“Break!” calls Timothy.
“Again?” says Claudio. “Shouldn’t we run the rest of it straight through...?”
“Break!” repeats Timothy, in his don’t-cross-me voice, which he doesn’t use often. “Actually, you know what? Let’s break for lunch now. Then we’ll pick up here.”
“It’s only eleven-fifteen...” Claudio persists. Gah, Claudio is a talented actor, but as a person sometimes he really gets on Timothy’s nerves.
“We’ll break for lunch now,” says Timothy firmly. “I’ll see everybody back here in an hour, and we’ll do acts four and five, break for fifteen, and run the whole thing through without stopping. Got it?”
“Got it,” says everyone, except Sam, who nods, and Claudio, who rolls his eyes.
Sam
Sam knows he’s calling this break because of her. She slinks to the edge of the stage, wondering if she can also slink down the steps and out the door without being noticed. But no. Gertie, bless her soul, blocks her, turning her body carefully so that nobody else can see that the two of them are talking.
“What’s wrong?” asks Gertie. “Sammy, what is it?”
Sam can feel that her cheeks are warm. Her elbows itch the way they do when she’s anxious. Once she told Tucker about that and he knelt down andkissedeach of her elbows. It was a very corny thing to do, but it was also very sweet. Sometimes she really, really misses Tucker.
“I don’t know,” she tells Gertie. “I think I’m just tired?” She looks around for her water bottle. She’s so thirsty! Her elbows itch some more. She’s not sure she could eat.
Gertie holds Sam’s eyes. “Something is going on,” she says. Gertie is not a mother, but she’s looking at Sam with a mother’s piercing gaze. “Come. Sit in the back row with me for a minute. Tell me what it is.” From somewhere—thin air? A bag that Sam can’t see?—she produces two icy cold plastic water bottles. She hands one to Sam, and leads her to two seats in the back row. All of the seats are now in perfect working order, thanks to Amy. The curtain will be hung the following day, also thanks to Amy. Gertieholds down one of the seats for Sam, like Sam is either Gertie’s date or a toddler who doesn’t know how seats work, and Sam sits. She opens the water bottle and drinks. The water might be the best thing she’s ever tasted.
“It’s this play,” Sam says finally, almost spitting the words. “Thisstory. I think we should change it. Do you think Uncle Timmy would be into considering an alternate ending?”
Gertie laughs, then sees that Sam is serious, then stops laughing. “Are you asking me if your uncle would be interested in changing the ending of a Shakespeare play?”
“Yes.”
“Eight days out from opening night?”
“Yes. Well, not the whole ending. The Benedick and Beatrice parts can stay.”
“Excellent. I’m not as quick at learning lines as you are, so I’m happy to hear that.”
Sam half smiles. “But the Hero part?Ugh.”
“Tell me more,” says Gertie. “I think I know what you’re getting at, but why don’t you spell it out for me like I don’t.”
Sam sighs and fiddles with the label on the water bottle. “I just can’t believe Hero goes through what she goes through, and then she decides to stay with this guy! I mean, what the hell? He accuses her of sleeping with someone else. Which she didn’t even do. And instead of confronting her about it in private, like a reasonable person who heard some gossip, he humiliates her on her wedding day in front of the whole town. Andthen,he’s going to marry some other girl, because, what, he just can’t conceive of living without a wife? Pathetic.”
“Pathetic,” agrees Gertie.
“So he’ll take some random other girl in her place? Okay, that’s weird. And the only reason he marries Hero after all is because he doesn’t know it’s Hero. And then Hero’s like, oh, never mind that you made me pass out from stress and humiliation in front of allof mywedding guestsand then I had topretend to be deadto survive it all, I still think it’s a great idea if we get married. I would love to be your woman, and, like, bear your children and sweep your floors and make you breakfast every morning.” She notices that Gertie is smiling and she says, “I’m serious. When you look at it that way, it’s a terrible story. Isn’t it?”
Gertie drinks from her own water bottle, and then sits for almost a full minute, like she’s really, truly considering what Sam said. The theater is quiet now; everybody else, even the hammering and glueing set builders, even Jane, the stage manager, who takes only short breaks, has gone to find lunch. But the thought of leaving the dark theater and joining the heat and the crowds on Water Street appeals to Sam about as much as dating the actor who plays Claudio appeals to her.
“Isn’t it?” repeats Sam when Gertie doesn’t answer.
“In some ways.”
“Insomeways?”
“Sam. Honey. Yes, in all the ways that you just outlined, it’s a terrible story. But it’s not real.”
“It feels real to me!” Sam feels like she wants to cry. “It feels real to me.”
“It’s a story, Sam,” says Gertie. “It’s make-believe. And it takes place in fifteen eighty-something. Women didn’t have a lot of choices back then. Our job is to act it out—we’re not here to judge or condone it by today’s standards. We’re just telling the story.”
