***
“Have I polished my shoes?” Dr. Lochley asks slowly, rhythmically, raising her hands over her head. Onstage, the cast mirrors her.
“Yes, I’ve polished my shoes,” they chant, bowing and rising in (nearly) perfect sync, smiling into the empty house.
I’m smiling too: no emergency stops, no scene change disasters, like the time someone dropped the jar of Eliza’s marbles inMy Fair Ladyduring the scene change and Miss Benayoun had to vamp the orchestra for three straight minutes while we chased them down.
Liam’s standing center stage, shirtless, our perfectly formulated fake blood running down the valley of his chest and sticking to the ridges of his abs. His hair is held down by the plastic crown of thorns I found at a religious supply store.
I was worried I might burst into flames the moment I stepped through the door, but I made it out unscathed, except for the handful of pamphlets stuffed into my bag at the checkout counter.
Liam catches my eye and beams at me. He’s breathing hard, like he just swam a race, and even though there aren’t anyfollowspots on him right now, he’s still so luminous I have to look away.
Dr. Lochley claps her hands once, says something to the cast I can’t catch, and they all scatter to get out of costume and ready for notes.
As I gather my stuff, Dr. Lochley pops back to the tech table.
“Nicely done, Jackson,” she says.
I hide my smile as I stuff my binder into my backpack.
“You’ve really come into your own as a somethingsomething. I’m proud of you.”
I think my face might set the theatre on fire. Maybe it’s good the fire marshal came by this semester.
“Thanks,” I manage.
She squeezes my shoulder and heads back toward the stage, where Cam is crouched on the apron, trying to get her attention.
Denise elbows my side. “She’s right. You did good.”
“Nah.” But my smile might actually break my jaw. It’snearlyenough to make me forget my exhaustion. After a full day of classes, then a dress rehearsal, my brain feels like a shmoodie left in the car on a sunny day.
I climb the woogedy stairs from the house to the stage—we’ll pull them out before the show—and head backstage.
In the wings, actors elbow each other, making their way to the dressing room or the scene shop, which we’re using as a makeshift dressing room as well. Most people try to get the real thing, though; no matter how much I sweep or vacuum, there’s always the risk of sawdust and splinters in the scene shop.
I check the props table, make sure the dimmer rack didn’t throw any errors. Paige pulls the cross offstage and sweeps. She’shonestly amazing: If I mentor her well, maybe she can take over for me when I graduate.
When we finish, Paige goes to check the dressing room, while I take the scene shop. I open the door slowly—so anyone indecent has a chance to get decent—then let myself in. It’s empty, except fora very shirtlessLiam.
He’s cleaned the fake blood off his chest, and wiped off his makeup, but his cheeks are still pink. And when he spots me, he signs, “Help.”
He points to the crown of thorns, tangled in his feathery hair.
“Hold on.” The scene shop has been transformed for tech week: its gray brick walls no longer lit by harsh fluorescents but by the warm glow of incandescent PARs stationed around the room. Two huge mirrors have been laid on their sides on the worktable, propped up by the miter saw and the band saw, to serve as makeup mirrors; on the opposite wall, where we store flats in huge steel racks, are more mirrors, regular IKEA ones standing up for people to check their costumes.
I gently shove Liam into a seat so I can reach him better. He’s still too tall, and he’s radiating more heat than usual, even though the scene shop is chilly. I untangle a strand from the back of his head, right where there are two whorls. I never noticed Liam has two whorls. He’s quiet as I work, though he winces when I accidentally tug too hard.
“Sorry.”
“It’s fine. Keep going,” he signs. His eyes in the mirror follow me as I work, slowly disentangling the crown. Once I get the back free, I move to his front. This close I can really see the effect of the eyeliner. His eyes are two pools of water, and I think I mightdrown in them. He’s still looking right at me, and between that and his bare chest, throwing off heat like a furnace, I think I might pass out.
I can’t look down: I’ll just see more of his chest. Even though he’s slouching, his abs still show, which I didn’t think was actually possible. There’s a sheen of sweat coating him, so the light catches on all the ripples and ridges that make up his front. I focus on the center of his forehead instead, willing him to not look anywhere in the vicinity of my jeans, which are feeling tight and uncomfortable.
I think about light cues and Dr. Lochley’s notes and to-do lists until I finally free the last lock of hair and hoist the crown overhead. “Got it!”
Liam laughs and stands, and suddenly he’s looming over me again, his chest still flushed from the show.
