“Haha,” I say over my shoulder as Richard pulls me down the steps while I try to suppress the continuing tickle in my throat. When we get to the hallway, he turns me away from him and ties the handkerchief snugly around my face. It sinks in that in this scenario, being blind is fun and romantic. How fucking ironic.
“Come with me,” he says, taking my hand. I do, trying not to look helpless and stumbly.
“I’m entirely in your hands,” I say, getting into it.
“As it should be, gorgeous.”
Gorgeous. Am I gorgeous? I’m going to have to check a mirror ASAP to see if I had some sort of radical transformation.
I’m still trembling from this compliment when we stop and he pulls off the blindfold with a snap. We’re by the front doors of the school, facing the wall. A large poster hangs in front of me.
“What am I looking at?” I ask.
Richard indicates the poster with a flourish. “Snowcap Mountain. The school ski trip. I go every year. And I”—he pauses for effect—“have signed you up.”
Richard takes my hands and steps back from me to take me in, looking expectant. I would go just about anywhere with Richard right now. I would go into the janitor’s closet next to his left elbow and make out with him in between the bottles of bleach if he was into it. So I want to give him the response he’s looking for, of course I do, but—
“I don’t know how to ski,” I say, biting my lip. I’ve never been on a ski trip, so I’m not sure, but it seems like knowing how to ski might be a prereq. Visions of me splayed out on the snow like an awkward starfish come to mind. This might not create the romantic scenario he has in mind.
Richard squeezes my hands now in a celebratory way, like we’ve won something. “That’s why you’re going withme. I will teach you.”
This interaction is making it crystal clear. I am officially bad at surprises. The risk of embarrassment is just too high. So the excuses keep dribbling out of my mouth. “Is it expensive? I’m not sure my parents will let me.”Jesus Christ, Hatts. So you’re a paranoid toddler now? Remember mystique? Just bat your eyes seductively and say, “Let me check my calendar, darling.”Instead,I say, “And what about rehearsal?” What a downer.
“You know what, Hattie? Sometimes you are too smart for your own good,” he says. He’s determined to get through to me. He comes close and puts both hands in my hair. He tips my face up and rests his forehead against mine.
“Don’t worry about any of that. That stuff is easy. We are going to spend the whole weekend together. Just you”—he pulls back a bit and kisses my left cheek—“me”—he kisses my right cheek—“and the mountain.” And he kisses me full on the lips, mouth open just enough to make us interlock perfectly. We’re now kissing in public, on school grounds. Plus, we are going away on a trip together. Asha won’t be able to argue with the official status of that.
“Okay,” I breathe when he pulls back. I feel dizzy.
“Now come on, smartie, we’re going to be late for our scene,” he says, as if this whole thing was my idea. I float behind him back toward the auditorium, seeing myself for the first time through the filter of the Richard Effect: a girl with a hot romance, a girl entangled with her costar, a girl who will soon be hitting the slopes with that romantic entanglement, no less. It’s so good, I want to take a screenshot of my brain so that I can always feel this way. But I can’t think about it too much, the way you can’t look directly into the sun. Acknowledging it makes me afraid of losing it, and fear and bliss don’t mix. So don’t think about it, Hattie. Just be that girl.
There’s nothing like a dress rehearsal. Before that, no matter how good you are, how talented, how serious, you’re basically a bunch of kids playing pretend. Lancelot in a tennis visor is not romantic, and the battle scenes between him and the other knights are hard not to giggle at. It’s just a bunch of boys I know dancing together. But once all the lights have color filters, the sound is amplified, and costumes are on, the drama of it all permeates, and it’s possible to be transported.
The only hitch for me personally is that although my chemistry with Arthur in the first act is shooting sparks out into the audience, it also makes Guenevere’s great love affair with Lancelot in the second act look a little limp. Our original Lancelot got mono, so Mr. Price tapped some guy from the community college who’d played the role before to come and fill in. Even though this guy, Carter, is only like three years older than me, he treats me like I’m in preschool, and he’s constantly doing belly breath warm-ups backstage that make him sound like a pregnant lady in a rom-com about to give birth. The whole thing is the opposite of sexy. I’m hoping the boost of tech and costumes will help me set the second act on fire.
So far, so good. I fly offstage. I’ve got eight bars of music to do my quickest costume change—off with the peach tunic and on with the sky blue—and grab up a dozen flower garlands. I’vedone this transition plenty of times, but now that the stage lights are on, they’ve contracted my pupils into pinpricks, and backstage is a sea of black. I put my hands out into empty air, inching my way forward to where the props table ought to be, but my trajectory is off and the nothingness goes on indefinitely. I almost wipe out on some coiled cables. I stop.
Shit. More than my inability to see, I’m frustrated by my own incompetence. Why hadn’t I anticipated this? I should have known, should have made a plan. When am I going to stop pretending to myself that I’m just like everybody else? I’m worse than my dad refusing a Seeing Eye dog.
My musical cue comes and goes. I hear the pit pause, then start up again eight bars earlier. They must think I’m spacing out back here, but we all have strict orders from Mr. Price to treat this like a performance and keep going no matter what. “Hello?” I whisper hoarsely. Where’s the stage manager? Isn’t there anyone back here to grab those garlands for me? If there is, they’re sadistically witnessing me freeze up like a lawn ornament. The idea that I’m currently being observed is intolerable. I turn and look back at the tempting brightness of the stage. Missing that cue again will be mortifying. I guess I’ll wing it.
I burst back onstage empty-handed and already singing, a little too forcefully, like if I sing loud enough I can muscle this scene into working. When the rest of the cast onstage sees me propless, surprise registers on their faces. All our choreography for this number involves the garlands—tossing the garlands, dancing in and out of the garlands, playing tug-of-war with thegarlands, even pretending to knight the ladies-in-waiting with the garlands. Garlands I do not have. I sing the lyrics on autopilot as I try to improvise movements, most of which, weirdly, seem to end up being square dance moves. I do-si-do with ladies-in-waiting and promenade with knights, half of whom look pissed. The other half look baffled, like they just woke up on an iceberg and are now dancing with a penguin.
I grind my teeth. This is the real trouble with being double cast. It’s not that I get half as much performance time. It’s that I could be fired at any moment without a second thought. My replacement is prepared and ready. She’s sitting in the auditorium right now, and she’s probably enjoying the hell out of this. In fact, everything that is good in my life right now—this play and Richard—could be lost in a quick switcheroo. Amanda could slide right in without missing a beat.
The end of the song is the worst, because by this time I should have given away all the garlands, and the chorus members are supposed to attach them to a pole that is lowered from above and then weave them together in a climactic May Day dance. As it is, everybody is just sort of walking in a circle as a random bare pole descends. And all the while, their eyes are throwing daggers at me. Or at least it feels that way. Even the pit seems to be accelerating the tempo, as if the whole woodwind section has decided to get through this train wreck as fast as possible.
When the run-through is over and everyone is back in their street clothes, we all sit in the first couple of rows to get notes.
Mr. Price flips through pages on his clipboard and clears histhroat. “Really nice work, everyone. Overall, I feel confident in saying that the magic is coming alive up there. Especially you knights. Thank you so much, boys, for learning your lines. You were supposed to be off book ten days ago, but better late than never. Arthur, make sure to hit all your marks in that first scene so the spot can pick you up, and Guenevere—” He looks up at me over the top of his reading glasses. “I’m almost afraid to ask. Where were you and what happened to the wonderful flowers?”
The heads in the row in front of me all turn in my direction. “It was really dark backstage,” I say. “I couldn’t find the props table.”
Mr. Price looks at me like this is the least believable performance I’ve given yet. “As the lead, my expectations for you are here,” he says, indicating the high bar with his hand. Apparently, there is something magical about expectations set at the left temple. “At this point in rehearsal, there should be no excuses. There’s no room for lapses.” Ouch. “And Sofi”—here he puts his arm around the stage manager’s shoulder as if to protect her from a nonexistent attack from me—“has done an excellent job of organizing the props so you will always know where they are. Garlands are where, Sofi?”
“All the way to the left,” she replies, looking bored.
Oh my God, am I going to have to explain my diagnosis right now? In front of the entire cast? I am not ready for today to be the day where everyone changes how they see me, where I become Hattie, the disabled girl, or worse, the differently-abled girl. Not for some trite May Day dance.
