and he’s one of the best people I know, and maybe his head is angling just a bit? Because suddenly our noses are brushing, and I can feel his breath on my face, and he’s staring right at me until I close my eyes and bring my lips to his.