Off Book

6. Jade

6

JADE

“We will meet, and there we may rehearse most obscenely and courageously.” Act I, Scene II

“Mac threw out your flowers this afternoon,” Jessie says as she approaches the theater, where I’m waiting outside for her.

I haven’t been back to the apartment all day and my phone battery is hanging on by a thread, so I bribed Jessie to bring me my charger since I have to meet up with a study group for a Spanish project after rehearsal.

“Well, they were two weeks old and dying. Such a shame. I should have dried them and put them in a shadow box,” I say.

“I still can’t believe he got you baby-shower flowers,” Jessie says with a snort.

“I still can’t believe he wouldn’t sleep with me,” I say.

Jessie just rolls her eyes. She knows I don’t mean it. “I wouldn’t have slept with you either if I were him!”

“I still can’t believe you wouldn’t sleep with me given the chance,” I say, mock-offended.

“I still can’t believe you haven’t asked me if I’ve heard from any grad schools yet,” Jessie says with a restrained smile.

I’m a little taken aback by the abrupt change of subject, and once my brain catches up to what she said, I have a moment of panic. If Jessie’s hearing from grad schools already, it means she’s going to be making decisions soon. As her best friend, I’m obviously thrilled for her, but selfishly, I don’t want graduation to be a reality yet.

“Girl, it is the first day of October. I knew you were applying early, but you’ve already heard back? Who is making decisions this early?” I try to keep my tone bright and excited for her, but I feel like she can see through it. If she does, she doesn’t acknowledge it.

“Middle Penn College,” Jessie says with a sly smile.

“Oh my god,” I say with an eye roll. “Well, duh.”

“I know, I know. Kind of a shoo-in. But the grad programs here aren’t great for what I want anyway, and Mac doesn’t want to stay on the East Coast, so it doesn’t matter.”

Relief rushes through me like a flood. It’s not a final anything, and it’s nothing set in stone. That’s when things get real: when people start confirming plans and saying yes to things. For now we’re still in the in-between, and I can still pretend like this year will never end and Jessie and I will be roommates forever.

“Why did you apply then?” I ask.

“An easy yes. Gives me the confidence to apply to more places and hope they’ll say yes too.” She shrugs.

“Well . . . a yes is a yes is a yes. And you’re terrible at celebrating. So you know what this calls for?” I ask.

“Jade, no. You don’t?—”

“I do,” I say and riffle through my backpack until I find the small confetti popper I carry around. I let out a whoop and pop it right onto Jessie, and she stands there, eyes closed, arms limp at her sides, as brightly colored confetti rains down around her, landing in her hair and on the sidewalk. I giggle maniacally, and Jessie tries to fight a smile.

“Who is going to clean this up?” she asks, using her sternest voice.

I shrug as she shakes her head to try to loosen the confetti from her hair. It cascades down over her shoulders, adding to the brightly colored confetti on the sidewalk.

“What are we celebrating?” Ian asks, approaching me and Jessie. He’s once again wearing black jeans, a graphic tee, and a denim jacket, like one of those guys who just owns multiples of the same items of clothing to reduce decision fatigue.

I can’t deny that he’s an attractive guy. He’s got a jawline that could cut glass, and the way his hair flops into his face is cute. Every time I see him, he gets a little bit more attractive to me, like he’s an acquired taste. It’s something I’ve never experienced before. Usually, I’m into someone or I’m not, but we had a blocking rehearsal last week where Anastasia went over all the physical movements we have to do in the one-act, and for the first time, I noticed his arms. How, despite his lean frame, the low lighting in the black box theater accentuated the lines of muscles he probably has from hauling heavy light fixtures around. Or is it his work ethic shining through that I’m finding attractive? Even though Ian and I haven’t talked about our failed hookup or anything surrounding it, I could tell at the blocking rehearsal he meant what he said that night in my apartment: he’s committed to working hard despite not being thrilled about acting.

It’s probably his arms.

“We are celebrating how smart my best friend is,” I say, turning my attention back to Jessie as I pick confetti out of her hair.

Jessie cuts her gaze to Ian. “Hi. I’m sorry we didn’t get to meet properly the other night. I’m Jade’s roommate?—”

“And best friend,” I interject.

“And best friend,” Jessie says with a laugh. She holds out her hand to Ian, and they shake. “Jade was just— I told her I got an early acceptance to the grad school here at Middle Penn.”

“Oh, congrats. What’s your major?”

“Psychology.”

“Hello, dahhlings ,” Anastasia says as she breezes past us into the building.

“British again?” I mumble.

“That’s probably our cue to head in,” Ian says.

Jessie hugs me and gives Ian a friendly wave as she heads off in the direction of the library.

“Nice to meet you,” Ian calls after her.

“You too!” Jessie yells back with a smile.

“Shall we?” Ian opens the door to the theater for me.

“So are you off book yet?” I ask as we walk inside.

“Yeah, totally. I memorized it all in one week,” he says, sarcasm dripping from his words.

“We’ve had the script for two weeks, kiddo.”

“Wait.” Ian stops walking, but I don’t. “You’re actually memorized?”

I shake my head in mock disappointment and descend the steps to the black box theater, not answering his panicked question.

“God, the vibes in this room are atrocious,” Anastasia’s saying as we walk in. “Did you bring incense?” she asks Madison, who is already here and gives Anastasia a blank stare, like a wild animal caught in a trap not meant for her. Anastasia sighs and rummages around in her purse, eventually finding a stick of incense and a small lighter.

As much as I hate to admit it, Anastasia is right. The energy is off in here. A little incense wouldn’t hurt.

“That is a fire hazard,” Ian says and plucks the lighter out of her hand before she can light the stick.

Anastasia’s jaw drops open, but she’s fighting a smile too, as if Ian were flirting with her. I watch her eyes follow every move he makes as he pockets her lighter and sets his stuff down in the chairs of the audience on the opposite side of the stage from me. She bites her bottom lip, and when he turns back to her, she pushes her lips out in a pout.

“Ugh, fine. But you’re the one who has to deal with the bad energy,” she says and tucks the incense back in her purse.

It didn’t occur to me that Anastasia might have cast Ian because she has a crush on him, but even for Anastasia, that seems like a stretch. She probably has a crush on him because he’s a straight single guy in theater, and those are hard to come by.

I fight to hide my disgust as I offload my own things onto an audience chair, finding a nearby plug to charge my phone.

“All right, let’s start from the top,” Anastasia says, and Ian and I take our spots on the stage. Anastasia has adopted a New York-type accent. At this point, I don’t think I know what her real voice sounds like.

“Where’s your script?” Ian asks in a whisper.

“I’m off book,” I say with a shrug.

“You were serious?” He clutches at his script, fidgeting with it until it rolls up into a tight circle and then unrolling it.

“I’d love to get through the whole thing three or four times today. Repetition is key,” Anastasia says. “Go ahead and start on the couch, Ian. Jade, you’re?—”

“Offstage, yes,” I say, grinding my teeth.

There’s no actual couch on stage, just two black wooden boxes that will serve as the couch through all our rehearsals. Ian takes a seat there.

“Jade, your cue is going to be the end of the third ring. I’m going to have Madison walk through the light and sound cues, just so you guys can get used to that. Ian, remember, you’re staring at the phone. Your wife is calling. All the feelings, okay?”

I’m in the wings and can’t see Ian’s expression, but I’m guessing it’s something between a lost puppy and a person swimming in the ocean hoping for a life raft. Poor kid.

What am I saying? Poor me . I’m the one trying to give my whole self to this play, and he’s over here acting like he’s being tortured.

“Sound cue one, go,” Madison says.

“Ring, ring,” Anastasia says.

“Light cue one, go,” Madison says. “The lights come up.”

“Ring, ring.” Anastasia again.

“Ring, ring.”

That’s my cue.

I walk onto the stage and go through the motions of putting groceries away. Anastasia continues to act like the phone for two more rings, which is my cue to walk over and take the phone out of Ian’s hand and start my lines.

He’s holding his iPhone, which won’t be the actual prop since this is set in 2001, but we don’t have the prop phones yet, so I yank his phone out of his hand and start the dialogue exchange.

It’s a stilted exchange, as I know my lines and Ian is still reading almost every word directly from the script. I’m acting my heart out, trying to discover the roller coaster of my character’s emotions. I want to portray the pain of a New Yorker experiencing the aftermath of 9/11 and the frustration of a woman with a lover who’s hesitant to be with her, but it’s damn near impossible when I feel like I’m acting alongside a cardboard box.

We get through the whole one-act, which is only supposed to be a half-hour long but takes an hour. Even Anastasia looks a little tense when she comes out of the audience chairs and joins us onstage.

“Okay,” she says. She presses her hands together as if in prayer and then presses them against her mouth. “So maybe not our best. But I have seen worse.”

There’s no way she’s seen worse. She’s even dropped her accent, and that is a bad sign with Anastasia.

“I’m sorry,” Ian says. “I know I’m the deadweight.”

“It’s fine!” Anastasia says in a pitch too high. “Once your lines are memorized, it should be much smoother.”

God help us. I refrain from rolling my eyes.

For most people, line memorizing sounds like the hardest part of being in a play. But everyone who’s been in a play knows the real work only happens after you’re off book. Once the scripts are down, you’re able to dive deep into the inner lives of the characters, which is when all the rich, emotional moments happen onstage. It’s nearly impossible to do that work glued to a script.

Which is why I’m already memorized and Ian should be too.

“Let’s pivot. How about we just work through one section?” Anastasia says.

I sigh and drop into one of the audience chairs.

“Let’s talk through the emotions of the first bit there, right when Abby”—Anastasia gestures to me since my character’s name is Abby—“gets home with the groceries and Ben”—she gestures to Ian—“is staring at the phone, and we’ll work through . . .”—she walks over to her seat and grabs her script, flipping through it—“the first moment Ben really gets angry.” She guides us to the line and takes a seat in the front row. “Let’s just chat through the emotional beats of the scene.”

Anastasia has still not picked her fake accent back up. This is how I know she’s finally taking this seriously. Which should make me feel better, but it doesn’t. I would feel better if she were starting to see the error of her ways, having to direct a newbie, and maybe personally apologized to me for having to endure it. The most likely option, though, is that she’s excited by the challenge of it, and I am just the collateral damage. I grind my teeth.

“Okay, Jade, let’s start with you.” Anastasia shifts her body to face where I’m sitting. “What does Abby want in this moment? She’s just come back from witnessing the horrors of the immediate post-9/11 world, and she’s come home to this man she’s been with for quite a while. What is her expectation of the moment? What is she hoping will happen when she comes home?”

“I think Abby is used to brushing her emotions off to the side for work. She’s an executive and didn’t get to where she wants to be by playing around, so she’s trying to do what she always does, but it’s harder when it’s something this big. So I think she’s struggling with her own emotions about the event, maybe trying to push them aside for now, but on top of that, she wants to be with Ben. She wants him to tell his wife the truth, and she’s kind of a little bit sick of his shit. She wants him to get it together. I think she left the apartment with the hopes he would have pulled it together by the time she got back, and so when she sees he’s in the exact same position, doing the exact same thing, but this time with his phone in his hand, she’s really annoyed and disappointed.”

Ian stares at me like I’ve just monologued in Latin.

“Good,” Anastasia says and turns to Ian, who has a fine sheen of sweat over his forehead. “And what does Ben want in this moment? What are his expectations of Abby? He may be surprised that she’s home, but in general, what does he want from her in this scenario?”

“Um . . .” The muscles in Ian’s neck work as he stares at his script for answers. “I think he . . . wants . . . Well, he’s kind of selfish. He wants things to go his way. But in this particular bit, he’s kind of zoned out.”

Anastasia nods encouragingly.

I cross my arms. He should have done this work outside of rehearsal—we shouldn’t have to use rehearsal time for this. This is foundational Beginning Acting stuff, and he’s taken a Beginning Acting class, so it’s not like he doesn’t know what to do.

“Why is he zoned out?” Anastasia asks.

“Maybe he’s thinking. And he’s just in his head.”

“Okay . . . Is that something you can relate to in any way?” Anastasia asks.

Ian nods—just a slight up-down shake of his head.

“So Ben is thinking, and Abby comes in and interrupts him. So what does he want in this moment?” she asks, repeating herself.

“Um . . .” He flips through the script again, and this time I take a seat in an audience chair.

I cut a glance at Madison, who gives me an encouraging “hang in there” kind of look. I send a tight smile back to her.

“I think maybe Ben wants to be left alone with his thoughts, but she keeps coming at him, and that’s what makes him yell at her eventually. He feels attacked,” Ian says.

“Good,” Anastasia says. “Let’s take this”—she gestures at Ian—“and do it again. I know you aren’t totally memorized, but your lines are all pretty short here. Maybe just try to remember two at a time before looking down at your script?”

He nods and glances at me, but I pretend I didn’t see and take my spot off in the wings to start from the top. What a disaster.

Madison cues us in, and we run through the section we just discussed, Anastasia cutting us off when we get to the designated line.

“How did that feel?” she asks.

“Better,” Ian says, but he looks to me.

“Yeah, it was better,” I say, and it was, but the bar was in hell, so it’s not like it could have gotten much worse. At this rate, we’ll need a year before Ian is ready to actually perform. And I’ll need a lobotomy to erase this specific period of time in my acting career.

“Let’s run it again,” Anastasia says, and we do. We run this specific section until the end of rehearsal. Each time is a little better, and each time, Ian uses his script a little less.

“That’s time,” Madison says, announcing the end of rehearsal.

“Thank you, Time,” Ian and I say and head to our backpacks respectively.

I unplug my phone, which has been charging, and grab my stuff, ready to get the hell out of Dodge.

“Lovely job, everyone,” Anastasia says. “Please continue to spend time together outside of rehearsals. Chemistry is essential for this play.”

And there’s the comment. What good will chemistry do if Ian can’t even memorize his lines?

Ian got a head start on me leaving, but I catch him in the lobby before he walks out the doors.

“Ian, wait up.”

He pauses, waiting for me to catch up.

“All right, let’s schedule something,” I say.

Ian stares blankly at me for a beat.

“I don’t mean another hookup,” I say.

“Oh, yeah. That makes sense. Obviously. ’Cause we’re going to build chemistry my way this time,” he says enthusiastically.

“Yes, and we’re going to run lines. Every day. Until you’re off book.”

“Every day? Do you have that kind of time? Do I have that kind of time?”

“We’re going to make the time,” I say. “Lines, chemistry-building. Win-win.”

He agrees, and we talk schedules, planning something for every day until our rehearsal next week before parting ways. I’m not having another rehearsal like that. I don’t care if I have to drill-sergeant him myself: this green bean will not ruin my experience with this show. How am I supposed to get lost in my character when my scene partner is stuttering his lines out like a baby goat?

I shake the rehearsal off. It was a shitty two hours, but it’s a beautiful autumn evening and I’m going to enjoy my walk back to my apartment. Even if I am walking because my car is still acting funny and I can’t drive it.

The cool night air signals the farewell to hot weather I’ve been looking forward to. Summer exhaling her last breaths is a welcome change of seasons for me, because I’m changing seasons too. Out with the old relationship, in with the new me.

Well, the single me at least.

My phone rings, startling me out of my thoughts. The screen reads “Mom.”

With a heavy sigh, I brace myself for whatever this phone call is about to be. If it’s a breakup call, I’ll need to rearrange my schedule, and I do a mental inventory of my calendar for the next week. Mostly, I’ll just have to rearrange Ian and deal with another shitty rehearsal, but if that’s what I need to deal with to get my mom stabilized, I will. She may be calling just to say hi, but those calls are rare when she’s in the early stages of a relationship. She forgets to ask about my life when she’s dating someone. The most likely scenario is she’s calling to update me, just to gush about her dates, but I prepare myself anyway.

“Hey, Mom, what’s up?”

“Jade! I just wanted to call and see how you are.”

“Things are good. Just got out of rehearsal.”

“Oh! Are you in a play?”

She sounds bright and cheery. I don’t think she’s just been dumped, and I don’t think she’s gotten engaged—she would have said so already if it were either one of those. I was better at reading her emotions when I still lived at home, and I’ve gotten sloppy since moving two hours away.

“A one-act,” I say. “How are things with Rob?”

“He’s just lovely, Jade. He’s so thoughtful. He just picked me up for a date and took me to dinner. He bought me flowers and paid for everything. He’s just so charming.”

“Sounds like the bare minimum,” I say and give a tight-lipped smile to another student passing by.

“Don’t spoil my fun!” Mom says, but she’s not mad. She’s kicking her feet and giggling, and I wish I could do the same with her, but I’ve been burned too many times to encourage her to build fires.

“I’m glad he’s treating you well,” I say, knowing full well the only way through this conversation is . . . through. I let her tell me about how they met and every date, and by the time I’m back at my apartment, she isn’t done, but I am.

“Hey, Mom, I’m sorry to interrupt. I just got home, and I had a long day.”

“Of course! I’m just over here talking your ear off. Next time, you tell me all about your play.”

“It’s a one-act,” I mumble. “I’ll talk to you later. Bye.”

I hang up in the middle of her saying “Bye.” Which is rude, but I have a feeling she barely noticed. That’s the way things are with my mom when she’s in love: she just doesn’t fully notice everyone around her. I used to get mad at her for it, but now I know that’s a waste of my energy.

So much of my energy has gone toward my mom in my life, and college has been the first time I’ve really felt free of the roles she and I have always played. Here, I get to just be me, occasionally playing the part of dutiful daughter, whereas at home, it’s a different story. Every time Mom calls or texts, I get all tense, knowing I have to slip back into that old role for as long as she needs me.

I dump all my things at the end of the couch and snag a Diet Coke and some Nerds Gummy Clusters from the kitchen. I flop onto the couch, grateful no one else is around so I can have the TV all to myself. I pull a blanket around me and turn on The Real Housewives reruns, letting myself be free of being anyone’s daughter for at least the rest of the night.