partner for today’s
exercise by finding your line’s match.”
Trisha held her breath. He was coming
closer.
“How broad is your knowledge of dramatic
history?” he was asking. “Were you listening in Professor
Mackinson’s survey class last year?”
“When I wasn’t sleeping,” someone said, and
timid laughter broke.
And then, Rusty was standing in front of her.
As she took the paper out of his hand, she stroked her forefinger
against his.
“How familiar are you with the less familiar
Shakespeares?” he said, looking into her eyes. The line couldn’t
have been more neutral, and neither could his expression.
Too old by heaven: let still the woman take/
An elder than herself: so wears she to him,/ So sways she level in
her husband’s heart…
Trisha was considering the reality that she
might be crazy. Did the other day not exist? Had she fantasized so
hard that she convinced herself that it really happened? Or did she
need to resign herself to the understanding that the classroom was
just going to be the place where he fully separated from her, at
all costs—including her dignity?
Wandering around the room trying to find her
match, Trisha was barely paying attention. She was dazed. It took
her five full minutes to realize that the only two people left
standing without partners were her and Genevieve.
For, boy, however we do praise ourselves,/
Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm,/ More longing, wavering,
sooner lost and worn,/ Than women’s are.
“Twelfth
Night ,” Genevieve said with a
smirk.
“Orsino, Act II, scene iv,” Trisha added
flatly. She looked around. People had paired off around the
room.
“Now, you will perform your script to your
partner,” Rusty announced. “You will not tell your partner your
emotion ahead of time. Your partner will take notes on your
performance, recording the exact moments that moved them and
indicated to them what you were feeling. You will also record the
exact moments that didn’t work for you, and plan to explain why.”
He crossed his arms and leaned against the front table. “Now
go.”
Trisha snatched her notebook from her desk
and walked over to the piano in the corner of the room to sit down
on the bench, as far away from him as possible. All right, Trisha
thought. I’ll go along with this. I get it. I’ll play it cooler
than you—I’ll play it stone cold. Genevieve followed her, smacking
her gum.
“He’s so fucking hot,” Genevieve said. “I can
hardly stand being in this room right now. When do we get to do
love scenes, huh?” She took off her hoodie, revealing a tight tank
that didn’t entirely cover a lace-trimmed bra. “I gotta get the
attraction going.”
Trisha’s jaw hardened.
Suddenly, she had no interest in performing crestfallen . She wasn’t about to
play the victim with this bitch. Hostile . How about hostile ?
“He’s worth every detail of his dysfunctional
life,” Genevieve said. She was looking back over her shoulder at
Rusty.
Trisha frowned. “What’s that supposed to
mean?”
“Oh, you know,” Genevieve said. “The whole
famous-father-who-doesn’t-give-a-crap thing, the fucked-up
brother…”
Trisha nodded slowly.
“Right,” she said. Famous father? Famous dead father?
Genevieve pulled her tank down over her hips
so that her cleavage was more prominent. Trisha looked down at her
own cashmere turtleneck sweater. The room must have been set at
seventy-five degrees; she was sweating.
Genevieve leaned forward slightly. “I heard
that his father put hundreds of thousands of dollars into a fund to
support the retarded brother, his medical bills and all that, and
is making Rusty wait until he’s dead to get any of his money.”
Trisha looked at Genevieve, her doe eyes that
signaled nothing about whether she was telling the truth, and then
over at Rusty, who was laughing along with Professor Kastarellis
again. But
exercise by finding your line’s match.”
Trisha held her breath. He was coming
closer.
“How broad is your knowledge of dramatic
history?” he was asking. “Were you listening in Professor
Mackinson’s survey class last year?”
“When I wasn’t sleeping,” someone said, and
timid laughter broke.
And then, Rusty was standing in front of her.
As she took the paper out of his hand, she stroked her forefinger
against his.
“How familiar are you with the less familiar
Shakespeares?” he said, looking into her eyes. The line couldn’t
have been more neutral, and neither could his expression.
Too old by heaven: let still the woman take/
An elder than herself: so wears she to him,/ So sways she level in
her husband’s heart…
Trisha was considering the reality that she
might be crazy. Did the other day not exist? Had she fantasized so
hard that she convinced herself that it really happened? Or did she
need to resign herself to the understanding that the classroom was
just going to be the place where he fully separated from her, at
all costs—including her dignity?
Wandering around the room trying to find her
match, Trisha was barely paying attention. She was dazed. It took
her five full minutes to realize that the only two people left
standing without partners were her and Genevieve.
For, boy, however we do praise ourselves,/
Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm,/ More longing, wavering,
sooner lost and worn,/ Than women’s are.
“Twelfth
Night ,” Genevieve said with a
smirk.
“Orsino, Act II, scene iv,” Trisha added
flatly. She looked around. People had paired off around the
room.
“Now, you will perform your script to your
partner,” Rusty announced. “You will not tell your partner your
emotion ahead of time. Your partner will take notes on your
performance, recording the exact moments that moved them and
indicated to them what you were feeling. You will also record the
exact moments that didn’t work for you, and plan to explain why.”
He crossed his arms and leaned against the front table. “Now
go.”
Trisha snatched her notebook from her desk
and walked over to the piano in the corner of the room to sit down
on the bench, as far away from him as possible. All right, Trisha
thought. I’ll go along with this. I get it. I’ll play it cooler
than you—I’ll play it stone cold. Genevieve followed her, smacking
her gum.
“He’s so fucking hot,” Genevieve said. “I can
hardly stand being in this room right now. When do we get to do
love scenes, huh?” She took off her hoodie, revealing a tight tank
that didn’t entirely cover a lace-trimmed bra. “I gotta get the
attraction going.”
Trisha’s jaw hardened.
Suddenly, she had no interest in performing crestfallen . She wasn’t about to
play the victim with this bitch. Hostile . How about hostile ?
“He’s worth every detail of his dysfunctional
life,” Genevieve said. She was looking back over her shoulder at
Rusty.
Trisha frowned. “What’s that supposed to
mean?”
“Oh, you know,” Genevieve said. “The whole
famous-father-who-doesn’t-give-a-crap thing, the fucked-up
brother…”
Trisha nodded slowly.
“Right,” she said. Famous father? Famous dead father?
Genevieve pulled her tank down over her hips
so that her cleavage was more prominent. Trisha looked down at her
own cashmere turtleneck sweater. The room must have been set at
seventy-five degrees; she was sweating.
Genevieve leaned forward slightly. “I heard
that his father put hundreds of thousands of dollars into a fund to
support the retarded brother, his medical bills and all that, and
is making Rusty wait until he’s dead to get any of his money.”
Trisha looked at Genevieve, her doe eyes that
signaled nothing about whether she was telling the truth, and then
over at Rusty, who was laughing along with Professor Kastarellis
again. But
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