Standing for Weirdo

Chapter 32

Word of mouth had done its job by Saturday night. The auditorium was full to the brim, and instead of people politely keeping their end of the bargain, expectation shimmered in the air. They wanted to see what this new amazing and scandalous play would offer them. We were ecstatic, because never before had we faced such a public. I could even recognize some familiar faces who had decided to come again after the opening performance! But the one who was most vindicated was Mr. Hedford. He’d always wanted to be a director, always wanted to share his vision of the literary world. The class was a fine place to do it, but the stage allowed him to reach so much further. Lady Windermere’s Fan was proving that his vision, indeed, had reached the public. That it could change them. That was the message he’d tried to get across to the school board since forever, and this year, as soon as they gave him free reign over all details, he pulled it off.

Of course, the success laid somewhere else—not to say that he wasn’t talented, but it was the joined effort of us all as actors what ultimately reached the public. And, whether we wanted to admit it or not, it had been Trevor's music giving us the motivation to find the right emotions and to portray them.

In spite of this knowledge, though, I was less than thrilled while waiting for the curtain to go up. Absurd, perhaps, but I had come to a decision: I could not turn my back on the state my boyfriend had been in after the play. There must be something going on, so I would keep myself above the music and look out for that insidious melody that kept capturing his attention.

But at the same time, I could not let the public down.

The curtain rose and Act I unfolded, and I remembered what I was supposed to feel like and fought to remember that it was me, Alice, and that I was just playing my role. I don’t know if I’d have been able to do it alone, but Alex didn’t hold back and I could recite my Lady Windermere off his Lord. Even as the words rolled off my tongue, I was aware that yesterday had been better. Still, it must have been light-years beyond what the public had expected, because there was roaring applause as soon as the curtain closed.

Act II began, and I tried to mask my emotional distance under the hardship of the situation. But the first notes to the theme started to resonate, and a sick feeling settled in the pit of my stomach, making any act unnecessary. The audience was rapt, and once again, the song weaved moods and emotions around like a master of ceremonies. But instead of being captured by the beauty, I was more and more horrified with every passing moment.

It was the right song. It wasn’t the right player.

How could the others be so blind? Trevor, gentle and loving Trevor, never sounded like this. He coaxed the notes to flow into one another, pouring forth complex melodic lines that, for all their independence, always entwined in the moments of tension, supporting each other. This time, the song was forced forward, clipped and frail, each note as cold as an icicle. Like icicles, they shattered when the tension building inside grew too high, and the shards that the breaking moment sent forward scattered on their own, lashing out aggressively at the melody itself.

The emotions, the anger and fear and frustration, might not be out of place with the scene, but they were certainly out of place with Trevor and with our previous rehearsals. By the time the curtain fell, a cold sheen of sweat pearled on my brow and I could almost taste the desperation in the back of my throat. I stole a glance to the pit while the others buzzed around me, adjusting the few details that would mark the beginning of Act III. I didn’t have a good angle to see, but I knew what I’d find there.

Part of me wanted to leave, to cast the Lady aside and rush to him.

The other part was too scared of what I’d find and preferred the denial offered by the stage.