Eleven Weeks (15 page)

I lick my lips. How can I tell him that I can’t possibly, I’m not brave enough, I couldn’t try to show myself to these people who pretend for real?

Michael places his hands on my shoulders.

“Yes.”

I have no hesitation.

We walk into the room, and my first thought is,
we are the youngest ones here
. Everyone else looks to be in his or her late twenties to early thirties. They are talking with each other while stretching—one girl is even wearing a leotard.

“Are you sure this is—”

“It’s a thing.” Michael takes my handbag from my shoulder and puts it down underneath an unoccupied bench space behind us. I sit on the seat, twisting my fingers in knots around each other. The nerves are eating me up.

“Hi.” A man in black sweat pants that could be cousins with my own comes bouncing up to us. “You must be Michael and Stacey.” His gaze flicks to the clipboard in his hand, then back up at us.

“Hey.” Michael thrusts out a hand for him to shake, but the guy laces his fingers between Michael’s, then pulls Michael’s knuckles up to his mouth for a delicate kiss.

Michael’s cheeks turn tomato red, and he takes his hand back super slowly—too slowly. So slow that I think our teacher might have ideas, even though I have no doubt Michael was only delaying his hand retraction so as not to seem rude.

“I’m Stacey.” I thrust my hand under our tutor’s nose, and he gives it a limp pump before turning his attention back to Michael.

“I’m Amon. We start in two minutes. I just need you to sign this waiver”—He flicks over a page on the clipboard and shoves it under our noses. I shoot a nervous glance at Michael, but he signs our lives away. Who knew acting was a high-risk activity?—“and then when you’ve completed any stretching you want to do, I encourage you to join us in the centre of the room.” Amon offers up a sweeping bow and departs, frolicking off to a crowd of other people who no doubt come here every week.

“This is what you’re doing to get me pumped about my future?” I scrunch my nose up.

“This is what you
are
doing, because you’re excited about your future.” Michael taps my nose, pushing the crinkles away and I laugh. It’s one of the first genuine things I’ve done for a while.

“Okay people …” Amon claps his hands and the other eight people in the room amble toward him. “Welcome to Tuesday’s class, improv. Now today we have two new people in the room, Michael”—I swear he bats his eyelashes—“and Stacey. Michael, Stacey, want to tell us why you’re here?”

I swallow. Who knew acting classes would be so much like AA?

“I’m here because Stacey—her” —Michael jerks a thumb my way—“is going to be a great actor or acting teacher one day. And I want to support her.”

The nine people in the room burst into applause. One guy on Michael’s right even claps him on the back. It’s clearly the right answer.

“And you, Stacey? You’re an actress-to-be?” Amon asks.

Heat flushes to my cheeks, straight from my belly, covering my neck. Nine sets of eyes turn to study me. I take a step back, flinching under their gaze. There is something so very different about doing well in school to doing well in life.

“I like acting …” I nod. Oh God, kill me. Please? “And so I came.” I offer up a smile. I feel
I was forced to come
probably wont sit well amongst the acting elite.

Apparently, I needn’t have worried. My answer didn’t sit well regardless. One girl standing opposite me offers up a few tentative golf claps until she realises no one else is playing. Then she stops.

“Okay, welcome. So we’re going to start off with some exercises designed to get in touch with your spiritual side. I want everyone to sit cross-legged in a circle.” Amon instructs, and one by one, everyone plops to the floor in a circle around him. It’s all very Zen, very yoga.

“Should we hold hands?” I ask Michael quietly, and giggle.

“I was getting to that,” Amon hisses. Apparently I wasn’t quiet enough. “Hold hands with the people on either side of you, and concentrate on your energy. Force out the good through one hand, and feel the positive energy being pumped through you with the other; then take the bad through your feet. Our energy is circling amongst us. Picture yourself as a slate being cleaned, a needle injecting the negative from your life. An empty blackboard …”

“Do you think they give this talk before you get a colonoscopy?” Michael whispers.

I can’t help it. I choke on my laughter.

“Is something funny, Miss Allison?” Amon glares at me. I bite my lip. Of course he knows my last name and is using it to correct me. How
teacher
of him.

“Uh-uh.” I shake my head. Nothing at all.

“Hmm.” He shoots one last
look
at me before blinking, and his eyes are the perfect picture of Zen once more. ”Okay, so now we’re going to work on focusing in on our inner light. For it’s only once we look deep insides ourselves …”

Amon drones on and on, and I drop hands with Michael and Sweaty Palms on the other side of me. Michael leans closer, so close I can feel the heat from his body hovering over my arm. “You’re … having fun?”

It’s all I can do not to snort again. But he did pay, and I don’t want to be rude, so I look up at him and nod. “Mmmmm.”

“Now, I want you to all stand and sing the note deep inside of you, the note that is your very soul,” Amon says, and he staggers to his feet, as if he’s possessed by the spirit of religious clichés. “Reach out to your heart note and sing it; sing it for me.”

We all stand, and then one by one, people are drop to their knees, humming weird, unharmonious notes that jar against my mind. My stomach lurches, and I clasp it, urging it to chill the hell out.

Michael gives me a look, and I shrug. “Your idea,” I whisper.

He rolls his eyes and dramatically falls to his knees, clutching his heart as if he has just been shot. I snort.

Amon’s eyes flash open. “Miss Allison?”

“Yes. Sorry.” I drop down to my knees and place my forefinger and thumb in an om-like position.

“Are you searching for your inner tune?” Amon prompts.
I’m searching for my inner desire not to barf on your floor?

Silence engulfs the room for several moments. The inner-voice love has stopped. I think I broke the melody.

“Okay, everybody up.” I push up to my feet. I know the small human inside me weighs less than … I search around the room … a piece of chalk, but seriously, it feels like standing with her in me takes extra effort.

Her?

“All right class, Stacey, here, has trouble with trust. We’re going to play the leaning game. Gather in a circle,” Amon says, and students gather in a group that I am the centre of. Interesting.

“Turn around,” Amon says, and I face away from him. Seconds later, a thick piece of material is lowered over my eyes, pressing tight and knotted behind my head.

“You are blindfolded,” Amon says.
No shit, Sherlock.
“Now, you will lean back, and let the group take your weight. Trust us; fall as far as you can. We will catch you, no matter what. We are
here.
”

I smile, but it’s all lip, no eyes. What does he mean
trust them?

“Just lean back, Stacey,” Amon repeats.

I focus my weight on the balls of my feet and start to tilt my body backward. Surely Michael would catch me, right? I mean, even if the rest of these people won’t—

Why is no one catching me?

My heart leaps to my throat and I stick a foot out behind me, steadying myself and standing upright. I wrench the blindfold off and spin to face the group, my heart pounding erratically.

I can see the disappointment in Amon’s eyes. “Stacey, Stacey.” He sighs. “Let’s try again.”

I press my eyes shut even tighter and cover them once more, trying to relax my lips, which are unnaturally tight, all of a sudden. I can do this. I can.

I lean my weight backward again, my fingernails digging trenches into my palms. I get to the point where my natural balance is lost and I’m falling. I’m falling. Holy shit, I’m gonna hit the floor.

I’m going to hurt my baby.

I strike out with my foot once again, and this time it’s not just Amon who sighs. I’m no doubt about to win the Favourite Class Member award.

“Come on, Stacey.” Amon’s hands plonk down on my shoulders. He smells like garlic and incense. My stomach lurches, and even though I don’t want to be sick in public, being sick on Amon doesn’t sound horrid. I take very tiny breaths in. “You can do this. We will not let you fall. An essential part of acting is learning to trust your fellow troupe.”

He removes his hands and his feet pad back to their original position. “One more time. You got this, Stacey.”

I suck in a deep breath, letting the air fill through my nostrils, down my throat, inflating my lungs. They wouldn’t let me fall. There would be all sorts of legal ramifications … although we did sign a waiver upon entry …

I lean back for the third time. I go past my normal centre of gravity where I feel comfortable, and I’m falling, I’m falling, oh my God, I have to save the—

Hands support my weight. Some are on my shoulders, some are my arms, my waist. One is uncomfortably close to my boobs, but I’m prepared to look past that. I’m safe.

I stand up, shrugging the hands away, and wrap my arms protectively around my stomach. My heart is rocketing against my chest and my breath is coming short and sharp. Do I have a problem with trust?
Is that what I was drinking … to run away from?

With one arm still wrapped around me, I wrench the blindfold from my eyes. I spin around. Everyone is smiling, a few people even offering up cheers at my success. Only, I don’t feel successful. I feel like the worst mother in the world.

What if I’d fallen and somehow injured the baby?

“See? Wasn’t so hard, was it?” Amon takes the blindfold from my trembling hand. “Stacey?” He studies my face, pressing his thin lips together. “We’re going to take a twenty-minute break, everyone.” He claps his hands. “I’ll see you back here at half past five.”

Michael’s hand is on my shoulder, squeezing. “Stace … you all right?”

“Fine.” I face him, trying my hardest to make my face light. Gosh, why am I freaking out about this? It was just a stupid game.

“Let’s go sit outside.” With his hand on the small of my back again, he leads me into the courtyard and we sit on a stone bench hidden in an alcove right near the entrance. Cars zoom past, beeping their horns, and somewhere in the distance a child sings, some nursery rhyme that does little to lift my spirits.

“You wanna talk about it?” He puts his hand on my leg.

His hand, his hand is warm, and it sends those tingles through my body again. I’m so lost and confused, and when he leans closer, his lips close to mine, his eyes flaming with lust, I give in.

Gently, his soft, full lips press against my own. He smells of cologne and
man
, and I can’t help but offer a subtle groan as he parts his mouth and delicately runs his tongue over my bottom lip. Sparks shoot through me, and I wrap my arms around his neck, reveling in the feel of his firm body pressed against my soft one.

Our lips come together hungrily, full of desire. He pulls me closer, one hand on the back of my head, fisting my hair as his tongue seeks entry into my mouth. This is no slow, romantic dance; it’s passion, and need and desire all at once. It’s everything I need, though I know I shouldn’t have it. It makes me feel whole.

Lips still furiously locked, I slide a leg over his body and shift my weight, straddling him. I run my hands over his shoulders, feeling his broad muscles underneath his shirt, the way they tense against my touch.

He moves his hand from my waist higher to cup my breast. In my thin sweater, my nipple responds to his touch instantly, stiffening as he fuels my desire. He is so hard that I can feel it through my sweats. I rock against him, lost in the moment, lost in this.

I’ve wanted this for so long.

“Stacey,” he breathes, pulling back. I ignore his warning and learn forward, pressing my lips against his, but this time when I try to slide my tongue in his mouth, his lips are firm. I try again, but they’re unyielding. Nothing.

“Stace.” His hands move to my hips and he pushes me back. I bite my lip. “Stace, do you remember what I told you that time? At the party?”

I gaze up at the white fluffy clouds scudding through the sky above us. Why does it all come down to that stupid party?

“No.” I shake my head.

He breathes and licks his lips. “Well … I’m a virgin.”

I blink. He’s a virgin? What does that have to do with anything? And what his ex—“But what about Hannah?”

“Hannah … God, this sounds so lame. I didn’t want to have sex with Hannah.”

What? He didn’t sleep with
Hannah?
I think of the short, blonde dancer who even I knew was supposed to be good for her, erm, flexibility in bed. Her pick-up line was ‘I can do the splits.’ If they didn’t have sex, it had to be Michael’s choice. “But …” I furrow my brow. “Why?”