That attention is short-lived. Not a moment later, Clayton has returned from the counterweights, and he’s right at my side yet again. I just can’t catch a break, can I? Not that I want one. I’ve never been so worked up in all my life. I’m in agony standing next to him. I feel my pulse in my neck. I can barely breathe evenly.
His arm brushes against mine.
Total. Fucking. Agony.
“Lighting creates atmosphere. Lighting turns the barren nothing of a stage into the snowy Alps, the lobby of a hotel, or the bowels of a whale. Lighting gives life to the cast onstage,” states Dick, our mildly inspired professor. “Without light, we are all a bunch of shit-shoveling nobodies in the dark, aren’t we?”
Clayton inhales deeply. Just in that inhale, I hear the depth of his voice. There’s something so intimate about it, like I’m already getting to know him even without having shared a single word. Then, he exhales deeply, and half that breath tickles my arm and sends shivers of awareness through me.
I am one seriously obsessed stalker right now.
“Short day. That’s all, my little light monkeys. I’m leaving the sign-up sheet at the foot of the stage. Sign up for whichever lighting shift you want, and that’ll be your shift every week for the rest of the semester. Crew shifts start next week. There’s lots of options to accommodate all kinds of classing schedules, so if your whiny ass needs some special treatment, come have a chat with me and we’ll figure something out.”
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!”