Bad Romeo (12 page)

Erika looks at me questioningly.

“It’s true,” I say. “He’s an asshole.”

Erika places her hands on the desk and hangs her head.

“And what do you suggest? That you play Mercutio and Mr. Baine plays Romeo?”

“Yes!” Holt says. “He’d be great at the lame-ass lovey-dovey stuff. I could just die loudly and call it a night. Everyone wins.”

“No, they don’t, Mr. Holt, because you’ll have achieved nothing in your development as an actor, and I’ll miss out on exploiting the remarkable chemistry I witnessed between you and Miss Taylor at the auditions.”

Holt stops dead. “Is that why you cast me in this role? Because of that stupid fucking mirror exercise? Jesus, Erika!”

“That’s not the only reason, but it’s a part of it. Do you think that sort of chemistry comes along every day? Because I’m here to tell you, it doesn’t.”

“But that’s … It wasn’t something that I … I can’t just—”

“Ethan,” Erika says. “I understand dealing with that kind of connection is scary, but it’s exactly what you need to do to grow. You’re so talented in so many ways, but anything that requires you to be open and vulnerable with another person is your Achilles’ heel, and believe me when I say you won’t get very far in this industry, or this course, or
life,
if it continues to be a problem.”

She looks from Ethan to me. “Now, you two have been cast as the leads in one of the greatest romantic tragedies in the history of the world, so stop your bitching and be grateful. You’ll play the roles as they’re assigned, or you’ll both get an F for the semester. I don’t care how you do it, but you need to find a way to work together. Show up on Monday with your lines learned and your game faces on, because I’m going to make you look like you’re in love if it’s the last thing I ever do. Bullshit will not be tolerated on any level. Are we clear?”

Holt and I both mumble, “Yes, Erika,” and look at the floor.

Erika sighs and gathers up her things before saying, “Don’t forget your scripts,” and leaves.

Holt and I just stand there, not looking at each other and not speaking.

I should be happy about being cast, but I’m not.

Holt grabs his script and rehearsal schedule and shoves them into his bag.

“This is so fucked,” he mumbles under his breath. “This whole goddamn year is going to shit, and it’s all your fault.”

“My fault?! How the hell is it my fault that you were cast as Romeo? You can’t always play the brooding, untouchable rebel, you know. At some point you’re going to have to play the romantic lead.”

“That’s crap. Not every actor has to be the leading man. Samuel L. Jackson, Steve Buscemi, John Turturro, John Goodman. They all have
amazing
careers and don’t do the romantic bullshit.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Holt, because I really don’t want to give you a compliment right now, but
you don’t look like any of those guys
. You’re tall and handsome and have freakishly cool hair. People are going to cast you as the leading man, whether you want them to or not.”

“So you want me to be your Romeo? Is that what you’re saying? Because last time I checked, you couldn’t stand to even look at me.”

“No,” I say, “you wouldn’t be my first choice to be Romeo, mainly because you’re an almighty jackass who goes around reading people’s diaries!”

“Fuck this.” He grabs his bag and strides toward the door, but I grab his arm.

“Holt, what the hell is wrong with you? It’s been two weeks, and you haven’t even
tried
to make things better between us. Apologize already, you diary-invading douche!”

He spins around to face me and his eyes are full of fire. I take a few steps back, but he follows. It’s not until my back hits the wall that we both stop.

“It was a fucking mistake to read your diary, I admit. I wish I could unread it, because it would make my life
so much easier
not to know all that shit about how you feel about me. But what the fuck were you thinking writing it all down in the first place? Of course the person you’re writing about is somehow going to read it, mortifying you both and screwing up
everything
!”

“Oh, no,” I say as a flash-fire of blood rushes to my face. “You did
not
just blame me for
you
reading my diary!

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure I did.”

“You’re unbelievable!” I throw my hands up in exasperation. “That’s it. I’m done trying with you. I don’t even want your apology anymore. Just stay the hell away from me.”

I push past him, but he follows me.

“How do you propose I stay away from you, when we have to perform countless love scenes in this stupid play, huh? Believe me, I’d love to not have to go through that fucking torture, but I don’t have a choice in the matter.”

I walk faster. “I’d rather stick needles in my eyeballs than have to pretend to be in love with you, but I’m going to do it because this production accounts for
forty percent
of our acting grade for the semester, and you will
not
screw with my GPA!”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, princess. After all, you’d probably just bitch about it in your diary.”

“Yeah! I probably would!”

“You know,” he says while striding easily beside me and my scrambling legs, “millions of people survive their whole damn lives without writing about their sexual fantasies and innermost thoughts in a book that anyone can find and read. You should try it!”

“As soon as you saw what it was, you should have stopped reading!”

“Oh, right, like it was possible to stop reading when I saw you were talking about my
cock
!”

I stop dead and punch him in the arm.

“Ow! Fuck!”

“This is not
my
fault! Screw you!”

He grabs my arms and pulls me toward him. “Well, according to your diary, that’s exactly what you need. Is that where all this aggression is coming from? You’re angry I didn’t kiss you the other day and you need to ride my dick for a while?”

“God, you’re an asshole!”

“I notice that
wasn’t
a ‘no’!”

I instinctively go to hit him, but he grabs my wrist and holds it tight.

“Wrong part of my body to put your hands on, sweetheart. Don’t you want to give some relief to the part of me that’s been hard as fuck ever since I read your stupid diary? Don’t you want to feel the
hell
you’re putting me through? You want to touch a cock so much? Go right ahead. Put your fucking hands on me and put me out of my misery.”

I wrench my wrist free.

“You’re disgusting,” I say before walking away.

“So that’s a no to the hand job then?!” he calls after me.

I get away from him as fast as I can, and when I turn the corner, I see him still standing where I left him, his head bowed and his hands in his hair.

I walk home on trembling legs, and it’s only when I get inside my bedroom and slam the door that I realize my eyes are wet.

SEVEN

POINT OF NO RETURN

Present Day
New York City
Graumann Theater Rehearsal Room
Day four of rehearsals

I’m biting my fingernails. I’ve pretty much destroyed all of them and have moved on to the rough skin of my cuticles. It doesn’t help with my nerves, but it stops me from pacing.

Marco is talking to Holt. Taking him through
the
scene.

My stomach lurches with a combination of nausea and irrational anticipation. It makes me want to barf up my lunch.

Marco talks quietly, but I can hear every word.

“Sarah is here to confront you about why you’re pushing her away. Her mother has revealed she’s not the small-town girl you thought she was, and in the process, it’s made you feel like you’ll never be good enough for her. Deep down you’ve always believed this was too good to be true, and now all your doubts have been confirmed.”

Ethan nods as he frowns in concentration. His arms are crossed over his chest. Defensive stance.

He glances at me, then back to Marco, his face stone.

I’ve run out of cuticles. I need a cigarette, but I have no time.

“I want to feel that you think she’s better off without you, but it’s killing you. Understand?”

He nods and his leg judders.

He’s nervous.

Good.

“Cassie?”

My turn.

Marco comes over and puts his arm around me. “You’re confused by Sam’s behavior. You love him, and you don’t care how different your backgrounds are. He seems to have given up, but you want him to fight. Yes?”

I nod. It makes me dizzy. I want to sit down.

“This is where we feel your desperation. You haven’t seen him for days. All you want is for him to stay, okay?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

I sound more sure than I feel. He trusts me to do my job. I don’t want to let him down.

“Take a few minutes to prepare, then we’ll take it from Sarah’s entrance.”

Prepare? How the hell do I prepare for this? To feel these incredibly personal, relevant things? To kiss him?

I pace. I want to find my character, because she’s the insulation between fantasy and reality. But all I find is me.
My
hurt.
My
confusion.

I close my eyes and breathe. Long, measured breaths in through my nose, out through my mouth. I try to imagine a white sheet on a clothesline, blowing in the breeze. It’s my focus.

Today I can’t get it. The image is blurry and inconstant, like a TV channel I can’t tune.

My eyes are still closed when I hear footsteps. Then heat is in front of me, and I know he’s staring.

“What?” I ask, eyes still closed. I try to hold on to my focus. It shimmers like a mirage.

“Do you want to talk about anything?”

“Actually, yes. I have this weird burning sensation whenever I pee. What does it mean?”

I keep my breathing steady.

He sighs. “I meant about the scene.”

“I know what you meant.”

“Of course you did.”

“Let’s just get it over with and see what happens.” If I run screaming from the room, then I’ll deal with it.

“Are you sure about that?”

I’ve never been less sure of anything in my life.

I open my eyes. “Fine. What do you want to say?”

He shoves his hands in his pockets. “Where do I fucking start?”

I wait. I know he’s thinking, because he looks like he’s in pain. Some things never change.

“Cassie, don’t you think it’s insane that we haven’t spoken about any of the crap that’s gone down between us, and in just a few minutes I’m going to be kissing you?”

“No, you’re not,” I say.

“Yes, I am. It’s in the script.”

“What I mean, dumbass, is that Sam is going to be kissing Sarah. You and I will be elsewhere, right?”

He takes a step forward, and I resist retreating. I don’t do that anymore.

His body heat burns through my clothes. As much as I don’t want to look into his eyes, he doesn’t give me much choice.

“We both know it doesn’t work like that,” he says so softly only I can hear. “As much as we want it to be the character’s emotions, it’s still going to be my arms around you, and my mouth on yours. Now, I feel pretty weird about that considering all our baggage could fill a goddamn department store, but since you seem cool not discussing anything, let’s crack this fucking thing open and see what falls out.”

His ability to make me viciously angry within thirty seconds is remarkable. He wants to talk now because it suits him?

The only thing worse than his ability to make relationship decisions is his sense of timing.

“You had three years to talk,” I say. “But the only time you’d contact me was when you were drunk and unintelligible.”

“That’s not true. The e-mails—”

“Were full of mind games and pathetic attempts to get me to chase you … again. They were vague and self-pitying, and not once did you apologize, you arrogant bastard.”

“Is everything all right?” Marco calls to us. We plaster fake smiles on our faces and nod.

“We’re fine,” Holt says, voice tight. “Just workshopping some ideas.”

“Excellent. Let’s get started, then.”

Holt turns back to me, but I’m done with this conversation.

“Let’s just get it done,” I say, not in the mood to be in the same room with him, let alone play a love scene. “Grab your script, and let’s go.”

He laughs, but the sound is hollow. “I don’t need a script for this scene.”

“No, I don’t suppose you do.”

We take our starting positions on opposite sides of the space.

Marco claps his hands to silence the room. “Okay, when you’re ready, Cassie.”

I enter the space, more angry than I should be at this point in the play, but fuck it. I’ll take the anger and make it work.

We play the scene, strong words and bitter emotions parrying between us. I circle him. He keeps his distance. Hurt and evasive.

He’s nailing it.

“Do you honestly think we stand a chance?” he asks. I can feel his intensity from across the room. “We don’t. You know it. I know it. Your country club bitch of a mother knows it, and she’s the only one with enough guts to say it out loud. Stop fighting the inevitable. The inevitable always wins.”

My voice is small but simmering. Anger floods me. He’s wrong. As usual.

I crawl into Sarah’s skin and make her reactions mine. “When did you become such a coward?”

“About the same time I found out I knew nothing about you.”

“You do know me! You know the only things that are important.”

“Bullshit! I knew the person you were pretending to be, and lady, you’re one hell of an actress. You had me completely fooled.”

The room is humming with tension. He’s looking for an out. I’m not going to give it to him.

I step closer. “Sam, I know you love me. I know it like I know the sky’s blue and the world’s round. If you leave now, you’ll wake up in five years and wonder what the hell you’ve done, because people search their whole lives to find what we’ve got, and you’re throwing it away. Don’t you see that?”

My anger is filling the air, making it thick and hard to breathe.