I run through the halls, and I never run, can’t run, but somehow I’m running. I see Dr. Rainier smiling at me. Ms. Fitch. If you can’t walk, then tell me: How did you get here? I burst through the double doors of the theater. Anticlimax. No one even looks up. I’m too late, of course. Briana is already there on the stage. Wreaking her havoc. Wearing one of her bell-sleeved tops, which she thinks makes her look more Elizabethan. Her gold cross glinting on her chest. Burnished hair ablaze beneath the lights, she stands at the helm of a semicircle of traitors, speaking low words, cradling her illicit script in her hands. She’s smiling as she tells them there’s been a change. She’s enjoying this moment, I know. Being in charge. Having her way. Her hair gleams. Her skin glows. In many ways, Grace is right, she is a perfect Helen.
Grace is sitting up front in the audience, watching, looking a little helpless, a little lost, but ultimately indifferent. She looks at me as if to say, Oh well. Why not let them do it? Why not?
“No!” I shout.
They all turn around now and look at me. Standing there, lopsided before them and huffing from my run. My body a gnarled little fist. When has my voice ever been that desperate, that loud? Not in a long, long time. Like the howl of a pained animal that is about to die.
They look frightened. And young. Terribly, achingly young as they exchange Uh-oh glances. What the fuck?
But Briana’s smile doesn’t even break when she sees me hobbling to the stage toward her. Broken woman. Hag. Unsexed. No charms left. No fashion sense. Wildly unchristian. She can handle this. She can handle me. Her dancer-girl posture says this. The defiant upward tilt of her small, pointed chin. It’s fine. It’s already done. It’s sealed. I’ve been told where things stand, haven’t I? I’ve been put in my place. I’ve been scolded by the higher-ups. I’ve been informed of my rung in the universe, in the scheme of things, in the great chain of being. None of this should be a surprise to you, Miranda, says her entitled chin, her folded arms, as I approach the stage. At all. In fact, I was asking for it. Wasn’t I asking for it? Willfully ignoring their many requests? My drugged-out speeches, my absurd commands from the seats, pills rattling in my pockets like Tic Tacs. Making them, making her, put on a play that no one gives a shit about but me, that everyone agrees is lame, dated, problematic, she could go on. Making her portray “a poor unlearned virgin,” a scheming orphan who is scorned by the only man she deigns to love like he’s a star in her sad sky. When she could be Lady M, a sexy madwoman in a white dress, the blood on her hands bringing out the green in her eyes. I’m willfully destroying her college experience. I’m ruining her CV.
So here we are, Miranda. No going back now. Too late for that. I asked for this, her face says, as I join her now on the stage.
I face her, mere feet away from where she’s standing now, surrounded by her little army.
I smile at them all. I try to. Play dumb. It’s the only way.
“What’s going on here?” I ask.
I look at Ellie standing a little distance away from the circle. She looks at me, then at the floor like she wants it to swallow her. Trevor is embarrassed for me too. Won’t look me in the eye at all. Just stands next to Briana with his shoulders hiked up to his ears, hands in his pockets, a reluctant groom, but he’s at the altar; he’ll say the scripted words when it’s time.
Sorry, Miranda, but we all feel…
None of the students will look at me. The Ashley/Michelles are looking intently at their phones. Ditto all the other ones, my children, the ones who are but a blur of mediocrity. Only Briana looks at me. Right in the eye. Her smile doesn’t break, I have to hand it to her. Her little chin stays lifted up. Her eyes don’t blink. She is breathtakingly unafraid of me. So unafraid that I feel fear, queasy. Of course she is unafraid. Look at you. Withered and wavering on your feet in your Ann Taylor sack. Smelling of demonic pub wine. Looking at her blearily through your drug mist. Unable to say your words in one cohesive string. Your sentences breaking apart like brittle. Pauses that go on for minutes during which you just stare at dust, while they all cough pointedly. Hardly an inspiration. Authority? Forget authority. You have no authority here. You have lost.
Oh, but I refuse to lose.
This is a standoff. Have I had them before? Yes, I’ve had them before.
“Can someone tell me what’s going on, please?” I ask this kindly. Inquiring, merely inquiring. Like I’m curious.
You know what’s going on, Miranda. You see the script in my hands that is not your script, that I’m holding in such a way that the title is visible to your eye. But Briana is also taken aback by my approach. I’m not throwing a fit. I’m playing dumb, confused, she didn’t expect that. And I’m good at it. She forgets I was an actress once. On much bigger stages than this, oh yes. I played festivals. Critics raved about me in reviews. A shining light. An impressive performance. Competently portrayed.