Damsel Distressed (13 page)

She nods back, and the moment floats away.

She stands up and brushes the melancholy off like crumbs after cookies. “Should we go take a seat?”

“Yeah. I'll grab the box.”

Since all of the packs aren't sitting in their little foam cubbies, the metal case is open and awkward, and I have freaking Tyrannosaurus arms, so it's only a few steps down the aisle, being bumped by passing ensemble members, before Antonique recognizes my struggle.

“Here, let me help you.” She reaches toward me as kids continue to pass us in the aisle, and her long graceful arms look like they could wrap around the case twice with no trouble.

I try to hang on to it, but I feel my pride turn purple and bruise a bit as this tall and strong freshman takes the weight from my grip and effortlessly begins to walk down the aisle.

Twice in ten minutes, she's carried my burden. She saw me curled into a ball, barely breathing, and now she's saving me again. She doesn't even break a sweat.

The feeling of weakness, inside and out, stings at my confidence.

All at once, my sacred place—this room and this stage—seem out of my league. I'm supposed to feel strong here. I'm supposed to feel like I belong. Like I have something to give. But what does she—what do they all—see when they watch me out of breath, trying to carry this box or just carry myself through my job? The stickiness of my arms at my side and the feeling of my thighs rubbing together through my jeans must be calling them all to watch me.

Antonique walks effortlessly down the aisle toward the front of the auditorium where most of the cast is assembled and waiting for the start of rehearsal notes. Two separate dudes—two dudes who walked straight past me just seconds ago—jump out of their chairs and offer to grab the case from her.

My cheeks redden, and I close my eyes tight. When I open them again, I'm at the row where Antonique has taken a seat and saved one for me.

“Here you go, Sound Goddess.” She smiles and doesn't even know that, in my own crazy head, she's spent the last sixty seconds making me feel like a loser. She reaches over to push down the folded-up seat so I can sit. One minute she's my savior. The next minute I hate her for being strong enough to save me. Shame flushes through my skin, and I feel goose bumps sprout up all over my arms.

Wow, I'm messed up in the head.

“Thanks,” I say, taking the seat by her side. Maybe if I suck it up and stop being so annoying and whiny and jealous and childish, I'll feel better.

I try to wedge myself against the armrest opposite her so she's less aware of how tight the tiny auditorium chair is on my significant backside. The guys that helped her are still glancing over their shoulders at her while I try to melt into the chair unseen.

Grant's perched on the edge of the stage, and Gild is already spouting notes and objectives for the day.

“—Imogen?” I blink away my daze and see the whole lot staring at me as Gild repeats my name. “You have some instructions for microphone business today?”

It sounds, suddenly, like water is rushing through my head. The last thing in this known universe that I want to do right now is lug myself out of this chair and address fifty people who are looking at me as if I'm the main attraction in a freak show.

Oh my God, shut up
, I tell myself.
They're looking at you like you're supposed to be talking. Because you're supposed to be talking. Hold it together!

And then I see Grant.

My eyes slam into him with a thud I can feel in my lungs, and I take a deep breath as he gives me a wink.

“Yeah. I do. Um. My fish-kick, Antonique, and I are going to be showing you how you'll be wearing mics during the show. How to tape them, where to put the battery packs, and how they work. We're going to start with the guys so the girls can check with Brice about costume changes, and then we'll switch.”

I'm sitting again and trying not to audibly gasp for air, and Gild is already barking other orders. Before I can catch my breath, everyone is disbanding, and Antonique sets her hand on my knee.

“You good to go?” she asks.

Her eyes are kind, and I glance to her hand.

“Yeah. Let's do this,” I say, strengthened by her small display of solidarity.

I try to get the attention of a dozen teenage boys.

“We're going to have to strap the mic packs around your chest under your costumes, so when you come up, grab a pack and one of the elastic bands and we'll show you how to set the strap so it won't move.”

My words seem lost in the crowd of inattentive ears, but I turn around and grab the first pack anyway.

I flick the on switch, untangle the wire, and loop the roll of mic tape around my index finger.

When I turn around, I nearly smash my face straight into the bare-naked chest of Andrew Bates.

“Oh!” I yelp and stumble back, so startled that I catch my left foot against my right. I'm plummeting to my doom in front of this half-naked man-boy, and as I'm imagining what my skin must look like as it's rippling in the wind, he steps forward and grabs my arms, steadying me and standing me upright in one fast motion.

“Dude, I'm so sorry.” He says it as if he's the reason I tripped over my own body.

“No, it's fine. I…um…You do not have clothes on. I mean…Where is your shirt? You have lost your shirt.”

I try to avert my eyes because somehow, looking at him without his shirt on isn't as fun as I might have thought it would be.

He chuckles for half of a second, and I'm not sure if he thinks I'm funny or if he thinks it's flattery, but then he says, “No, it's cool. You said it had to be strapped to our chests anyway, so I thought it would be easier like this.”

“Okay. So, um…I need to show everyone how to do this.”

I look over his head at the guys who have no intention of shutting up any time soon. I take a risk and look him in the eyes. I gesture over his shoulder with my head and give him a look that I hope means “please help me” and not “wanna be my topless-manpartner?”

“Guys!
Shut
it!” He grunts his command, and the rest of the monkeys fall silent as their alpha insists that they watch my demonstration.

Well, that was effective.

I clear my throat. “So, well, you need to, um…”

It is at this moment that by brain realizes that I will have to strap this mic pack around his chest. This will require the use of my hands. Which will be touching him. And his naked muscle-boobs, so…that's going to happen.

“Just clip the pack on the elastic here, and then wrap it all the way around you, cross it in the front, back to the back, cross it again, over the pack, and then pin it the rest of the way.”

I look at him, but he's just staring up at the techies hanging lights and is utterly uninterested in the fact that my nose, once again, is virtually on his body and my godforsaken T-Rex arms are wrapping all the way around his back, over the front, and around back again.

Antonique grabs one side and pins it while I pin the other.

“Hey, what's your name?” Andrew, who has been only mildly interested for the past five minutes, is now channeling his inner skeezy, overly flirtatious macho man, raising his eyebrow and pointing his still very naked chest at her like a double-barrel Nerf gun.

I watch them for a second, but neither turns to look at me. I roll my eyes and step around them in front of the group of guys who have already started to chatter again.

“Guys!” I scream, and this time every single one of them turns and gives me their attention. “If you line up here, I'll get your pack and band.”

I hand the chimps their bananas and watch as Andrew does this thing where he makes his shoulders look even wider, and I hear him say to Antonique, “Thanks for helping me get this thing tied on. I hope you'll be around to help me get it situated next time.” He raises both eyebrows in unison and blasts her with a smile.

They're both giggling, and she's saying something about how he's a big boy and can certainly do it himself.

She is beaming with confidence and he's beaming with confidence and they're all confidency, and I realize that as far as he's concerned, she's the only one who pawed at him. I am a non-entity.

“Antonique, can you finish up with the guys and then get the girls squared away? We may have to keep the packs lower on their waist to fit under the bodices of the dresses.”

She doesn't really look at me while she responds. She's staring at Andrew, who's cheesing at her. And it doesn't make me mad. I mean, she's a freshman and he's a junior and attention is awesome, I get it.

“Yeah, no problem, Sound Goddess.” She smiles and gives me a thumbs-up. “Where are you going?” she asks without turning her head.

“I have some stuff I need to take care of in the booth. Looks like you've got all of this…handled.” I can hear my tone. I sound bitter and sarcastic and, well, I sound an awful lot like Carmella.

She turns toward me and then cocks her head to the side like a tiny bird, and as her grin fades slowly, like water draining out of cupped hands, I step backward up the aisle, turn, and head toward the sound cave.

13

A
ntonique really needs to think about what kind of reputation she wants. Because if she's content to be a body with no brain, then by all means, she should keep flirting with half-naked guys just because they look at her funny. I mean, she's a sweet girl. She's not just pretty. So why do girls constantly shrink into giggling, eyelash-batting schoolgirls just because a guy gives them attention? Granted it was Andrew and he didn't have his shirt on…but still. Andrew doesn' t have much in the way of brains, but apparently he uses the few neurons he does have to flirt with freshmen and laugh at people. ‘Cause that's not a waste of oxygen.

“Knock, knock.” The door to the sound booth opens quietly. Grant comes in and closes it behind him. Of course he's here. Antonique probably told him I freaked out earlier, and now I'm huffing off during mic duties so here comes Grant to reel me in.

“Hey.” I shove my nose in the air and push my shoulders back before I calmly close my journal. Like there is any percent chance he hasn't already used his best friend Jedi powers to zero in on my emotional breakdown. I slide the spiral notebook into a binder and out of sight.

Grant leans back against the closed door and looks at me for a second before he speaks. “Everything okay? Did he—Andrew—I mean, did he say something to you?” At first I think he looks concerned, but then something about the way he clenches his jaw confuses me and I think he looks angry.

“Did Antonique talk to you? Are you mad or disappointed or something? 'Cause I definitely
can't
handle you coming in here and lecturing me right now.”

Grant turns his eyes away from me to look down at the stage. “Lecturing? No. I want you to tell me what Andrew said.”

“What are you even talking about?” He turns to me and I turn my chair so that we're facing each other dead on. I lock eyes with Grant and stare at his Protective-Boy-Face, and I don't even know what he could be thinking just happened down there.

“Nothing,” he says, breaking our stare. He pulls on the neck of his T-shirt. “I just…I saw you working with him, and then he took his shirt off and then you seemed to bolt back up here.” He looks to the floor and back to the window and then finally to me. “I just mean that I noticed you left right after that, and I wanted to be sure that he didn't do or say anything to upset you.”

The look on Grant's face is unfamiliar. He looks angry and scowly. His brow is heavy, and there's not a single trace of his secret dimple.

I snap at him, “He literally didn't even know I was there. He was talking to Antonique pretty much the whole time, and it's not your job to worry about me—”

He fires back without lifting his head. “'Cause as the stage manager, it
is
my job to handle any conflicts or problems in the cast or crew.”

It kills me that I don't know why he stopped looking at me. “Okay, and that's why you stomped up here? It wasn't to take care of fragile, broken Gen, was it? It's just your duty as stage manager!” I can feel the tension between us pushing against me, and I want to scream. I turn away from him because I can't stand the way he manages to look sad and angry without ever making eye contact.

“Oh God, Gen, of course not.” He raises his voice and his hand and his head, finally. “If he hurt you, I would break his face. Don't—don't even start okay? I just came in here to check on you, to be sure he wasn't being a creep.”

“Oh, he's a creepy, flirty, huge-ego-having assclown…just not to me!” I throw up my hands and paste on a plastic smile. “Isn't that great? No need to worry about that with me! For me to have a problem with a guy harassing me, a guy would have to notice me first, right? Well, don't worry—that doesn't happen! So. Yeah.”

“Right…'Cause having a guy follow you across the auditorium to check on you and make sure you're okay is something that has never happened in the history of your existence? Except—oh wait! It totally did right now!”

I roll my eyes and start adjusting levels on the huge mixer board.

He reaches behind his back to twist the knob. He's pulled his bottom lip between his teeth, and his head is shaking back and forth slightly. He's standing there, and I can see it all over his face—in his sad angry eyes, in the way he's holding his breath and giving me time to respond. He's practically begging me to acknowledge his point and apologize. But every single time I put one foot in front of the other, it seems like a misstep today.

I feel heavy and tired and frustrated and invisible and disgusting, and I just want him to leave.

“Yeah, well, cross me off your stage manager list of obligations, okay? ‘Sound designer wasn't harassed by castmate: check.' Job well done.”