Tart (19 page)

H
eirloom
is glorious. No, I mean seriously—it kicks ass. Sarah nearly scratched Seth's eyes out when he tried to cop a feel backstage, and Ben puked into a garbage can just before his entrance, but I learn all of this after the curtain call, so throughout the actual performance I sit blissfully ignorant in my red velvet seat, lost in the world of Olivia Speer and her beautifully fucked-up family.

It's often struck me that everything we love in drama we despise in life, and vice versa. I guess we'll pay to watch a miserable, repressed sixteen-year-old girl murder her hypocritical father because it thrills us to see others suffering more than us. Sick but true. I can tell the audience is into it. The house is three-quarters full, and they're a perfect mix of what I call hyenas and hummers. The hyenas scream with laughter at Miranda's rich, dark humor, and the hummers make soft, perceptive “hmm” sounds that fill up all the right pauses.

Sitting with Miranda on one side and Rosemarie on the other, I feel a deep, thrumming satisfaction. Miranda's
squirming in her seat, thumping one foot on her skateboard when things are going well, and Rose keeps squeezing my hand when the audience reacts, a tiny pulse of congratulations that makes me love her with fresh enthusiasm. At intermission, the three of us sneak out the side door and smoke Miranda's clove cigarettes; they taste vile, but it's fun, anyway.

When the show's over, we go backstage and hug everyone in the cast. They're chattering a mile a minute, still high off the standing ovation. You can almost smell the peculiar brand of stage adrenaline coursing through their veins. Even Sam Bogue is giggly with relief; our light board plan worked seamlessly, and he keeps slapping me on the back, saying, “I just can't believe we pulled that off, Bloom. I really can't believe it.”

Afterward, Rosemarie, Miranda and I go to Café Pergolessi to sit outside under the March stars and share two celebratory slices of mocha mud pie, Rose's treat. I shovel a forkful of the dark concoction into my mouth, savoring the bittersweet fattiness of it. There's a glow you get after an opening night that reminds me of the postcoital kind. It's like you've been holding your breath for weeks and all at once you get to breathe a special, oxygen-enriched air that gives everything a soft, luminous sheen.

Rose is acting a little funny. She's been gushing nonstop since the curtain fell, which isn't entirely out of character, but I should think she would have eased up by now, since it's been almost two hours. She keeps tucking her hair behind her ear, and doing this cute little pouty thing with her mouth when she's not talking. In short, she's acting exactly as she would around a devastatingly attractive man, so I keep craning my neck to see which table her future soul mate is eyeing us from, but there's no one but balding ponytail types and pimply students.

“Oh, my God,” Miranda cries, staring at Rose with her blue eyes wide; she looks more like Betty Boop with a bone in her nose than ever. “I know where I've seen you.”

“You do?” Rose asks coyly, tucking her hair behind her ear for the fiftieth time.

“Wabi Sabi Tattoo, right? Don't you like work there or something?”

Rose nods and does the pouty thing with her lips again. Oh, Jesus—not…? Is Rose flirting with
Miranda?

“I'm in there whenever I have money,” Miranda tells her, so excited she's bouncing on the edge of her seat. “Ian is such a genius.”

“Oh, he's good,” Rose purrs. “He does the most amazing work.”

Miranda unhooks the leopard-spotted cape she donned for the occasion and yanks at the neckline of her T-shirt. She exposes most of her left breast to show Rose the neon-green-and-magenta gecko tattooed there. It is a pretty one, I have to say—the gecko, I mean, not the breast. Although, as breasts go, I suppose it's fine. Oh, God, now I'm assessing my student's left breast. I really should not be here.

“Wow,” Rose breathes, not even disguising the mixture of shyness and lust mingling in her throat. “I've never seen anything more beautiful.”

I'd be lying if I claimed that Miranda's sexual orientation never occurred to me as a subject of interest. She's such a quirky, one-of-a-kind girl, she really doesn't lend herself to simple categories very readily. She's not butch at all; her delicate features and her doll-like face are way too femme for that. But her skinny, adolescent body, her ever-present skateboard, her silver-and-bone-studded face, and her bowlegged walk all have the flavor of a defiant tomboy. Her clothes—well, her clothes are just incredibly weird, alternately hyper-girly and super boyish, often a mix of both. With other students she's always standoffish and shy, so I haven't had much chance to see her flirting with anyone. Now, watching her practically undress right here on Café Pergolessi's patio to show Rose the collection of amphibian tattoos she's covered in, I suspect this is her way of flirting.

She's lifting the hem of her skirt to expose an indigo tree frog on her inner thigh when I clear my throat and say, “You know what, guys? I'm suddenly beat.”

“Fantastic,” Rose says, as if I haven't spoken. “Look at those webbed feet—such detail.”

“Um, here. Let me just pitch in for the tip,” I say, stuffing a couple dollars under an ashtray.

“Have you gotten any yet?” Miranda's asking. I've become invisible and mute, apparently.

“I'm just going to walk home,” I say, getting up. “Congratulations, Miranda. See you at home, Rose.”

They both glance at me briefly, and I can see they're anything but sorry that I'm going. “‘Night,” they say in unison, then “Jinx.” (Also in unison.)

I slip away as they erupt in girlish giggles.

 

The buzz hits the street after our opening night, and the rest of our shows are sold out, both weekends. It's a smash hit—one of those magical runs when the cast, the script, the set, the costumes all come together and strike just the right chord with each audience. Even our light board fiasco shifts from a serious crisis to an amusing anecdote, and by the second weekend, the original board is replaced. For once, other faculty members are saying hello to me with something other than disdain, and I realize how thirsty I've been for that approval. Even Monica Parker grants me a quiet, tight-lipped compliment when we find ourselves awkwardly trapped in the faculty lounge one afternoon. I'm waiting for my microwave popcorn to stop popping when she comes in, hesitates for half a second, as if thinking about turning around, then heads for the refrigerator.

“I understand
Heirloom
got a good review,” she says, retrieving a red-lacquered lunch box. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks,” I say. “Did you see it?”

“Yes, I did. It was very promising.”

Promising.
Okay, well, could be worse.

“Thanks. I think Miranda's a really talented writer. The students here are so fun to work with.”

“Yes.” She pours some coffee in her cup and spoons in some sugar. “It seems you're quite a hit with them, as well.” There's a niggling little edge to her voice, but I try to ignore it.

“How's your quarter going?”

“Not bad. Can't complain, I suppose.” Her tone conveys she has very much to complain about, but her red-painted mouth smiles, anyway. She's so impeccably groomed. I've always found that a great mystery—how some women manage to maintain such incredibly high standards in their personal hygiene. She hasn't got a single stray hair, her makeup is flawless, and her suit is so pressed, the creases look dangerous.

“Will you be directing anything this year?” I ask, trying very hard not to stare at her perfect, manicured toes as they peek out from her open-toed sandals.

“Oh, no. I don't direct. I do have a book in the works, though, a treatise on shadow puppetry.”

“Brilliant,” I gush. “That's wonderful.”

She shrugs. “We'll see.”

“I want a signed copy,” I say.

“See you later.” Her smile is passably genuine as she clicks out in her high-heeled sandals, clutching her coffee and her shiny lunch box.

Maybe she's not as grim as I imagined. I wander back to my office, munching popcorn thoughtfully. Sometimes a man wedged between two strong, capable women can distort the whole picture. I've probably jumped to all sorts of conclusions, and she's really a wonderful, funny, vibrant woman I'd actually like if I gave her a chance. Maybe we'd be best friends, except we got off on the wrong foot.

I sit down at my computer and check my e-mail, all the while entertaining visions of Monica and I sharing a salad at her kitchen table, laughing chummily over a bottle of
wine. We'd have people in stitches, telling the story of how we met. “And then I—” giggle giggle “—stormed into the yurt…” “While
I
clutched at the sheets.” “And I was so angry, I practically decked her right there—” Everyone dissolves in sobs of laughter.

My little fantasy explodes in a spasm of smoke when I see the following words glowing in my in-box:

From: Ruth Westby

Subject: Unfortunate Situation: Urgent. Please Read.

My palms are instantly slick with sweat, and my mouth's so dry I swear I taste dust. I try to force my hand to drag the mouse and click on those terrible words. Instead I remain paralyzed with dread as my mind rearranges them over and over like a crossword puzzler on PCP.

URGENT. WESTBY. UNFORTUNATE. PLEASE SITUATION. READ RUTH. URGENT WESTBY. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE.

 

“Claudia?”

A tiny scream—more a whelp, really—escapes my lips, and I spin toward the door, spilling my popcorn in all directions. There, looking at me with steely calm over her tortoiseshell glasses, is Dr. Ruth Westby.

“Yes?”

“Can I see you in my office?” she says, crossing her arms.

“Now?” I reach down and scoop up a handful of popcorn from the floor, toss it at the garbage and miss.

“If you don't mind.”

“Certainly.”

The walk down that poster-laden hall has never seemed so long. I move like a prisoner toward the gallows, my feet dragging heavily. I notice a piece of popcorn clinging to the sole of my shoe and try to kick it free, unsuccessfully. I decide to ignore it. A thin trickle of perspiration snakes its way
down my spine, and I'm fighting for control of my sphincter. Relax, I order myself. So what? You've done nothing wrong, and if Westby thinks you have, you'll just set her straight, like last time.

When we're both seated, she takes off her glasses and cleans them with a scarlet handkerchief that matches her blazer perfectly. “I expect you read my e-mail,” she begins.

“No, I—er—I mean, I saw the subject heading, but I didn't get a chance to. Yet.”

She raises her eyebrows at this. I feel like a terrible slacker and resolve to scan my e-mails every two minutes from now on in the off chance that she might send me one. “Right. Well, I'll try to be simple and to the point. It's about your play—or rather, your student's play,
Heiress.
It seems—”

“Heirloom,”
I interrupt, and instantly regret it.

“Excuse me?”

“Heirloom,”
I mumble. “It's called
Heirloom.
”

“Ah,” she says. “Well, I hear it's wonderful. So that's good news.” She flashes me the most unconvincing smile I've ever seen, and my throat constricts with pure, unadulterated terror. “The not-so-good news is your student—Miranda Wilkes, is it?” I nod. “Her father is…well, he's an extremely wealthy, powerful man. In fact, he owns—” and here she mentions the largest tennis shoe manufacturer in, oh, probably the world, say, if not the universe, along with a line of clothing that every teenager from here to China covets. “He's also an extremely generous benefactor of the university. He's donated—well, suffice it to say,
a lot
of money.”

“Uh-huh,” I say, a little surprised that Miranda comes from such deep pockets, but still not getting what the big deal is.

“Mr. Wilkes saw the play yesterday. He's…” She licks her lips once, and the rogue left eye starts twitching like mad. “He's less than enthusiastic about it.”

“But why? Miranda's a wonderful writer—”

“He's threatening to sue.” She puts her glasses back on,
presses them tight against her face and stares at me through the thick lenses. This does little for her appearance, as it only magnifies the twitch tenfold. “I have our legal team looking into it. He most likely doesn't have much of a case, but nonetheless, making Mr. Wilkes unhappy is not advisable.”

“He wants to sue?” I say dumbly. “But why—?”

“Let's just say he finds the father figure inappropriate and offensive.” She clears her throat. The situation becomes illuminated with the blinding white glare of a nuclear blast inside my brain. He's the father. Miranda's Olivia, only she didn't get her revenge with cyanide; she's getting it now.

Little Miranda. Why didn't I see this coming?

But even if I had, would it have made any difference? Is autobiography a crime?

Through a whirling kaleidoscope of thoughts shifting rapidly in my brain, I faintly hear Westby's clincher: “Of course, we'll cancel the performances for this weekend.”

“What?” I barely recognize my voice; it sounds much too hostile to be mine.

“Claudia, I'm very sorry, but there's absolutely no way, considering the circumstances—”

“Cancel my show? After all the hard work we—the cast will be crushed. You can't do this.”

“You'll have to think of something to tell them. A technical difficulty, perhaps. We don't want to give the wrong impression. And neither, of course, does Mr. Wilkes.”

“But what about Miranda? This play means so much to her—”