Damsel[ed]: Rescue Required (#3 of the Damsel[ed] Series)

Chapter Sixteen: Romeo

I'd never stayed in the drama room, but as soon as I take a stumbling step on the polished linoleum, I know why Heaven chose it. It's a fortress. The top room of the academy in a domed bell tower, an octagon with an arched window in each wall.

 Instead of desks, the classroom is full of plastic chairs. Black drapes hang over an oak slab of a raised stage. The floor is covered in shadow.  

The drama teacher's sitting up in the front row with his laptop balanced across his knees. He turns to us, pushes his glasses up on a bulby red nose. "Galaxy spoke to me." He nods at the back of the classroom. "You can sit in. I trust you boys aren't in too great danger?" Brown eyes lined with crow feet widen behind his lense. 

Gats shudders, so I answer for him. "No, sir. We just got in a little scuffle with a few villains a while ago and, you know, Gal felt better if we stayed here while she fought some of the campus intruders. It's fine," I say, my hands slimy and cold with sweat. "We're fine."

The teacher nods, brow creased. "And how are you, Gatsby? Fairing alright?"

Gats nods, blinking out at the lazy drift of clouds past the window. "Huh? Oh. I'm good." He shuffles toward the glass, his steps slow and precious. His fingertips skim the divets of the thick cinderblock, his head hung as if he stands inside a prison. The drama teacher glances back at me and I nod with my mouth pressed into a grimace.  Help him, I want to beg. I don't know what to do. You're his favorite teacher, you're an adult, you have to know what to say. The man closes his laptop with a heavy click.

"I'm on a free period," he says, turning up the sagging folds of his turtleneck. "Why don't we run a few scenes of Romeo and Juliet? There are some I need to still block, and it would be great to see a more instinctive take from two actors. What do you boys say?"

I tip my head to the side. Gats still holds his hands behind his back, staring on tiptoes out at that piece of cloudy sky. Looking at him makes my chest close up. "Block?" I ask, willing Gats to turn back to me.

"Yeah," he obliges, his voice so soft I strain on tiptoes to hear him as he glances back at me. His face is washed out in the glow of early morning sun. "Blocking. Where the actors are on the stage and how they move, when, why." He leans on his heels, shoulders rolled back. Pink has returned to his cheeks. A dim smile sweeps his gentle features as he glances back at the teacher. "Sounds great, Mr. B."

"Yeah." My wings flutter against my back, crushed flat between my shirt and spine. "Sounds fun."

And it is fun—for Gatsby. Me? I'm shaky on my feet, moving across the room like I'm wading through sludge. But as soon as the teacher hands out spiral-bound script books, assigns us characters, and asks us to "feel out the stage," Gats is at home. He bounds up the creaking steps, smiling up at me. Smiling. And because he's home, so am I.

First, we're the two servant guys who open the play after the intro, Sampson and Gregory, snorting dirty jokes maybe half the audience will get. Shakespeare's Gatsby's domain. His and Heaven's, so I'm at least sort of familiar with the language. We meander across the stage, Gats prodding me to "cheat" and "project" while I slip into my character's skin, the 'thous' and 'thees' rolling smoothly from my tongue. 

Then we skip to Mercutio's death. I plant myself center-stage, Gats just right of me. Dying on stage is an adrenaline rush of the stupidest kind. You're staggering across stage, clutching at wounds that aren't there, all while real emotion surges through you. For your own death, for the death of the character you're starting like. Mercutio was a good guy. "Ask for tommorow," I read, "and you shall find me a"—knowing little pathetic smirk—"graaave man." Puns and stupid kids. All at once, I understand why Heaven and Gats love this play.