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“I thought we could do a quick read-through, just to get a sense of the story, and I’d like to get a general idea of your chemistry.”
She should have tested our chemistry during auditions—that’s what callbacks are for. But it doesn’t matter now. She either made a huge mistake or took a gamble that will pay off. For Anastasia, stakes are low. These shows aren’t well-attended or graded; they’re entirely optional for everyone in the department. But for me, this show matters. I need the escape. Soeven if Anastasia is willing to risk me and Ian not having great stage chemistry, I’m not. I need this to be good.
“A read-through,” Ian says. It’s not a question, just a statement.
“You know what a read-through is, right?” I ask, a little sassier than I mean to come across.
“I took an acting class,” he mumbles. His leg is bouncing, and I catch the movement in my peripheral.
Without thinking, I reach out and grip his thigh. “Chill, dude,” I say.
He freezes under my touch, and his eyes burn a hole in my hand. I remove my grip from his leg slowly. Damn. This kid is so intense.
“From the top!” Anastasia says, not addressing our conversation. “Just a note, I did make some cuts. This isn’t the whole play, ’cause the whole thing was too long, so make sure you’re using this script. It’s the right one.”
We read through the script and the story slowly unfolds for us. The play is set in New York City on September 12, 2001, the day after the Twin Towers fell. The scene is between a man, Ben, an employee in the World Trade Center who should have been at work that morning, and the woman he was with instead, Abby, his lover and boss. He has a choice now: fake his death and run away with his lover or tell his wife, who thinks he’s dead or missing in the rubble of the World Trade Center. Abby’s choice is to leave him or commit to a man who would never tell his wife the truth.
The play is intense, and when we finish reading, we all just sit in silence. It’s a ballsy choice for a student-directed one-act. But theater kids love that shit. We love to be edgier than the students who came before us. Bolder. Spicier. And this definitely fits the bill.
Anastasia is the first to break the silence. “You two have absolutely atrocious chemistry.”
“It was a read-through, Anastasia,” I say and try to control my eye roll.
The worst part is, she’s not wrong. Ian stuttered his way through all his lines, reading them like some kind of robot. I have better chemistry with lighting fixtures. A lack of chemistry isn’t the problem; it’s obviously the non-actor in the group. I bite my tongue to keep from saying that, though.
“You’ll need to spend some time together outside of rehearsals. We’re going to do one rehearsal a week for the first month, and once we go off book, let’s make it twice a week. When we get closer to the show, we can add in a few more as needed.”
“You know what off book means, right?” I lean toward Ian.
“It means your script is memorized,” Madison chimes in.
“I know what it means to be off book,” Ian mutters, staring at his script.
“Next week, same time?” I ask, standing abruptly, taking command of the room. I’m over this. All of it. Whatever Anastasia sees in Ian is beyond me, and now I’m stuck with him and this shitty situation.
So much for an escape.
“Yes, we’ll meet here. Spend time together this week, please,” Anastasia says.
Ian’s head swivels like he can’t quite follow what just happened. As I turn to leave, his chair scrapes on the floor, and then his footsteps trail behind me. He catches up to me, a hand on my arm to stop me in my tracks.
“Wait—hey,” he says.
We’re in the dark hallway leading to the steps. It’s a decent make-out spot, but I don’t think that’s what Ian stopped me for.
“Shouldn’t we get together or at least exchange numbers? Anastasia said we need to hang out.”
I’m on a step above him, but I still have to look up to meet his eye. His palm is clammy against my arm. He’s close enough that I can smell whatever Old Spice product he uses and something else that’s really familiar . . . the scene shop? The scene shop is in the basement of the theater building and always smells like Home Depot. It’s where sets are created and there’s a repository of costumes and props for the shows at MPC.
“Sure. Gimme your phone,” I say, and we exchange phones, typing our numbers into each other’s contacts.
Just as he’s about to hand my phone back to me, it dings with the specific chime I set for one person only.
My mother.
Before he can see who texted me, I snatch my phone out of his hand, stuffing it into the pocket of my jeans. I have no idea what awaits me on the other side of that text, but whatever it is, I don’t want to be in front of people for it.
“Are you free tomorrow night?” I ask, shoving his phone into his chest probably a little more roughly than necessary.
