Be More Chill (26 page)

Suddenly the cue’s given, but I wouldn’t know; I’ve got my own cue in my skull—G
O
,
STUPID
—and we come out on stage
exactly how we’re supposed to, between the curtains like little shrimp. For the next few minutes the audience shudders as Matt and Eugene deliver scene-setting dialogue—they’re
looking at Ron, thinking how that should be Jake up there. Next to me, Ellen mouths the lines sputtered out by other characters—she has the whole play memorized.

Ron turns to Ellen: “‘Relent, sweet Hermia.’” He faces me. “‘And, Lysander, yield thy crazed title to my certain right.’”

I have no idea what my line is.

“Y
OU HAVE
…”

I step forward and project better than anyone has so far tonight: “‘You have her father’s love, Demetrius: Let me have Hermia’s: do you marry him.’” I swear a
little clap breaks out from my mom. She’s in back (without Dad); she brought relatives to the play—nameless relatives, basically a jury. She must be happy I’m not stumbling around
or acting crazy. She’s going to be pissed off in a few scenes.

“I
AM
…”

“‘I am, my Lord, as well derived as he.…’” I begin. I’m so good at talking and thinking and repeating that I can converse with the squip while I deliver
Shakespeare. I couldn’t even explain how I do it; it’s different parts of my brain working at once, like how you can make a bicep and flex your wrist. It’s multitasking.

Y
ES
. Y
OUR BRAIN CAN PARALLEL PROCESS IN WAYS NORMAL PEOPLE WOULD NEVER UNDERSTAND
.

Really? My mouth operates: “‘Why should not I then prosecute my right?’”

Y
ES
. P
EOPLE DEVELOP IT WITH SQUIPS
. I
T
’
S BEEN DOCUMENTED SINCE
1.0.

Too bad you can’t impress anyone with it.

Y
OU CAN
’
T IMPRESS HUMANS WITH NAKED THOUGHT
. T
HEY HATE IT
.

Heh. Hey, do you think any of these people in the audience have squips?

P
ROBABILITY AMPLITUDE ESTIMATE
:
SEVEN DO
.

Aren’t they going to notice that I have one from the way I deliver my lines?

O
F COURSE NOT
. Y
OU THINK THEY NOTICE IN MOVIES
?

Movie actors have squips?

W
E WENT TO
H
OLLYWOOD FIRST
, J
EREMY
. H
OW DO YOU THINK THEY REMEMBER ALL THOSE WORDS
?

“‘…Upon this spotted and inconstant man,’” I finish.

Eugene starts his response: “‘I must confess that I have heard so much.…’” I look over his shoulder, through the clam-lip curtains—Christine is backstage,
bending down to fix something in her footwear. She’s ready to be Puck, to deliver all those crazy lines that people remember, that immense number of words, sans squip. She waves and smiles.
Her fairies bustle around her. She looks unbelievably happy.

S
HE IS
. Y
OU
’
VE MADE HER HAPPY
.

I have?

Y
ES
, J
EREMY
. C
HRISTINE LIKES YOU MUCH MORE THAN YOU REALIZE
. T
HAT
’
S WHY
WE
’
RE DOING THIS
. I
WOULDN
’
T BE SENDING YOU OUT ON A LIMB IN FRONT OF ALL THESE PEOPLE IF
I
DIDN
’
T KNOW IT WAS GOING TO WORK
.

So it’s going to work?

L
OOKS GOOD RIGHT NOW
. Y
OU JUST STOP THE PLAY, TALK A LITTLE BIT, BE CHARMING, ASK
C
HRISTINE OUT, KISS HER AND GO BACK INTO
CHARACTER.

Right.

R
IGHT
.

And now the lens of my world focuses around me, like the fisheye lens in a rap video on a bopping model or car. My heart tightens up and I get hyperconscious, the way I used to get when I was
put next to girls, any girls. I stop talking to the squip and plow through the remainder of act one, scene one; there’s some romantic comedy-type dialogue with Ellen. When I exit, I’m
shakier than when I came on.

C
ALM DOWN
. W
HAT
’
S WRONG WITH YOU
? Y
OUR HEART RATE
—

Shutdown. The squip goes silent. Backstage, I exchange congratulatory slaps with other actors. They mouth “Good job,” but I don’t have any connection to that. I have to do this
thing with Christine. I have to get up there and do it. I’ve been planning on doing it for so long, like with the chocolate Shakespeare way back when, that now it’s almost a religious
thing, like I have to do it or I’m going to hell.

I start doing jump kicks backstage but am quickly restrained by Mr. Reyes, who whispers “Get a
hold
of yourself, young man.” I trudge over to on an old piano (there’s
always one old, untuned piano backstage) and sit on it. I press my hands against my face and map out each, word that I’m going to say to Christine. While I do this, it becomes scene two, and
then it’s act two, scene one and then it’s 2.2, where it’s all going down. I line up backstage and walk out like I’ve made every decision I can make in this world and
I’m nailed to a rocket, headed to the sun.

“‘Fair love, you faint with wand’ring in the wood.…’” I say. It’s me and Ellen in this scene, doing some romance-in-the-woods
interaction.

“‘Be’t so, Lysander.…’” she responds. Since it’s just us, we’re way up at the front of the stage; I realize that the theater is completely full.
I had no idea this many people could fit in here. The audience is rapt—I guess we’re doing a good job. No one coughs or mumbles or fidgets or anything.

“‘One turf shall serve as pillow for us both,’” I project, taking a few steps forward. Up here by the lip of the stage, the lights are angled so that the audience
doesn’t even seem to be there; they’re covered by a sunburned spot in my vision. It’s like performing to a heavenly tunnel, just a beam above and the night sea out there waiting
to swallow me up.

“‘With half that wish the wisher’s eyes be pressed!’” says Ellen, making a big show of lying down. Dammit, I’m supposed to lie down too…I get on the
ground like it was summer camp and I had the best sleeping bag. This is it. Christine is about to come out.

The sense of self that always gets lost when I’m on stage—that divorce that I feel as I deliver lines numbly—gets smothered with a whole other layer of detachment as Christine
walks out. I’m on the floor like a dead kid, and I know that from now on, I’m not in charge of things. Not even a little. The squip is. I turn it on.

Y
OU KNOW WHAT YOU
’
RE GOING TO SAY
?

Yes.

Y
OU READY TO DO IT
?

I think so.

T
HAT
’
S NOT GOOD ENOUGH
. T
RY
“
YES
.”

Yes.

H
ERE SHE COMES
.

“‘Through the forest have I gone, But Athenian found I none.’” Christine shrugs to the audience as she walks above me. “‘On whose eyes I might
approve—’”

N
OW
!

“Ah, ’scuse me.” I get up. The whole audience blinks. They weren’t all rapt. But now the people who weren’t paying attention sit up in their chairs. The people who
were asleep on their palms wake up. They look at me like I’m a curious small giraffe who parachuted in from a helicopter. I feel their surprise. I face them.

“Sorry to interrupt and all,” I smile. “But my name is Jeremy Heere and I’m an actor in this play and, well, as you know, it’s been a pretty tough week for our
school.” I clasp my hands across my chest.

People smile. G
OOD
. T
HEY THINK IT
’
S PART OF THE PLAY
.

“We’ve really been through a lot with the loss of Jake to the play and we’re all, you know, pulling—uh,
praying
—praying for him to get better. And I miss my
friend Rich, who was also hurt.”

Scattered applause from the audience. “What are you
doing
, Jeremy?!” Mom yells, standing at the back of the theater. T
ELL HER TO HOLD ON
.

“Hold on just a minute, Mom.” I wave my hand at her. People in the seats chuckle. A relative pulls her down. “One of the many things that has really inspired me to be my best
in this play is the work of the very, uh, lovely Christine Caniglia, who’s playing Puck.”

I turn to Christine. She looks at me with a seething combination of disbelief and hate. I’ve never seen her look that way. I’ve never seen anyone look that way, vicious and
completely sick of me. The look makes me know I’ve lost, but you can’t stop me…because I’m
me
, you know? And even if I’m doing the wrong thing, at least
I’m doing something. Eight weeks ago I wouldn’t have done anything at all.

“I’ve liked Christine for a long time, but you know, never really been able to do anything about it.…” An
awww
sounds from the audience.

“What are you DOING, Jeremy!”
Ellen growls from her prone position. Christine says nothing. I look her in the eye and talk loudly enough for everybody to hear:

“So, Christine, I’m asking you here and now: would you like to, uh, go out with me?”

And then, without waiting for an answer, I do what I was told by the squip—lean forward and close my eyes to kiss her.

My face passes the vertical plane that Christine’s face was supposed to be at.

Laughter rings across the audience.

I open my eyes.

Christine is on the side of me. She says something quietly and with such total hatred and conviction that I know it’s true as soon as it comes out of her mouth:
“Loser.”

Then she turns to the crowd: “Forsooth, a curious dream hath overtaken this one! He talks in his sleep like a thing possessed with love!”

Oh, jeez, what do I do now? I’m off-balance, still standing. Should I fall down?

Hello?

Startup?

Hello?

Nothing.

I take my cue from Christine and fall down. She’s so smart. She’s trying to incorporate my idiocy into the play.

“‘This flower’s force in stirring love,’” she says, continuing right where I interrupted her, standing above me. “‘Night and silence—Who is here?
Weeds of Athens he doth wear.’” That’s me. I’m the weeds of Athens. Christine kneels over my head but makes sure not to touch me at all. I squeeze my eyes tight on the
ground and beg and plead and snivel for the squip, but it doesn’t come, so I just lie there losing and losing the only thing I ever wanted.

The worst part is that after Christine leaves the stage, I have to “wake up” and “fall in love” with Helena, who’s being played by a girl whose
name I can’t even remember. My brain is fried. My mind is an amazing blank of shame and I mangle my Lysander lines. Noises come from the audience; they’re small but so important:
shuffling as people go through their programs to see who the skinny weirdo is who almost ruined the play, whispers to delighted siblings, vibrator buzzes on cell phones as kids text their friends
about what happened. Finally act two finishes and I head off stage, wishing that my ears had flaps so I wouldn’t have to hear the world of sh_ _ I’m in now.

“Jeremy, change your clothes and get out,” Mr. Reyes says as soon as I reach the dark, warm backstage area.

“Okay,” I say quietly.

“I’ve never seen anything like that.
Waaaaaaa!
I don’t know what you were thinking. Christine is over there crying. You’re lucky she doesn’t take out a
restraining order against you.
Maaaaaaaa!
I don’t want you in my play and I
don’t
want you taking a bow at the end with the rest of the cast. Get out.
Aaa
.”

“Fine.” I wish I had some comeback, something to say, but I don’t have the squip now to come up with comebacks; it’s silent or broken or gone, maybe, gone like it was
never there.

I pass through the backstage area, past Mark and the piano and Ellen and everybody. “Bitch,” Mark says, with no Game Boy.