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DANA
“All right,” Grant claps his hands once. “I think that’s it for today, guys. So, if there are no questions, I say that’s lunch.”
A hand rises from the back row. “Mr. Wilson?”
“Yes, Lydia?” he calls on her.
“Will there be any reading... not written by you?” she asks, prompting a wave of chuckles throughout the room.
“Why would there be?” Grant says, feigning offense with a smile. “Of course! Coming up, we’ve got Sophocles. We’ve got Williams. We’ve got The Bard himself. Where do you think I learned it all from? Good question.” When no one else raises a hand, Grant continues. “All right. Get out of here.”
We all begin packing away our things.
“Next time, we start lessons on dialogue,” Grant says, raising his voice to carry over the sounds of books and backpacks. “You should have done that reading by now, but if not, get it done. Trust me, you’ll need it to keep up. Also! By now, you should have at least an outline completed for your one-acts. Don’t get too far behind on those.”
I bristle at that. Based on pre-class chatter, mostly everyone is far beyond the outlining phase. Dylan, for example, had already drafted several pages.
Me, on the other hand…
“Better come up with something good for me,” he said just yesterday.
“For you?” I asked.
“I’m in the class that gets to perform our plays,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “And I’m going to be in yours.”
I wait for most of my classmates to leave before rising out of my chair. Grant usually hangs back to see if anyone has a private question to ask. And this conversation definitely needs to happen in private.
Sorry, Dylan. I might not be the one after all.
Easing toward the front of the classroom, I linger until Grant looks at me. He breaks into a welcoming smile as he tosses his messenger bag over his shoulder.
“Hey, Grant,” I say.
“Ms. Kirby,” he says. “What can I do for you?”
“I, uh… I wondered if I could have a moment of your time. To talk about… class.”
“Can you walk and talk?” he asks. “I’ve got a doctor’s appointment to get to, but you’ve got me from here to G-spot.”
“What?”
“G-lot.” Grant clears his throat apologetically. “Sorry. Once a Northie.”
I chuckle, understanding. “I can walk and talk.”
He points toward the stairs. “Let’s go.”
We say nothing as we descend the stairs and trek into the lobby, but as Grant steps ahead and holds the door for me, he breaks the silence.
“So, what’s up?” he asks, then grins. “How’s your one-act coming along?”
My chest tightens. “Yeah, that’s… actually what I wanted to talk to you about.”
“All right,” he says, nudging me to continue as he matches my slow stride on the sidewalk.
I take a breath. “My one-act isn’t coming along well.”
“Oh?”
