Off Book

1. Jade

1

JADE

“Awake the pert and nimble spirit of mirth. Turn melancholy forth to funerals . . .” Act I, Scene I

“Aw, fuck. She’s listening to Sondheim.”

Jessie’s voice follows the slam of the front door of our shared apartment. Even over the sound of my music, I can hear her and her boyfriend Mac, both my roommates, shuffling in from their evening at the library. I turn the music down on my phone to a more respectful level. Just because I want to drown in show tunes doesn’t mean everyone in the apartment has to.

“Is that what that weird music is?” Mac asks.

Weird music! I scramble up from the floor where I’ve been lying for the past two hours to give Mac a piece of my mind. Merrily We Roll Along by the legendary Stephen Sondheim is a classic in the musical theater world. Hand on the knob, a fight already brewing in my gut, I wait when Jessie starts talking again.

“Oh, stop. It’s just a musical. I don’t remember the name of it, but I do know it’s some guy named Sondheim.”

“Sond-who?” Mac asks, his voice louder, probably passing my room to put his things down in his and Jessie’s shared room.

“Of course you don’t know who that is, you uncultured numpty,” I say, whispering from my side of the door. I don’t mean it. Mac is probably more cultured than me and Jessie combined, even if there is a large musical theater gap in his knowledge.

“Sond- heim ,” Jessie explains, her voice also getting louder then quieter as she disappears into their room. “He’s a musical theater composer or something. I only know him because it’s Jade’s Code Red music.”

My Code Red music? What the . . .? I tighten my grip on the handle but hold back, my arm practically shaking with the effort of not opening the door. My curiosity wins out over my temptation to join the conversation, and I lower the volume of my music even more to hear them better.

“What does that even mean? Do I have Code Red music? Do you?” Mac asks.

“It’s not really about the music. It’s about levels of sadness.”

“Levels of sadness?” Mac asks.

“Yeah, like, different behaviors that indicate how upset she really is and how worried I should be. Code Red is the highest, obviously.”

Their voices grow louder and then quiet again as they both go back out into the kitchen.

What the hell is she talking about? Levels of sadness? Why has she never mentioned that to me? I shift my weight, crossing my arms over my chest with a tight squeeze. I’m tempted to pop out of the room and confront her for an explanation, but I’ve never been able to eavesdrop on my best friend talking about me, and I’m not about to miss that opportunity.

“You’ve piqued my curiosity,” Mac says. “What are Jade’s levels of sadness?”

“Well, level one is, like, she gets rip-roaring drunk, wakes up with a hangover, and she’s back to herself.”

I scrunch up my nose. That barely counts. Everyone in college gets rip-roaring drunk when they’re a little sad. They also do it when they’re celebrating, or when it’s a day that ends in Y.

“But Jade parties, like, every week,” Mac says.

I clench my fist around the doorknob.

“Yes, but she can hold her liquor. When was the last time you saw Jade get absolutely hammered?” Jessie asks.

There’s silence while Mac thinks. He doesn’t respond, and Jessie continues.

“Exactly. She actually doesn’t get drunk very often. It’s rare. She can really keep her shit together when it comes to alcohol.”

“Thank you,” I whisper into the quiet of my room with an eye roll, relaxing my clenched fists.

“Okay, so, level-one sadness, drunk. Check. How many levels are there total?” Mac asks.

“Four. Levels one, two, and three, and Code Red. Level two is a food binge.”

Four! Now I know she’s made up these levels, and I’m going to make her say them to my face. I reach for my phone again, ready to storm out of my room, but when I have to move a chip bag stuffed with the trash of a few candy wrappers to get to it, I stand down. Instead, I lean against the door again, ear pressed to the wood, lowering the volume of my music once more.

The coffee machine crackles, sending the smell of fresh-brewing beans my way. Jessie and Mac will probably be studying for a while if they’re brewing coffee at 10 p.m. Studying this late on Friday night? I would find this kind of a tragic use of a Friday night, but I’m crying alone in my room to show tunes, so for now, I’ll withhold that judgment.

“What’s level three?” Mac asks.

“Hallmark Channel.”

The scrape of a mug across the counter sets my teeth on edge. Or maybe it’s the fact that Jessie sees right through me and that’s a level of vulnerability I didn’t mean to sign up for.

“Hallmark Channel?”

“Yeah. If she’s on the couch watching Hallmark Channel movies, and has been for hours, we’re on level-three sadness.”

“You do that too,” Mac says. “Is that one of your levels of sadness?”

“Yes, but that’s, like, level five for me.”

That’s true. She watched cheesy Christmas movies for three days when shit hit the fan with her and Mac last year. I take great comfort in fictional stories on a regular basis, whereas if Jessie’s binging movies or TV of any kind, it’s warning bells for me. Only the greatest levels of emotion and distress can knock her off her feet.

My armpits are sweaty and feel warm. I’m desperate to join the conversation, to put in my two cents, but it’s not often you get to hear what people really say about you when they think you’re not there, and I want to know where the rest of this conversation is going more than I want to be part of it.

“And level four is—” Mac says at the same time Jessie says, “Code Red is?—”

“Sondham,” Mac says.

“Sond heim ,” she corrects.

There’s a span of silence that feels like hours but is probably only a few seconds. Coffee is poured into mugs; spoons clank against the ceramic, stirring in cream and sugar. Mac takes his coffee black, but Jessie likes her coffee as sweet as dessert.

I wait for more, but if they continue their conversation, I can’t hear it anymore.

Turning off the music completely, I let out a deep exhale. All the muscles I’ve been clenching loosen, and I flop down on my bed. It’s so weird to listen to my best friend talk about me as if I’m not just in the next room. She didn’t say anything bad about me, yet still, I feel weird. I can’t decide if that’s because she was talking about me or because she sees me so clearly, too clearly, it scares me a little. I don’t even think I see myself that clearly.

I scrub my face, crusty from dried, salty tears. Code Red or not, Merrily We Roll Along is one of my favorite musicals. It’s heartbreaking and hopeful, and it never fails to make me cry.

Last Halloween, I had a threesome with two people I met at a party. The three of us kept it casual for two months and then decided to be exclusive, the three of us, committed to only dating each other. I stayed for nine months and left five days ago. So of course I’m crying to “Not a Day Goes By”—Bernadette Peters is singing it, and I’m not a robot.

“Code Red.” I scoff and swipe open my phone to scroll through social media.

A knock at my door startles me.

“Jade?” Jessie’s voice, hesitant and soft, comes through from the other side.

“It’s open,” I say loud enough for her to hear, and she walks into the room, taking a seat on my bed. My hands flop to my sides, my phone face down on the mattress, and I tilt my head to give her my best “please stop worrying” look. “I’m fine,” I say unconvincingly.

Jessie’s face says enough—she doesn’t need words. Eyebrows raised and eyes chock-full of “I call bullshit.”

“Well. Okay, obviously, I’m not great. I was listening to Sondheim, and your sad scale was creepily accurate.”

With one hand she grips my leg, and with the other she covers her mouth, her eyes wide with horror. “You heard that?” she asks, her words muffled.

“I’ve heard worse things through these walls.” I raise my eyebrows at her, and she turns the deepest shade of red I’ve ever seen and hides her face fully in her hands. “Oh, come on—you knew these walls were paper-thin. Plus, good for you. I’ve been saying for years you just needed a good dicking down.”

“Oh my god, Jade,” Jessie says through her hands.

“Oh, stop. You’re not embarrassed by me.”

“We are not here to talk about me.” Jessie points a finger at me, giving me her Stern Librarian Face, but it only lasts for a second before she drops both her finger and the face. “Except that I’m really sorry you heard that. I thought maybe your music was loud enough that you couldn’t hear. I wasn’t trying to be mean. I?—”

“Jessie.” I sit up and put my hand over hers. “It’s fine. Like I said . . . creepily accurate.”

“Okay, so . . . do you want to talk about it?”

“Talk about what?” I ask, playing dumb. I definitely don’t want to talk about what she came in here to talk about, and maybe she’ll get the hint.

“Your . . . feelings?” She says it like a question rather than a statement.

“What feelings? I don’t have any.”

Jessie just rolls her eyes.

“Okay, fine. I’m still sad. There—are you happy?” I flop dramatically onto my bed, turning to face away from her.

“Obviously I’m not happy you’re sad. But I am happy you’re talking about it.”

“There isn’t anything else to say about it. We were together, and now we’re not. The end.”

I roll back over and face her. She’s wearing her Mom Face, which is what I call the look she gives me when she disapproves of something but isn’t going to say anything about it. In this case, she disapproves of me not talking about my feelings. I get this look a lot from Jessie. She tries to keep me in line, while I try to get her to overstep all the lines.

“Have you talked to either of them?” she asks, poking my leg.

“What would I say? ‘Sorry I walked out, hope you guys are enjoying your relationship without me’? No, thank you.”

Jessie’s mouth twists and scrunches, and I know she probably wants to say something, but as my best friend she’s trying to be supportive and hold back on giving me advice or offering solutions where they aren’t needed. She’s also trying really hard not to push me to talk about my feelings more, and I appreciate it so much that I try to put her out of her misery.

“Love isn’t for me, Jessie. It’s too messy.” I groan and sit up, stretching my arms over my head and leaning from side to side. “I’m swearing off relationships. Going back to Old Reliable.”

“Your vibrator?”

“Well, yes. I meant, like . . . casual sex with no commitment, but yeah, obviously that too.”

“What’s this I hear about sex and sex toys?” Mac appears in the doorway, a steaming Styrofoam cup in one hand, a fork in the other, twisting long strands of noodles around it.

“You would hear that part and only that part,” I say.

“I was trying not to eavesdrop,” Mac says, mouth half-full.

“Why? It’s so fun,” I say. “You learn all kinds of things, like that you have levels of sadness.”

Mac raises his eyebrows and cuts Jessie a “you’ve been caught” look. Jessie closes her eyes and shakes her head, her cheeks turning a light shade of red.

“Jade,” Jessie says, a half-sigh, half-apology.

“I’m just messing. It’s fine,” I say with a glance between the two of them.

Their faces are painted with concern.

“Guys, seriously. I’m fine. I was sad, but good news! I’m actually done being sad now.”

“That’s healthy,” Jessie mutters.

Mac adds, “It sounds like you’re avoiding your feelings?—”

“A favorite pastime of mine.”

“—and trying to replace real intimacy with sex.” He shoves another forkful of noodles into his mouth.

“So you were eavesdropping,” I say.

“I said I was trying not to. I didn’t say I was successful.”

I roll my eyes at him. “You’re dismissed, Mackenzie.”

“Mmkay, but we’re going to revisit this sometime,” he says and backs slowly out into the hall. He winks at Jessie before disappearing from sight.

“You’re going to be a very good therapist one day, but you won’t be mine!” I yell after him, even though yelling is obviously not necessary because everyone in this apartment can hear everything. Which I didn’t really care about until the thing everyone was hearing about was my feelings.

“Hey, I think I’m going to call it an early night,” I say, and Jessie takes the cue, hopping off my bed.

She leans against the doorframe before leaving, pausing as if she’s going to say something, but she just blows me a kiss and closes my door.

Sinking back into my pillows, I scrub my hands over my face again, glad I didn’t bother with makeup tonight. I’d planned to come home and film a video for my social media, but on my way back to the dorm I saw a glimpse of Greg and Anna holding hands. I didn’t want them to see me, so I hid behind a bush.

Seeing them together was like being at the beach, feeling the waves just casually rolling against your ankles, when all of a sudden a wave comes out of nowhere and knocks you off your feet.

Greg, Anna, and I spent a lot of time on video and phone calls this summer. Every video call, I’d sit on my porch at home, wishing I was with either one of them. Even now, I can’t untangle the taste of lemonade from my feeling of longing for them. They walked by, and it tasted like lemons, and I started to miss them so much that I sat behind that bush and cried for a few minutes. By the time I came out from hiding, I was feeling so low I couldn’t find it in me to film, much less to make the effort of doing up my puffy face. The only thing that sounded good was lying on the floor of my bedroom listening to Merrily We Roll Along .

And that’s where I was for two hours until Jessie and Mac came home.

But why should I spend my time being sad when there are so many other things I could be?

So I do what I do best: I push aside my negative feelings, sending them off to wherever they go so I won’t have to feel them anymore, and as I crawl into bed for the night, I resolve to be the old me again, or at least the version of me that doesn’t have romantic entanglements. Or maybe it’s the new me, because at least the new me knows better.

If there’s ever a time and place to be your weirdest self, it’s in the theater.

I’m sitting on one of the benches in the lobby, waiting for my audition partner, Dallas, to arrive, and all around me, other theater majors are doing vocal warm-ups, reenacting scenes from last year’s one-acts, practicing auditions for other plays coming up this year, or moving their bodies in odd ways to “wake up their muses.” Not one person in this lobby is self-conscious, and there’s so much ego in here that I can practically taste it.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t That Bitch Jade McKinney,” says a voice I’d recognize anywhere.

“That’s Mrs. That Bitch to you, Dallas,” I say and swipe my leg at my friend. When my foot makes contact with their leg, they fake a dramatic fall to the ground, dropping like we were taught in movement class: leg, hip, side, then arm outstretched to cradle their head.

“Michael Flowers would give you an A-plus for that fall,” I say, leaning forward with a big grin on my face.

One of our three theater professors, Michael Flowers—known for being stingy with high scores—always teaches the movement class—a popular one among students since that’s where we learn the basics of stage combat.

“Michael Flowers wouldn’t give me an A-plus if I slipped him a hundred-dollar bill,” Dallas says, getting up and sitting next to me on the bench. They wrap their arms around my shoulders and plant a big kiss on my cheek. “How are you, gorgeous lady?”

“Ready to audition for these one-acts,” I say. “I’m surprised you agreed to audition with me, though. I thought you’d be prepping for A Midsummer Night’s Dream .”

The Shakespeare play is our main show this year, performed on the big stage in the theater building we call Main Stage. Dallas has had their eye on the role of Puck since it was announced. They love Shakespeare because as they will tell anyone who’ll listen that “Shakespeare is gender-bendy as fuck.” Which is probably exactly how the playwright wanted to be described after he died.

“I can do both, because what is senior year if you’re not trying to break your own spirit by doing everything? Are you just doing this?” They gesture to the lobby, where we’re all waiting to audition for the student-directed one-act plays.

While shows like Midsummer are full-length plays, the one-acts are just one act of a play: snippets between ten and thirty minutes long, directed by senior theater majors. I could have directed, but I don’t really have an interest in it. There’s only one thing I love more than being on stage.

“I’ll do makeup and costume design for Midsummer . Shakespeare isn’t really my thing.”

“That’s perfect for you,” Dallas says.

“And Puck is perfect for you,” I say.

Dallas beams. Their obsession with Shakespeare is well-known in our theater cohort. In Beginning Acting, when we all had to choose a monologue to perform, Dallas was the only soul brave enough to pick Shakespeare. They’re also probably the only one in the department who could have pulled it off. Even our Beginning Acting professor was impressed.

“I’m so glad we’re auditioning together,” I say.

“I’m hoping we get cast together,” they say.

“Ooh, Jade and Dallas back together again!” I practically squeal.

Dallas and I were paired up for a one-act called Pancakes our freshman year. The play ended with my character choking on pancakes, murdered at the hand of my roommate. Our student director, Nikki, had her hands full with me and Dallas, but to this day, it’s one of my fondest memories in the theater. It’s probably why I keep coming back to the one-acts year after year.

I can’t say the same for pancakes. I haven’t touched them in three years.

“Wouldn’t that be so fun?” Dallas asks. “I need that. I’ve missed being onstage with you.”

“Ugh, I need it too. I just got out of a relationship and I need a play. You know what I mean? I need to just lose myself in a character, focus on theater, not worry about stupid boys or girls or?—”

“Look what the ugly train brought to town,” a male voice says, setting my teeth on edge. “The town slut.”

Nick Clarks, a musical theater major and general nuisance to society, approaches me and Dallas, folding his arms across his chest. Nick Clarks has The Look for every male lead in a musical. A dimple kisses one of his cheeks, his hair is somehow always perfectly styled, and to his credit, he is a talented singer. If he wasn’t such an insufferable asshat, he’d have the potential to be charming.

“Did the train bring me to town, or am I the town slut? It can’t be both,” I say.

“Think you’re so clever, don’t you?” Nick says.

“Fuck off, Nick,” Dallas says.

Someone calls Nick’s name, announcing his turn for auditions, and he gives me and Dallas an “eat shit” grin, walking away from us toward the stairs that lead to the black box theater. I roll my eyes and shake my head, freeing my brain of the interaction.

“He is the worst,” Dallas says.

“ The worst,” I echo.

“It doesn’t bother you that he’s still bullying you?” Dallas asks, studying me.

“Absolutely not. Mediocre men do not get that kind of power in my life.”

“Untouchable as always,” Dallas says, a hint of admiration in their voice.

The corners of my mouth turn up but don’t fully form a smile. Being untouchable is something I’m proud of. Sticks and stones and all that. I straighten at Dallas’s words, the reminder of who I am just what I needed.

This is who I was before Greg and Anna, and this is who I’ll continue to be.

Untouchable, unshakeable Jade.

“That’s one face I’ll be glad to never see again after graduation, that’s for sure,” I say.

“What are you doing after graduation? I can’t believe we’re seniors and we’re actually having these conversations for real now,” Dallas says, reaching out to squeeze my thigh.

This is a topic I dread worse than a Nick Clarks interaction.

“I’ll do what all theater kids do,” I say. “Get a job as a waitress while acting for free on the side.”

Dallas snorts. This is a fate several of our recently graduated friends have already accepted. Dallas won’t be one of them when they graduate, though—they’ve been scouting Shakespeare companies to apprentice with for months already.

“Hilarious, but also, we both know you’re the makeup queen,” they say. “I doubt I’ll see you on a stage anywhere, but I know I’ll be seeing your makeup on Broadway one day. Or maybe I’ll see you on that show on TV . . . the makeup competition one, you know.”

“That might be cool,” I say casually. And way too far away. “You know, I feel like I have so many options and the world is my fucking oyster, so I’m really open to whatever I do next. Makeup, costume design. It might be fun to just, like, apply to a bunch of places and see what doors open up.”

“Yeah, love that energy. Let the universe decide.”

I nod, pressing my lips together.

I may be the only senior who doesn’t like talking or thinking about postgrad plans. Most people look forward to leaving college and starting their lives, but I feel like my life started when I got to college. Being away from home, living with my best friend, doing the thing I love full-time—why would I ever want to leave?

“Should we practice?” I ask Dallas, slapping their leg with my audition script. All this postgrad talk is bumming me out, and I am not here to be sad.

I came here specifically to not be sad.

Dallas hops up, all enthusiasm and energy, shaking out their limbs as if they’re stepping into a boxing ring, not prepping for a rehearsal.

We find a quiet space in the lobby to run through the scene. We’re auditioning for a one-act play called Bride on the Rocks by David Weiner. I play the bride who’s run away from her wedding to hang out at a bar, and Dallas is the bartender.

Our chemistry makes the whole practice feel so natural that we don’t even run through the scene a second time. The audition is one of the best auditions I’ve ever done, and by the time Dallas and I are back in the lobby on the bench again, I’m buzzing from the energy of the whole experience, one leg bouncing wildly while we wait on callbacks.

“You know that feeling when you just know you got the part?” I ask Dallas.

They nod enthusiastically.

“That’s what just happened there, right?”

“Girl. Yes. That show is ours,” they say.

“You just can’t teach chemistry like what we have,” I say, and Dallas snaps their fingers a few times in quick succession, nodding in agreement.

The lobby of the theater hums with nervous energy, each person or pair somewhere on the scale of “confident they nailed it” to “confident they didn’t.” The air is thick with uncertainty and possibility as our fates hang in the balance.

The student directors come up the stairs again, one by one, calling back individuals and new pairs of people. I read three more scripts with people I don’t know very well for shows I have little interest in.

Being paired with Dallas means I can comfortably deep dive into a character for the exact kind of escapism I’m hoping for this semester.

When the student directors come back upstairs in a group and thank us all for our time, promising the cast list in three days, Dallas and I exchange looks that say the same thing: We got this in the bag.