Page 9 of Directing You
He made my mouth water, and holy hell, I regretted not going home with him last night.
As soon as the thought entered my brain, I shook it away. Was I crazy? He was my teacher! How many fucking propositions was I going to get from professors at this fucking university?
“Normally,” he said, addressing the class and snapping me out of my improper thoughts, “in the real world, if you’re late to a rehearsal, you get docked your pay.” He reached into a bag leaning beside the piano at the front of the room and pulled out a large jar, setting it on top of the piano. “In here, of course, none of you are getting a paycheck. But if you are late and you want that door to be unlocked to get in, it’ll cost you a dollar for every minute you’re late.”
I felt my breath hitch as I glanced at the clock. I was six minutes late. Today would have cost me six bucks. Six extra bucks when I was already paying a fortune for this damn class? His eyes met mine briefly as he slid into a seat on the piano bench. “Today was your one pass,” he said, the glass jar slamming down onto the heavy wood of the piano. The strings made a cacophony that was anything but musical.
My hand shot into the air, and I immediately regretted it, wincing at my stupid, impulsive hand stretched above my head. But it was too late now.
He sucked his teeth slowly. “Yes? Ms…?”
The question about my name tripped me up momentarily as I almost said Moon and stopped myself. “Stone,” I answered with myreallast name. “Hazel Stone.”
“Yes, Ms.Stone?”
“I have a problem with your policy,” I snapped, forcing myself to take a breath and remove the hostility from my voice.
“Do you, now?”
“I do,” I said, nodding. “As you mentioned…in the real world, that pay is docked from apaycheck. Since none of us sitting here are getting paid, I find it rather unethical that we should be expected to pay extra on top of the tuition we’re already putting in to be here.”
Another twitch of his jaw. Oh, shit. I was pissing him off. If he wasn’t already pissed because of the raging case of blue balls I sent him home with. Then again, I was pissed too since his parting words last night had basically implied I was a prostitute who let all my clients finger me for money.
“Well,Ifind it unethical to disrupt your classmates and interrupt their precious class time when you’re late and come bursting into class. With aFrappuccino.”
I ignored the jab. Something I deserved a freaking standing ovation for. “It’s a disruption, yes. But it’s stillmytime that I’m paying for. And if I choose to show up thirty minutes late for a class, frankly, that’s thirty minutes I’ve paid for already, regardless. You can’t lock me out of a class I’m paying to be in…even if I am late.”
His gaze narrowed dangerously. “Can’t I?”
“No. And if you do, I will take this to the board and demand a refund for the time I’ve missed in a class I’ve been locked out of. Not all of us are privileged students here on Mommy and Daddy’s dime. Some of us have full-time jobs and children on top of classes and homework and our dreams aren’t any less significant because of that—”
“Children?” he asked, cutting me off.
My eyes squeezed shut for a moment. “Well, notme.Idon’t have children.” Was I seeing things, or did he seem relieved with my answer there? I cleared my throat and continued, “But I know a couple of my friends here in the program do have children. And while a dollar per minute might not mean much to someone with a full-time teaching job, to me that’s six cups of ramen dinner that you are literally taking from my mouth.”
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and his gaze fell on Ms. Dercy in the back of the room. I wasn’t sure if I had a case or not to petition for a refund of my tuition money…but I thought I made a damn good argument, regardless of whether or not I would win.
He pressed his mouth into a thin, blanched line before he stood up and moved over to the whiteboard on the other end of the room. Grabbing the marker, he wrote down a phone number. “This is my cell phone,” he said. “In the professional community, if you’re going to be late, it is required you call your stage manager. Since we don’t have a stage manager yet…we’ll pretend it’s me.” His eyes fell to mine sharply. “If you are going to be late, you must call or text me before that big hand hits the twelve. If you do that, you will not be required to pay.”
I heard the sound of fingers tapping on screens around me as other students were inputting his number into their phones.
He paused, then added, “And we’ll use the money at the end of the semester to pay for a party where I will cover the difference. Ifno oneis ever late, I will throw an end-of-semester cast party for you all out of my own pocket.”
He held out his hands as an offering to me. “What do you say, Ms. Stone? It’s a compromise. One that I think is fair and teaches an important lesson if you’re going to do this professionally. Your director is not going to give a shit if you have a day job—or anightjob,” he added pointedly. “They aren’t going to care if you’re a single parent. Or that you had five hours of homework that evening. There are hundreds of men and women who look just like you. They sing just like you—probably even better. They act better than you. They dance better than you. You are replaceable in this industry. We all are.”
He held my stare until I slowly pulled out my phone and punched in his cell phone number, pausing as I realized I didn’t know his name yet. I breathed in slowly through my nose and punched in Professor Cockhead as his name, then dropped my phone back into my purse.
“I’m Professor Reid Bradley,” he said, turning and writing his name on the whiteboard and my jaw nearly smacked the linoleum floor. He was Reid Bradley?TheReid Bradley…the Broadway director? “I’m filling in this semester for Faith… Lewis.” He had paused before saying her last name in a curious way and took another brief moment before he continued talking. “And for this semester, we are going to be workshopping a new show. We are going to audition the show. Cast it. Rehearse it. And perform it to Equity guidelines. By the end of the semester, you will all know if you have what it takes to do this professionally.”
Though no one in the classroom spoke a word, excitement buzzed through the room, like a riptide beneath the ocean’s surface. You could feel it but not see it. People shifted in their seats, and I heard the intake of several gasping breaths. Jenna thrust her hand in the air, and I had to suppress the urge to roll my eyes.
“Yes, Jenna?” Professor Bradley said. God, he already knew her name. Of course, he did. She probably came to class today with freshly baked muffins.
“What’s the show?” she asked, her smile a little too eager.
“It’s a new show, being written by a friend of mine. Not a large cast, which is perfect for this class. Not all of you will be acting in it. Some of you might be assistant directing, stage managing, etc.” He paused, looking around the room. “Out of curiosity, is anyone in herenotwanting to be an actor? Do we have any prospective directors or behind-the-scenes folks?”
Three people raised their hands, my friend Max included, and I inwardly cringed, lifting mine into the air as well. I swallowed hard as Professor Bradley’s eyes drifted over me, and I could see the shock in his expression before he resumed scanning the remainder of the room. I wasn’t delusional. Did I want to be in the spotlight on stage? Of course. But I wasn’t getting any younger. At twenty-four, I was one of the oldest undergrads in the department, outside of a couple of much older adults who’d come back to school in their thirties and forties.
