Crazy, Stupid, Fauxmance (Creative HeARTS) Page 3

  I stay this way for a while, eyes closed, wondering how long it’s going to be until I can look back on this and not want to cry. More importantly, how long will it take for everyone else at NextGen to forget about it entirely? When I finally open my eyes, I see that I’m no longer alone in the shop. Students, people working on laptops, chatting couples have filled in the empty seats around me. I take a sip of tea and whoa—I burn the ever-lovin’ Helen Hayes out of my tongue. I choke, sputter, and tea flies out of my mouth, down my chin. If scientists can invent paper cups that keep liquid scalding hot for so long, surely my time machine idea can’t be that far behind.

  “Are you okay?” a voice asks next to me.

  I can only nod because I’m still coughing too much to form words. I turn toward the voice and find myself face to face for the second time today with the darkest blue eyes I’ve ever seen. Cabot is peering at me from behind the curved side of an impossibly deep wingback chair.

  Seriously? The two people who want to be the most anonymous today can’t seem to stop running into each other.

  “Are you sure?” he asks.

  “Y-yes, I’m fine,” I’m finally able to say, even more embarrassed that he’s someone I know, as if I’m probably not red-faced enough from the choking.

  “You’re Mariely, right?” He pronounces my name like “Mary Ellie.”

  “Actually, it’s MAR-ee-ely,” I say, putting the emphasis on the first syllable.

  “Oh, sorry.”

  “No worries, most people get it wrong the first time.”

  He bites at the corner of his bottom lip like he has something he wants to say but doesn’t know if he should say it. “Hey, I’m sorry for what happened this weekend at my dad’s house. That party was…well, it was Audrey’s idea so I should have known it would turn into a full-blown ordeal. But what happened between you and your boyfriend, I’m sorry.”

  I drop my gaze back to my lap. If I wasn’t red before, my cheeks now burn like I’ve stood in the sun for a month. I wonder if being the center of the gossip mill is as excruciating for him as it is for me. “Thanks, Cabot, that’s really nice of you. But there’s nothing you need to apologize for—it wasn’t exactly the best night for either of us.”

  “No, it really wasn’t.” He glances out the window where I see his black Porsche parked outside. “I think I’m gonna go. Can I give you a ride anywhere?”

  “Are you heading back to school?”

  Cabot shakes his head. “Not today. I think I need one more night’s sleep before I’m ready for…everyone. You know?”

  Do I ever. So much so that when he stands and hitches his backpack onto his shoulder to leave, I almost take him up on his offer for a ride. Though it may seem odd to bond over the mangled corpses of our recently deceased relationships, it was kind of a relief to talk to someone who understood exactly what I was feeling. Willa, for all her heartfelt sympathy, couldn’t know, not the way Cabot did.

  My BFF did know this, though: he seems to be a genuinely decent guy.

  “I’ll pass on the ride today,” I tell him, not knowing where I would have him take me if I said yes. “But for what it’s worth, I think Audrey made a huge mistake.”

  Cabot shrugs. “One of us did. I’ll see you around.”

  I sink back into my chair and watch him go. Cabot’s intrusion into my pity party reminds me that he and I are the victims. So if we didn’t do anything wrong, why are we the ones hiding out in a coffeehouse?

  I dig in my bag for my phone to look at the time. Barely ten o’clock. If I go back to school now, I’ll have two classes with Jacen before lunch. He may have ripped off the bandage this morning, but sitting in the same room with him for two hours is more than I can cope with just yet. Better to let the wound breathe a little. Besides, my tea has cooled to sipping temperature.

  I text Willa and make a valiant effort to sound positive because I know it will make her feel better. Save me a seat at lunch. The show must go on!

  When I texted Willa the show must go on, I completely forgot about senior seminar. It’s my last class of the day, but my first with Jacen since our hallway confrontation this morning. And it’s not just Jacen in this class—Himesh will be there, too. The last time we were all in a room together…well, I’m pretty sure everyone else in senior seminar knows about that, too.

  I take my sweet time getting to class.

  Willa is standing outside the classroom when I finally get there. “You didn’t have to wait for me,” I tell her.

  “I know, but I thought if we walked in together it might be less shitty for you.”

  “Thanks.” I try to smile to show my appreciation, but can’t quite make it happen. Instead, I feel a little light-headed.

  “Willa, Mariely, don’t loiter in the doorway. Come inside,” says Oliver, aka Mr. Wendell, but nobody calls him that.

  Senior seminar is this kind of intense workshop where we have discussions and debates about art and expression and it culminates in a comprehensive project meant to showcase our creative specialities. In years past, the senior project was an individual exercise. This year to make it extra fun—at least for Oliver—we have to do it as a group. That’s how our Web series, The Lizzie Borden Diaries, was born.

  Willa and Finn are supposed to be working on the script, though I don’t know how much collaborating is actually happening. People are working on the music, the choreography, and designing sets. And Jacen and I are supposed to be the leads, the romantic leads. I try not to think about it, about all the extra hours we’re going to have to spend together on top of our regular theater rehearsals.

  Besides, right now I’ve got to figure out where to sit.

  We don’t have desks in senior seminar, we have one giant table. To “foster open communication and camaraderie,” says Oliver. At this moment, for me, it’s fostering a panic attack. The seats are not assigned—Oliver would never do that—but people sit in the same chair every class anyway. It’s Jacen, then me, then Willa, then Himesh. A couple of weeks ago, Damien switched seats with Himesh so he could home in on Willa. Ever since it’s been Himesh, Jacen, me, Willa, and then Damien. Because I walked at a snail’s pace to get here, only the two seats between Jacen and Damien are still open.

  “Damien, scoot down a seat, please, and sit next to Jacen,” Willa says. Damien mumbles something I can’t hear, but he stands and moves down. I know Willa asked him for me, but I kind of wish she wouldn’t have. Everyone is watching and it only makes my new suddenly single situation all the more conspicuous. Taking my new place between Willa and Dahlia Greene, the girl who’s writing the music for Lizzie Borden, I use every acting trick I know to pretend I’m okay.

  Across the table from me, Audrey Jakes is calmly admiring her manicure. How is it that two days ago she admitted in a drunken haze to cheating on her boyfriend in front of our entire class, and she has zero bags under her eyes? Her blond hair is sleek and perfect, and there’s not so much as an eyelash extension out of place. Audrey’s obviously not losing sleep over what people are thinking about her.

  Why can’t I be more like that?

  Oliver claps his hands together to start class. “Okay, soon-to-be high school graduates, for today’s discussion we will focus on the economics of being a creative.”

  From the other end of the table, Finn groans, and even that is enough to make Willa flinch beside me. “Isn’t one economics class enough?” he asks.

  “This is economics at a personal level,” Oliver explains. “What does it take for creative people such as yourselves—painters, dancers, actors, designers, writers—to make it in the real world? How prepared are you to make a life pursuing your art? For example, Dahlia, you’re a singer. Do you know what the average income is for someone who makes their living from singing?”

  Dahlia pushes a strand of her pixie cut behind her ear, like she’s nervous she was called on. “I guess it depends on their record deal, right? And how high they chart?”

  Oliver laughs. “Most sin
gers don’t have recording deals, though. Most have to scramble to get gigs, working for tips, and if they’re lucky a cut of the cover charge. So for this exercise, let’s assume you are starting out at the bottom, as most of you will if you continue with your art as a profession.” He looks around the room.

  “Audrey, did you know that the annual salary for a dancer is less than thirty thousand dollars? And that’s if they’re signed to a troupe in a major city, like Chicago, or New York, or Los Angeles. Cities that have some of the highest cost of living indices in the country. Have you considered how you will afford to make a living as a dancer?”

  “Not really,” she answers, practically exhaling ennui. “My dad’s going to invest in an apartment for me to live in wherever I go, so I don’t need to worry about it.”

  Is it easy to be bored about money when you have so much of it? If so, I could stand to be bored. Instead I’m going to have to figure out how to fit an extra shift at the Alamo Drafthouse into my already packed schedule this week. I have to make up for the one I missed yesterday, so I can afford to keep my phone on at the end of the month.

  Oliver sighs, frustrated that this discussion is not going the way he wants it to. He looks in my direction now. “Mariely and Jacen. You told me you’re both planning to head to L.A. after graduation. The average rent for an apartment there is more than eighteen hundred dollars. Are you planning to get jobs? They’ll have to be part-time or at night so you can go to auditions during the day. What kind of part-time jobs are available and what do they pay? Acting jobs are sporadic, especially for those starting out. These are the things I want all of you to think about today.” He pulls out his phone.

  “For the next forty-five minutes I want you each to do some research on average incomes for someone in your creative field and come up with a simple budget for living expenses in the city of your choice. Include rent, utilities, transportation, food, and don’t forget about taxes and health insurance. If your budgets don’t stretch, I want you to come up with a viable plan—part-time job, roommates, whatever—so that you can make it on your own.”

  “There are no scholarships in real life,” Audrey says snottily to no one in particular, except Jacen and I are the only two scholarship students in the room.

  “Shut up, Audrey,” Jacen shoots back.

  “I’m just stating a fact.”

  Any other day I would have dismissed Audrey’s snobbery with a side eye to Willa, but today I’ve already felt victimized too much, and her lack of distress at having offended us I find egregiously offensive.

  “And I’m just stating a fact when I say that you’re a complete waste of air, space, and humanity.”

  There’s a collective gasp around the table, and Audrey now looks less bored, more irate. I feel five thousand times better, though. I’m obviously shifting out of the denial phase of grief over my relationship and into anger. I wait almost eagerly for her to come back at me with something else so I can let loose with another verbal right hook. This one will be for Cabot.

  Unfortunately, Oliver jumps in to diffuse the situation. “Audrey, Mariely, when I need your commentary, I’ll ask for it. Your forty-five minutes are ticking.”

  Audrey turns her back to me, and the rest of the class pulls out their phones or tablets and starts working. I don’t need to. I’ve had my plan figured out for more than a year now, down to the penny. A year and a half serving food and drinks at the Alamo Drafthouse and I have almost two thousand dollars in my savings account. Jacen works, too, and has saved about the same, plus his cousin is going to give him his old car for graduation. Together, the money would be been enough to get us to L.A., get a place to live, and find jobs. But on my own? Unless I have unbelievable luck landing a gig the first week I’m there, I’ll be broke in a month.

  There’s seven and a half months between now and graduation, not enough time to make up Jacen’s difference. I would have to work every day after school and all weekends for the next seven months, and there’s no way I can do that and study and go to rehearsals and watch Gia and Alé when Lita has to work.

  I keep my eyes focused on my phone, pretending that I’m doing my work like everyone else. But really, what’s the point? Audrey is horrible, but she didn’t lie: there are no scholarships in real life. I didn’t just lose my boyfriend when I went to that party at Cabot’s house on Saturday night. I also lost the partner I need to make my dream of being an actress come true.

  Chapter Four

  The alarm goes off the next morning, and for those precious seconds between the buzzing and Alé and Gia bounding out of bed, I completely forget about the Greek tragedy that is my life.

  Until I remember it’s Tuesday.

  At NextGen we have block schedules. On Monday, Wednesday, and Friday we attend our core classes, so on Tuesday and Thursday we can focus solely on our creative tracks. Which means today I will be in workshops and rehearsals with Jacen. All. Day. Long.

  Greek tragedy may be a tad melodramatic—obviously I didn’t unknowingly sleep with a close blood relative or accidently murder my lover—but at a minimum my life this week qualifies as a hot mess.

  By the time the number 9, my new permanent Jacen-avoiding bus, pulls up to the curb in front of NextGen, it takes all my willpower to exit the double doors. Willa isn’t waiting for me today because she had to be here early to review the draft of the Lizzie Borden script with one of her writing teachers. So I’m forced to walk alone to the theater building, which we call the Black Box, mostly because it’s shaped like a cube and covered in reflective windows that make it look black, but also because a Black Box is a type of theater for experimental performances.

  Crossing the quad, I try to mentally gird myself for the day and not replay over and over in my head yesterday’s sob-inducing conversation with Jacen, or Mr. Oliver’s dream-crushing lecture about actors, minimum wage, and L.A. apartment prices. I wish Willa were here; she’s really good at giving me pep talks because even though I really, really take my time getting to the rehearsal room, I am still not girded.

  “Mariely, good, you’re here,” Mrs. Steele, our theater director, announces. Everyone turns to watch me come up the aisle. Having all eyes on me never bothers me onstage, but today, like yesterday and probably the days to come after that, it makes me want to take the red kerchief I have tied pertly around my neck and blindfold myself so I can’t see them. Also, for the reason that the rest of the class is painfully aware of, I don’t take my normal seat next to Jacen at the front but rather sit in the back.

  “Today while we run lines we’re going to work on special proximity,” Ms. Steele announces. “We need to start making decisions on which stage positions are going to be the most impactful for the dialogue and let the tech crew get a feeling for how everyone will be moving.”

  Great. All of this is just theater speak for me having to get up close and personal with Jacen.

  Our fall production, The Fantasticks, is a much smaller affair than our spring shows. It’s a musical classic, very intimate with minimal set design and only eight roles. I’m the single female in the cast of eight. Jacen plays the male lead, Damien plays my scheming father, and five other theater geeks round out the ensemble.

  We all take our places and start from the top. The play is about two young lovers, Matt and Luisa, who live next door to each other, and their fathers who are pretending to feud in order to trick their children into falling in love.

  I begin my lines, and when Jacen joins me, it’s like we’re doing two different plays. He takes a step forward, I move back. The scene calls for a touch, or a look, and I’m about as receptive as a two-by-four. There’s so much space between us that proximity can’t be used in the same sentence to describe what we’re doing.

  After the fourth try, Ms. Steele is massaging her temples nonstop like she’s trying to teleport herself out of the room. Finally she gives up. “Okay, after lunch we’re moving on to music.”

  Music goes a lot better. Tyler Franks plays the n
arrator and he sings the first song, then I sing my solo, followed by Jacen. We are all ah-mazing and Ms. Steele visibly un-frazzles.

  Until the duet.

  The duet that Jacen and I sing in the play, “Soon It’s Gonna Rain,” is a classic. Everyone from Duke Ellington to Barbra Streisand has covered this song. It’s about yearning and young love, and, oh yeah…hitting the sheets.

  The irony is, of course, that the only times Jacen and I were ever between the sheets is because the heat went out one night at my house while we were watching an Alfred Hitchcock marathon. I used to think it was sweet and considerate that Jacen never pushed me to be physical because I wasn’t ready. But now? That he never pushed me to be physical at all is just a giant neon warning sign I failed to see.

  We face each other, but I can’t look at him; I stare off into the wings instead. The music begins to play and offstage behind me I hear a snicker followed by a comment I can’t quite make out except for the word “beard.” Also, I’m fairly certain the voice is Damien’s. My whole body flames from mortification. It’s one thing for me to know what did or did not go down with Jacen, and another for others to be discussing it as well.

  My voice warbles.

  I clear my throat. “Sorry, can we start over?” Our accompanist returns to the introduction and I concentrate on listening for my cue. “Hear how—”

  I crack the first note. Baby Jesus and Judy Garland!

  I shoot Jacen a dirty look. I hate that he’s made our relationship a joke, but I especially hate him at this moment for making me look bad onstage. I try again and again, but I cannot pull it together. Actors who say they don’t have a problem working with their exes are big fat liars.

  “Okay, everybody, let’s call it a day,” says Mrs. Steele, at last, before grabbing her e-cig and heading for the door. I imagine she’s third- and fourth-guessing her casting choice at this point, if not also her choice of career.