So I do what I always do when I don’t want to participate in a performance. I walk over to the piano, where I feel safe and comfortable, and I start playing. Nothing I know seems appropriate, so I improvise a low, creepy, meandering bass line to underscore Alberto’s nonsensical words. Everyone seems to relax a little now that something is happening, and they start reading aloud, talking over each other and trying to make their bodies into doorbells and concentric circles and masses of fury. It’s cool that my music is the thing that spurred everyone into action, but the result is still pretty abysmal. Clark nods like this is exactly what he wants from us, but I can’t imagine how this random chaos is ever going to become a presentable show.
I stay at the piano for the entire rehearsal, playing with melodies to go with my bass line. I feel a little guilty that I’m enjoying myself over here while everyone else is yelling and contorting and writhing in a pile on the floor, but much more than that, I’m relieved to have found a way out. As I play, I try to remember every detail of the “acting” going on across the room so I can recount it for Zoe later. My body is here in rehearsal, but my mind is already back in the room, doing a dramatic reading of this “script” and reducing her to helpless, tearful laughter. It felt so awesome to have all her attention focused on me when I described last week’s rehearsal. I can’t wait to make it happen again.
Rehearsal ends as abruptly as it did last time; when Clark has had enough, he scoops up his clipboard and walks out. Alberto drops a pencil as he scurries after him, and the guy with the long hair pockets it on his way out the door. Pandora dials her phone as she leaves, and from out in the hall, I hear her say something about “amateur bullshit” and “meeting with company management.”
Russell intercepts me before I can leave the piano bench. “My pain is like the rings of Saturn,” he says.
“I feel more like a furious supernova, personally.” I slump back against the wall. “What are we going to do?”
“I mean, what can we even do? We can’t make a play until that dude writes a play.”
“Do you think we could get the show canceled if enough of us complained? I’d honestly rather be in nothing than be in this.”
“Well, you wouldn’t be in nothing. What about your main stage show?”
“I’m not in one. Apparently I suck too much to be on the main stage.” It’s been long enough now that it doesn’t hurt to say those words anymore.
Russell scoots me over with his hip and sits down next to me on the bench. “I’m sure you don’t suck,” he says.
“Trust me, I kind of do.”
“Well, I guess I don’t know for sure, since I’ve never seen you act. But you were good enough to get in here in the first place, and it’s pretty competitive. Plus, you’re a kick-ass musician.” He puts his hands on the keys and starts trying to replicate the bass line I was playing. “I love this. Did you write it?”
I’ve never really thought of the silly little tunes I pick out as writing something, and I’m pretty sure nobody’s ever called me a musician before, either. To everyone at home, I’ve always been just an accompanist. “Yeah,” I say. “I made it up.”
“It’s really cool.” With his other hand, Russell adds some chords, and they harmonize better than the ones I was using earlier. “What about this?”
“Ooh, nice.” I start playing with a melody on the high keys, and pretty soon we’ve got an interesting little song going, melodic lines twining around each other in this cool, haunting way. Russell and I barely know each other, but somehow we’re each able to anticipate what the other is about to do, like we’ve been making music together for years. My pulse speeds up, and my brain starts feeling busier, somehow, like I’m using more parts of it than usual. I’m always so self-conscious when I’m acting or singing, but it’s totally different when I’m at the piano; I’m confident enough that I’m able to laugh off my mistakes like they don’t even matter. What Russell and I are doing feels like playing in the most literal sense.
We finish the song by getting slower and slower, tapering off like a music box that’s winding down. When the last note has faded away, we sit there for a second, motionless, still caught up in the web of what we’ve created together. Then Russell says, “That was awesome.”
“Wasn’t it?” I feel weirdly giddy.
“You’re really talented.”
I shrug and smile. “Not the kind of talented that matters around here. But thank you. So are you.”
“Are you a music major?”
“I don’t start college till next year, actually, but I wasn’t planning on it. I don’t have any formal training or anything. My uncle taught me to play.”