I watch her rib cage rise and fall more quickly, her breath shallow.
“Trevor, would you mind picking those pages up, please?” I say, my gaze still on Briana’s pale, shocked face.
Immediately, he picks up the few pages around his feet. Something in my voice. Which isn’t so thin anymore.
She’s looking at me, clutching her wrist where I touched it as though it burns. Her hands are trembling. She looks shorter somehow. Smaller.
“I just wanted to see the script.” I say it softly. It’s really true. It’s all I wanted.
Briana just stares at me. Behind her, the students stare at me too. Absolutely expressionless. A sea of faces now turned to me. Mouths closed. Eyes wide open.
I hear a throat clear behind me. Grace. I forgot Grace was here. I turn to where she’s sitting in the audience, bracing myself for her expression of judgment, or will it be commiseration? But she isn’t looking at the stage at all. She’s looking at the side entrance. I follow her gaze.
Puffy Nips. Standing between the open double doors. One hand in the pocket of his Dockers, the other stroking his tie. For a moment, I’m terrified. How long has he been standing there? Did he see? What did he see exactly? I just wanted to see the script, I’ll say. That’s all. And she moved it away, what was I supposed to do?
But he’s smiling at me. He raps playfully on the doorframe. Three light knocks.
“Professor Fitch,” he booms. Professor Fitch? When have I ever been Professor Fitch to this man? I am Miranda always. But I straighten up. I smile back, though I’m still shaking.
“So sorry to disturb rehearsal. Hope you don’t mind my barging in like this.”
“Of course not. Not at all. You’re welcome to join us. We were just rehearsing, weren’t we? We were just working out some kinks.” I keep my eyes on the dean.
“Good, good.” Because he’s just had some wonderful news. He had to share it with us, with me, Professor Fitch, immediately.
Wonderful news? Really? I perform my surprise. I raise my eyebrows, try to smile.
“Wonderful,” I say. “We love wonderful news, don’t we?” I ask the students. They are still all mostly frozen in place, looking at me in quiet horror. They nod slowly. A couple have felt compelled to go over to Briana. An Ashley/Michelle is stroking her bell sleeve. Are you okay? she mouths. Briana doesn’t respond, she just continues to stare at me, breathing hard.
I feel my heart thud in my chest.
The dean clears his throat, strokes his tie like a pet. “It is with great pleasure that I inform you all that we’ve just now received a very generous donation to the Theater Studies initiative.”
“What?” says Grace.
“Yes. Very generous. Very, very generous.” And then he laughs out loud. A wild bark. He clears his throat again, gathers himself. “The most generous donation we’ve ever received, in fact. To date.”
I look at the dean beaming at me like I’m the love of his life. He’s waiting for me to speak, but my mouth feels frozen.
“Have we?” I hear myself say at last. Beside me, I feel Briana bristle, her breath quicken.
“To date. Amazing. Am I right?” He laughs out loud again; he can’t help it. Runs a hand through his nonexistent hair as if it were still flourishing thickly from his skull. “Wonderful, just wonderful.”
I laugh too. I can’t help it either. “Wonderful.”
The dean and I laugh together a long time.
“What? What sort of donation? From whom?” Grace says. She’s looking at me now, I can feel it. I keep staring at the dean, who is still chuckling, still grinning at me wickedly. Rocking on his heels now as though there’s music playing instead of nothing, instead of stunned silence.
“An anonymous donation,” he says. “Some local businessmen. They say they just love college theater.”
We love theater, Ms. Fitch.
“We’re obviously thrilled at their generosity, of course.”
“Of course.”
“Wow. That’s unbelievable,” Grace says. “Isn’t it, Miranda?”
“Yes, unbelievable,” I whisper. I see suits the color of night. Black leather feet tapping. A mic wrapped in roses and fairy lights. Something lashes its tail in my gut, but I’m not shaking, I’m not even sweating, I’m absolutely still. I’m standing up straight. I’m smiling. Nodding. Local businessmen. Patrons. Of course.
“Businessmen? Which business is this?” another voice asks. I turn. Fauve standing backstage in a sea of pages. Trevor has quit picking up the script. Like Ashley/Michelle, he too has wandered over to Briana. He places a hand on her shoulder, which is trembling violently, unnecessarily violently. He whispers, “You okay?” and she doesn’t answer.