Off Book

3. Jade

3

JADE

“. . . and here’s a marvellous convenient place for our rehearsal.” Act III, Scene I

I’ve been itching for a week to find out who Ian Davidson is.

An extensive social media search came up empty, so I asked around the theater department as subtly as I could about my mysterious scene partner, but all I could get from people was “He’s that tech theater kid.”

Unhelpful as fuck.

If I have met him, he’s entirely forgettable.

And now I’m early to the first rehearsal, sitting in the black box theater before even the director has arrived. I’d hoped Ian would turn up early too, but no such luck.

“Jade! Dahhling!” Anastasia—a blonde, pale senior theater major and the director of this one-act—floats in from upstairs and over to me, leaning across a row of seats to awkwardly hug me.

Anastasia is one of those theater kids non-theater people meet and say, “You must be a theater kid.” In addition to randomly breaking out in song or Shakespearen monologues, she often puts on an accent as the mood suits her. Tonight’s choice is British, as showcased by the way she said “dahling” instead of “darling” just now. I’ve also heard her do Russian, Jamaican, and most European accents.

As with any audition process, I was cast in this one-act at the mercy of the directors, and although I probably wouldn’t have chosen Anastasia as my director, she’s harmless. Not being with Dallas is the true disappointment. Though, if my investigations into Ian Davidson are true and he is a tech theater major, to say I won’t be a happy camper would be an understatement.

Trailing Anastasia is a short Black girl, clutching a huge binder as if her life depends on it. She stops and holds out her hand to me.

“Madison,” she says.

“Our fearless stage manager,” I say, and take her hand.

“You must be Jade,” Madison says with an eager smile.

“Well, I’m definitely not Ian.”

“Jade, you are an absolute riot,” Anastasia says as she rearranges four chairs on the stage. She’s obviously committing to the British accent, and now I have to commit to not killing her tonight.

How long is Ian going to keep us waiting?

“Am I late?”

A male voice has all three of us turning our heads in the direction from which it came.

A green bean of a man stands on the edge of the stage, a backpack hiked so far up on his shoulders you can tell he’s never tried to appear cool or casual a day in his life. His dirty blond hair, which is short in the back and longer in the front, hangs in his face in soft wisps, like one of those men who have such naturally soft hair that even when they gel it, it won’t hold all day. He’s wearing all black, which is a little on the nose for a tech theater kid, down to his Doc Marten boots.

He’s cute, and it turns out I have seen him around the department—in tech meetings and with other crew on shows—I’ve just never really paid attention to him.

“Ian! Daahhling ,” Anastasia croons.

I clench my jaw so hard I’m afraid I’ll crack a tooth, inhaling sharply and exhaling slowly to control myself. No way am I going to make it through two months of this.

“Come sit. Jade, come, come.” She waves all of us over to the chairs, and I follow directions, if for no other reason than to make her stop talking.

No such luck, though, because that’s all she does for the next half-hour as she explains to us her passion for this project and why she chose this particular play. In all my years in theater, I’ve never heard a director talk so much and bore me to death at the same time.

I love theater. I’d be a theater major if I weren’t depending on someone else’s money for college, and if said person didn’t expect me to get a degree in an “acceptable” field of study. My father didn’t object to a theater minor, so I settled on that with a business major. Besides, I participate just as much as the students who are majoring. This place is my second home; these people are my family.

I take the opportunity to study Ian. He doesn’t look entirely miserable, but he does look out of his element. He keeps shifting, crossing his arms and then uncrossing them. He does the same with his legs. He runs his hands through his hair and then tosses his head a little, like a pony. I hold in a snort of laughter at the thought and casually scratch my nose to cover my smile.

He seems so nervous that I’m surprised he showed up tonight. Does this kid have any confidence? That’s a quality I find more attractive than a set of curious brown eyes and a sharp jawline. Just because everyone is physically my type doesn’t mean I’d sleep with everyone.

But the real question isn’t whether I’d sleep with Ian. It’s . . . is he secretly an acting pro, or will he be terrible once we get started? If we ever get started. Anastasia is still droning on, and even Madison looks a little bored. I’m starting to consider interrupting when, miraculously, someone else does.

“Sorry to interrupt . . . Did I miss something? I didn’t get a script. Did you email it out?” Ian asks. His brow is furrowed as if asking that series of questions brought him physical pain. He’s gripping his black jeans, knuckles white, and there’s a sheen of sweat over his forehead.

Poor guy.

“Oh goodness, I’m sorry. I get so carried away. Madison, please?”

Madison stands and hands each of us a stack of papers stapled together. The top sheet displays the title of our one-act in bold letters: The Mercy Seat by Neil LaBute.

As the stage manager for the one-act, Madison acts as the master organizer for the show. She’ll figure out what props we need and gather those, set the stage for us before rehearsals, do the light and sound cues the night of the show, and just generally help to make Anastasia’s vision come to life.

“I thought we could do a quick read-through, just to get a sense of the story, and I’d like to get a general idea of your chemistry.”

She should have tested our chemistry during auditions—that’s what callbacks are for. But it doesn’t matter now. She either made a huge mistake or took a gamble that will pay off. For Anastasia, stakes are low. These shows aren’t well-attended or graded; they’re entirely optional for everyone in the department. But for me, this show matters. I need the escape. So even if Anastasia is willing to risk me and Ian not having great stage chemistry, I’m not. I need this to be good.

“A read-through,” Ian says. It’s not a question, just a statement.

“You know what a read-through is, right?” I ask, a little sassier than I mean to come across.

“I took an acting class,” he mumbles. His leg is bouncing, and I catch the movement in my peripheral.

Without thinking, I reach out and grip his thigh. “Chill, dude,” I say.

He freezes under my touch, and his eyes burn a hole in my hand. I remove my grip from his leg slowly. Damn. This kid is so intense.

“From the top!” Anastasia says, not addressing our conversation. “Just a note, I did make some cuts. This isn’t the whole play, ’cause the whole thing was too long, so make sure you’re using this script. It’s the right one.”

We read through the script and the story slowly unfolds for us. The play is set in New York City on September 12, 2001, the day after the Twin Towers fell. The scene is between a man, Ben, an employee in the World Trade Center who should have been at work that morning, and the woman he was with instead, Abby, his lover and boss. He has a choice now: fake his death and run away with his lover or tell his wife, who thinks he’s dead or missing in the rubble of the World Trade Center. Abby’s choice is to leave him or commit to a man who would never tell his wife the truth.

The play is intense, and when we finish reading, we all just sit in silence. It’s a ballsy choice for a student-directed one-act. But theater kids love that shit. We love to be edgier than the students who came before us. Bolder. Spicier. And this definitely fits the bill.

Anastasia is the first to break the silence. “You two have absolutely atrocious chemistry.”

“It was a read-through, Anastasia,” I say and try to control my eye roll.

The worst part is, she’s not wrong. Ian stuttered his way through all his lines, reading them like some kind of robot. I have better chemistry with lighting fixtures. A lack of chemistry isn’t the problem; it’s obviously the non-actor in the group. I bite my tongue to keep from saying that, though.

“You’ll need to spend some time together outside of rehearsals. We’re going to do one rehearsal a week for the first month, and once we go off book, let’s make it twice a week. When we get closer to the show, we can add in a few more as needed.”

“You know what off book means, right?” I lean toward Ian.

“It means your script is memorized,” Madison chimes in.

“I know what it means to be off book,” Ian mutters, staring at his script.

“Next week, same time?” I ask, standing abruptly, taking command of the room. I’m over this. All of it. Whatever Anastasia sees in Ian is beyond me, and now I’m stuck with him and this shitty situation.

So much for an escape.

“Yes, we’ll meet here. Spend time together this week, please,” Anastasia says.

Ian’s head swivels like he can’t quite follow what just happened. As I turn to leave, his chair scrapes on the floor, and then his footsteps trail behind me. He catches up to me, a hand on my arm to stop me in my tracks.

“Wait—hey,” he says.

We’re in the dark hallway leading to the steps. It’s a decent make-out spot, but I don’t think that’s what Ian stopped me for.

“Shouldn’t we get together or at least exchange numbers? Anastasia said we need to hang out.”

I’m on a step above him, but I still have to look up to meet his eye. His palm is clammy against my arm. He’s close enough that I can smell whatever Old Spice product he uses and something else that’s really familiar . . . the scene shop? The scene shop is in the basement of the theater building and always smells like Home Depot. It’s where sets are created and there’s a repository of costumes and props for the shows at MPC.

“Sure. Gimme your phone,” I say, and we exchange phones, typing our numbers into each other’s contacts.

Just as he’s about to hand my phone back to me, it dings with the specific chime I set for one person only.

My mother.

Before he can see who texted me, I snatch my phone out of his hand, stuffing it into the pocket of my jeans. I have no idea what awaits me on the other side of that text, but whatever it is, I don’t want to be in front of people for it.

“Are you free tomorrow night?” I ask, shoving his phone into his chest probably a little more roughly than necessary.

He follows me as I walk up the stairs and into the lobby. “Friday night? Um, yeah, I guess.”

“Let’s meet at my place. Seven o’clock?” I stop abruptly and face him.

He’s catching his breath, and there’s a strange, half-panicked look in his eye.

“We can hook up if you’re down? Bang it out. It builds chemistry pretty quickly in my experience. I’m in the on-campus apartments—I’ll text you my apartment number.”

Ian’s jaw drops slightly, his eyes widening just enough to elicit a laugh from me.

“Bring condoms!” I yell before leaving the theater building without so much as a glance back.

I text Ian my apartment number on my way back. It’s a cool September evening, the first hints of fall in the air. I swear I step on a crunchy leaf, but it might just be a potato chip.

I know the reputation I have in the theater department, and for the most part, it’s true. That’s why it doesn’t bother me. People try to talk about my sex life and inject shame and judgment, but those things stick to me like I’m made of water. It’s not for everyone, and that’s okay, because it works for me. But because it doesn’t work for everyone, I probably should have asked if Ian wanted to hook up instead of just telling him, but in my experience most people are eager. If there’s ever a horny group, it’s theater kids.

I’m not confident Ian won’t be as awkward tomorrow night as he was at rehearsal tonight. I’m not even sure why I offered it in the first place, but hooking up with my scene partner has created chemistry in the past—an accidental discovery. Plus, the added benefit of hooking up with Ian is the opportunity for a rebound fuck. I love them. It’s like my memory cells replace all my old encounters with the new one. This is a two-for-one deal I can’t pass up.

When I get back to my apartment, I call out for Jessie and Mac, trying to gauge if anyone is home. No response means the coast is clear, and I flop down onto the couch, pulling out my phone to check my mom’s text message.

Hi honey! Just had my 5th date with Rob, what a sweetie. He’s so handsome and thoughtful . . . I really think he might be The One. Miss you! Call me soon? Love, Mom

My stomach drops, and I have to set my phone down and take a few deep breaths.

If I had a dollar for every time my mom thought her current boyfriend was The One, I wouldn’t need my rich, emotionally distant father to pay for school—my mother’s delusions would cover it. But they don’t. In fact, my mother’s beliefs about love and soulmates have never done a damn thing to improve my life. If anything, they’ve made life harder. My childhood was spent picking up the discarded pieces of her heart as she cycled through relationships, falling madly in love and then tumbling into madness when those relationships inevitably didn’t work out. I should be spending my senior year thinking about postgrad plans, but now that my mom is dating someone new, I’ll inevitably spend my time wondering when this relationship will end too.

“Hey, you okay?” Jessie’s voice interrupts my thoughts.

I didn’t even hear the door open, but Jessie is here now, sans Mac, holding a Styrofoam food container from the cafeteria and staring at me with concern in her eyes.

“Yeah. I just . . . I got a text from my mom.”

Jessie knows the bare minimum when it comes to my mom: that she drinks too much sometimes when she goes through a breakup—which is, if I’m lucky, only once a year, sometimes less.

The last time Mom went through a breakup was last fall, sometime after the Halloween party where Jessie and Mac made out (but Jessie didn’t actually know she was making out with Mac, because Mac apparently makes a killer Shakespeare costume). Mom’s been single since that breakup—almost a year ago—so this is one of her longest stretches as a single woman. If she has been dating, she hasn’t texted me.

A long time ago, I told my mom she had to stop texting me every time she met someone, and to only text me if it was serious. This was partially so I could prepare myself for the breakup, but also because I got sick of constant updates about every single date she went on.

“Everything okay?” Jessie asks, not pressing for more despite her obvious curiosity.

“She, uh . . . she has a new boyfriend.”

“Oh! That’s kind of exciting?” Jessie says hesitantly, studying my face to see if that was the right thing to say.

I shake my head, and Jessie mimics the action.

“For absolutely no one,” she adds, trying to play off her mistake.

The corners of my mouth lift into a smile, and I join her in the kitchen as she unpacks her food, dumping half the contents of her Styrofoam container onto a plate. Soy sauce, ginger, and garlic waft toward me, making my mouth water, and I reach out to steal a noodle.

“Maybe for normal people, but for my mom, it just means heartbreak is around the corner.”

“What do you mean?” Jessie asks.

“Ya know, she has trouble holding onto relationships, and when they inevitably end . . . she just . . . doesn’t handle breakups well,” I say with a shrug.

I pop another noodle into my mouth, and Jessie playfully slaps my hand as I reach for a third bite. I didn’t realize how hungry I was.

She tucks the rest of her food into the fridge and carries her plate to the table.

“Can I have the rest of your stir-fry?” I ask. “I’ll buy you lunch and dinner tomorrow.”

Jessie narrows her eyes at me but nods while shoveling a forkful of noodles into her mouth.

I take the container out of the fridge, plus a cold Diet Coke, and pile the food onto a plate, joining Jessie at the table. She waits for me to continue, her eyes drifting between me and her plate expectantly. Her curiosity is palpable, but when it’s just me and her and the topic of my mom hanging in the air between us, I feel uneasy.

It’s my own fault Jessie doesn’t fully grasp the situation with my mom or what it means that she’s in a relationship. Every time I try to talk about it, I get so uncomfortable I have trouble finishing my sentences or explaining the full story. It’s like I’ve never baked a cake, but I’m so intimidated by the process that I give up before I make it all the way through combining the ingredients. Telling Jessie the whole story would mean opening a door to a closet I don’t want anyone to see inside. So, instead of talking about it, Jessie and I stew in silence, shoveling noodles and vegetables into our mouths.

“You know, not talking about it doesn’t mean it’s not real,” Jessie says, so gently and quietly I almost don’t catch it. She’s not looking at me, and I appreciate her so much in this moment—her willingness to say such a brutally honest thing with such genuine kindness.

But Jessie is wrong. Not talking about it is exactly how I keep reality at bay. If I don’t acknowledge my mom’s behavior with anyone else, it’s easier to manage. It’s too scary, too big a thing to say out loud, much less to let someone else see. It’s safer where it exists right now: with me, and me alone.

“So what are you doing tonight?” I ask, knowing Jessie will follow my redirection. “Wait, let me guess. Studying?”

Jessie smirks and rolls her eyes at me, but she also nods, her mouth still full of food.

“Where’s Mac?” I ask.

“A study group,” she says, still chewing.

“You weren’t invited? Et tu, Brute?”

“I know . . . we’ll probably break up.”

“As long as we keep the apartment and he continues to pay for it, that’s fine.”

“That’s entirely reasonable.”

“Okay, well, since you’ve been betrayed, let me be your study buddy.”

Jessie narrows her eyes at me. She knows my offer comes with strings.

“Are you trying to do my makeup?”

“Pleeaaasseeeeee? I’ll quiz you while I do it, like we’ve done a million times.”

Jessie scrunches her nose.

I’ve asked her to be my makeup model so many times over the past few years. She gets a break over the summer, when we don’t live near each other, but she’s the only person I’ve felt comfortable asking to practice on. It’s kind of an intimate thing, putting makeup on someone else. It requires a level of trust I don’t share with just anyone.

“I’ll agree, contingent on you not making me into some weird character again. It took me ages to get that purple makeup off my face last time. You can do something pretty or artsy.”

“Deal! I just need to post something. It’s been too long.”

“Oh noooo. Whatever will your twenty followers do?”

“Your sarcasm isn’t welcome here. And for the record, it’s twenty thousand .”

“Yes, yes. We all know how internet-famous you are.”

“You’re the only one not impressed with my internet fame.”

“That’s because I know you for real,” she says.

“You should be more impressed because of that. You’re friends with a celebrity. Basically. And when you get featured on my page, you always get, like, a hundred more followers.”

“Followers who are deeply disappointed that all I post about is whatever book I was just reading, a new fountain pen ink, or my boyfriend. And come to think of it, I think they just like my boyfriend posts, because Mac is . . . well—” She shrugs and raises her eyebrows like I know the rest of the sentence.

“A sexy motherfucker?”

“Exactly.”

“Well, a sexy Jessie-fucker . . .”

“Oh my god, Jade.” She rolls her eyes.

“You love meeee.” I bat my eyelashes at her.

“I’m cursed with you,” she says.

“That’s practically the same thing.”

We finish eating, and I take our plates, loading the dishwasher while Jessie gives the kitchen a quick tidy. She follows me to my room, and while I set up my makeup station and the ring light, she sets up her textbook and notecards so I can quiz her. At this point, we’re a well-oiled machine.

I plug my phone in and clip it on the ring light holder. If I don’t text my mom back, she’ll worry, but I also don’t think her earlier text warrants the energy of a full-ass response, so I send a quick thumbs-up and a heart and set my phone to “do not disturb.”

“Ready?” I ask, and when Jessie nods, I hit record.

I prep my supplies and her face, starting in on quizzing her like we always do. For this video, I’ll just do a time-lapse and a voiceover, so it doesn’t really matter what Jessie and I talk about.

“What will I do without you next year?” I say somewhat offhandedly while pausing to admire my work and Jessie’s patience in letting me practice on her.

“What are you doing next year?” she asks. “I feel like we haven’t talked about this.”

We haven’t. And there’s a reason for that.

An uncomfortable lump forms in my throat. I cough to clear it, but it doesn’t go away. I don’t actually like talking about this, despite my casual comment, but the curse of being a senior is that everyone else wants to talk about it. And if there’s one thing worse than classmates like Dallas asking me, it’s having the question come from my best friend and roommate of the past three years, because whatever the answer is, it doesn’t involve me being roommates with Jessie anymore. And that is a thought that makes me a level of sad that goes beyond the four levels Jessie described.

“Girl, it is way too soon to be talking about postgrad right now,” I say with more indifference than I feel.

Jessie snorts. “I wish that were true. It’s all Mac wants to talk about.”

“You guys are both planning on grad school, right?”

“Yes,” she says, “but he wants to go somewhere far away, like . . . Stanford and UC Berkley, and I’m, like, ‘Okay, Moneybags McGee, how about somewhere that will actually pay for me to go there?’”

I swear the room gets hotter the more she talks about it. I clip my hair off my neck and study her face like I’m weighing my next move in a chess match.

Outside of my grandma, Jessie is the closest thing I’ve had to a stable relationship my whole life. I’ve never been under any illusions that she and I will go to the same place after college, but also, I remind myself there are theaters all over the country, and wherever Jessie does end up, it’s not out of the question that I could go there too. Before she got a boyfriend, I imagined we could make some postgrad plans together, maybe. But now, she has Mac, and she’ll be making that decision with him.

Could the three of us make postgrad plans together? Sure. Will Jessie and Mac want me tagging along for the rest of their lives? Probably not.

I don’t want to be thinking about this right now, especially not hot on the heels of a text from my mom and the ticking time bomb of her relationship. I shove it all out of my brain and let it disappear into the abyss.

“Any school should be paying you for the privilege of having you as their student, and if they don’t, just give me the number to call and the name of someone to yell at. Now, back to . . .”—I check her notecards—“the definition of a somatogenic theory.”

Jessie laughs and spouts off the definition, and I try to enjoy the rest of our evening together despite the ghosts of all the things I pushed off the cliff of my mind.