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14
DEXTER
Ilook around the circle at my advanced theatre class. Undeniably there is a lot of talent here. I can easily see three or four of these kids pursuing acting careers on stage. One of them is the very late-born child of a film producer—he is definitely perfect for the camera. And this set of twins, a boy and a girl, starred in one of those horrible laugh-track cable kid shows for three years. When they first walked into my classroom two years ago, I was certain I’d hate them, but they’ve grown on me.
And today is the discussion I dread.
“What are we going to do with this thing we love?”
As expected, the first one with a hand up is Yazmin Goode.
“I’m auditioning in the city for a summer run before I start at NYU. I’m going to arrange my class schedule so I can always be in a show.”
In my head, I list reasons why this is a bad idea, starting with the fact that she doesn’t even know she’s accepted at NYU, since early decision notices won’t even be sent for a couple of months. But I smile and nod along with her as she outlines her plan. The four years of undergrad, the continuous parts in Broadway shows, the dream life for a young actor in the city.
My smile freezes on my face when she says, “And if nothing else works out, I can always teach, like you.”
I hear the words Yazmin doesn’t say. What my agent doesn’t say. What my father doesn’t say often, but my mother certainly does. What my ex said. And what I say to myself every day. If you’re not actually as good an actor as you think you are, you can always go teach this stuff to kids. That way, it doesn’t matter if you’re entirely mediocre and forgettable. At a high school, the whole audience re-forms itself every few years.
I force my shoulders away from my ears and breath in and out before answering. “Sure,” I say, using my considerable acting talent to convince them I mean it. “Teaching is the best job in the world.”
“Besides actual acting,” Janessa Clarkson says. Of all the kids I’ve taught, she is the one I most dread having any real interactions with. It’s not that she’s totally horrible. Just that she’s slightly horrible in all the same ways that Candace Holland was. Like Janessa Clarkson might have been the high school version of Candace. She seems to have a microscopic probe that zaps the most sensitive parts of my psyche, knocking away any confidence I’ve managed to build. Just like Candace could when we were together.
Janessa will be gone in June, and she’ll take all these memories of Candace with her. She’s the past. Soon I can really, officially, put Candace all the way behind me.
“Are you ever going to audition again?”
I have to look around the circle for a second to figure out who asks this. Every single pair of eyes is on me. Thea Galloway does a little nervous wave. I’ve only heard her speak once or twice when she isn’t reading lines.
“I really don’t want to make this about me,” I say, reminding them of the class rules. I make it very clear at the beginning of term that I am qualified to teach them stage acting, but that none of us is here to relive my glory days.
“Okay,” Thea says, “but what if someone wanted to do an occasional performance while maintaining a steady job. What then?”
The kids go around the circle discussing summer stock and community theatre and shows at the universities they’ll be attending. I nod along with them, laughing when they’re funny and rolling my eyes when they’re on-purpose ridiculous.
With ten minutes left in class, I bring the discussion back to my favorite mantra: a liberal arts education is always useful. Learning how to learn is important. Bringing beauty into the world, asking people to think about the hard questions, providing art and entertainment, these are the things that make life worthwhile.
After class is over and everyone is gone, I text Hank.
‘Remind me that my life is not wasted.’
Hank is quick on the reply. ‘Sorry, mate. Should have been a banker.’
I don’t answer. A moment later, I see that Hank understood my lack of response. ‘You despise me, don’t you?’
‘Despise is such a pretentious word. Perfect for you.’
‘Allow me to make it up to you. Lola’s for dinner. On me.’
It’s my turn to pay, but I don’t remind him. ‘Forgiven. See you at six?’
‘Starving. Half past five.’
When we walk in, Lola’s smells like the whole place is simmering in curry sauce. Hank takes a dramatic sniff and does a nerdy little dance. “Darling,” he calls toward the kitchen, “we’re here and we’re salivating,”
Lola leans out the kitchen door and waves us over to the booths.
As he sits, Hank unwraps the napkin from his silverware and flourishes it before putting it in his lap.
