CHAPTER 17
AFTERNOON THE NEXT day. Ellie stands in the doorway of my office, looking pale and afraid.
“You wanted to see me, Professor Fitch?” She looks at me sitting on top of my desk. Legs crossed, the top leg swinging. Smiling at her in such welcome.
“Ellie,” I sing. I’m always singing these days. “There you are. Come in, come in. Shut the door behind you, please? Wonderful. Have a seat,” I say, and I point to the empty chair with the toe of my new pointed boot.
Obediently, she takes the chair. I look at her sitting there, clutching her canvas bag, lank hair that I want to brush away from her face. I notice her hands are shaking. Has playing Helen all these weeks in rehearsal given her no confidence?
“And how are you finding rehearsal these days?” I ask her gently.
Ellie stares at my crossed legs in their spiked heels. “Good, Professor,” she says.
“Ellie, it’s Miranda. Call me Miranda, please.”
“Miranda.”
“You know, of course, why I wanted to see you today?” I say to her.
She shakes her head. “No, Prof—I mean, Miranda.”
“No?” Really, Ellie? “Well, as you know, we’re at that time of year again.”
I gesture to the window and smile. Budding branches. Pale green leaves. Spring. Spring, does she see that? A time when everything is in bloom. Everything is having sex. Everything is so damp and fragrant and fuckable. Showtime, in other words. Right around the corner.
She nods nervously. Yes. Yes, she sees that.…
“Given that we’re at this point in the production timeline, opening night not too far away, and our lead still…” I feel a smile creep across my face as I say this. I bite my lip, attempt to appear mournful. “Absent.”
Ellie nods sadly. Yes.
“I’ve had to make some difficult decisions.”
I stand up; I pace the floor to demonstrate the difficulty. My new boots click along the floor. Haven’t taken them off since I bought them. Drove to the mall one night. Skipped into the shop. Said to the shoe man, I’d love a pair of leather boots. With a heel, please. High. Spiked.
She looks at me, suddenly very alert. “Decisions?” Ellie says. “What sort of decisions?”
I spin around deliciously. Hop up onto my desk again. Easy. So very easy to hop and spin these days. I recross my legs of flesh. Not concrete anymore, flesh. I look at my Helen and smile.
“Casting decisions, Ellie.”
I watch Ellie hold her breath. She knows. She’s waiting for it.
“Ellie, I’d like for you to play Helen. For this year’s production.”
She closes her eyes. Lowers her head.
“Me,” she whispers.
“You’re perfect for the role, Ellie. You make Helen’s pain, her love, her loss, her determination, your own.”
Ellie says nothing. She’s still looking at the floor. Her hands are still trembling.
“Ellie, surely you could see this was coming? It’s your fault, really.”
Suddenly she looks up at me, white with fear.
“My fault?”
“For being so wonderful. For being so luminous. Truly I’ve never seen Helen so luminously played. We’re all riveted by it every afternoon. I know I am.”
She looks back down at the floor. She begins to shake more violently now. I put my hand on Ellie’s shuddering shoulder. I lift her head up, expecting to see tears. And there are tears. But what I see too is a flash of a smile on her face. A flash of glee. Obscene glee. Which she quickly conceals. I watch her bite her lip. Lower her head again.
“But what about Briana?” she says.
Oh, Ellie. So determined to take the honorable road. Even though she wants the part so bad she can taste it. I play along.
“What about her?” I say.
“It’s her part,” she says quietly. “I’d hate to steal it from her.”
Standing at the precipice of her own desire. Shaking her head at the bottomless chasm.
“Of course you would,” I lie. “But Briana’s not here, is she? I don’t see her here, do you?” I lean back, pretend to look for Briana behind my desk. I lift my desk calendar up. Nope. No Briana in sight, see?
Ellie looks around at the empty air, afraid.
“What if she comes back?” she says.
“She won’t come back.” Again, I say this too quickly. “She’s still not… well… as you know.”
Ellie nods. “It’s so sad.”
She looks genuinely troubled now. All traces of that strange happiness gone. So I appear mournful once more. Pensive. Surprised by the turn of events that has led to this. Not at all ecstatic. Not at all dancing inside.