Understudy

I lean my head back against the cold concrete wall backstage. “You’re joking. Tell me you’re joking.”

“Sorry, boss. I guess I can try to get a tutor or something.”

“I hate you,” I say as I hang up on him.

Derek and Gwen watch me, arms folded across their chests. I almost don’t recognize Gwen without her usual face full of makeup. She’s also wearing an oversized hoody and leggings which makes her tiny frame seem ten pounds heavier.

“Explain,” Derek says.

“Ricky is failing classes so he can’t participate in extracurricular activities. My life is officially over.”

Gwen puts her arm around my shoulder and I wonder if we weren’t in this play together if she would have ever actually touched me. We are on opposite sides of the popular spectrum. “Your life isn’t over, Wren.” I’m not sure why her voice contains a hint of distain. I’ve always been nice to her.

“Yes it is,” I say, wanting so badly to be out of her grip but not bad enough to pull away and look like an asshole. “The success of this play is up to me, and if it doesn’t go off perfectly, then I’m not going to college.”

“God forbid!” Gwen’s normally tiny voice blasts through the air making Derek and me jump. “There’s a chance you won’t get a freaking scholarship—big deal! Your life is not even close to being over, Wren Barlow.” Her thin finger pokes my chest. “Your life is not over.”

My mouth hangs open as the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I’ve never heard Gwen speak so forcefully. All of the chatter in the background has gone silent and I realize everyone is staring at us.

“I—I’m sorry,” I stammer. “You’re right. My life isn’t over, I was over reacting. Are you okay?”

Her face crinkles up in confusion, although I’m not sure why, and a single tear falls from her eye. “I’m fine,” she mumbles through clenched teeth. Derek takes her hand and leads her to center stage, grabbing a script from a box of props. “Act one, scene one,” he says. “Screw it. I’ll be Jeremy.”

Spotlights of all colors flicker on and off, dancing on Gwen’s puffy cheekbones and making Derek’s hair blue as Greg tinkers with the light board. He can now successfully place a spotlight on Gwen and move it across the stage in a fluid motion. He cannot, however, make the spotlight any color besides blue or green.

I’m sitting in the front row center seat, clipboard on my lap, neck craned at a painful angle as I watch Greg hang from the rafters. I admire his stubborn willpower to figure out the lights, having long since realized he’s not doing it just to make me happy. Greg is a perfectionist and the smartest guy in school (not that I’d ever tell him that) and he won’t quit until he’s achieved the perfection he’s used to. Still, I can’t stop picturing the ways his body would go splat on the stage if and when he falls from those thirty-year-old metal beams.

I can’t help but picture it. Face first, back cracking over the concrete blocks onstage. Feet first, leg bones shooting straight out of his shins as he crumples through the old hardwood floor. Maybe some kind of spiral, diagonal falling motion that makes his whole body explode on contact.

Maybe he’d slam into Gwen and break her in half, too. I shudder at the gory images flashing through my corrupt mind, bringing myself back to reality where Greg is perfectly alive in the ceiling and Gwen and Derek perform Act 1, Scene 3 with such perfection, you’d think Derek was supposed to be Jeremy all along.

Only this is the scene were Gretchen and Jeremy decide to be secret lovers and make out under an old Oak tree, (which in our case is a coat rack covered in brown paper) and I know Derek won’t be as good an actor as Ricky. Because this is the kissing scene. And no one can possibly kiss Gwen the way Ricky does, as her boyfriend can disparagingly attest to

.

Gwen says her line about never feeling pretty since the car wreck that left a scar on her lip. Derek says his line about how she’s as beautiful as—some metaphorical crap, I can’t remember—and Gwen says her next line. I stop doodling on my notepad and watch the two actors on stage.

Derek steps closer to her, gingerly touching her lip where the fake scar will be once it’s dress rehearsal time. A small knot forms in my stomach. Admittedly, I haven’t paid much attention to rehearsal lately, but right now every single fiber in my being is focused on Derek’s body moving closer to Gwen’s, pressing into her and drawing her close as he presses his lips to hers.

To my absolute horror, he does not kiss her according to the plan—the plan HE invented—of lip smooshing. His lips touch her lips and they don’t smoosh at all. They intertwine. They move. They pull away and press together again. Gwen’s bony fingers slide around Derek’s head and tangle up in his hair, pulling him into the kiss.

The kiss.

Not the smoosh.

The knot in my stomach erupts like a volcano, sending searing hot pain into my chest. My whole body aches and I’m staring at them and I can’t look away. This is a million times worse than if Greg really did fall and snap his neck in the middle of the stage.

Five hundred million light years later, Derek and Gwen pull away from each other to take a breath. The curtain is supposed to close now as the stagehands rush to change to the next set. But as I sit here with my fingernails digging painfully into the wooden armrest of my chair, nothing happens.

Derek runs a hand through his hair and steps back, almost stumbling as if drunk on her disgusting kiss. Gwen lets out a sharp breath and shoves her hands in her front pockets. The smile on her face makes me want to punch it right off of her.

“Curtain! Where’s the curtain?” I yell, waving my arms in a curtain-closing motion, wishing to god that the short freshman with the bad haircut who does the curtains would freaking DO THE CURTAINS like he’s supposed to.

“I think we should do that scene again,” Gwen says. She glances at Derek and then back at me and it’s a good thing she can’t see me well through the stage lights. “I—I think I fubbed a few of my lines.”

“Your lines were perfect, I promise,” I say, giving an obligatory glance at the script in my hand even though we both know she said every word exactly as they were written.

“Oh. Okay.” Gwen shrugs and the sleeve of her oversized hoody falls off one shoulder and I notice how pointy her collarbone is as it protrudes from her small frame. Is that what guys like? Is that what Derek likes? I don’t even know if my collarbones protrude. She really is pretty, as much as I don’t want to admit it. And when I glance at Derek, he isn’t looking at me with a shameful regret painted on his face—no, he’s looking at Gwen. With that half smile he does so well.