I followed him over, and the little crowd parted easily to let us through—maybe because we were flushed and sweaty, but maybe not.
In the middle of the wall was a long corkboard reserved for general campus announcements. Usually it was thatched with club flyers and tutoring advertisements, but that day everything else was hidden behind an enormous campaign poster of Richard. He glared out at the viewer in monochrome red, his handsome features sharpened by deep black shadows. Below the immaculate knot of his tie but above the smaller text detailing the production information white block letters proclaimed,
ALWAYS I AM CAESAR
James and I stood staring at it for long enough that most of the other people who had come to investigate lost interest and wandered away.
“Well,” he said, “that’s bound to get people’s attention.”
I was still staring, annoyed that James wasn’t more annoyed. “Fuck this,” I said. “I don’t want him watching me like Big Brother from every wall for the next two weeks.”
“He doth bestride the narrow world / Like a Colossus,” James remarked, “and we petty men / Walk under his huge legs and peep about / To find ourselves dishonorable graves.”
“Fuck that also.”
“You’re starting to sound like Alexander.”
“Sorry, but after last night I think the odds of Richard ripping my head off went up like a hundred percent.”
“Keep that in mind next time Meredith throws herself at you.”
“It wasn’t quite like that,” I said, and immediately wished I hadn’t spoken.
“Be careful, Oliver,” he said, knowingly, as if he could read my mind. “You’re much too trusting. She did this to me, too, first year. We were partners for voice class—that weird humming thing. Remember?”
“Wait, she did what?”
“Decided she wanted me and assumed I wanted her, because doesn’t everyone? When I told her no she changed her mind. Acted like it never happened and went after Richard instead.”
“Are you serious?”
He gave me a wry sort of look in reply.
“Jesus.” I glanced away, around the refectory, curious what sort of secrets everyone else was keeping. How little we wondered about the inner lives of other people. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It didn’t seem important.”
I thought of him twirling a strand of Wren’s hair around his finger and asked, “Anything else I should know, while we’re on the subject?”
“No. Honestly.” If he was hiding something, his expression—at ease, unaffected—didn’t give it away. Maybe Alexander was right and James and I were equally oblivious.
I shifted my weight. I felt like Richard was watching me, the poster a garish red blotch in my peripheral vision. I turned, sighed at it, and said, “I guess the good news is that after yesterday’s drama he’ll have to stop trying to break your arms in Act III.”
“You think so?”
“You don’t?”
He shook his head in a sad, distracted way. “He’s too smart for that.”
“So … what do you think he’ll do?”
“He’ll lay off, but just for the next few days. He’ll wait for opening night. Gwendolyn’s not going to run onstage and stop the show.” His eyes flicked back and forth across the poster. For a moment he might have forgotten I was there.
James: “Now, in the names of all the gods at once, Upon what meat does this our Caesar feed, That he is grown so great?”
I was quiet for a while, then spoke one of my own lines in reply, unsure of where exactly it had come from.
Me: “Hold, my hand: Be factious for redress of all these griefs, And I will set this foot of mine as far As who goes farthest.”
James’s gray eyes sparkled gold as he looked back at me and said, “There’s a bargain made.” There was something unfamiliar in his smile, some fierce gladness that made me at once eager and uneasy. I grinned back as best I could, then followed him to the kitchen to get a glass of water. My mouth was unbearably dry.
SCENE 6
Richard’s face haunted me for the rest of the week, but his wasn’t the only one. Posters of James had also appeared—his done in royal blue, bearing the slogan Soul of Rome. Other publicity photos—featuring Alexander; Wren and Meredith; and then me, Colin, and our Lepidus together—appeared in the lobby of the FAB and the school newspaper. Campus began to hum again with anticipation for an upcoming production.
On opening night, there wasn’t a single empty seat in the house. Dellecher’s production quality was legendary, and the prospect of seeing the next big actor, artist, or virtuoso before fame snatched them away attracted more than the obvious collection of students and faculty. The house was packed with local Bardolators, students on field trips, and season ticket holders. (In the spring, the best seats would be reserved for a troop of agents invited from New York to watch us perform.) The lights came up on a group of excitable second-years, the common Romans, giddy at the idea of being onstage at Dellecher for the first time. The rest of us, more experienced and only half as agitated, waited in the wings.
The play climbed through the first two acts until the tension was so great that the whole auditorium seemed to be holding its breath. The assassination was swift and violent, and as soon as James directed the conspirators to disperse, I stumbled offstage, ears ringing.
“Fuck!” I blundered into the heavy black curtains on stage left. Someone caught me by the shoulders and guided me out of the tabs as the secondary conspirators shuffled past on their way back to the dressing rooms. The house rang with Antony’s impassioned soliloquy over Caesar’s body.
Colin: “O, pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth,
That I am meek and gentle with these butchers!
Thou art the ruins of the noblest man
That ever livèd in the tide of times.
Woe to the hand that shed this costly blood!”
I groped toward the wall in the dark, one hand over my ear. The same someone turned me around so I didn’t fall face-first into the fly lines.