The girl across from me takes half a step back. She’s not Emily, not anymore. Now that I’m standing across from her, she’s Natalya Bazhenova: a mathematics professor who made a promise to my character years ago. She promised to sweep me away from my Russian town to an elite school and nurture my mathematical talent. Between acts 1 and 2, I reached thirty-seven years old waiting for her to rescue me from this life, but she never did. She forgot me. And now she dares to come back.
“You’re tired of waiting,” I say. “You, Natalya, who left me in this town?” I step closer, snarling my way through the questionable translation, hunting Natalya down with my eyes. “Look at me. Look at what I am now.”
“I am looking at you,” she says.
“Look harder.”
“I see a loving mother, a caring sister. I see—”
“You see nothing,” I whisper. “I am nothing anymore except wasted potential. Nothing!”
My voice echoes back from the far reaches of the auditorium, and silence ricochets afterward like a boomerang. Dead, beautiful silence.
I speak more slowly now, tasting the bitterness in every word. “You were supposed to be my teacher. You said I was brilliant—a prodigy, you said. You were supposed to take me away, teach me everything, but instead you ran the first chance you had. And now you come back and say you’re tired of waiting?” My voice hardens to a condemnation: “You hypocrite.”
“I’m sorry, Faina,” she says.
Before it happens, I know our director is going to stop us. “Hold,” calls Mr. García from the front row. I drop character, slouching down to take a seat in the kitchen chair. Everything that was held tight in my body goes loose, every muscle, every bit of focus.
It’s a relief to get out of that headspace. God, the Russians were miserable. This play, The Hidden Things, was written by a man called Grigory Veselovsky around the turn of the century, and by the end, exactly zero of the characters are happy. Our pal Grigory must’ve been a sadist.
Mr. García hops up onto the edge of the stage. Our drama teacher, Mrs. Stilwater, has to plan some regional conference, so García’s directing the fall play. He’s technically an English person, not a theater person, but he knows what he’s doing.
I’ve heard he’s not getting paid for this, though, which is insane. Not that I’m complaining. There wouldn’t have been a fall play otherwise, and most days this feels like the only reason to get out of bed.
García jogs over to my scene partner. “Emily, push it more, I think. You can heighten the physicality of being afraid. And cheat a little to the right; we’re losing that section of the audience.”
And now the volume problem . . .
“Also, I hate to say it, but we’re still losing your lines.”
“I’m so sorry,” Emily says, obviously on the verge of tears.
I purse my lips. Damn right, she’s sorry. He’s given her this note a hundred times already. The show goes up in under three weeks, right before Thanksgiving break, and I’m starting to think she might never get it.
“It’s okay,” García says. “Hey. Emily? Don’t be upset. We’ll do some projection exercises later, all right?” He gives her a thumbs-up. “It’s a matter of trusting your voice—a confidence thing. You have this.”
God, García is patient. I would’ve yelled at half the people in this cast by now, but in five weeks of rehearsing, he hasn’t so much as raised his voice.
Emily nods once, her mousy hair falling into her eyes.
“Oh, and that’s another thing,” he says, scribbling a note on his omnipresent clipboard. “You’ve got to tie your hair back or something. It keeps hiding your right eye.”
I sigh, slouching down in my chair. He’s told her that note before, too. I don’t get why people can’t follow simple directions. Sometimes it feels as if García and I are the only ones giving this show everything.
It’s not that I think I’m more talented than the rest of the cast—the other kids are all good, in their own way. But . . . I don’t know. They don’t seem to need the stage, the space to fill, the echo of the voice, and the punch of the words.
“Kat?”
I look up. “What?”
García approaches me. “You’re doing great, but there’s something missing in the way you’re tackling this scene, I think.” He puts his clipboard on the table. “What’s your character’s objective in this scene? What does she want from Emily’s character?”
I figured all this out when I did the script work back in September. I answer without hesitating. “She wants Natalya to apologize.”
García runs a hand through his hair, making it stick straight up. He looks like a hungover college student, with his stubble and thick-rimmed glasses and messy hair. He’s a new teacher this year, but he’s chill and doesn’t give too much homework, so he’s doing pretty well by most people’s standards. “Yeah,” he says, “I can see the apology motive. But what else do you think it could be?”
I frown. “I’m pretty sure that’s it. Natalya ruined my character’s life, so it—”
A fit of giggling bursts out backstage. The frustration that’s been burning low in my chest ignites. I twist around in my chair. “Could you shut up?” I snap. The giggles die.
García’s eyes glimmer with amusement. “You can let me do that, you know. Believe it or not, I, too, am capable of saying, ‘Quiet backstage.’?”