A Twist of Hate (9 page)

              ‘Tom,’ stood on his mark in a heavy black pea coat and a longshoreman’s cap. He strolled across the roof of the tenement to the fire escape and descended to stage level, his heavy footfalls clanging on the wrought-iron stairs Camden had repurposed from a burned-out building on the St. Louis riverfront. ‘Tom’ struck a match against the thick sole of his grimy, steel-toed work boot, and he cupped his hands to his face to light the cigarette pinched between his lips. Tendrils of smoke lazily stretched toward the rafters. The stage lights dimmed and a spotlight rose to illuminate the lone figure center stage.  He shook out the match and lifted his face, bathing it in the milky light. He blew a jet of white smoke into the air.

              “Oh, God,” Siobhan gasped.

              “It’ll be okay,” Camden responded quietly in her ear as David Kent began ‘Tom’s’ opening monologue.

***

              Siobhan lingered backstage with the cast and crew. Courtney stood between Brian and Siobhan, tightly gripping Siobhan’s arm with both hands. David Kent took off his knit cap, shook out his tousled maple curls, and stared at his feet. Camden was in the office, where Michael and Mr. Cleese were at war.

              “I was here on time!” Michael yelled.

              “You might have been on campus but you were not in costume, on your mark, and ready to take the stage at 6:30.” Anger sharpened Mr. Cleese’s accent.

              “You never specifically said the curtain would go up at 6:30 on the dot,” Michael argued.

              The rustle and snap of a piece of paper prefaced Mr. Cleese’s next question. “What exactly do you think ‘6:30 curtain’ means, Mr. Littlefield? This memo specifically states that tonight’s curtain call was specifically at 6:30 for a dress rehearsal specifically today. You were
late
, Mr. Littlefield!”

              “Fine, I was late,” Michael admitted flatly. “It’s a play, not a period. What difference does five minutes make? I only need two to get into costume. I can do the rest of the play.”

              “This wasn’t an intermission to accommodate you,” said Mr. Cleese. “I stopped the play because you had the audacity to walk on stage in the middle of a scene.”

              “Alright, okay,” Michael said amiably. “Have it your way. David can pinch hit tonight. I’ll get here nice and early for opening night tomorrow.”

              A long, calculated pause gave the students enough time to believe Michael had once again gotten his way. But then Mr. Cleese said, “David Kent will play the role of ‘Tom.’”

              “And?” Michael said on a laugh. “This is only the dress rehearsal. Nobody’s out there to watch it except the custodians.”

              “Perhaps I’ve failed to be specific,” Mr. Cleese replied with chilling calm. “As of 6:31 this evening, the role of ‘Tom’ went to your understudy, David Kent. He’s now the star of our play. You’re out, Mr. Littlefield.”

              Backstage, David looked up, his maple eyes wide. Brian gave his shoulder a soft clap of congratulations. Courtney flashed him two thumbs up. Siobhan smiled at him. A deep, brick-red blush spread from David’s collar to his ears.

              “You can’t do that.” The darkness in Michael’s voice killed the congratulatory mood backstage.

              “You were repeatedly warned of the consequences of tardiness.” Mr. Cleese now sounded more weary than angry. “Michael, you left me with no recourse.”

              “You want recourse?” Michael demanded. “Ever hear of breach of verbal contract?”

              “You violated the contract, Mr. Littlefield, by showing up late!” Mr. Cleese bellowed. “Do you realize how unbelievably tiresome it is, listening to you threaten litigation against anyone who displeases you?”

              “You can’t replace me for being two minutes late! You wouldn’t do this to Brian or Courtney! You wouldn’t do it to Nan!”

              “You are the only member of the cast who has consistently been tardy and had the unmitigated gall to leave rehearsals early. I will not allow you the opportunity to do it again before a paying audience. And for future reference, her name is Ann.
Ann
!”

              “I’m sorry,” Michael said airily. “Is that what you want? An apology? There it is. If you’re kicking me out because you have some kind of personal problem with me, be man enough to say so.”

              Mr. Cleese’s response dripped venom. “Perhaps it is indeed unfair of me to make a unilateral decision. I shall put the recast to a vote.” Mr. Cleese shouted into the backstage area. “Miss Curran!”

              Siobhan reluctantly went into the office. A hostile vibe originated from the point where Michael stood near the ancient Westinghouse refrigerator. It enveloped Mr. Cleese’s usually cheery space.

              Michael wore street clothes: loafers, khakis, and a striped oxford cloth shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Siobhan eyed the puffy red welts on his hands and forearms. He trembled with fury, his gaze tracking Siobhan.

              Mr. Cleese stood behind his desk. Red blotches of anger bloomed in his cheeks and his blond hair stood in furious spikes. A fierce grimace hardened his face.

              Camden sat on the sofa, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. Siobhan stood just inside the office door, tempted to flee.

              “We are to decide whether to recast the role of ‘Tom,’” Mr. Cleese stated. “Our decision must be unanimous.”

              Camden looked at Michael. “I have to abstain.”

              Michael eyed him in disbelief. “You’re supposed to be my friend, man!”

              Frustration washed over Camden. “That’s why I’m abstaining.”

              “We know where I stand,” Mr. Cleese said, resolute.

              The weight of their gazes fell on Siobhan.

              She stared at her black flats. A long-sleeved fitted top, apron skirt, and leggings, all in black, completed her ensemble. To better blend in with the backstage, every crew member wore black.
All I’m missing is a sickle,
Siobhan thought bleakly.

              “Mr. Cleese made it clear that tonight, all tardies and no-shows would be replaced.” She cleared her parched throat and spoke a little louder. “We all received e-mails about it this morning, at rehearsal yesterday we were told to be on time for tonight’s dress, and there were announcements this morning in assembly and this afternoon at lunch about being on time tonight. I’m sure an exception could be made if there was a good reason for missing the 6:30 curtain, like a family emergency, or car trouble, or…
something
…”

              “She’s trying to give him an opening,” Brian whispered backstage.

              Michael stared at the ceiling, shaking his head. “Coward,” he muttered nastily.

              “Miss Curran, your vote,” prompted Mr. Cleese.

              “Mike, come on,” Camden pleaded.

              “Shut up, coward!” Michael spat.

              “Miss Curran!”

              Mr. Cleese startled her answer out of her. “I think it would be in the best interest of the play for David Kent to take over the role of ‘Tom Wingfield.’”

              Muted cheers and high fives reached the office. Michael sneered viciously at Siobhan.

              “On with rehearsal.” Mr. Cleese left the office, strangling his script in his fist.

              “I’m sorry, Michael, but I told you to be here on time,” Camden said.

              “You knew
she
would be against me!” Michael raged. “You could have neutralized her vote!”

              “I’ve covered for you since day one. You brought this on yourself.”

              “I won’t forget this,” Michael promised. “You bailed on me and I won’t forget it!” He pushed past Camden and stormed from the office.

              Siobhan brought a trembling hand to her throat.

              “That was intense,” Camden sighed heavily. “Are you okay?”

              She nodded, easing clear of his open arms. “Let’s just get on with the dress rehearsal. Everyone’s waiting.”

              On shaky legs and slightly nauseated, she started for the light and sound booth. Though Michael had no one but himself to blame for his situation, she was sorry for him.
And I had to be the one to drop the hammer,
she thought, slightly resentful of both Camden and Mr. Cleese for placing the scythe in her hand.

              She reached for the doorknob to the light and sound booth door, and in the tail of her eye, she caught a furtive movement. First dismissing it as a shadow, too late she noticed the shadow had too much substance—and too much bright red hair.

              Michael grabbed a fistful of her hair and slammed her into the door, jarring it shut and bouncing her head against it. He drove a knee between her legs, his wiry frame pinning her to the door. Wrenching her right wrist, he twisted her arm high behind her back. The left side of her face mashed into the door, she cried out in shock and pain.

              “You finally got everything you wanted, didn’t you?” His hot breath and spittle filled her right ear. He pressed her into the door with such force, she could no longer expand her lungs to draw in air to breathe or scream. “I should have put you in your place when I had the chance, right there in your own house!”

              Mr. Wechter, likely roused by Siobhan’s initial cry and Michael’s shouting, had lumbered down the stairs and was banging on the inner side of the door. With her head mashed against the door, Siobhan suffered each of Mr. Wechter’s fistfalls along with Michael’s abuse.

              As quickly as Michael appeared, he was wrenched away, taking some of Siobhan’s skin away under his fingernails. As if Michael were no more than a tackle dummy, Camden trapped him in a headlock.

              Mr. Cleese and Brian caught up to Camden while Courtney and Ann closed around Siobhan. Mr. Wechter cracked open the light and sound booth door and poked out his head. With little more than a cursory glance at Siobhan, he pulled his head back into the shelter of the dark stairwell.

              Michael kicked, threw ineffective punches at Camden and Brian, and screamed curses as he was dragged toward the doors to the lobby. He managed a last jab at Siobhan. “I’ll see you later, girlfriend! This isn’t over, you black bitch!”

***

              “Are you okay?” Tears smeared Courtney’s stage makeup. She used the inside hem of her costume, a faded blue gingham housedress, to dab at her eyes.

              “I’m fine.” Siobhan, beside Courtney on the sofa, handed her a couple of tissues from the box on the corner of Mr. Cleese’s desk. She passed the tissue box to Ann, who sat in the wing chair, head bowed, her straight brown hair cloaking her face.

              “Thanks.” Ann blew her nose. “How can you be so calm?” She raised her head and tears flooded her cheeks. “Michael is so nasty and mean!” She twisted the fragile tissues. “I wish Mr. Cleese had gotten rid of him sooner.”

              “I didn’t want him cast in the first place,” Siobhan admitted. “I’m sorry I didn’t fight harder for David. I’m sorry you had to put up with so much from him.”

              “I came in here to comfort you,” said Ann, “and I’m the one who’s falling apart.” She covered her face with her hands and sobbed. “I’m so glad he’s gone. I almost quit the play so many times because of him.”

              “He gives everybody a hard time,” Courtney said. “You can’t let it get to you.”

              “How do you spell Ann?”

              “What?” Courtney asked.

              “How do you spell Ann?”

              Courtney looked helplessly at Siobhan.

              “N-A-N,” Ann sullenly answered, providing the punch line to the joke Michael most frequently told in making fun of her dyslexia. “Don’t tell me you haven’t heard that one in the past few weeks.”

              “It’s just a joke,” Courtney said.

              “Not if its intent is harm instead of humor,” Siobhan noted.

              “Michael picks on everyone.” Courtney shrugged indifferently. “That’s just—”

              “That makes it okay?” Ann whirled on her. “Because everyone else tolerates his bullshit, I’m supposed to? Maybe if you popular kids told him the way he acts is not okay, he wouldn’t treat us loser kids so badly!”

              “Ann, you are
not
a loser,” Siobhan moved from the sofa to Ann’s side. “Is that how you see yourself? I don’t. I think you’re talented and smart, and—”

              David’s light tap on the opened office door interrupted the girls. Blushing furiously, he approached Siobhan. “Security is escorting Michael from campus. I wanted to see if you were okay. Are you?”

              Siobhan took his hands. The fire raging in his cheeks intensified. “I’m fine. Thank you, David.” She stood and kissed his cheek.