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I cut a glance at Madison, who gives me an encouraging “hang in there” kind of look. I send a tight smile back to her.
“I think maybe Ben wants to be left alone with his thoughts, but she keeps coming at him, and that’s what makes him yell at her eventually. He feels attacked,” Ian says.
“Good,” Anastasia says. “Let’s take this”—she gestures at Ian—“and do it again. I know you aren’t totally memorized, but your lines are all pretty short here. Maybe just try to remember two at a time before looking down at your script?”
He nods and glances at me, but I pretend I didn’t see and take my spot off in the wings to start from the top. What a disaster.
Madison cues us in, and we run through the section we just discussed, Anastasia cutting us off when we get to the designated line.
“How did that feel?” she asks.
“Better,” Ian says, but he looks to me.
“Yeah, it was better,” I say, and it was, but the bar was in hell, so it’s not like it could have gotten much worse. At this rate, we’ll need a year before Ian is ready to actually perform. And I’ll need a lobotomy to erase this specific period of time in my acting career.
“Let’s run it again,” Anastasia says, and we do. We run this specific section until the end of rehearsal. Each time is a little better, and each time, Ian uses his script a little less.
“That’s time,” Madison says, announcing the end of rehearsal.
“Thank you, Time,” Ian and I say and head to our backpacks respectively.
I unplug my phone, which has been charging, and grab my stuff, ready to get the hell out of Dodge.
“Lovely job, everyone,” Anastasia says. “Please continue to spend time together outside of rehearsals. Chemistry is essential for this play.”
And there’s the comment. What good will chemistry do if Ian can’t even memorize his lines?
Ian got a head start on me leaving, but I catch him in the lobby before he walks out the doors.
“Ian, wait up.”
He pauses, waiting for me to catch up.
“All right, let’s schedule something,” I say.
Ian stares blankly at me for a beat.
“I don’t mean another hookup,” I say.
“Oh, yeah. That makes sense. Obviously. ’Cause we’re going to build chemistry my way this time,” he says enthusiastically.
“Yes,andwe’re going to run lines. Every day. Until you’re off book.”
“Every day? Do you have that kind of time? Do I have that kind of time?”
“We’re going to make the time,” I say. “Lines, chemistry-building. Win-win.”
He agrees, and we talk schedules, planning something for every day until our rehearsal next week before parting ways. I’m not having another rehearsal like that. I don’t care if I have to drill-sergeant him myself: this green bean will not ruin my experience with this show. How am I supposed to get lost in my character when my scene partner is stuttering his lines out like a baby goat?
I shake the rehearsal off. It was a shitty two hours, but it’s a beautiful autumn evening and I’m going to enjoy my walk back to my apartment. Even if I am walking because my car is still acting funny and I can’t drive it.
The cool night air signals the farewell to hot weather I’ve been looking forward to. Summer exhaling her last breaths is a welcome change of seasons for me, because I’m changing seasons too. Out with the old relationship, in with the new me.
Well, the single me at least.
My phone rings, startling me out of my thoughts. The screen reads “Mom.”
With a heavy sigh, I brace myself for whatever this phone call is about to be. If it’s a breakup call, I’ll need to rearrange my schedule, and I do a mental inventory of my calendar for the next week. Mostly, I’ll just have to rearrange Ian and deal with another shitty rehearsal, but if that’s what I need to deal with to get my mom stabilized, I will. She may be calling just to sayhi, but those calls are rare when she’s in the early stages of a relationship. She forgets to ask about my life when she’s dating someone. The most likely scenario is she’s calling to update me, just to gush about her dates, but I prepare myself anyway.
