hall.

I’ve been calling Marc every few days now, spending a ton of money, just to make it through. I’ve

pretty much quit going to classes, but I still come to every rehearsal. I can’t let it go, even if it is a shitty

little part. Sometimes, when I stop to think about it, I think it might be all that’s keeping me alive.

* * *

Hot lights, a kickass costume, heavy makeup on my face, and I’m someone completely different. It’s my

first time on stage, and everyone’s attention is on me. This is the easiest thing to do, and the best feeling

in the world. I could do this forever.

The girl across the stage from me is usually one of those stuck up theater whores that I’ve had to

deal with for the past few months. She was rude to me in rehearsal, ignored me in the hallways at

school, but she’s someone different now too. She’s in love with me, and I’m in love with her, and

everyone is in love with us. I think I might like to sleep with her after the show. And I’m pretty sure

she’ll let me.

* * *

It takes three people saying my name before I realize that I’ve completely missed a line. I don’t even

know what I was thinking about, but almost everyone’s turned to stare in my direction: angry, annoyed,

bored. Jeff’s stare cuts through from the audience seats, pinning me to the stage. In his eyes, there’s

something else. There’s that pity again.

I manage to choke out the line I missed (after a prompt from the girl that’s sitting in the front row,

feeding us lines), and the rehearsal goes on. But I can still feel Jeff’s eyes.

* * *

“I saw you doing some work in class. You’re good. I’m directing a show later this semester called

‘An Ideal Husband.’ I think you should audition.”

I stare at this guy that’s pulled me aside after class. He’s not one of my teachers, but I’ve seen him

around the department. The students that have been here at least a year call him Jeff and stop to talk to

him whenever they get a chance. I’ve heard them saying that he directs the really good shows this

department does, and that he hardly ever talks to first years.

“Yeah, I’ll audition. Thanks, man.”

* * *

I try to hurry out of rehearsal, but I don’t move fast enough. Jeff catches me as I’m shoving my crap

into my bag.

“Nick. We need to talk for a minute. Can you come back to my office?” I haven’t been able to shake

the feeling of him watching me through the whole rehearsal, and by the look on his face, I know that he

hasn’t suddenly changed his mind about giving me a better part.

I just nod my head, finish cramming everything into my bag, and follow him to the office he keeps

in a dingy little room backstage. The place is cluttered, every chair buried under books, show posters

lining the walls, and when he shuts the door it feels like the walls are closing in on me.

He sits on the edge of his desk for lack of any other place to sit, and starts talking about

responsibility. The responsibility of the actor, the director, the cast, the crew. He talks about maturity

and regret. I try to follow his words, but I swear the walls are closer than they were just a second ago

and I’m having a hard time catching my breath.

“…so I’m asking you to leave the cast.”

He stops talking, and I think it’s the silence that makes me focus. He’s looking at me like he’s

waiting for a reaction, and I have to replay what I can remember of the last few minutes to see why.

“What?” My mouth is sticky, and I have a hard time swallowing.

“I’m asking you to leave the cast, Nick. I had hoped that giving you the role of Marcellus would

make you realize that you needed to just focus a little more, to quit the drinking and the drugs, whatever

it is you’ve been doing, but you’ve gone in completely the wrong direction. If you’d even asked me for

help, this could’ve been different, but you’ve fallen so far from where you were last year at this time,

and you’re pulling us down with you. You’re making us drag behind, and as the director I can’t have

that. You’re no longer in this show.”

I stare up at him. Nothing makes sense. He shakes his head and steps over to open the door. “You

need to leave now, Nick.”

I just nod numbly, grab my bag and walk home.

It doesn’t hit me until I close the door to my own room behind me.

* * *

I’m at a party, trying to find something other than the watered down bowl of punch that’s had

everyone’s leftover liquor dumped into it. Back home I knew who could hook me up with the stronger

stuff, but I’ve only been on campus for about a month, and I haven’t been able to find anyone reliable

yet.

I see a guy in the corner with someone I know from one of my classes. He has greasy hair and flat

looking eyes, hands shoved in pockets that look full of promise. They exchange money and something

else that they keep mostly hidden from the rest of the room. I go over when they’re done, hanging

around and waiting for him to look over. When he does, I nod at him a little.

“Hey,” I say. He looks me over and sort of grins at me. I know he knows why I’m here.

* * *

“Marc, it’s Nick. I need you to help me out with something. It’s important. Call me when you get

this.”

“Marc, it’s Nick again. You answering today?”

“Marc?” It takes until the third call before he actually answers his phone.

“Yeah, Keller, it’s me. Will you stop stalking my phone now? What do you need?” His rough voice

cuts in and out on a bad connection. I can barely understand him, but the question is always the same.

And the answer I give is the same as it has been since I met him at that first party.

“I need you to take me somewhere, Marc. Soon. It’s really important.” Because you never actually

say what you want. Especially over a mobile phone.

“Yeah, okay,” he replies, his attention half on something else. I can almost make out talking on the

other end, and I know he’s dealing with someone else while he’s talking to me. I’m grateful he even

answered the phone if he’s that busy. “Five minutes, Keller. Where do you need me to be?”

I let him know I’m in my dorm, and he hangs up on me.

* * *

I’ve had one of those days where I can’t stay in my room. I need to be somewhere with other people, so

I find a party and start looking for someone to go home with. I’m not having any luck, but then he’s

suddenly there - Danny Rizzo. We’ve been rehearsing together for ‘An Ideal Husband’, but this is the

first time I’ve seen him offstage. All dark eyes and glowing skin and a sinful body. And shit, if I don’t

fall right at his feet.

“Pretty little Goth boy out all alone tonight?”

His voice curls around me like a living thing and makes everything else not matter. Nothing I ever

drank, nothing I ever took made me feel like this. I exist, I’m real, I’m alive. And I need more. All he

can give me.

I actually wake up in his bed the next morning. I pretend to be asleep when he starts to wake up, and

I get my ass out of there as soon as he’s left to go shower. I don’t do mornings-after. It’s not like there’s

anything for us to talk about. It was just one night.

One time.

* * *

I met Marc about an hour ago, and paid him more money than I ever have before. Everything’s taken on

a fuzzy haze, so I don’t know how long I’m standing outside of Rizzo’s door, just staring at it, before

someone walks by, laughing.

“You need to knock if you want him to answer, idiot.” The voice seems like it’s coming from very

far away, and I don’t turn fast enough to see who it is. It’s like trying to move through syrup, and by the