the play they walked out of

(a farce, one scene)

Ms. Hartwell sat at the back of the auditorium with a clipboard.

"Romeo," she announced. "We are casting Romeo today. Anyone who wants to read for Juliet, also today. Mercutio, the Nurse, Friar Lawrence, Tybalt, and the rest, tomorrow." Six boys raised their hands for Romeo. Eight girls raised theirs for Juliet.

Bob — three rows back, second seat, gray hoodie — had been preparing the balcony speech for two weeks. He had practiced the line but soft, what light through yonder window breaks in the bathroom mirror seventeen times the night before, watching his eyebrows.

Sally — three rows back, eighth seat, denim jacket — had been preparing gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds for two weeks. She had practiced in her car after work, watching the rearview mirror.

Bob and Sally did not know each other. They had sat near each other in this class for an entire semester. Bob had once thought, vaguely, that girl seems intense. Sally had once thought, vaguely, that boy seems tired. Neither thought had progressed.

"Drew," said Ms. Hartwell. "You are up first." Drew rose. Drew was six-foot-one with sandy hair and the kind of jawline that survived photography. Drew read for Romeo. Drew was very good. Drew had the line — did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight — land like a thrown coin.

Every girl in the auditorium watched Drew.

Bob watched Drew too. Bob thought: I am also going to do that, and I will be just as good. Bob noted Drew's eyebrow movements for later use.

"Maddie," said Ms. Hartwell. "Up." Maddie rose. Maddie had auburn hair and the kind of voice that filled a room without her having to push it. Maddie read for Juliet. The class went quiet in the way classes only go quiet for something good. Drew, watching from offstage, leaned forward.

Every boy in the auditorium watched Maddie.

Sally watched Maddie too. Sally thought: I am also going to do that, and I will be just as good. Sally noted the diaphragm work for later use.

When Drew and Maddie did the balcony scene together, three couples broke up in the auditorium without realizing it. Two new ones formed. The temperature in the room rose half a degree. Ms. Hartwell wrote YES on her clipboard and underlined it twice.

Bob did not look at Sally. Sally did not look at Bob. Both were studying Drew and Maddie, respectively.

Later, Bob auditioned. Bob was fine. Bob was not Drew. Bob's but soft, what light came out a little too rehearsed and his eyebrows did the wrong thing on the third syllable. Ms. Hartwell wrote Mercutio? on her clipboard.

Later, Sally auditioned. Sally was fine. Sally was not Maddie. Sally's gallop apace was technically excellent and emotionally six millimeters off. Ms. Hartwell wrote Nurse? on her clipboard.

When the cast list went up the next morning, Bob saw Mercutio — Bob and felt something complicated in his chest that he eventually labeled disappointment. Sally saw Nurse — Sally and felt the same thing under a slightly different name. Both blamed Ms. Hartwell. Both were wrong.

The play went up in March. Bob played Mercutio. He died in act three of a stab wound, on stage left, with three weeks of preparation in his throat. Sally played the Nurse. She survived all five acts and counseled Juliet to drink the potion she would never wake from.

The play closed on a Thursday. Strike rehearsal was the following night.

—

By eleven on Friday the auditorium was almost empty. Drew and Maddie had left an hour ago, holding hands, on their way to the cast party at someone's house off campus. Ms. Hartwell had gone home to grade papers. Three crew members had finished their assignments and slipped out without saying goodbye.

Bob stayed. He had not stayed for any reason he could name. He had a broom in his hand. He had been sweeping the same six feet of stage for ten minutes.

Sally stayed. She had not stayed for any reason she could name either. She had a stack of folded curtains. She set them down by the wings and did not leave.

Bob said, quietly, to nobody — to the empty seats — Mercutio's last line.

A plague on both your houses.

He said it the way he had been saying it in the bathroom for three months — for the role he had not wanted, in the play he had not gotten, in the cast list that had not been him.

Sally heard it.

She heard it the way Mercutio had meant it: a curse on the two great families that had killed him for a feud he was not in.

She also heard it as a curse on the structures that had cast everyone in the auditorium for a year. Drew and Maddie at the peak. Everyone else on the plain. Nobody allowed to look sideways without losing the audition.

Sally walked out from the wings.

She said, "Bob, right?" Bob turned. The broom was in his hand. He had not noticed her until that moment. He had never, in the entire semester, noticed her.

He noticed her now.

He said, "Yeah. Sally." She had said his name with a small lift, the way you say a name you know but have never used. He had done the same.

A silence.

Sally said, "Your audition. October. You should have read for Romeo with more oomph." Bob looked at her. He had not realized anyone had been watching the auditions. He had assumed everyone was watching Drew.

Bob said, "You watched me?" Sally said, "I was studying Maddie. You were in the way." Bob said, "Gallop apace was technically excellent." It came out before he could stop it. He had heard her audition too. He had been studying Drew at the time, but Sally's voice had been on the periphery and his ear had recorded it without permission.

Sally said, "Six millimeters off, I think Hartwell wrote." Bob said, "She wrote it on the clipboard. I saw." Sally said, "She wrote Mercutio? on yours. With a question mark. I also saw." They had both watched Hartwell's clipboard. They had both wanted to know. Neither had wanted to want to know, which is why neither had said anything to anyone for three months, including each other.

Sally said, "Do it. The line. The way you wanted to." Bob hesitated. The auditorium was dim. The set was half-broken-down. Nobody was watching. There was no clipboard in the back row.

He said, quietly:

"Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight." He said it the way he had wanted to say it in October — the way he had practiced in front of the bathroom mirror with the tap running, the way that had not survived the auditorium lights when his eyebrows had done the wrong thing on the third syllable.

This time, his eyebrows did the right thing.

Sally answered, before she had decided to, with the line she had spent two weeks memorizing in her car after work, watching the rearview mirror:

"Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds, towards Phoebus' lodging." She did the diaphragm work she had been studying for a year. She did the auburn-haired version of it. She had never been allowed to use it for anything but the Nurse.

Bob said, "You should have been Juliet." Sally said, "You should have been Romeo." A long silence. They were standing six feet apart on the stage they had each, separately, prepared for three months to be standing on. The script for Romeo and Juliet sat closed on the front row of folding seats, where someone had left it.

Sally said, "You want to walk somewhere?" Bob said, "Yeah. I would." They walked out together. The set behind them stayed half-broken-down. The auditorium lights stayed dim. The script stayed closed where someone had left it.