When I get to the catwalk, I pop the boomerang and pull my gels out of the spotlight. I check the light plot for Derek’s original color choices, the simple ones, the ones I hate. I search the gel sheets until I find them. I take the box cutter from my belt and flick it open.
Now is the time to concentrate. That’s the techie first commandment. When you’re on a ladder, when a saw is in operation, when you’re dealing with electricity, when a blade comes out—Rule One is, everything else goes away and you focus only on the task at hand.
I look at the blade in my fist. I try to follow the rule, focusing on only the knife and the job I’m about to do. I want to feel the healthy fear that makes your senses sharp and keeps you out of trouble.
I try, but I can’t feel anything.
I cut the gel, watching the blade slice through the red poly. I slide the circle of color into the frame and lock it in place with a brad.
“May I have your attention, ladies and gentlemen,” Derek says from the tech table below. “I’d like to run Summer’s scenes from the top.”
I slam the breach closed and jam my finger.
I expect to yelp in pain and jump back, but I don’t.
Instead I think about last night. I imagine Summer getting into Derek’s beamer, their long ride back to New Jersey. The things they talked about. The things they did.
I grab the gel and throw it to the catwalk. I scrunch up the gel sheet, ruining it forever. Ten dollars down the drain. Maybe fifteen. Derek’s donation, his father’s money, crushed in my hand.
I grab my phone and call Josh. My finger does it automatically.
“Hey, what’s up?” The familiar message starts. I let the message roll through its stupid joke, and then I start to talk.
“Josh, it’s Adam.” I sniffle, junk filling my nose.
Don’t cry, I tell myself. Josh hates it when you cry.
“Sorry to call again,” I say into the phone, “but I really, really need to talk to you.” I suck air too hard, covering the phone with my hand so Josh won’t hear it.
“I have to talk to you about what’s going on here. I’m confused, Josh. So if you could call me back, I would appreciate it. Okay?”
I hear myself begging, and it makes me sick inside.
I hang up. I look down at the catwalk. The box cutter is there by my feet.
I wonder what it would feel like to cut myself with it. Not stab myself, just cut along my arm. Would it be crisp like cutting into an apple? Smooth like cutting gel? Or would it be something else, something soft and strange like I’ve never felt before?
I want to cut myself.
But I don’t do it.
I want to hurt someone.
But I don’t.
I want to cry.
I don’t cry. I never cry.
“Summer darling, are you ready?” Derek asks in the house below.
I close the knife, slip it back into its holster.
I take my place behind the spot.
I flip on the power, feel the machine hum to life in my hands.
Summer steps onstage.
“O, I am out of breath in this fond chase!” she says, panting and beautiful, as if she’s been running through the woods forever, chasing after love.