All's Well(7)

Shut it down. Shut it down now.

“I remember we had a discussion,” I say. “I remember we conversed. And then I remember I determined”—I put the emphasis on determined, leaving the phrase as director implied but unsaid—“based on a number of factors, that we would be doing All’s Well this year, an equally wonderful but far more compelling play.”

I look over at Grace now for support. She’s looking at me like, Really? “Far more compelling”? Come on, Miranda.

“This is a problem play,” I continue. “Neither a tragedy nor a comedy, something in between. Something far more interesting.”

I attempt to smile at them, but no one, not Hugo, not even Ellie, will meet my eye. I look back over at Grace, seated in the audience, staring at her laptop, her non-expression glowing by the light of the screen.

I thought you said no mutiny! I try to hiss with my face.

But Grace just looks at her laptop with still greater concentration. Pretending to assess the schedule, perhaps, but I know she’s just shopping for camping gear. Or perhaps cage accessories for her bearded dragon. I believe Grace is having some sort of affair with her bearded dragon. She has an absurdly intimate relationship with it. Named him Ernest from Oscar Wilde’s The Importance of Being Earnest. It makes me deeply uncomfortable to watch them in close proximity to each other, which they have been each time I’ve gone over to her apartment. She’ll take Ernest out of his terrarium at night and let him climb her shoulder. Let his tongue dart in and out just by her cheek. She’ll very nearly close her eyes. Tilt her head back. It’s upsetting to watch. It’s—

“Professor Fitch?”

This from Ellie. Her moon face beautifully miserable, her long hair a nondescript dark that is neither brown nor black. That reminds me of the sky in Scotland on November afternoons, when the light that has just receded is all the the light there will be for the day. And yet Ellie is my light.

“Yes, Ellie? What can I do for you?”

Probably Ellie is a virgin, poor thing. The product of an absent father and some suffocating mother whom she has quietly contemplated murdering. She loves Trevor, of course. Even as she hates him and hates herself for it. When he speaks, it’s the only time I’ve ever seen her gray flesh go pink at the cheeks.

“Are we competing in the Shakespeare competition this year?”

“Yes, Ellie. Absolutely.”

I can already picture the inebriated rich people clapping. The smell of the well-manicured gardens in Rhode Island making me drunk and vaguely horny. The afternoon light on my face. The sight of all those young bodies moving so easily in the June sunshine. Making me ache for some kind of life other than this. The judges smiling flatly at Briana’s impassioned attempts to have a soul. Trevor’s handsome face fiercely scrunched in the throes of his shallow performance. Ellie’s quiet molten core revealing itself unevenly, only in unexpected moments. For a brief moment, she can take your breath away.

“Well, I think All’s Well could be an interesting choice for that. Because no one else would be doing it.”

My sweet Ellie. If I were to have a child, it would be Ellie. Of course, what with my irredeemably broken body, that ship has long sailed. Ellie has aspirations for the stage, which I’ve encouraged, I’ve fed. Think big, Ellie, I’ve told her many an afternoon in my office, the door closed. One day you will leave all these plebeians behind. And it will be a wondrous moment for you. To no longer be among communications and English majors who do not appreciate your nuance, your dark grace.

“But if we’re competing, shouldn’t we choose a more substantial play?” This from one of Briana’s girl underlings. Some boring name I always forget. Like Ashley or Michelle.

“All’s Well hardly ever gets staged because it’s so problematic,” she adds. Clearly so pleased with her Wikipedia knowledge.

Briana, I note, still has yet to speak.

“Well, then it will be a challenge for us, won’t it?” I say. “And I love a challenge. I’m certainly ready for it. Are you?” I’m gripping the back of my chair fiercely now lest I fall down.

Grace has now been joined by Fauve in the audience. Grace is still looking at her laptop, but Fauve just stares at me. Eyes wide. The picture of the innocent bystander. Expression inscrutable. But I can feel her willing me to fail. Her blue notebook sits open on her lap. Her ornamental pen, uncapped, poised in her painted talons. Mon. 01?21, 5:55 p.m. Mutiny met with directorial pigheadedness. Evidence of drug abuse. Prevarication. Steamrolling.

Hugo’s gone, I see. Left without saying goodbye. Though why would he say goodbye? I feel my heart sink in spite of myself.

Now, at last, Briana raises her hand. Briana of the burnished hair. Briana of the B-minus mind who yet believes she deserves an A for breathing. Reading an essay of Briana’s will make you fear for the future of America, will make you hiss What the fuck are you talking about? aloud at the bar where you have to go and get loaded on pinot grigio in order to grade Briana’s paper, so that the bartender will say to you, Miss, are you all right? He will even put his hand on your shoulder, he is that concerned. And you will say, I’m fine, I’m so sorry. And you will look up into his face, and his eyes will be so blue and kind. You will recall when such a face and torso stirred something deep inside you, in a place where there are now only dead leaves skittering. You will look back at Briana’s paper. You will observe that she chose the Garamond font. You will proceed to write B? in the top left-hand corner even though it is a C tops. But you will hesitate, your pen suspended over the page. You will mentally fast-forward to the moment when you hand Briana her essay back, branded with this B?. She will receive it and immediately look as though she has been stung by a thousand wasps, and you will wish that she had brought this to her performance of Juliet. You will watch her face redden first with embarrassment, then with outrage, her chin tilt up, up, up in defiance. She will assume you have given her this grade because you are an idiot and/or jealous of her beauty and youth. You are not the former, but you are most certainly the latter, and so it is not without some fear, some guilt, that you will watch Briana march toward your desk after class, watch her flip her shining hair around in an attempt to blind you as she complains. Watch her eyes grow big and wet and desperate. Watch her outrage bloom like an out-of-control flower. For this is not the way of the universe, the universe of Briana in which you are merely a cog in the great machinery of her ultimate success. The universe wishes for Briana to succeed, to win. Hearing Briana protest like this, knowing your own inner failings, you might bow down to her will. You might hand over the A. Because you are so tired. Because Briana’s voice not only hurts your hip and spinal cord, it also lights up your inner red webs, flashing more quickly under her gaze. You might spare yourself all of this and give her the damned A to start with. And Briana won’t even thank you for this. She’ll just feel like you were an unfortunate spider creeping around her dollhouse but you were kind enough to die on your own. After all, her parents are donors to this school’s decrepit theater program, hence the fact that Briana is Helen this year, hence the fact that Briana was Juliet last year, hence the fact that Briana was Rosalind the year before. Hence the fact that you have heard the soliloquies of Shakespeare’s most complex and formidable heroines die in her unworthy throat. And yet. She is also the reason you have the ghost of a program at all, and she knows this.