Read My Lips(39)

I look up.

Clayton’s gone back to staring at me again. It’s his foot. He smirks, his eyes narrowing as his shoe taps mine again.

A rush of excitement surges up through me.

What a game-playing, mind-toying asshole.

I pull my feet under my chair, far away from his. Then, I pretend to pore over my script and ignore him utterly, despite my stomach-tumbling desire to do the exact opposite.

I am exercising some serious discipline here.

I push through the next scene, also making it a point to ignore the others in the room. I can’t be judged by all of them; I judge myself badly enough.

The role of George—who is Emily’s love interest, wedded to each other in act two—is played by a guy I haven’t met before. He’s a decent-looking man, most likely an upperclassman. His well-groomed hair and plain, coppery face make for a fitting George and male lead, if you discount the Stage Manager role and his twenty-or-so billion lines I don’t envy.

When it comes to the scenes in which Emily and George flirt, I look up and try to say the lines across the table to the actor who’s playing him—whose real name I’ve already forgotten from the intros earlier, or perhaps never paid attention to in the first place. A few times, I lose my place in the script due to looking up and stumble over the words.

“Just read for today,” Nina cuts in, startling me.

I look up, my heart slamming against my chest in the not-so-pleasurable way. “Sorry?”

“It’s a read-through,” she explains patiently, as if I needed to be told—in front of everyone—what we’re doing here today. “You don’t need to connect with the other actors. At least, not with your eyes. We’ll have plenty of time for that in rehearsals. For today, just read.” She offers me a cool smile and a nod.

Some others around the table meet my startled eyes. I feel the flood of judgments and silent sneers coming from my castmates.

How embarrassing is that, to be called out like some amateur by the director and told to “just read” during a read-through?

I can already hear my sister scolding me, were Cece in this room.

“Of course,” I answer Nina, the stiff-necked, rigid-as-an-icicle director, then resume my lines.

The rest of the read-through is far less enjoyable. I make the wedding in act two sound like the funeral in act three. Even reading the lines, I trip over the words, pushing them out with the enthusiasm of a slug.

The read-through can’t end fast enough. After it’s all over with, the director thanks us, then dismisses us with a forewarning that the first act of the play is due to be off-book by Monday, which gives me exactly two days—my weekend—to learn my first act’s lines. I give very little attention to the rest of the room, closing up my script and rising from the chair. Eric asks me something about hanging out at the Throng, but I decline—perhaps too quickly. I very suddenly want to just go back to my dorm and forget that the rest of the world exists. Even Clayton, who would have a totally different opinion of me if he heard any of that awful, horrible excuse for “acting” that I just did.

I push through the rehearsal room doors. I walk quickly down a half-lit hall to the lobby, finding the darkness of night through the tall glass windows. A group of students are rehearsing a scene by the chairs in the lobby, and they stop when they see me.

“Dessie.”

I turn around. Clayton stands there, his sharp eyes locked on mine and his script tucked under his big arm. Oh. Maybe it was him the students in the lobby stopped to look at.

But my patience is long gone. All my emotions are high and flustered and hot, my nerves tight as wires. “What do you want, Clayton?”

After a moment of studying the obvious distress on my face, he frowns. For a second, I feel bad about snapping at him. Then, with his free hand, he brings a fist to his chest and draws a circle.

Sorry, he signs.

My mood softens instantly. I wonder for a second what he’s apologizing for. The kiss on Wednesday? The shitty read-through just now? The foot-thing?

“What for?” I ask.

He brushes the knuckles of his right fist against his left fist, then sweeps a hand to the side, palm-up.

I sigh. “I don’t know what that means.”

He shrugs, then quietly says, “Everything.”

I hear whispering from the lobby, likely from our little audience of actors who’ve shut up to pay witness to this whole exchange. I fight an urge to shout at them to mind their own business.

I don’t know why I’m so mad at Clayton. It’s not like he owes me a damn thing. He kissed me during lighting crew. So what? It’s not like I didn’t enjoy it too. Besides, if I’m really honest with myself, maybe I’m just pissed about getting cast in this dumb show, cursed with the very thing I begged the gods for ever since my older sister gulped her first tasty teaspoon of success: a lead role. Now the gods laugh at me, giving me the role without the due talent needed to perform said role.