Page 49 of Turnabout Is Fair Cosplay
“It has almost nothing to do with Mike.” He’s just really good and fun to watch. A dangerous villain morphing into a sincere, unassuming hero, and somehow being witty throughout.
“It’s nice to see you smile like that.”
“Like what?”
Mom unscrews her water bottle and dumps it in the empty dog bowl outside a cute little boutique. The corgi laps it up. “Sayyou were to go home today after walking all the dogs, knock on his door, and tell him everything you’ve told me. What would happen?”
“His already swollen ego would explode. He would take my compliment and twist it into some silly, mortifying crush on my part that he would then mercilessly tease me for.” I omit that he’d have every right to do so.
“Or he’d say, ‘Thank you.’”
“‘Thank you’?”
“And you could say, ‘You’re welcome,’ and then go back to your books and yourStarship Cruiser.”
It would look like a come-on. “Why do you want me to play nice with Mike Benedick, anyway? Does he impress you?”
“He’s the first boy you’ve talked about in ages. As your mother, I’d like to know a little more about why that is.” Mom pulls me in for a hug. “It was fun running into you, honey. I’m looking forward to our lunch in a couple of weeks. Maybe sushi.” Mom dashes off.
Bailey yaps at me.
“It’s not that simple,” I tell her as we walk back to her house. “I’m a prickly pear who is ready to become a spinster with a collection of truly heinous mugs.” The corgi pauses to scratch her ear with her hind leg. “I have what might as well be Mike’s diary under my pillow. I’ve read so many of Shakespeare’s sonnets and his thoughtful comments that I could get tattoos of both now. All over my rib cage. Not that I’m making plans or anything.” I did get a quote for a tattoo—I’d have to walk a lot more dogs to pay for it.
When I get home, I dig the sonnets out and flip to my current favorite. Sonnet 149. Yes, I’m here for all the angsty, obsessive, frustrated, Dark Lady sonnets. And so, too, is Mike.
Oh, Will, he’s written in the margins,did penning any of this make it any easier? Of course it didn’t.
What must it feel like,he muses in the margins of Sonnet 146.
I turn the page and smile when I read his notes around Sonnet 147.
This.He circles the sonnet.This is what it feels like.
His pen strokes are incredibly angular. They become downright abrupt when he underlines the couplet at the end and writes,I could not agree more.
I know for a fact it is common for people to see the same movie multiple times when it is in theaters. Why not? If it’s good, it’s good and holds up to multiple showings. No one is shamed for it.
There is nothing strange about me deciding to see Mike’sMacbetha second time. It’s not just about him. There’s something about the ritual of live theater that I enjoy. The communal experience, the quiet hush as the lights dim, the excitement and immediacy of the story, the characters.
Ogling how strands of Mike’s bleached hair fall across his face. How his eyes shine.
The man has charisma and presence, and if I could, I would have happily sat here for each of his shows. Not just because he’s all kinds of interesting for all kinds of reasons, but because he pulls themes and ideas out of Shakespeare that I’ve never seen before.
The curtain falls on the final show. The lights come up, and a man dressed in a black suit walks onto the stage to thank us all and invite us to a reception to meet the student performers.
That’s when I start to sweat. While objectively there is nothing wrong about enjoying Shakespeare, I don’t relish the idea of Mike knowing that I am here. For the second time.
I try to sneak out the back via the balcony exit, but of course I walk right into the reception. The cast is all there, some still in their costumes and makeup, others in their street clothes, which due to the staging choices feel a lot dressier than the grunge costumes.
I spot Mike. He’s near the canapes, smiling, laughing, talking happily with his adoring public in a pair of jeans and a clean white button-down. His hair, which was a greasy, grungy mess onstage, is pulled back in a neat ponytail.
I am not going down in a shame spiral. I’m going to act the professional and keep my head high.
“Congratulations,” I offer to the nearest actress. “Wonderful production. Your interpretation of Lady Macbeth was inspired.”
“Thank you, but you must know I had help. Our director was fantastic. I’ve never been much for Shakespeare, but he made it personal for me.”
“Really?” A bit of relief floods into my veins. Mike, too, would have benefited from a fantastic director. My attraction, or admiration, is misplaced.
