Exit Stage Left

Chapter 4: First Class

My heart is thudding so loud I'm sure everyone can hear it as I walk down the street with confidence I don't feel toward the address I carefully copied from my sweaty palm the afternoon before. Aunt Vonda pounced almost immediately after the foursome left the shop, beaming and bouncy.

"He was so cute," she breathed before giggling like a girl. "And his friends seemed fun."

I loved her so much right then, more than I ever thought possible, as I giggled back. I would never have been able to have this nervously excited moment with anyone else.

She grabbed my hand, read the address before looking up into my eyes, her green ones hopeful. "You're going to go?"

Why else have I been combing through Backstage the last three days? Despite my growing nervousness as I thought about it, I nodded, decision made. I wanted to be like them so badly. I felt bits and pieces of what Aleah and her friends exuded during my stints in school plays and small community theater productions I'd used as an escape from Ian's illness. The only escape I allowed myself because he loved to see me perform.

"I'm going to go." She turned away, satisfied, still chattering about how amazing it was going to be and I was already a wonderful actress, she loved me in my last play. Meanwhile, I read the name below the address.

Miller. Was that the teacher? I ran to the register and checked his slip with trembling fingers. Handsome's name is Miller Hill.

The perfect name for an actor.

I spent the whole night at home suffering a case of nerves even as guilt about my attraction to Miller fought with memories of Ian. I missed him, my lost love. He didn't appear all night, not lying on my bed with his crooked smile, not whispering in my ear. It made me sad, worried he'd gone. I finally forced myself to stop, relax.

Ian would always be with me. As for this silly attraction to a guy I just met... I wasn't going to sleep with him or anything. I was going to an acting class.

I stared at my reflection in the mirror and had a pep talk with myself for once.

"You, Miss Riley James," I poked a finger at myself, doing my best Ian impersonation, "are a grown woman. With a backbone. Find it already."

So there.

Work the next day alternately dragged and flew by, Aunt Vonda finally shooing me off an hour before the class was supposed to start.

"Go make yourself pretty," she'd said. While I blushed all over again.

And now, not even sixty minutes later, I'm walking down the street, heading for the address Miller gave me. Doing my best not to turn and throw up.

The only thing keeping me from public puking is the fact Ian is back. Smiling down at me as he strides along beside me, his memory passing through strangers, the fantasy of his presence enough to keep me moving.

I cross at a green light, past a silver car, spotting the street I'm looking for marked clearly on the sign above. The driver revs his engine, the thumping sound of heavy bass emerging from inside, windows blacked out. I hurry, hating the trickle of fear spreading through me as the phantom of Ian gives the driver the finger and laughs.

I will not be afraid, not of anything. Not while he's beside me.

(We) pause on the corner, just to breathe. Up ahead, a handful of people walk up some steps and into a building. The glass doorway flashes in the failing light, the number written clearly across it, reflected back. The one I'm looking for.

My destination is a blunt little building with a crumbling front foundation, the stairs pitted, the railing rusty. But the door looks clean. I double check the number against the piece of paper in my hand. This is the place.

I'm here. I'm really doing this.

My feet won't move though I'm telling them to. And then I'm not doing this after all, I'm half-turning to leave, mouth dry, chest tight. It's so much easier to just imagine I'm an actor, to dream about it. The doing, not so much.

Trust me, Rye, Ian whispers in my memory. You'll be fantastic.

My breathing is shaky, but I'm spinning back. My legs move, carrying me forward while Ian's imagined presence keeps urging me on. Up the stairs, the rail gritty under my hand. The door sighs with cool air rushing at me as I pull it open and enter the small foyer.

Musty disuse hits me in the face, mixed with the faint scent of urine. But a hand-written sign says "ACTING CLASS TONIGHT" and an equally wavering arrow points up the narrow stairs.

Ian drifts past me, pauses to look down. Coming?

I take the first step, boots crunching over debris, hand clutching reflexively around the railing as I walk through his ghost and up the flight. My fingers trace across the paint on the other wall, for balance. To keep me connected to the world. It's not until I reach the second floor I realize I'm probably going to want to wash my hands now.

And maybe throw up for real. Instead, I force my feet to move, my lungs to breathe, and stuff my hands in my pockets as I walk down the hall under the flickering bulb of the main light. The ceiling arches high overhead. A shame, someone painted the period trim and crown moldings a hideous brown, the industrial tile floor adding an air of dingy, trying-to-be chic. The scent of mustiness is reduced up here, though I can smell other things that make me wince.

I keep my focus on the open door ahead, a second sign hanging from the frosted glass. And Ian appearing again, beckoning for me to walk through. I think about running. What kind of class is this in a place bums likely used for a toilet?

Trust me, Ian says again.

And I do, even as I doubt my sanity.

It's too late to retreat, in any case. I'm at the door, peeking in. I see Aleah just before she spots me and shrieks.

"Flower girl!" She's circling the rickety desk and throwing herself at me before I can back away, hugging me around the neck. Her body feels hot and hard, hair coarse on my skin, lips wet when she kisses my cheek before smacking my shoulder with one hand. "I really didn't think you'd come."

I can barely muster a smile despite the fact my insides are now singing. I have to shake this off, drop the need to bolt. I've never been shy. I refuse to let this weirdness tugging on me, begging me to leave, to drag me out when I know I'm in the right place.

At last. Ian smiles over Aleah's shoulder before fading away.

"It sounded like fun," I say. Wanting to tell her the reason I'm here is because of her and her funny friends. Because Miller invited me.

And because Ian believes in me still.

"Girl," she retreats around her table again, opens a cashbox, "you have no idea. Ten bucks for your first session. You like it, there's a monthly sign up."

I hand over my money, needing my smile to be confident, yet knowing it's more church mouse than charismatic. "Thank you."

Aleah grabs my arm even as she stands on her tiptoes. I finally look into the room, a ring of mismatched chairs around the outside, leaving the center empty. No, not empty. Full of people.

Other actors. Real ones.

I'm going to be sick.

"There's Piper," she points as though she has no idea I'm so nervous I feel like I'm going to leave what little I managed to eat on her lovely shoes. And I hope she doesn't notice. I follow her finger with my gaze, see one of the guys she was with earlier, the Goth one. "And Ruben." Her Hispanic friend stands beside Piper. "Go hang out with them until I'm done here."

I nod to her, step away as she turns to greet someone at the door. Freeze up.

I can't do this. But I have to. Aleah is right behind me and I have a feeling she won't let me leave.

Someone touches my shoulder and I turn with a gasp, expecting Ian.

My gaze meets blue eyes so clear they sparkle.

"Nice to see you made it," Miller says.

Say something. Just open your stupid mouth and say some-

"Hi," I say, while inside I roll my eyes and groan, "Miller." I've never felt so awkward in my life.

"Hi, yourself," he says, shrugging out of a jacket he tosses onto the nearest chair at the back wall. He holds out his hand and I shake it. "You know my name," he says at last.

"Riley." At least my voice isn't shaking. Much. "Riley James."

He grins, releases my hand. "Nice to meet you, Riley James."

I survived the introduction. And I'm walking with Miller, toward Piper and Ruben who finally spot me and squeal at the top of their lungs, bouncing up and down in place until I'm beside them, and they are hugging me.

Like I'm some long-lost friend.

"Oh, pumpkin," Ruben says, tsking as he looks at my boots. "Those are so last year."

I'm hurt, even though I know he doesn't mean anything by it. But I love my boots. Piper pushes Ruben out of the way. "I adore them," he says. "Don't mind the b***h, here." He thumbs over his shoulder at his friend. "She's such a diva."

I laugh before I can stop myself.

And relax all of a sudden. This was the right decision. And I'm very glad I'm here.

A tall, older man in a scruffy t-shirt, long hair hanging behind him in a ponytail, strides into the room. Everyone turns to face him, some of the young actors rushing to his side. I catch one of them watching me. I'm stunned by how beautiful she is. Flawless skin, flowing blonde hair, perfect figure, statuesque. She should be in movies.

From the way she turns from me, arrogant nose in the air, she probably thinks so, too.

It's difficult not to feel intimidated. I allow a single b***h to roll around in my head before Aleah slams the door shut and runs to join us.

"Welcome, students." The man might look scruffy, at least twice our age if not older, but he has the voice of an actor and a singer. "Those of you who know me, you'll be bored by my introduction to those who don't." Laughter, though almost canned, as if this is an old joke. So he's a comedian. I think I can handle that, feel myself relax further. "I am Roger Osmore, lord of stage and screen. And I am your teacher."

His lordship's name isn't familiar, so I make a mental note to Google him later.

Roger launches directly into a lecture as the class spreads out, some taking the chairs against the walls, some sitting on the floor at his feet. I listen, or at least try. But with every word he speaks, Mom's past words come shining through.

"Good acting is about sinking into the role," Roger says, while Mom's voice whispers, We aren't actors, Rye. We channel to a higher power. To another state of mind. If you can find the place where you don't exist, where you are only the character you portray, you have found heaven.

I'd found that place before, the one she talked about. Mom called it pure creation energy, like being the center of the Universe. It was easier when I was a little girl, my imagination huge and open. When Mom died, I lost my desire to act because I missed her so much. Not to mention Dad's disapproval of all things Riley. But when the chance came to audition for the school production of Romeo and Juliet, Ian insisted. He knew all about my passion when I was little. He knew everything about me.

I signed up to make him happy, never expecting to get the part. Spent that night whispering with him, how fabulous it was, confessing my dream to be just like my mother, a dream I'd given up long ago. I spent months in rehearsals, split between learning my part and Ian, despite Dad's loud protests.

And, the first night of the production, nerves jangling, I finally found the quiet place Mom told me about all over again.

I was hooked after that, craving the escape into stillness while falling into the brilliant beauty of being the source of a character's voice. Thrilling, to emerge from it to applause and beaming smiles, to be praised, to hear I was talented.

Who wouldn't love that?

But the best part was always Ian's smile, his enthusiasm no matter how he felt. Whether in a wheelchair or able to sit in one of the regular seats, he never missed a show.

Until the last performance of the final production I took part in, just a little over a year ago. When I came out of my character and returned to the real world, he was gone. His parents gone with him.

And I knew I'd never act again as long as he lived. Which wasn't long. He'd relapsed, badly, the cancer racing through him this time where once it had taken a more sedate pace. Devouring him from the inside out, at a speed no transfusions or bone marrow treatments could halt.

Two weeks later he died. And despite my promise to pursue my dream to be an actor, I hadn't. Until this moment.

Am I really doing it?

Someone jabs me in the ribs and I start, releasing a meep of shock. Aleah tilts her head, makes a face and I suddenly realize everyone is staring. Including Roger.

"Well?" He glares like I'm wasting his time. "Do you own a tongue? If not, the mime class is down the hall in about, oh, never."

Everyone laughs. Even Aleah, though she looks sorry she did. I glance at Miller, afraid I've embarrassed him, let him down.

Not everyone is laughing. He looks irritated. s**t.

"Can you repeat the question?" I'm in high school and he's a bully teacher making me feel like I'm a smear under his shoe. Roger scowls deeper.

"In my class," he draws the words out, "I expect you to pay attention. I do not," he sniffed, "repeat myself."

More titters from the class, though now I'm pissed off. I like this better. I can handle angry. Considering I'm paying him and not the other way around, he can damned well drop the arrogance act.

"Good to know," I say before I can stop myself. "When you get to the part that interests me, I'm happy to answer."

It takes me a moment to inhale past my own shock. I hate being cornered and pushed around, always have. Roger no longer reminds me of a bully teacher.

With his face all scrunched and disapproving, he reminds me of my dad.

More laughter, but this time, the joke's on him. His jaw clenches. I know he's going to kick me out. Sharp regret pangs in my chest. But I accept it.

This isn't the place for me. But I'll find it.

I will.

To my surprise, Roger turns away, starting up his lecture again. I feel someone touch my hand, look over and up at Miller.

Who's laughing silently. Winks at me.

And I smile back.

Maybe it is my place after all.

***