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I can’t say the same for pancakes. I haven’t touched them in three years.
“Wouldn’t that be so fun?” Dallas asks. “I need that. I’ve missed being onstage with you.”
“Ugh, I need it too. I just got out of a relationship and Ineeda play. You know what I mean? I need to just lose myself in a character, focus on theater, not worry about stupid boys or girls or?—”
“Look what the ugly train brought to town,” a male voice says, setting my teeth on edge. “The town slut.”
Nick Clarks, a musical theater major and general nuisance to society, approaches me and Dallas, folding his arms across his chest. Nick Clarks has The Look for every male lead in a musical. A dimple kisses one of his cheeks, his hair is somehow always perfectly styled, and to his credit, he is a talented singer. If he wasn’t such an insufferable asshat, he’d have the potential to be charming.
“Did the train bring me to town, or am I the town slut? It can’t be both,” I say.
“Think you’re so clever, don’t you?” Nick says.
“Fuck off, Nick,” Dallas says.
Someone calls Nick’s name, announcing his turn for auditions, and he gives me and Dallas an “eat shit” grin, walking away from us toward the stairs that lead to the black box theater. I roll my eyes and shake my head, freeing my brain of the interaction.
“He is the worst,” Dallas says.
“Theworst,” I echo.
“It doesn’t bother you that he’s still bullying you?” Dallas asks, studying me.
“Absolutely not. Mediocre men do not get that kind of power in my life.”
“Untouchable as always,” Dallas says, a hint of admiration in their voice.
The corners of my mouth turn up but don’t fully form a smile. Being untouchable is something I’m proud of. Sticks and stones and all that. I straighten at Dallas’s words, the reminder of who I am just what I needed.
This is who I was before Greg and Anna, and this is who I’ll continue to be.
Untouchable, unshakeable Jade.
“That’s one face I’ll be glad to never see again after graduation, that’s for sure,” I say.
“Whatareyou doing after graduation? I can’t believe we’re seniors and we’re actually having these conversations for real now,” Dallas says, reaching out to squeeze my thigh.
This is a topic I dread worse than a Nick Clarks interaction.
“I’ll do what all theater kids do,” I say. “Get a job as a waitress while acting for free on the side.”
Dallas snorts. This is a fate several of our recently graduated friends have already accepted. Dallas won’t be one of them when they graduate, though—they’ve been scouting Shakespeare companies to apprentice with for months already.
“Hilarious, but also, we both know you’re the makeup queen,” they say. “I doubt I’ll see you on a stage anywhere, but I know I’ll be seeing your makeup on Broadway one day. Or maybe I’ll see you on that show on TV . . . the makeup competition one, you know.”
“That might be cool,” I say casually.And way too far away.“You know, I feel like I have so many options and the world is my fucking oyster, so I’m really open to whatever I do next. Makeup, costume design. It might be fun to just, like, apply to a bunch of places and see what doors open up.”
“Yeah, love that energy. Let the universe decide.”
I nod, pressing my lips together.
I may be the only senior who doesn’t like talking or thinking about postgrad plans. Most people look forward to leaving college and starting their lives, but I feel like my life started when I got to college. Being away from home, living with my best friend, doing the thing I love full-time—why would I ever want to leave?
“Should we practice?” I ask Dallas, slapping their leg with my audition script. All this postgrad talk is bumming me out, and I am not here to be sad.
I came here specifically tonotbe sad.
Dallas hops up, all enthusiasm and energy, shaking out their limbs as if they’re stepping into a boxing ring, not prepping for a rehearsal.
