Understudy

I nod. If the play isn’t cancelled then I still get to see Derek.

“You have the most experience in theater.” He clasps his hands together in front of his chest and waits for my reply.

“So what, you want me to direct?” I laugh at my ridiculous suggestion.

“That’s exactly what I want you to do.”

“I don’t know anything about putting on a play.”

“It’s your choice.” He runs his hand over the folder on his desk. He doesn’t have to say it, because I know what he means. If I don’t direct the play, then I won’t get my last recommendation letter. I won’t get the scholarship and I won’t go to AIL. I’ll end up working three jobs to pay for community college for their third-rate Introduction to Interior Design certificate and I’ll never get my dream job. I’ll have to work at a chain of BBQ restaurants picking out stuffed deer heads to mount on the walls. No one will want me to decorate their dream homes. No one will ever feature one of my rooms in a prestigious magazine.

I push myself out of my chair. I focus on the good things like how I’ll get to see Derek every day, and try not to think about the bad things like how I don’t know a damn thing about directing a play. “Yes, sir,” I say. “I’ll do it.”

I sit in the center of the stage, my legs dangling off the front carelessly as if the entire world isn’t resting on my shoulders. Like my future in interior design isn’t hanging on by a shred of hope that I can actually pull off directing this stupid play. I came in here right after school, fifteen minutes earlier than the time I had told the rest of the cast members in my carousel of text messages this morning. I wanted to be here early so I could prepare myself mentally.

I’ve spent the first two weeks of rehearsals slacking off with Greg backstage, sketching sets with Derek or ditching rehearsal altogether under the guise that I was working on sets from home. So when everyone starts to filter in from the back of the auditorium, my freak out meter goes from Mostly Freaked Out to Explosively Freaking Out. I have no idea what to do.

But apparently, my cast members do. Ricky, who plays Jeremy, hurls himself up on stage in one swift motion and then leans over and offers a hand to Gwen, who takes a ladylike approach to climbing up here. Everyone else either hops on stage, or takes a seat in the front row. Greg gives me a wink as he climbs up next to me and heads backstage.

“So where’s Barlow?” Ricky asks. His script is rolled like a diploma and shoved in his back pocket. I stand and turn around, facing the stage like a conductor. For a second I think he’s talking about me and wonder why he would ask where I am when I’m right in front of him.

“She’s not directing the play anymore since she, you know, quit and all,” I say. Twenty-five sets of eyes pierce into me. Normally there would be twenty-six pairs but I haven’t seen Derek all day.

“So what are we doing here?” someone calls out from the front row.

I flourish my hand through the air. “The show must go on.”

“Wait,” Gwen says. “So we’re just going to put on a play without a teacher to tell us what to do?”

I really want to say yes. To tell her that’s exactly what we’re doing and hope that we’ll all be able to self-govern ourselves and put on this play. But that would totally not work and everything would become a disaster. What’s the most tactful way to tell a group of your peers that you’re suddenly in charge of everything?

I take a deep breath. “Principal Walsh said I have to direct the play now.” I expect them to flip out and refuse to comply. To laugh in my face and say I’m not the boss of them. But instead, no one seems to notice or care. Gwen shrugs. “Cool.”

Ricky steps up on a cinderblock in the middle of the stage that is simulating what will be a fake bridge once Derek and I finish building it. He says, “Should we start from the beginning?”

Pretty much everyone has their lines memorized, including Margot who I’ve never seen practice outside of school. I really have missed out on a lot in these last two weeks. Seems like the only thing I haven’t missed out on is the very distinct fact that Derek was at every rehearsal since the beginning. Every rehearsal except for this one.

The next hour goes by smoothly, considering the actors have to step around imaginary sets that don’t exist yet, and some people still read their script for their lines. Everyone pretty much knows what to do though, and try to swallow back my annoying questions about Derek’s whereabouts and just enjoy watching rehearsal.

Near the end of the last act, everyone is off stage except for Gwen and Ricky. Margot busies herself on her phone during this scene, making sure to ‘boy-scope’ toward Ricky every few seconds. This must be the infamous make out scene because every rehearsal right about this time, Margot usually slips off to see what I’m up to back stage. Now that I’m in the front row of seats watching, she endures it from the sidelines, her face glowing from her phone screen.

Gwen and Ricky do a great job of pretending to be in love, despite the kind of lame way they’re supposed to fall in love in the play. Ricky grabs Gwen’s waist and pulls her close to him, his strong fingers tightening behind her back. It’s obvious why Margot hates watching this… she is crushing hardcore on Ricky. Or kind of talking with him? Hell, I’m not sure what she’s doing with Ricky. My stomach tightens a little as I realize that I’ve been such a crappy friend lately, I’m not even sure what her status is with the guy she likes.

The auditorium doors swing open at the back of the room. Fear fills me as I turn around, expecting to see Principal Walsh coming to check on me. But instead of a portly man with a stern expression, I see a senior with shaggy brown hair and leather jacket that fits like a glove.

Derek. I swallow when our eyes meet from across the room, and then turn back to the play, my play, as if I don’t care one bit that he’s finally decided to make an appearance. As if I don’t care that he never replied to my text message about rehearsal. As if he doesn’t matter at all.

A few seconds later the sound of his footsteps tell me he’s close, but the scent of his body wash almost makes me melt into goo as he slides into the seat next to me. I look over at him, trying to be coy and so not caring—but the look on his face changes all of that. His eyes are pained, worried.

“What’s wrong?” I ask. I can feel his eyes appraising me as he shakes his head.

“Nothing.”

“You look like something’s wrong. Why were you late?”

He reaches out and cups my cheek in his hand. My face flushes at his touch and my palms would be sweaty if I didn’t focus intently on keeping them flattened to my jeans. “Everything is better now.” He tucks a piece of hair behind my ear. “No worries at all.”

My breath catches in my throat. Derek has never touched me like this. Why is he acting all serene and peaceful and… kind? I try to shake away these questions by looking back at the stage, but my eyes don’t focus on the actors right away.