We did the cue-to-cue the next day. Since the main stage would host four different short plays in a row for Drama Showcase, the set had to be easy to load in and break down. My solution, a minimalist, single steel beam (made of spray-painted foam blocks—for once, the visual arts stoners had come in handy) that stretched from wing to wing, needed intricate lighting design to avoid looking as cheap as it was. So in addition to Chris, I had a junior tech geek named Faiqa up in the booth, adjusting the levels.
True to form, you and Roth arrived through doors on opposite ends of the theater, avoiding eye contact.
“There are my star-crossed lovers!” I cried, just to see if you would look at each other before looking at me.
“Looks great, man,” Roth said, keeping his eyes on the stage.
“Yeah, great,” you parroted, with unconvincing enthusiasm.
“Great!” I said. “We’re going to make this quick and dirty.” I opened my script, which I’d marked up in advance with the cues. “If all goes well, it will be very . . . illuminating.”
“Good one,” Faiqa said through her headset from the booth.
“Places!” I yelled.
I called the cues while you and Roth moved from mark to mark onstage, saying one-off lines to show Faiqa where you’d be standing when she changed the lighting. Per my instructions, she made it dark and moody, with a film noir spot in the center and colored gels to create a dark, midnight blue cast on the background, which would slowly fade to an early morning orange by the end of the play. There wasn’t much for you two to do—while I worked on finessing each cue with the tech team, you stood like bored mannequins. I was the only one who knew there was a surprise coming.
“OK, this is cue ten,” I said to the room at large, when the moment finally arrived. “This is the kiss after Viola says, ‘I just want to feel something real.’ Page seventeen.”
You and Dave, who were already sitting side by side on one of the blocks center stage, staring intently at the ground, didn’t move.
“OK, so they’re in the same place as cue nine, so I’ll just—” Faiqa said as she lowered the spotlight and brought up a backlight that cast you in hazy silhouette.
“I’d like to actually see it,” I said. “Their faces will be turned to the side, so I want to see what that looks like.”
You and Dave turned to face each other.
“Now say the line,” I called.
“I just want to feel something . . . real,” you said, substituting volume for emotion.
“Do it with your hand on his face. Faiqa needs to see it.”
“Actually, I don’t,” she said through the headset, but I ignored her.
You reached a hand up to Dave’s temple and brushed some hair off of his forehead. I saw the corners of his mouth twitch up.
“OK, now say it again . . .” I said, trying not to clench my teeth.
“I just want to feel something . . . real,” you repeated, gazing up at him.
“. . . and now kiss.”
“What?” Your eyes darted nervously over to me. “I thought that was supposed to be improvised.”
“I changed my mind,” I said. “I need to make sure it’s believable.”
Dave shifted uncomfortably. “Won’t it be more believable if it’s a first kiss?” he asked.
“It would be more believable if you were actually a teenaged welder, but we’re letting that slide.”
“Right. I just—” he looked at you helplessly. “Um.”
“Well, I’m glad we’re running it now if it’s such a struggle,” I said, feeling bile rise in my throat. Your pathetic protestations sealed the deal. I hadn’t been completely convinced my hunch was right until that moment.
That’s what you get for casting such a matinee idol in the part you wrote for yourself, dipshit.
It was true—I’d originally written Boroughed Trouble as a way to make sure I got to kiss you before graduation, and to show the VIPs in the audience that I was a triple-threat writer/actor/director. I was planning to play Rodolpho myself, after holding a casting call just for show. But then you’d kissed me, and everything changed. I’d let my guard down, just in time for Dave Roth to enter on cue.
“I think what Dave and I both feel,” you said, a segue that spiked my heart rate on its own, “is that it would be more . . . powerful for it to happen during the performance.”
“Well, I’m the director and I disagree.”
“It just feels weird, since—” Dave started, but I cut him off.
“We’re not together,” I said. “I’m not an idiot, and it means nothing to me, so just kiss her!” Through my headset I could hear Faiqa and Chris breathing, but I didn’t care anymore. Let them watch, I thought.
You and Dave looked at each other for a long minute filled with tense hesitation before finally, awkwardly, leaning in to peck each other quickly on the lips. It was the kind of kiss two fifth graders might do on a dare. It was even more damning than your previous refusals.