Playing with Fire

Well, I did.

I noticed she was fucking glaring.

My eyes asked, Did you get the ballet shoes?

Hers answered, Drop dead, asshole.

I may have been paraphrasing, but whatever her eyes said, there was profanity in it.

Greer-Gail turned her head back to the empty stage, rearranging her feet on the seat in front of her. I was about to walk over and ask what the hell her problem was, but my phone buzzed in my pocket, just as Tess tried to pull me into the auditorium, blabbing about her role in the play.

I took my phone out of my back pocket.

Mother.

Seriously? Twice today? I hit decline, turned around, and charged over to my bike without a word. Tess knew better than to follow me. I got into my bank app and transferred whatever money I had in my account straight to my parents before heading off to see Karlie.

I’d live off ramen for the next couple weeks. Wouldn’t be the first or last time.

I spent the ride resenting my parents and Tess and Reign and Professor Addams and even Greer-Gail-Genevieve.

And with every turn I took, the temptation to lean to one side, to throw myself off the bike, to veer off a cliff, was there, scratching at my insides.

A part of me still wanted to die.

To cease existing.

To stop taking care of my parents.

To stop pretending anything about this college experience mattered.

I just got real good at hiding it.

Even if it cost me everything.

Grace

“Grace, my dear, we need to talk.”

Professor McGraw took a sip of her coffee from her Eat. Sleep. Theater. mug. I crept into her office the day after our first rehearsal, head down, shoulders hunched, ready for my verdict. I dropped my phoenix-themed JanSport under her desk, offering my best innocent, don’t-know-why-I’m-here smile.

I did know why I was there.

“Have a seat.” She pointed at the chair in front of her. I did. Professor McGraw was a willowy, fifty-something redhead with funky, polka-dotted reading glasses and fifties-style dresses. I adored her and wanted to believe she liked me, too. I was definitely among her more dedicated students. My theoretical grades were great, I was always happy to put in extra hours to tidy up after rehearsals, and my love for theater was genuine.

She began sifting through a pile of documents strewn on her desk, licking her thumb as she separated the pages. Her office was filled with posters of Sheridan University productions over the years. The university was known for producing classic plays and attracting people from neighboring towns. The profits went toward city council and improving the college facilities. A twinge of jealousy stung my chest as I scanned the posters while she searched for whatever it was she wanted to show me.

The Phantom of the Opera.

Chicago.

To Kill a Mockingbird.

My mouth watered as I stared at the pictures of the actors and actresses, smiling to the horizon, mid-act. They looked electric. Glowing. Happy.

Professor McGraw’s voice pierced through the green cloud of envy surrounding me. She tapped a piece of paper with her fingernail. “There we are. I’ve been looking at the list of actors in A Streetcar Named Desire. I noticed your name was notably absent. Care to explain?”

“Oh. Yes. Of course.” I shifted in my seat. The actors in the posters stared directly at me. Their judging gazes warmed my skin. “Lauren got Blanche and Tess is Stella. The other smaller parts were cast on the days I took my grandmother to Austin for an EKG. I did sign up for design and assistant stage manager. That’s two roles.” I stuck two fingers up, like she didn’t know how to count.

Professor McGraw removed her reading glasses, closing her eyes and pinching the bridge of her nose. “We’ve discussed it, Grace. I cannot bend the rules for you anymore. Every student needs to get on that stage and show me what they’re made of.”

“Yes, ma’am. But I was hopin’—”

“I understand your circumstances, and I tried to cater to them for a couple years, but a part of earning a BA in Theater and Arts is practical acting. You haven’t gone onstage since you started studying here. Exhibiting your ability as an actor is mandatory, not optional. No one expects you to be Meryl Streep, but you do need to show us something. I don’t want you failing this semester, but I think if you don’t take on an actual role in the play, you just might.”

“But the play has already been cast.”

“Ask Mr. Finlay to include you.”

“Someone else will be losing their role,” I argued.

“Someone else is not in danger of failing the final semester of this year,” she volleyed back.

I knew Professor McGraw was right. All the other sophomores in theater and arts had already shown off their acting chops. Not me. I was going to be a junior next year, and I still hadn’t set foot onstage. My legs wouldn’t carry me past the threshold on auditions day. I tried but always ended up puking my guts out in the restrooms, or having epic meltdowns in my pickup.