I pull out my phone and reread through texts that Clayton and I have shared over the past few weeks. A few back-and-forth messages revive the smile on my face, and before I know it, afternoon’s come and all that’s left of my day is a light dinner—provided I can keep myself from un-eating it—and show time.
After a quick lie-down in my dorm room and a hurried meal in the Quad cafeteria, I head for the theater to face my destiny. Considering how many footsteps I’ve likely taken in my life, it’s bizarre to me that the relatively short trip from my dorm room to the theater would prove to be such a chore. I’m so nervous that my feet keep wanting to kick into one another. I stumble twice as I pass by the University Center, then nearly walk into the wall as I go through the tunnel under the Art building. I might need new feet before the show tonight.
The sky slowly turns over, the deep dusky blue of evening covering it with the fiery sunset nowhere to be found—its view likely blocked by the scorpion tail of the Theatre building itself—as I make my way in through the side door at the back. The lobby is off-limits to us actors, or so I was told before leaving Thursday night’s dress rehearsal.
The stench of stage makeup fills the dressing room. My castmates banter loudly across the room at each other, and there seems to be a hilarious joke every five seconds, for as frequently (and obnoxiously) as they laugh. I take my seat in front of my assigned mirror and, with shaky hands, I pull open my bag and begin laying out all the sponges, foundations, and brushes that I’ll need. Then, after quickly changing into a makeup shirt, I begin the process of slowly becoming Emily Webb by smearing designer mud all over my face.
“You ready for this?”
The question comes from the actress who plays Mrs. Myrtle Webb, my mother in the play. “You want me to lie, or say something happy and encouraging?” I mumble back to her.
She chuckles, rubbing highlight on her eyelids. “Truth. I always go for truth.”
“I’m scared shitless,” I say, hesitating before I apply the tiniest bit of shadow beneath my cheekbones, which I hollow by sucking them in.
“Me too! I always get nervous opening night. Then, once I get the first night out of the way, the rest of the run is a breeze.”
Just when I’m about to respond, I hear the squeaking of wheels. Turning to the noise, I see a costumes rack being wheeled in by two costume crew members, Victoria and some blonde I don’t know.
Of course one of them would be Victoria.
The blonde girl tends to a torn gown, taking it to the corner of the room to stitch it up. While she sews, Victoria hangs by the rack, aloof, pulling self-consciously at her turquoise costumes apron, her fingers playing anxiously with a tiny tomato-shaped pincushion that hangs by her waist.
I return my attention to my makeup. I may never fall in love with the musty smell of it. “After opening night, it’s a breeze, huh?” I smile at that. “Then once tonight passes, everything’s going to be lovely.”
“It’s really like there’s two rehearsal processes,” she goes on. “The one you do without an audience, and the one you do with one.”
“Audiences make everything so weird,” I moan, blending highlight on my cheekbones.
“Laughing when you don’t expect them to. Not laughing when you do. Applauding too long. Some guy with a horrible cough in the front row. That fucking baby in the third.”
I laugh a bit too hard at her joke, catching sight of Victoria through the mirror. She’s watching me, still picking at that squishy pin-filled tomato and waiting for someone to need something from her.
“Is your family coming this weekend or next?” she asks.
The question makes my hand slip, getting a speck of highlight in my hair. “No,” I answer.
“Too busy to come down all the way from New York, huh?”
I have to remind myself that people here know where I’m from, even if they don’t know exactly who my family is. Well, assuming Victoria hasn’t secretly told everyone behind my back.
Then, from the door, two words ring clear through the room.
“DESDEMONA LEBEAU.”
I jerk, looking up. Ariel stands at the doorway looking gorgeous in a blue satin gown, her waves of blonde hair cascading down her front. Her lips are a perfect, plush, red rose petal. I’m so distracted with how elegant she looks that I forget she just shouted my name.
A hush has swept through the dressing room.
“Ariel?” I return.
Ariel pushes past Victoria standing by the door, taking three steps into the room, each of her steps in those heels of hers clacking loudly against the floor.
“Desdemona Lebeau,” she announces again. “Of course. Every bit of it makes sense now. A person like you getting the part that I deserved.”