Anthropology of an American Girl: A Novel - By Hilary Thayer Hamann Page 0,87

then they’d rise to a uniform faintness. That was the cue for Peter Reeves to step out from the wings to deliver his monologue as he arranged furniture.

Peter had the part of the Stage Manager. In Our Town, the Stage Manager remains on the periphery during the entire play, conversant both with performers and the audience but allied to neither, leading me to wonder if loneliness is the price you pay for omniscience. Peter was a good actor; I’d heard Rourke had helped him with his monologue for NYU Drama. If Peter got accepted to NYU and if Denny got accepted to FIT, they planned to get an apartment together in the city. And if I got accepted to NYU, they wanted me to be their roommate too. “And if,” Jack said sarcastically at the time of the offer, “Denny’s mom marries Peter’s dad, they could adopt you, and you three could be triplets.”

“Good job, Peter. Take a break,” Rourke said. “Let’s skip to the flashback.”

Kate and Tim came out, and Tim growled and playfully chased Peter offstage. There was an awkward pause. Rourke filled it. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Tim began. “Can I carry your books home, Emily?”

“Why, uh, thank you. It isn’t far.”

The two moved stiffly across the stage. Tim was lousy. Kate wasn’t great, but she wished so strenuously to please that she semi-succeeded. It was like real life—she could be exceptional at anything, as long as her vanity found some incentive in it. Unfortunately, her vanity found so many disincentives to being exceptional that she ended up doing very little, or giving up bored halfway through. My mother often used Shakespeare to caution her, saying, Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.

Rourke stood near us, one hand gripping his jaw. I could read his body through his sweater—he appeared ready to spring. He snapped at Richie and the lights changed fast. The actors faltered and stared out. “Go on,” Rourke insisted.

“He seems pissed,” Denny whispered. “Probably because those goons are watching.”

“They’re not stopping on their marks,” Dave said, meaning Kate and Tim. “They’re out of sync with the lights. They keep delivering lines in the dark.”

Kate and Tim began again, and again the lights ended up trailing them rather than moving with them. Richie cursed, and Rourke suddenly bolted, jogging to the front and vaulting onto the stage.

“Holy shit!” Denny said.

Rourke startled when he faced the performers, as if surprised to find them there, or himself there—in the center, in the light. He gripped his temples with two fingers, sucked in one cheek, then exhaled. He faced Kate and smiled an introductory smile, then he took a step, a meaningful step, a transforming step. There was no frame; yet he seemed to have crossed a threshold. He dug his hands into his pockets and inclined his chest when she spoke, listening closely as he shepherded her as if down a country lane. He was leading her powerfully, but invisibly. I could tell because as the two moved through shadow and glare, I understood their lines for the first time, though I’d been listening repeatedly. I heard the threat of consequence. The lighting plan kind of linked courtship and tragedy: you couldn’t help but think, It’s because Emily marries George that she dies.

I didn’t feel jealous, but I felt, I don’t know, somewhat sick about the logical look of him with a girl.

Rourke withdrew abruptly, turning to Tim. “Got it?”

Tim nodded, and they shook hands, and everyone clapped, except me, and Denny, who whistled, and McGintee, who yelled, “Bravo!”

Rourke jumped down and took to the aisle. A shock of hair fell forward. He ran a hand through it, and his eyes passed uncomfortably over mine. “Okay,” he called. “Again, guys.”

I stood and left. I went backstage, going as far as I could from the front, far from where he was, all the way to the last dressing room. Rourke’s voice trailed my steps. I squatted in the corner and wrote on my arm with a pen I found there.

Sorry for my eyes, sorry to have seen you so.

The dressing room door opened; it was Denny. He knelt behind me and played with my hair. “You know, I was thinking that maybe you should go home and get some sleep. I’ll drive you, then I’ll come back to finish the scenery with Dave.”

“I have my bike.”

“I know. I’ll put it in the trunk. I’ll drop you and come back.”

He helped me to a stand, and when I stood, he