Between You & Me - By Marisa Calin Page 0,1
of my chair.
So.
I raise an encouraging eyebrow.
How’s it going?
And it’s thanks to this firecracker opener that when the door opens I’m slow to look around.
She stands in the square of sun from the window, and a rainbow of colors from the prism hanging on the latch dance across her face. She steps forward so that they flicker against her shoulder instead. I sit, watching her, forgetting Tony hovering behind me. There’s something about her, something fascinating. You can’t cast someone to be fascinating, they just are. She’s young, warm. All eyes are on her as she unwinds a cream scarf and drapes it over the back of her chair. She looks up:
MIA
My name is Miss Quin.
She smiles.
You can call me Mia.
She smooths her hand over the base of her chestnut bob to tame the static from her scarf, wisps of hair still flaring away from her neck. She steps out from behind her desk, perching against it, not separating herself from us like most teachers. I sit up straighter. Her voice is rich, engaging.
MIA
The moment you step out onstage, people start forming an impression of you. Just as you’re already forming an impression of me.
She looks at each of us with crystal-cool blue eyes, the warmest cool you’ve ever seen, like water in the sun.
MIA
And you’re already telling me something about yourselves.
Self-conscious, I swallow and ease back in my chair so as not to seem too keen. She sees me, and asks my name. “Phyre” sounds louder than I expected, embarrassingly so, like flames are leaping and I’m the first to notice. She smiles.
MIA
Phyre here seems ready to learn something new.
She looks at Ryan, rocked back on his chair, his arms folded across his chest. She gestures for his name, which he volunteers with emphasis.
MIA
Ryan, it seems, thinks he might have better things to do!
People laugh. She crosses her arms like him and, embarrassed, he tips back farther, then flails with that falling sensation and comes back onto four legs with a bump. He blushes and looks at the floor. He clearly thinks she’s hot, which is probably why he’s trying to play it cool. She lightens up.
MIA
Maybe he just wants us to think he has better things to do. Either way, physical life is a key element when creating a character onstage.
Mia walks between the desks, crisp and perfect, her white shirt tucked seamlessly into a high-waisted navy skirt. My shirt is lily pink with white pinstripes that flutter as I look at them. Compared to her, I look like I slept in my shirt, then rolled to school. She adjusts her collar as she passes me. I smell something sweet like lavender.
MIA
So! Let’s get to know each other.
She slides back onto her desk, crossing slim ankles that swing gently as she picks up the class list, pressing her pen tip to the first name. I glance quickly around the room. Everyone else seems the same as ever. Elle, in the first row, pouting under blond bangs, is arranging the ribbon at the waist of her yellow top. She always looks glazed but usually turns out to have been listening, and—case in point—her hand goes up when Mia calls her name. Eva, beside her, the picture of concentration, perfects her hair clips for her turn. She has a prissy expression but I think it’s the natural arrangement for her face. Mia is looking up brightly to memorize each of us. Kate meets her gaze attentively. Good at everything and intimidating in the chameleon-like way she fits into every group, Kate somehow manages to seem equally interested in everything.
Mia calls my name. She already knows who I am but for some reason my heart picks up pace when she looks at me.
MIA
Phyre. Great name!
—Rhetorical maybe but here’s my chance to shine graciously. Still thinking … something clever on the tip of my tongue … and she’s moved on! I turn to see you smiling at me. I can’t hide much from you, which is a mixed blessing, but I’m usually never tongue-tied, so I guess you’ve noticed. I glare at you halfheartedly as Mia calls your name. You return her nod warmly and for the second time today I see how comfortable you’re getting with everyone.
Bella, amid a circle of boys behind me, raises a hand for her name. She’s “hot,” honey-hued curly hair loosely pinned up, looking casually perfect with no apparent effort, as if she spent no time achieving perfectness. To make matters worse: she’s nice. Ryan, next