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“Yes,” she said. “How do you know that?”
“Watched the movie in English last year. Brando was great,” I said, then put on an affected voice that was my best impression of him. “I coulda been a contendah!”
She laughed, a deep guffawing laugh. It wasn’t the demure bubbly laugh that girls tended to do when I said something I thought was funny, or when I made a reference that went past them and they wanted to pretend they understood. It was genuine, loud, and somehow extremely attractive. It made me reciprocate the widest smile I could manage.
“Yes,” she said. “That’s right. It was a play first. Brando played the part on Broadway, too.”
“Cool,” I said. “So are you ready?”
“Yeah,” she said, tossing the brushes into the sink and rinsing them off, shaking her head. “Let me get the cleaning stuff.”
She crossed the room and grabbed a couple of buckets and mops from where they were leaning against the wall. I shrugged, taking the bucket and filling it with water and carrying it with me to the hall, following her to the spot where we ran into each other.
“How did you get this stuff?” I asked. “The cleaner you poured into the bucket is the stuff they keep locked up in the janitor closet.”
“How did you know that?” she asked.
I shrugged. “I know Tom,” I said. “Usually when I’m done with practice, he’s still here cleaning up. I recognized it.”
“Well, I know Tom too,” she said. “We’re pretty tight, I guess.” She laughed again and knelt down to start swabbing away at the paint stain on the floor. I joined her. “I am known for being a little bit clumsy.”
“Ahh. We have one mutual friend then,” I said. “He’s a good guy.” She giggled and nodded, focusing on the spot on the floor and occasionally looking over at me. I moved so I could be across from her, working on the same big spot with my own rag and cleaner. “So, you were telling me about the play.”
“Huh?” she asked.
“The play,” I said. “You were telling me about it before Debbie Lee interrupted us.”
“Oh,” she said. “It’s a Tennessee Williams play. But I guess I already told you that.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I’ve never heard of it before, though.”
“A lot of people haven’t,” she said. “It’s not one of his better-known works likeGlass MenagerieorCat on a Hot Tin Roof. It’s kind of surrealist and silly, while also being very gut-wrenching.”
“You said I would like the lead, right?” I asked. “What did you mean by that?”
“He’s an athlete,” she said. “A boxing champion. Only he has this heart condition and is going to die if he doesn’t find a way to treat it. It’s too big. So he goes to Camino Real and falls in love with a prostitute.”
“Whoa,” I said. “They let you guys do that kind of stuff?”
“Well, it’s not explicit or anything,” she said. “You have to pay really close attention to understand that part of it. Can you hand me that dry rag?”
I nodded and grabbed it for her. She proceeded to wipe up the spot she was on, the paint coming up easily, and she grinned.
“This is good stuff,” I said, gesturing toward the cleaning bottle. “No wonder they keep it locked up.”
“You sound like an alcoholic,” I laughed. She also chuckled, rolling her eyes.
We kept working on the stains for a few more minutes as she told me all about the play. The story was fascinating, if a little hard to follow, but the way she told it, with the passion she had, it was magnetic to listen to.
With the paint all cleaned up, I helped her get the cleaning supplies put away as she took a paper towel and started wiping down her arms. When she looked down at her shirt, she groaned.
“What?” I asked.
“I have paint all over me,” she said. “It was just on the back of my jeans, but now I’ve got it everywhere.”
“No, you don’t,” I said. I dipped my finger into the paper towel in her hand, picking up a smudge of light blue paint and then touched her nose. “There. Now it’s all over you. Lucky for you, that’s a really good color on you.”
Grinning, I winked and grabbed my duffel bag and snapped off a wave. I walked away before she could say anything.
