“Good,” they murmur. Or else they say nothing. Or else they just blink. Briana, my lead, doesn’t even blink. Briana keeps her leaf-green eyes wide open. They stare with wondrous bitchiness at my entire body. She looks at my teal tea dress, its sad pattern of orange flowers, which is the dress I’m just realizing I also wore to class and to rehearsal last week. Ditto the oversize, worn black cardigan with its gaping-open pockets rattling with pills.
She is judging me, her eyes say this.
Don’t judge me, you little bitch.
“What was that, Miranda?” Grace says.
“What?”
“You mumbled something.”
“No. No, I didn’t.”
Silence from Grace. Silence from the students.
Not only is Ms. Fitch late for rehearsals these days but she is also insane.
Ms. Fitch talks to herself. I totally heard her.
“Well,” I say to them. My tone is so pleasant. My tone is daisies swaying in a field, the field of the drug commercial. “Why don’t we just dive in, yes? Act One, Scene One? Helen’s soliloquy?”
They don’t move.
“Shall we begin? Please?”
Nothing. I’m actually pleading with them, has it really come to this? I have no vision; that’s clear. They still hate this play; that’s obvious. All of them are staring at me now, all limply holding the scripts in their half-open hands like they could let go at any time.
I recall the disastrous table reading, held a month ago on this very stage. The questions, no, the accusations.
All’s Well That Ends Well, Ms. Fitch? I mean, is it even a Shakespeare play?
Why are we doing this play, Ms. Fitch?
Weren’t we supposed to do the Scottish Play this year?
I don’t get this play, Ms. Fitch. I mean, a girl is so into this guy who doesn’t even want her? It’s kind of lame, honestly.
Also, Ms. Fitch, weren’t we supposed to do the Scottish Play this year?
Yes, Ms. Fitch, my understanding was that we were doing the Scottish Play this year.
And I failed to win them over to it with my Valium-laced vision, which I delivered with my voice faltering. They did not nod. They did not smile. They did not blink. They exchanged contemptuous glances, and they did not care if I saw this or not. If I hadn’t stumbled so much through my director’s speech perhaps they would all be on board. Long pauses there were, during my speech, where I admit I just zoned out completely. Every now and then Grace would cough, clear her throat, call my name. Miranda? Miranda. Miranda!
What?
You were saying?
Oh, yes. I was saying… what was I saying? And I actually asked them.
They stared at me then as they are staring at me now.
Look, it’s not like any of these kids are going to go on to be professional actors. We have no real legitimate theater department anymore, just a burgeoning minor thanks to me and Grace. The annual Shakespeare production is purely extracurricular. A club, basically. I have no real credentials to be directing them. Not really. I’m faking it mostly. I want to tell them this now. I’m faking it and you’re faking it and we’re all fucked, basically. And yet. And yet look how far we have come. Two regional Shakespeare competitions. In which we placed ninth both times.
A cough. I turn to see a tall man in paint-splattered jeans and a Black Sabbath T-shirt standing in the side entrance of the theater. Long golden hair in his face. Smiling apologetically. My set designer and builder, Hugo. At the sight of him, my chest tightens, catches useless fire. Oh god, what is he doing here? He can’t see me like this, he—but Hugo’s not looking at me, never looking at me. He’s looking past me at the planks of wood stacked against the back wall of the stage.
“Sorry to disturb,” he says to the students. He points to the wood. “I’ll be gone in a flash.”
“Of course,” I say, and I actually run a hand through my hair like a fool. But Hugo’s already headed upstage. I catch a scent of wood as he passes me and almost close my eyes.
“We were just getting started,” I say to the students. “Weren’t we?”
They still just stare at me. Briana smirks now.
“Ms. Fitch?” Trevor says at last, raising his hand as though we are in class. Trevor. Long, layered brown hair. Terribly tall. Not quite in control of his body or his charms. Before he opens his mouth, you think Byron. You think George Emerson in A Room with a View climbing a tree and screaming about beauty and truth. But Trevor will deeply disappoint you. Last year he played a lukewarm Romeo who touched his sword too much. Trevor has his moments though, mainly because of his hair. Trevor’s hair is very expressive.