Shut it down. Shut it down now.
“I remember we had a discussion,” I say. “I remember we conversed. And then I remember I determined”—I put the emphasis on determined, leaving the phrase as director implied but unsaid—“based on a number of factors, that we would be doing All’s Well this year, an equally wonderful but far more compelling play.”
I look over at Grace now for support. She’s looking at me like, Really? “Far more compelling”？ Come on, Miranda.
“This is a problem play,” I continue. “Neither a tragedy nor a comedy, something in between. Something far more interesting.”
I attempt to smile at them, but no one, not Hugo, not even Ellie, will meet my eye. I look back over at Grace, seated in the audience, staring at her laptop, her non-expression glowing by the light of the screen.
I thought you said no mutiny! I try to hiss with my face.
But Grace just looks at her laptop with still greater concentration. Pretending to assess the schedule, perhaps, but I know she’s just shopping for camping gear. Or perhaps cage accessories for her bearded dragon. I believe Grace is having some sort of affair with her bearded dragon. She has an absurdly intimate relationship with it. Named him Ernest from Oscar Wilde’s The Importance of Being Earnest. It makes me deeply uncomfortable to watch them in close proximity to each other, which they have been each time I’ve gone over to her apartment. She’ll take Ernest out of his terrarium at night and let him climb her shoulder. Let his tongue dart in and out just by her cheek. She’ll very nearly close her eyes. Tilt her head back. It’s upsetting to watch. It’s—
“Professor Fitch?”
This from Ellie. Her moon face beautifully miserable, her long hair a nondescript dark that is neither brown nor black. That reminds me of the sky in Scotland on November afternoons, when the light that has just receded is all the the light there will be for the day. And yet Ellie is my light.
“Yes, Ellie? What can I do for you?”
Probably Ellie is a virgin, poor thing. The product of an absent father and some suffocating mother whom she has quietly contemplated murdering. She loves Trevor, of course. Even as she hates him and hates herself for it. When he speaks, it’s the only time I’ve ever seen her gray flesh go pink at the cheeks.
“Are we competing in the Shakespeare competition this year?”
“Yes, Ellie. Absolutely.”
I can already picture the inebriated rich people clapping. The smell of the well-manicured gardens in Rhode Island making me drunk and vaguely horny. The afternoon light on my face. The sight of all those young bodies moving so easily in the June sunshine. Making me ache for some kind of life other than this. The judges smiling flatly at Briana’s impassioned attempts to have a soul. Trevor’s handsome face fiercely scrunched in the throes of his shallow performance. Ellie’s quiet molten core revealing itself unevenly, only in unexpected moments. For a brief moment, she can take your breath away.
“Well, I think All’s Well could be an interesting choice for that. Because no one else would be doing it.”
My sweet Ellie. If I were to have a child, it would be Ellie. Of course, what with my irredeemably broken body, that ship has long sailed. Ellie has aspirations for the stage, which I’ve encouraged, I’ve fed. Think big, Ellie, I’ve told her many an afternoon in my office, the door closed. One day you will leave all these plebeians behind. And it will be a wondrous moment for you. To no longer be among communications and English majors who do not appreciate your nuance, your dark grace.
“But if we’re competing, shouldn’t we choose a more substantial play?” This from one of Briana’s girl underlings. Some boring name I always forget. Like Ashley or Michelle.
“All’s Well hardly ever gets staged because it’s so problematic,” she adds. Clearly so pleased with her Wikipedia knowledge.
Briana, I note, still has yet to speak.
“Well, then it will be a challenge for us, won’t it?” I say. “And I love a challenge. I’m certainly ready for it. Are you?” I’m gripping the back of my chair fiercely now lest I fall down.
Grace has now been joined by Fauve in the audience. Grace is still looking at her laptop, but Fauve just stares at me. Eyes wide. The picture of the innocent bystander. Expression inscrutable. But I can feel her willing me to fail. Her blue notebook sits open on her lap. Her ornamental pen, uncapped, poised in her painted talons. Mon. 01?21, 5:55 p.m. Mutiny met with directorial pigheadedness. Evidence of drug abuse. Prevarication. Steamrolling.