With that, the whole crew scatters and Clayton abandons my side. I’d just grown used to having his heat there that when he departs, I feel a vacuum of need so strong that I nearly topple over.
I walk down the steps and approach the sign-up list. Some of the guys are talking amongst themselves or consulting their phones to double-check their scheduling conflicts. When it’s my turn to pick from the list, I consider what’s available. Amazingly, five of the six available shifts do not overlap with my classes. There’s a shift Mondays that would fit after my acting class, a shift Tuesday afternoons between my voice and movement classes, another Friday mornings, another Saturday afternoons, and then a late Wednesday evening shift. I could pick any one of those that I want. Any at all.
And yet it’s on that Wednesday evening shift that I see the only name that matters. It’s written right at the top of the list. Clayton Watts.
Only two others have signed up for that time slot. The least popular shift, it seems. And driven by some kind of insanity, I bring my pen to that Wednesday list of names and add my own.
Dessie Lebeau.
I look up and find Clayton walking away. I only catch a split second of his muscular backside before he disappears through the backstage door. Oddly, I feel a small sense of relief at his departure. It’s damn stressful being near him at all. My nervous system got a work out today.
As I walk back to the dorms, the relief turns to emptiness. It’s so strange, to be able to go for so long without being aware of how alone you truly are. You convince yourself that your heart is full with all your interests and hobbies and fiery passions. You fill yourself up with hollow reassurance. You get used to the routine of handling yourself, comforting yourself, and smiling all day long.
It only takes one stupid hot guy to unravel all those feeble efforts of yours, reminding you how very not satisfied you are.
I’m lonely. I’ve been alone for years. I’ve dated a small number of guys in New York, but none of them worked out. One of them lived in a rat-infested apartment in Queens. One had a girlfriend in New Jersey he tried to hide from me. Another played video games all day and lived in his older brother’s basement. Each one left me feeling lonelier than the last. My dating history is, needless to say, a trail of murky water.
Long after the sun’s fallen, I knock on her door.
“Dessie!” she cries when she answers, the beads that hang at her closet tapping one another. “I found the perfect monologue for you!”
The night progresses into a back-and-forth trade of monologue practice and constructive criticism, in which Victoria offers me many queer looks and some politely-worded suggestions. If she has anything ugly to say about my acting ability, she is kind enough to spare me the words. Her roommate, a heavyset pale-as-death girl by the name of Leanne, sits on her bed in a nest of bed sheets and textbooks, typing away on her laptop and pretending we’re not even there. We offer her the same courtesy.
When I excuse myself on account of having my morning movement class, Victoria smiles at me at the door and says, “You’re going to be perfect for Mrs. Gibbs, which will complement my take on the role of Emily. You’ll totally nail it. Can’t wait!”
Back in my own room, my roommate Sam types at her desk on that ancient, last-decade laptop of hers. She’s wearing the same thing she wore the day she arrived, which both unsettles me and breaks my heart. We exchange halfhearted hellos before I lock myself in the bathroom and enjoy the comfort of my own reflection.
I study my face intently, because whenever I blink, all I see is his.
DESSIE
I’m standing at the door to the rehearsal room gripping my obviously embellished résumé. Every line of the dramatic monologue I spent all Wednesday night and Thursday rehearsing repeats in my head over and over like gold fish swimming around the bowl, circles and circles and circles. I can hear the tapping of water as they make laps in my brain.
I’m oddly calm. I haven’t seen Clayton at all since shift sign-up on Wednesday, which is strange, as I had gotten used to running into him daily.
It isn’t fair. Every little thing I do now becomes all about Clayton. When I decide where to eat lunch, I consider whether or not he might be eating lunch at the same time and place, too. When I walk down the halls on the way to my Theatre classes, I wonder if I’ll run into him around every corner, or if we’ll bump into each other in the lobby, or out in the courtyard. It’s crazy how far an obsession or innocent crush will take you, dictating your day, bullying your mind into submission so badly that even choosing which damn bathroom to use becomes a chore—because at any point in the day, I could run into him. Even on my way to the bathroom.