9
JOEY
I’m not staring. I’m looking. Looking is different.
This meeting is going on too long. I’m bored. Maybe I don’t want to be the arts department chair if this is what happens the last Wednesday of every month.
Except that’s not really what this meeting is, and I’m not only bored, I’m also freaked out because they made Dexter and me come to this thing and then they put us on the agenda last. And I can only stare toward the window for so long without being pretty clear that I’m staring out the window. We’re in a conference room in the top floor of the Hall, the building with the clocktower. It’s even prettier inside, especially this room, with warm wood and huge windows that showcase the very early fall that is already happening in the mountains all around the campus. I move my head thoughtfully from one window to another, hoping it makes me look like I’m taking in each of the speakers around the table and not just, well, staring.
It's not staring.
I’m not going to do anything stupid like get out my phone. I know better than to try any telephone-related boredom stoppers. But I can watch Dexter. His hands are under the table, and I think they’re on his knees, because his shoulders are bouncing as if he’s jiggling his legs. This makes his hair a little bouncy too. Not very, because he uses a lot of hair product. It doesn’t move much.
I like Dexter’s hair. He likes it, too. I wonder how long he spends rubbing wave-enhancing gels into it. I can picture him standing in front of his bathroom mirror, staring into his reflection with that little chin dimple.
It’s an easy chin dimple to stare at. I’m staring at it myself right now. No. Not staring. Looking. Looking is different.
I can’t help it. He’s charming. Well, he looks charming, anyway. And there are days when I feel like he’s growing on me. I mean, sure, he’s arrogant and selfish. Big deal. So he’s not the man of my dreams. That doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy staring. Looking. Just looking.
He can still have pleasant qualities even if he makes every success his own. Even if he sits around and lets me do all the gritty work planning our assignments and then takes credit. Even then, he’s still nice to look at.
Sigh. I’m pathetic.
Dr. Moreau interrupts the looking when she asks me to introduce my ideas for the staging of the winter show.
That’s Dexter’s baby. “I think Mr. Kaplan has some great ideas to go with his script,” I say, hoping to pass this one off. I look around the table and smile at the board members who look back at me. Only Wanda Chamberlain smiles in return. I sit up taller. She makes me more confident.
“I have seen the scripts,” Moreau says without a hint of how she feels about it. “I would like to hear your ideas for staging.” She doesn’t look annoyed, necessarily. But it’s hard to tell. For sure I’m being tested. This whole meeting is part of the process of choosing between me and Dexter. So I better show them that there are reasons to pick me.
I clear my throat. “I hope you’re considering his Shakespeare compilation,” I say, “because it is a fantastic piece. And most of my ideas are based on that script.” Showing that I can lead with a compliment and a thoughtful response. Point Harker. “I’ve had some luck printing photographic images on fabric screens. In a theater setting, this will allow light to travel through the screen. The audience will be able to see the characters moving behind, but the actors in front will be clearer.” Oh no. I’m no good with words. I wish I could show her what’s in my head. I sound silly. Why did I even think I could do this?
I glance at Dexter.
Mistake.
He’s grinning. He knows I’m uncomfortable. I started strong, but now I am babbling. He can hear how lame I sound. He’s so smug, grinning away over there, just waiting for me to say the dumbest thing so he can extract me from my own mess and then save the day.
I’ll show him.
“I picture three levels on the stage, allowing the depth to be more contrived. This can show distance in physical space as well as emotional distance between characters. Each level will be reached by steps off stage as well as ramps on the stage so actors can move away from each other and toward each other as their parts require separation and togetherness.”
Togetherness? Did I really? I look at Dexter again. He’s laughing. Is he? He is. Laughing. Fine. Okay. So, I said something dumb. Recover, I tell myself. Be bigger. Compliment his work again. Be the master collaborator.
“Mr. Kaplan has created some very funny interactions between the characters, and I think that a leveled stage with these hanging screens will enhance his great script, allowing the interactions to be visual as well as—” Oh no. What’s the word?
Nope. It’s gone.
I wave my hand in front of my face and repeat, “as well as what’s written.”
Dumb. Dumb. Dumb. I do a mental head-desk and stare at the table in front of me. Dr. Moreau asks Dexter to say whatever it is he has to say. I ignore it.
After a minute, the humiliation settles into vague shame, and I look up enough to appear engaged in the discussion. Don’t let this get in the way of the arts chair. Everyone forgets words sometimes. No big deal.
Except Dexter doesn’t seem to. Neither does Dr. Moreau, and she’s speaking a second language. Maybe third or fourth, who knows? Dexter continues to read out funny lines from his show, grinning that charming and arrogant grin when he gets a laugh.
How can he be so attractive and so repulsive at the same time?
No. That’s not fair. He’s not so attractive. And he’s not so repulsive. He is handsome. And charming. And he knows it. So what? He has every right to be pleased with himself. He’s creating something great. I’ve never read anything quite like this play he’s written. It makes me think again about how I feel about him. And I—if I let myself think about it—am grateful to be part of it.