Drama Club

THE DRAMA CLUB, Part 10 'Cues and Miscues'

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'Nymph, in thy orisons be all my sins remembered.'

Hamlet to Ophelia (Hamlet, Prince of Denmark; Shakespeare)

Camille sat looking at the pregnancy test strip in her pink and white bathroom late Saturday afternoon. The room was small but prettified with pink fluffy rugs and brightly colored ballerinas on the clock, in the framed picture over the toilet and scattered across the surfaces around the sink. Her mother had decorated it, obviously. Camille hated pink and wasn't crazy about ceramic ballerinas either, had anyone asked. No one ever asked, though. She was the only child of two symphony musicians, much beloved but seldom really noticed. Her practicality and sarcastic sense of humor were only known to her friends, like so much else that was true of Camille.

The pregnancy test had been packaged in a cutesy pink and blue box that promised quick results. No results were quick enough, thought Camille, when you were this scared. She had no idea what her parents would do, no idea what Doug would say, no idea what she herself would say or do if the strip turned blue in the next five minutes. She knew that she'd be screwed, and in more than once sense, if it did. Her parents didn't seem to know she had sex with Doug, didn't even appear to realize she was old enough to want to. Her mother still bought her clothes that made her look like a little girl, still smiled sweetly when Doug came over, and still said she hoped they had a nice time studying. Was she serious, Doug would sometimes ask. Fuck yes, Camille would answer, she thinks we slip off to my room night after night to do our Trig together. Why that took all night, Camille was never asked and when Doug was still there for breakfast, her mother just made him pancakes along with everyone else. Parents were idiots but whether hers were worse than most, she'd never been able to figure out.

She sat there on the closed toilet seat, almost mesmerized by the plastic strip but trying to look away while she waited, and thought about Doug. He was so handsome, so unusual, he'd caught her eye and reluctant heart the very day she met him at the start of their freshman year. He'd been dressed as a gangster from the 1930's, with a loose-cut pinstripe suit and fedora, white wing tips and a pistol from the prop room tucked in a shoulder holster. He'd tipped his hat to her when she walked by and smiled, showing those dimples that now made her melt. She hadn't melted that day but she'd noticed. She'd never had anything nice to say to a boy before she met Doug, had always told them to fuck off, often offering graphic suggestions on how or with whom. She wasn't known for being ladylike and that usually put guys off despite her pretty, petite looks but not Doug. When she'd suggested something colorful he might want to do with his mother, he'd laughed, his black eyes dancing, and then followed her for the rest of the day, skipping his classes and looking like some hired gun from a Cagney film. She'd tried to ignore him but couldn't help being intrigued. What kind of nut wanted a foul mouthed teen ballerina in ragged jeans and Cats tee shirt who pretended he wasn't there?

She soon found out just what kind of nut that took. He was charming but relentless, somehow always at her side. Doug had convinced her to date him within the week and within a month, they were a couple. They hung around the drama room day after day, wrapped together or hand in hand, until the other kids began to take their twosome for granted. No one ever asked one of them to go anywhere without including the other and their opinions were considered as a collective whole. Which mostly meant that Camille made the decisions and Doug went along with them; he was always cheerful, always compliant, always smiling. How he could be so damn happy all the time was still a mystery to her. Maybe it was true, what people said, that opposites attract.

She didn't know what anyone would say if she were pregnant but she knew one thing with certainty. She wasn't having a baby. She was a dancer and planned to keep on dancing, in school and in the professional companies that hired her, and she knew enough already to know how much a pregnancy could damage that career. That didn't even cover how she felt about kids, about raising kids, about marriage and family and all that crap. There was no possibility she'd do that to her body and she was furious that the idea might be raised. She loved sex with Doug but this was ridiculous. She wasn't having a baby and she wasn't getting married. They'd been careful, she was on the pill and never missed but something had gone wrong. Her period hadn't come that month. Sometimes it didn't, and she knew that was true for a lot of dancers her size, but it'd been weeks now and she was frightened. Saying nothing to Doug, she'd bought the pregnancy test and waited for an afternoon when her parents were gone, rehearsing. She was alone in the house and it had surely been five minutes by now. She looked at the strip again, reflexively, not really expecting to see a change.

It was blue. Camille was pregnant. She cursed under her breath and gathered up the evidence to wrap in the drug store bag and throw away in secret. It was a good thing Doug wasn't here right now. She could just fucking kill him.

'In the first flush of ecstasy

As you lay naked next to me,

While our love put the dawn to flight

I just ignored all those warning lights

'Cause when you laughed, I just cried,

And when you left, I just died...

Are you... already over me?'

Are You Already Over Me (Rolling Stones, 1997)

Gene slumped in the worn padded chair in the darkened auditorium waiting for the awards ceremony two hours from now, his suit pants rumpled and tie loosened. His jacket lay neatly folded across his briefcase on the next seat. His Sony CD Walkman sat on his lap, headphone cord snaking out and onto his head. The Rolling Stones' Bridges to Babylon album wasn't a great choice, he thought, it wasn't helping his mood but he couldn't stop himself or stop his thoughts. Something about Jagger's voice, rough and male over the slow and blues-y Stones beat, could seem to sing from an honest place of hurt more than prettier voices. His throaty question, 'Are you... allll-ready... ooover me?' made the weight seem to grow heavier in Gene's chest.

Last night with Michael had left him confused and contemplative. He loved seeing Michael and was so used to him showing up, and sleeping over, when he needed to talk that he hadn't put any thought into refusing when he'd gotten the call. He'd known his friend would want to talk about Angel. He'd heard about that boy for so long that his responses had become almost automatic but he'd been somehow worried... increasingly worried that Angel might have said yes to Mike, might have agreed to go out with him, might have wanted him. It was a sneaking thought, a nearly subconscious fear, which finally surfaced when Mike walked in his room last night. When he'd found out differently, that Angel had refused, he'd felt such a sharp sense of relief, of almost pleasure...and that should have been his first clue. He was such a liar, he thought to himself.

And all along he'd thought he really believed Angel might be good for Michael or, more honestly, that someone, anyone, anyone else, would be good for him. Gene knew he wasn't and hadn't been. My fucking stupid sense of nobility, he thought tiredly, was complete bullshit. Last night, after they'd made love, he'd stayed awake to watch Michael sleep despite the voice that reminded him he needed rest to win today. Michael's peaceful breathing as he lay on the pillow, chest rising gently and the scent of his skin had left Gene awake for much too long. Michael's naked body lying close had kept him hard despite what they'd done earlier. He ignored that and lay on his side, his head resting in hand, elbow propped on the mattress, while he looked at his friend, occasionally brushing fingers down his back, lightly so as not to wake him.

Last night, he had told Mike again that he hoped Angel would change his mind; he'd said that it would work out, had told him to be patient, persistent. Even as he said those things, he knew he was a liar and a coward. And he knew it was all pointless because he couldn't be what Michael needed and, worse, he was afraid that it didn't even matter. Michael wasn't in love with him anymore. And that was cold reality, he told himself, and no one's fault but his own. How it could have been different he didn't know but watching Michael's face in the moonlight had made him almost wish he could find out. Almost made him wish for some alternate universe where he and Michael had been good for each other, had done everything right and made each other happy. Some alternate universe where Gene was probably someone else, he'd thought wearily.

Did everything always have to hurt so badly and, if so, when did it stop, when did he get old enough that memory and regret didn't matter so much? He thought of his father's face when he spoke of his childhood, of his family and friends in Taiwan, and the look he would get in his eyes that seemed so far away. Gene was afraid that you never did get old enough to forget what you should. Never got old enough to...not feel that hand squeeze your heart when you remembered things best forgotten. And the thought wasn't reassuring. There was no percentage in mentioning how he felt to Michael, no point to dredging up the past and his current fears. It wasn't as if anything had really changed and they both knew how that song ended.

That anticlimactic fade to black last year had left them both a little wounded, left them both a little less than they'd been before. What was the point of feeling so much anyway, what was the point to talking about things that wouldn't change, wouldn't help, wouldn't work? Gene closed his eyes in the dim light, listening to the moody music. He could still see Michael sleeping in his mind's eye, see the brown hair mussed beside him, and see those smooth shoulders and muscled arms ending in broad hands tucked under the pillow. He could hear the soft breathing in the night as his friend's chest rose and fell with each aspiration, and he could just catch the scent of what they'd done earlier rising from Michael's skin. The longing he felt had been palpable, something heavy in the night, like the smell of sex, like the moonlight itself, and he'd felt tears in his eyes, finally, when he lay down on his own pillow to wait for sleep. Saying nothing was going to be one of the hardest things Gene had ever done.

'I'm so hurt...so confused...

Are you already... over me...

Are you already tired of me?

...What a fool I've been.'

Rolling Stones (1997)

Trey Hart woke late Saturday afternoon with a headache and a hardon. He ignored both. He took two aspirin and went to his workout bench, still naked and half-awake. He straddled the bench and lay back, under the barbell. The afternoon sun came through the heavy curtains uncertainly but sharp enough to make his head throb. He wrapped his fingers around the bar and closed his eyes. The silence in the house was comforting. His parents and little sister were so rarely gone that quiet was something he always treasured. He pushed the bar up, hefting it, and let it sink down in an even movement to touch his chest, paused, then pressed it up slowly.

Working out usually woke him up and cleared out his head, helped him ignore his morning erection. He'd been getting them for years now but still didn't like taking care of it the usual way. He did it under cover of night but felt guilty, never admitting to the activity that he knew everyone engaged in. He thought he should use his body for more productive things, like the tech work in drama or staying in shape, and wasn't sure yet what, if any, sexual outlet he wanted with another person. Sex had always just seemed too physical, too animal a thing for him to want to spend much time thinking about it. That so many of the drama kids had sex with each other had bothered him since junior high but he never criticized. And he'd always ignored the offers that came his way. His friendships were casual, all were related to classwork or to a show. Trey liked it that way; he thought of himself as a private person.

He stopped after four sets and lay breathing heavily for a few minutes. He reached for the dumbbells on the floor and started a series of flys. The problem was that he'd been thinking more and more of some of his friends when he jacked off at night and that confused him. He didn't want attachments and he wasn't even sure what was involved with saying yes to sex with a friend. He remembered a conversation he'd had with Bobby last month. Bobby had been sulky while helping Trey put together the rig that would fly Puck across the stage in the show. Trey had endured the boy's behavior but had finally been forced to ask if something was wrong. The answer he got had been overwhelming, had poured out of Bobby like a flood.

He hadn't even known that Bobby was having sex with so many of the guys and wasn't sure if he felt surprise or something else. When he'd told Trey some of what he'd done this year, Trey had been...aroused. That was the only way to look at his reaction and it baffled him. He hadn't thought he wanted to do any of those things, hadn't thought they interested him. Listening to Bobby, his dick had other ideas. And that got his mind thinking, considering the other boys in Drama and reflecting back on flirtations that he'd ignored at the time.

Bobby had been oblivious to the effect his words were having, he needed to be heard and felt safe telling Trey. Trey wondered how he felt about being seen as safe. Maybe he didn't want to be seen that way. That thought hadn't occurred to him before. He began watching the other boys more closely, saying nothing, but...thinking. None of the girls seemed that appealing and only a few of the boys seemed to register on that meter. Tony had been tough to ignore last week in the shop and later during rehearsals. Trey thought he'd managed to stay calm but inside he was anything but. He'd taken care of business that night before sleep and thought of Anthony while he did so but somehow, by the time he came, the image in his mind wasn't Tony Mendoza's playful expression.

It was Jaye Peterson's face he saw that made him come harder than he had in months.

Guildenstern:'Well...aren't you going to change into your costume?'

Player: 'I never change out of it, sir.'

Guildenstern: 'Always in character.'

Player: 'That's it.'

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead (Tom Stoppard, 1967)

Gene buttoned the top buttons of his dress shirt and tightened his tie, trying to banish the lethargy that always overtook him this late in a tournament. Friedman sat next to him, parked along the aisle, talking softly into his cell and watching Gene from the corner of his eye. The auditorium had filled up over the last two hours, groups of debaters and speakers took up seats throughout in clusters centered on their various coaches. The lights were up and the curtains pulled, revealing tables filled with glittering trophies, those tantalizing rows of silver and blue that drew the eye. Gene fished in his jacket pocket for his cigarettes. Friedman frowned. He ignored the look and what it meant. He just wasn't in the mood. He found the pack and stood.

"Be right back." he said, brushing past the wheelchair and walking up the aisle to the back of the auditorium. He pushed through the doors and through a group of sleepy duet actors busy tucking shirts and slipping on shoes that had been cast off in the long wait for the awards ceremony. He wondered what that event must be like, what the draw must be to get drama kids to give up performing at their school for late nights like this in some foreign locale. They always seemed so different from debaters, so much less...focused. Not that he felt focused tonight, anything but. He felt...distracted. And he didn't like it. He shoved through the double doors and out into the parking lot, hand digging in pocket for his lighter. It was dark outside and reasonably quiet. He stopped and put a cigarette to his lips, flicking the lighter to make a quiet flame in his hand. He drew in and relaxed against the brick wall, eyes closing. He reached for a peace inside himself as he smoked. He'd always felt his cigarette time was the closest he came to meditation, the closest he came to centering himself. He exhaled evenly, slowly.

He felt sure he'd lost the last round. He'd done well today for someone else, for anyone else. For Gene, he'd really sucked and he knew it. He was just too...mentally disorganized. He'd won all the rounds through the day but during finals had just sort of folded in on himself, giving a little less than he was capable of. A lot less than he was capable of. This couldn't continue, he thought ruefully. He had to change something and he had a sinking feeling he knew what that something was. Last night with Michael had left him vulnerable in a way he didn't like. Thoughts of his friend had intruded once too often today into his debating, images of Michael in his bed. He grimaced. Not just in his bed, in his bed would be something he could ignore. It was the Michael in his heart that was the problem and one he had to address if he wanted to keep on winning this year.

Michael was his first real lover, his first real romance, so this had never come up before, this conflict with competition. And, to be honest, it wasn't really a problem until recently. Somehow the idea of Michael finding someone else was far worse than the idea of Michael pulling back, loving him less. He clenched his jaw and opened his eyes, looking out through the dark and across the parking lot. Jealousy was something he'd thought he couldn't feel, if that's what it was. It seemed somehow sadder than just jealousy but he didn't have much to compare it with. This was a first in so many ways. And not a good first. Something had to change, he knew. How did other people deal with this kind of feeling, he wondered. He smoked in silence, watching the competitors trail in from the busses towards the auditorium as if pulled by some silent signal.

After waiting hours for the awards ceremony, sometimes quite a few hours for non-debaters whose final rounds had finished much, much earlier, kids were often sleepy or distracted, minds already gone past this weekend's tournament. Minds already home and busy with the rest of their lives. Somehow Gene's mind was always on the tournament and not just because he usually debated right up until the last, seldom losing. When he went home, his focus wasn't home itself but on the next weekend's competition. And he generally spent little time wondering what he could have done differently at the finished tournament, accepting that there was an element of luck to it all, an element of random chance that overrode all his careful preparation and his skill. It always seemed better to set his sights on the following weekend than to second-guess what he could have improved about this one. He could only be as prepared as he was able, beyond that, worry seemed pointless and weak. The difference lately was that he knew he had lost some kind of edge, some kind of hard determination that helped him win. And he had the idea he knew what had to be done to get it back.

He had to mentally let Michael go. He wondered how people did that, how they distanced themselves from their hearts and memories. Adults must do it all the time, he reasoned, it wasn't impossible. He remembered what Friedman had told him earlier, as they'd played double-solitaire on a table outside the auditorium. Gene had asked much the same question of the air, affecting not to address Friedman himself, almost thinking aloud as he dealt cards face up in tidy rows, slick cardboard flicking from his fingertips as he lined up suits. Friedman had watched him impassively, then spoke.

"It isn't a question of not feeling, Gene, as far as I can tell." He'd said evenly. "It's a question of relative weight. You run your cost benefit analysis and, if it comes up low on benefit, you make a conscious choice. You weight the feelings differently, you uncouple your heart a little from whatever it is, from whoever it is."

Gene had looked up from the columns of cards. Friedman's eyes were inscrutable. Was this the first time they'd spoken of something so...personal? Gene wasn't sure. So many nights and days and weekends spent with his coach had left them closer than most people ever became, taking much for granted and leaving so much that was obvious unnoticed. He thought they hadn't spoken like this, though, before now. Hell, he didn't even know if Friedman had ever been in love. Of course, that was unfair, wasn't everyone in love at some point? Just because they didn't talk about it, didn't flaunt it, didn't trumpet it to the heavens...that didn't mean it didn't happen. Everything didn't have to be high drama. Some things just were, just simply existed without flourish.

He'd looked appraisingly at his coach, wondering what sort of person could engage that sharp mind, that cool heart. People probably wondered the same of him, he realized. He knew what they called him. 'Gene the Machine' didn't just suggest efficiency, he'd always understood, it suggested an emotional remoteness, a heart either missing or unable to respond. Which was so unfair, he thought with a sigh. If anything, he thought felt more strongly than the more vocal types around him. Everything didn't have to be high drama on a bright-lit stage. Some things were just as powerful when they were private, maybe more so. Last year, Gene had found out just how powerful those things could be. And just how difficult. He'd laid down a trey of hearts as Friedman continued.

"I'm not saying the whole process is easy. It takes a strong person to realize when something isn't useful anymore, when some feeling or some person is too much of a drain on other pursuits. And the act of pulling back, of rethinking and redirecting your heart...well, not many things are as rough as that. But once you've made the choice, it all becomes relatively simple."

Gene raised an eyebrow, dubious. Friedman chuckled.

"Yes, I said 'simple'. Anyone capable of organizing and running a complex debate case can run the lesser complexity of his or her own emotions. More confusing, I'll grant you, but much less complex is the human heart. Once you've decided to disengage, you'd be surprised how simple it all really is. It takes some time to adjust but the confusion is gone once the path is illuminated. And that's the real trick, to recognize when its time to do that, to redirect your steps." Friedman laid out the last of the clubs and leaned back.

"So...how do I know? How do I know for sure that it is time, time to...redirect?" Gene asked.

Friedman smiled. "I think the fact that you're asking the question more or less gives you the answer."

Gene frowned and placed the last of his cards down, face up. He put his elbows on the table and steepled his manicured hands, fingertips touching. Friedman watched him calmly, gathering up the cards and shuffling. Gene's loosened tie and shirt collar left his slender neck exposed, a silver chain visible against his cream-colored skin. His hair seemed sleek in the overhead light, a seal-like shiny black that seemed, like phosphorus, to catch the light's energy and glow with a reduced, but no less noticeable luminescence. His huge almond eyes were thoughtful as he regarded his coach.

"You're speaking from experience, I take it."

It was almost not a question but Friedman nodded absently, laying the cards down and shuffling them again with his thumbs. Gene watched the cards intermingle, the familiar soft and rapid clicking sound of laminated cardboard soothing him. He'd done this same thing so many times over endless weekends spent waiting, always waiting, for the next round, the next level, the next win. And Friedman was a comfortable fixture in that world that his mind recognized and responded to by relaxing. Gene wondered again who might have made his coach make that choice, the choice to disconnect. It didn't matter, finally. The here and now was what he needed to address.

He was going to have to pull back somehow, create a distance that his heart could live with. The alternative, of talking to Michael, of trying to find some new connection, of even admitting that he needed one, wasn't one that Gene could accept. Maybe it was a good thing Michael was so focused on Angel, a good thing that one of them saw what he wanted with clarity. All Gene knew for certain was that he needed his control back, needed to regain his composure, his ability to influence his surroundings such that his goals were realized. Too much was at stake to let his heart rule his life.

Love just wasn't something Gene could afford now. He wondered if it ever would be. And that thought wasn't a cheerful one. Maybe they were right to call him a Vulcan, a machine. He wondered, with a slight smile, if Mr. Spock had ever wanted something he knew he shouldn't have. And if so, what, if anything, he'd done about it.

Gene had a feeling that he knew. Some sacrifices were unavoidable. And you didn't have to be a drama student to know when it was time to exit a scene. You wouldn't want to be left on a bare stage when the dialogue ran out, he mused, wouldn't want to be left staring out at the audience in confusion. Improvisation was fine for theatre. Real life needed a little more organization.

Gene dropped the cigarette and ground it out under his dress shoe, pulling the heavy door open to return to the auditorium. He had no intention of missing his cue.

'If we stopped breathing, we'd vanish.'

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead (Tom Stoppard, 1967)

Backstage was controlled chaos; Faeries in gossamer and glitter, robed Lovers applying their stage makeup, techies scrambling for last minute solutions. John and Ms. Robi walked through the green room and backstage, touching and talking to the kids, keeping them focused and cheerful, hoping to channel their manic energy into a good performance that night. Boys and girls in black tee shirts, 'Tech' stenciled across their chests, stood talking into headphones and running last minute checks on sound. Trey was in the booth above the house, looking out the wide glass window down onto the house. The house lights were up and people milled around, some in the maroon padded seats and more arriving, some reading programs, others talking among themselves; a soft undertone of voices and rustle of bodies in motion. The heavy maroon velvet stage curtains were closed and the musicians were in the pit warming up, creating a raucous, uncertain noise that teetered on the brink of becoming music.

The beautifully carved proscenium arch presided above the whole, commanding attention and, as always, justifying the expenditure Ms. Robi had insisted on. The drama kids were all proud of their theatre, proud of the shows they put on there throughout the year, and everyone did what they could to make tonight's performance a success. Girls from first year drama classes manned the ticket booth out front, wearing heels and cocktail dresses, greeting people as they arrived, checking coats and passing out the programs filled with photos of the principal cast and crew. This was the closing night of Midsummer Night's Dream and the show had sold out. The lights flickered twice in the lobby, a signal to take your seat, and the late comers hurried through the doors. Inside, the house lights dimmed slowly, slowly, and the murmurs and bustle died down as the audience found their seats with the occasional help of ushers. As the light faded, ushers resorted to flashlights as stragglers sought their seat numbers in the dark.

The music swelled as the curtain opened. The Lovers stood in the palace of Theseus.

'Now, fair Hippolyta, our nuptial hour Draws on apace; four happy days bring in Another moon; but, O, methinks, how slow This old moon wanes! She lingers my desires Like to a step-dame, or a dowager, Long withering out a young man's revenue.' (MSND, Act I, Scene 1)

Angel sat in front of the long makeup mirror in the Green Room, watching the other players in the reflection. His face was done, his costume on; he was ready for Act II, Scene One, Puck's entrance onto the woodland forest. He had about twenty minutes here in the ready room. He really could use a cigarette but he quashed the thought, automatically looking around for John. All clear. Still, he wanted a damn cigarette. He stuck his hand into his backpack and felt around for the gum he'd bought earlier. He peeled back the silver and folded the stick of gum, sliding it into his mouth. Gum was a lousy substitute for what he needed. He seemed to be using substitutes for everything lately, he thought caustically. Maybe he needed to rethink what it was he really wanted, what he really needed. So many things seemed to happening without explanation, without any foreshadowing or purpose. Maybe he should make some choices rather than just hanging on for the ride.

He thought back to this morning with Jaye. That last look in his eyes had been surprising but maybe Angel hadn't been looking lately. Maybe he'd missed a scene change. Jaye had been his friend for so long that he sometimes forgot to analyze what they did together and what he felt when they did it. Was that what people meant by warning against taking others for granted? The problem was that if Jaye had confused their roles, how could Angel know for sure? And if it had happened, what did he do about it? Angel sighed. He loathed being miscast.

He studied his friends in the mirror. All were costumed as faeries and other woodland folk in heavy stage makeup that looked garish under ordinary light but perfect from several rows out in a darkened house. The Lovers were onstage, the Rustics in the wings awaiting their cue for Scene II. Bobby would be onstage now if he were here. Angel closed off that line of thought, knowing the anger wouldn't help him when he went onstage. He didn't want another misdirected performance, he wanted tonight to be perfect. He chewed the tart, cinnamon gum, watching his friends and mentally taking the first steps towards his character. He closed his eyes.

Puck was a wild creature but bound to Oberon and Titania, the King and Queen of the woodland Faeries. Angel loved playing alongside them, Anthony and Jenny were gorgeous and powerful in their respective roles. The two faerie royals were lovers at odds, each trying to embarrass the other in a kind of surreal spate of jealous misunderstandings. Angel could understand jealous misunderstandings, he thought that described his life right now. One big mess of misunderstanding and misdirection. How, for instance, could Jaye think Angel capable of organizing some gay-straight alliance at school? He'd never done anything like that, never really even liked to talk to people outside of drama. And what the hell was he supposed to tell them about being gay? What was he, the fucking resident expert? His annoyance with Jaye and Gene was nothing to how he felt about Michael. That was an offered role he hadn't come to terms with yet, hadn't found his own motivation for. It was supposed to be so simple, jocks were the enemy, were idiots, and were beneath his contempt. Hating them was something he did as automatically as breathing. Those dreams he'd had of athletes, of tanned, hard bodies brushing against his, had annoyed him as much as they'd aroused him. And nothing could have made him admit to how much pleasure the memories gave him even after waking.

Maybe there was something to the idea of opposites attracting. On the other hand, maybe that was facile bullshit. Nothing but curiosity about something different, something that ultimately had to be unappealing in the cold light of day. What the hell would he even talk to a jock about, he wondered. Not that talking featured much in his dreams. He blushed at the memory of those dreams. He realized he'd had them even before Michael had spoken to him in math class. Had he noticed the other boy's attention without realizing it? There was no question that he found Michael attractive, found those green eyes...stimulating when they stared into his own dark ones. He remembered the football player's touch on his arm, his skin hot to the touch, almost electric in the effect it had on him.

Angel shifted in his chair. The heavy stage makeup concealed a multitude of sins, he thought with wry amusement, as did the loose tunic he wore. He concentrated on losing that problem before he was called to the wings to await his cue. It wouldn't do to stand up like that while wearing tights. Hardly the way to display his character motivation. Still, it was motivation of a sort. Just in a direction he was unfamiliar with. And he wondered what he was going to do about it. The idea of dating a jock, hell, of dating anyone, was foreign to him. So why did he keep coming back to the question? What the hell did he want, anyway? He had the idea that a lot of his friends would like the answer to that question, as well. Just what the hell did Angel want?

He started as he felt the stage manager's hand on his shoulder. He was up. Fortunately, other things were down enough that he could stand and walk to the wings calmly. Damn, he didn't need this kind of distraction, he thought. Angel stood just offstage and watched the Rustics finish up their scene and exit stage-left, curtain drawing closed for the scene change to Forest Night. He drew a deep breath and walked onstage to take up his mark in the dark behind the curtain. He cleared his mind and slowly became Puck. Everything else faded. The backstage rustle went quiet and the curtain opened onto the darkened house and bright spotlights. Puck stepped lightly forward and called to the Fairy.

'How now, spirit! Wither wander you?'

The audience was captivated. And the Dream played out a final time on Ms. Robi's beautiful stage.

'Actors! The mechanics of cheap melodrama!'

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead (Tom Stoppard, 1967)

Angel sat in Anthony's lap, cradling his drink and watching his friends as the cast party warmed up. Anthony's hand along his thigh was a minor distraction at best, but the heat of his body was comforting as Angel lay against the larger boy. Angel wore tight black jeans tonight and a tight, sleeveless shirt imprinted with colorful stencils of masterpiece paintings. Da Vinci's La Giaconda smiled her Mona Lisa smile where his left nipple was outlined in the thin fabric. His makeup was flawless, eyes elegantly drawn in kohl and black pencil, and lips lightly rouged. He sipped the margarita, enjoying the cool frozen texture that seemed to contrast with the tart and salty taste. The house was erratically lit, table lamps illuminating corners but leaving shadows everywhere else. The sliding glass doors were open to the small backyard where a number of drama students talked or smoked or danced to music from the small stereo they'd hooked up to the outdoor electrical outlet. The insistent beat of 70's disco filtered through the open door. Light fell onto the dancing couples from the lamps inside, bodies becoming suddenly clear and then fading again into darkness. Inside, teens lay around on the sofa and chairs, a few tinkered with the karaoke setup in the corner.

Joey lay stomach down on the floor watching Angel watch the party. His short brown hair was brush cut, not a flattering style for his wide pale face, and he looked as if he hadn't shaved in days. Angel smiled at him, causing him to grin and blush. Joey looked a little drunk. He felt a pleasant buzz himself from the mild drink and longed for a cigarette. He grit his teeth, tensing slightly but determined to resist despite the pack he knew was in his bedside dresser. He felt Tony's reassuring lips on his neck and tried to relax. Anthony's hand slid up his thigh suggestively. Relaxing might not be much of an option just now. He spread his legs slightly and leaned into his friend. Tony's hand moved to the bulge in his jeans, cupping him in a warm palm. He groaned softly and leaned forward to set his drink down on the coffee table, then back, placing his own hand over Anthony's against his groin. Angel was definitely starting to feel mellow.

Joey smirked at them from his vantage on the floor. Camille walked between them brusquely, stepping over Joey and continuing on towards the kitchen. Doug followed, frowning. Doug had on one of his getups, a sort of Mafioso look with dark suit and trench coat, his hair slicked back with gel. Angel sat up as Jaye entered the room from the back of the house, a somewhat disheveled Trey in tow. Jaye ignored Angel and sat down in the middle of the larger sofa opposite, pulling Trey after him into the cushions. Jaye looked handsome tonight, his blonde hair blow-dried to feather back and his eyes outlined in pencil, making them look deeper, darker. His hand on Trey's knee looked casually possessive decided Angel, almost like an afterthought. He wondered what they'd been doing in the bedrooms just now. Trey looked flushed and his shirt was untucked. Trey's shirt was never untucked. Angel smiled to himself and squeezed Tony's hand against his jeans. Tony moaned softly into Angel's neck. Maybe it was time to visit the bedrooms, Angel thought with amusement. It was a damn good thing his mom knew to disappear when there was a drama party.

Doug had stopped Camille just shy of the kitchen with a hand to her shoulder and they were talking in low, heated tones. Jenny looked at them curiously as she walked past, fresh drink in hand, and plopped down beside Anthony on the smaller sofa. Angel winked at her. Her red hair looked more intense tonight, as if she'd done something to it, maybe rinsed it with henna. There seemed to be glitter across her skin, blending with her freckles and contrasting with her milky skin.

"Having fun yet, Jenny?" Angel asked, turning his head against Anthony's chest and stretching out his long legs lazily. Anthony's left arm circled his chest and pulled him close. Observing, Jenny smiled indulgently and sipped her drink.

"Not yet...but I plan to." she said, eyeing Tony's hand against the bulge in Angel's jeans. "Ah...have either of you two seen Mark?" Mark played one of the Rustics and was muscled like an athlete, which wasn't common in Drama. Angel pointed to the patio, his other hand still between his legs and against Anthony's. He pushed the palm into him, grinding slightly against it. Tony moaned again, then bit his earlobe. Angel jumped slightly, then laughed.

Doug and Camille were getting louder. Angel turned to look just as Camille shoved Doug away from her. He stumbled and righted himself. His face showed a mix of hurt and anger. His voice rose. Camille listened intently, eyes narrowed in what appeared to be contained fury, then nodded. She turned to leave and Doug grabbed her arm, pulling her back to him. She shook herself free and took a step. Doug grabbed her again and Camille turned fast and slapped him hard across the face, the sound ringing through the room. Conversation stopped as heads turned towards the couple.

Camille, realizing that all eyes were on the two of them, held still and tried to calm her breathing. She stood there in her faded jeans and Northside tee shirt, slim chest heaving, and looked away from Doug. He seemed sad, tears in his eyes and the mark of her hand began to show red against his fair skin. She felt momentary regret, then confusion. This was all his damn fault, anyway. Neither said anything and the other partygoers began to turn away, one by one. Evidently nothing else was going to happen. That the two of them were an unbreakable couple wasn't something the others ever questioned. Right now Camille was questioning it, questioning everything. She stared into Doug's tear-filled eyes. Her voice was urgent but too low to be overheard.

"What the fucking hell do you mean, 'get married'? Where the fuck do you get off with that crap? What kind of fucking answer is that, anyway?" she demanded.

Doug winced. "Camille..."his voice was soft, the raw hurt unmistakable. She ignored it.

"Don't pull that crap, Doug. Answer me. What the fuck is this 'marriage' crap? Are you fucking drunk?"

He exhaled slowly and watched his lover, wary of her moods and her temper. This wasn't the first time she'd hit him, just the first time she'd done it in public. He felt like shit but couldn't bring himself to walk away. This was too important. He was very conscious of the other people in the room as he spoke.

"Camille, we should talk about it. I mean, I wasn't planning on you getting...you know," His voice dropped to a whisper, "pregnant..but since you are, well..." She tilted her head, looking at him with her eyes narrowed, and he paused, taking a deep breath before continuing.

"Since you are, well, maybe we should think of it as, you know, as...Fate." She snorted, putting her hands on her hips. He'd learned to be cautious of that stance. He took a step back and continued. "Camille...I'm serious, just listen, please? We could get married, I mean, not right away if you don't want to but..."He stopped as she turned away without comment and walked into the kitchen. He followed.

"Camille?"

She ignored him, pouring herself a margarita into a glass on the countertop. He stepped closer to stand behind her, putting his arms around her shoulders. Her tiny body felt so light, so fragile in his arms. He wanted to pull her close and wrap his arms around her, protect her from everything, protect her from the whole world. But what had her angry now was his fault. Maybe he was the one she needed protection from, he thought desperately, feeling a tightening in his chest. He had to make this right; he couldn't live with her anger. He couldn't breath if she were angry. And if she were to stop loving him...he couldn't think about that. It wasn't possible to live without Camille, he knew. He'd had enough nightmares on the subject.

"Camille, baby, I love you. Sometimes I don't think you realize just how much. I'd do anything for you. I want us to be together, always." He hesitated, feeling her shoulders tense. "You know I'm applying to those schools you applied to with the dance programs. I can take drama anywhere, I guess, it's a lot more important that I'm with you. I couldn't take four years apart, four years of just visiting."

She had stopped pouring and set down the pitcher. She stared at the cabinet in front of her, motionless. She was listening, he knew that. His hands on her shoulders tightened.

"I love you, baby, and ...well, I wasn't planning on being a dad so soon but its okay, I can deal with it, we can deal with it. I mean, it'd be great...really. We did want kids eventually...didn't we? I mean, I always assumed..." his voice trailed off. Camille sighed and turned to face Doug.

She looked him in the eye. "And how the fuck am I supposed to dance while I'm pregnant this summer? Or when I'm up all night with a baby?" Doug flinched from the harsh tone in her voice. She continued. "I've seen dancers have babies...and seen what it did to their bodies, to their dancing, to their lives. I'm not going to do it, Doug. I can't." She looked up at him and put her hands around his neck with a sigh.

"Doug, I just can't. I can't marry you and I can't have this baby. You have to help me figure something else out. Something practical." She watched the tears fill his eyes again and start to slide down his cheek. His arms around her shoulders tightened, pulling her close. She leaned up on her tiptoes and kissed him lightly on the lips. Men were so...fragile, she thought tiredly. Why did men have to be so fucking weak? Why did she always have to be the strong one? She laid her head against Doug's chest and closed her eyes, listening to the sounds of the party around them. She hoped someone else was having fun, at least. She felt a lot older than sixteen just now. She felt at least forty. What the hell were her parents going to say? She wished she had someone else she could talk to, someone she could trust. She had a feeling she was going to need advice, some really, really good advice. And soon. She couldn't be more than six weeks pregnant right now. But she didn't have forever to fix this.

'Is it a penny or is it a pearl-

Your soul, your soul?'

Stopped Dead (Sylvia Plath, 1962)

Angel looked up at Anthony, sated. He'd really needed that. Anthony lay over him, one hand propped up on the bed, Angel's legs still wrapped around him. Anthony was tracing his fingers down the other boy's face and neck. Their bodies were wet with sweat and other fluids, heat from their sex slowly dissipating in the cool air. He heard the sounds of the karaoke machine, sounds of laughter and someone singing in the front rooms. He wanted a cigarette.

Anthony leaned close to kiss him. His face was handsome in a rough way; the stubble on his chin making him look like a dockworker, the long hair making him look more like a sidewalk artist. But really, they were done here. Angel pushed him away and wriggled out from under him. Enough was enough. He ignored Anthony's look of disappointment and rose from the bed. He gathered up his clothes and went to the bathroom, closing the door behind him. He needed a shower, he was a little...sticky in places. He turned on the faucet and let it run while he used the toilet. Flushing, he looked at his face in the mirror. Damn, he was a mess. He sighed and stepped into the shower. He hoped Anthony would clear out of his bedroom while he was in the bathroom. He despised mushy after times, except maybe with Jaye. And all that with Jaye...maybe he'd have to rethink that, too. Some things just gave the wrong impression.

Toweling off, he applied deodorant, powder and cologne, then dressed quickly. He checked his face again in the mirror and picked up his eyeshadow case. He smoothed the dark color across his eyelids again, blending it at the ends for a smoky effect. He picked up the liner pencil and drew a neat, slim line just above his eyelashes and another below, and smudged them lightly at the crease of his eyes. He brushed the dark mascara across his lashes, face close to the mirror's lights, and pulled back to gauge the effect. Perfect.

He dusted his face with powder and applied a little gloss to his lips. He'd not shampooed his hair, not feeling up to all that styling for a second time. He ran his fingers through it, fluffing it up and out to lay against his cheeks and neck in a loose pattern. The tousled look, he thought with a grin, a genuine 'bed head' look. He giggled and left the bathroom, opening the door cautiously to see if Anthony were still there. He was gone and the hall door was open. Angel turned out the bathroom light and went into the living room, blocking out thoughts of the cigarettes in his bedside table as he went past. He'd be damned if he'd let John see him fail. Still...it really sucked to quit. He might not ever forgive the dance teacher for this.

The party was more energetic than when he'd left, the patio music a little louder and the karaoke well under weigh in the front room. Joey was gone from the floor and no where to be seen, Jenny now sat on the larger sofa with Mark, his arms around her tightly. They were kissing and feeling each other up surreptitiously. Doug and Camille had retreated to the dining table and were now seated, talking intently. He didn't see Jaye but Trey still sat on the sofa, drink in one hand and lit cigarette in the other. Angel did a double take. Trey had a cigarette? Angel laughed. There were definitely more people here; some must have arrived late, which he guessed could be expected. Angel walked to the kitchen for another drink, kissing and hugging along the way. Opening the refrigerator, he pulled down a clean margarita glass and poured, setting the pitcher down when he was done. He'd lifted the glass to his lips when he heard his name.

"Angel?" said a quiet voice. Angel turned.

Michael stood in the kitchen doorway, his eyes moving slowly down Angel's body and back up to meet his eyes. Michael wore fitted black slacks and a silky black long sleeved shirt, open at the collar. The black against his tanned skin brought out the intense green of his eyes and Angel felt himself breathing a little faster. Michael looked fucking gorgeous. He set down the drink.

"Hello, Michael. Um...I thought you said you couldn't make it." God, what a lame thing to say, Angel thought, he'll think I don't want him here. I don't know what I fucking want except...that I don't want him to leave. Angel stared at the other boy, taking in his nervous stance and the way he bit his lower lip just now. Angel moved closer to stand in front of Michael. They were alone in the kitchen and the noise of the party behind Michael seemed to fade as he looked in those green eyes.

Michael smiled. And it was as if his face were lit from within when he did, his eyes seemed to glow brighter. Angel's heart beat faster. God, what a smile he had, Angel thought. He wasn't conscious of anything beyond Michael, wasn't aware of anything beyond his eyes and his smile and the closeness of his body. Did it show, he wondered? He couldn't think clearly. Michael's eyes were on his.

Michael spoke, his voice husky. "I said I'd try, Angel. And I'm glad I did. You look...you look beautiful, Angel." He reached his hand out hesitantly towards smaller boy. Angel moved automatically closer and into his reach.

Michael smiled again. Angel moved into his arms as Michael drew them around his shoulders, gently pulling him close. They stood still, bodies touching lightly, just inches from each other, gazing into each other's eyes. Angel hesitated. What am I doing, he wondered? He felt as if some force had taken him over, some kind of autopilot, and not for the first time when Michael was this near. He tried to remember that Michael was a jock and that he'd planned on ignoring him. Angel's body had other ideas. Despite what he'd just done with Anthony, his dick was hard and pressing uncomfortably against his jeans. And that was nothing to what his mind was up to, it seemed to be shutting down this close to Michael. He couldn't think anymore, couldn't remember how he'd meant to act. He caught Michael's scent, cologne and sweat and boy, and made a little, unconscious sound in his throat.

Michael leaned close and carefully pressed his lips to Angel's. The touch was electric and ignited Angel's cock, his fingertips, his tongue. Angel whimpered softly. Michael's hands slid down Angel to the small of his back and he pulled the other boy closer, against his body. Angel could feel Michael's hardness against his belly, above the aching pressure in his own jeans. He kissed him back, parting his lips to take in Michael's tongue.

Angel felt dizzy. He heard Michael moan almost inaudibly and squeeze his body closer, pressing them together tightly. Angel groaned into the mouth he was kissing; his arms wrapped around Michael's neck, one hand grasping his hair and pulling his head closer. His mind was a white blank, his body on fire. He reached one hand down Michael's back and cupped his buttocks, squeezing first gently, then hard and grinding into Michael with his crotch. Michael's hands slipped downward to Angel's tight ass and gripped him hard. His kiss became wilder, more passionate, as they ground into each other, chests touching, Angel's left hand pulling at Michael's head, at his hair, trying to pull him closer when it wasn't possible.

They broke apart, both panting for air. They looked at each other, astonished.

Michael grinned. "My guess is, off hand, that you're glad to see me."

Angel blushed, his already flushed skin darkening further.

Michael smiled and reached for his hand. His eyes stayed on Angel's.

"Um, Angel? Is there somewhere a little more...private where we could go?" he asked shyly. Angel's fingers closed over the larger boy's hand. He took Michael's hand and drew him through the crowded living and dining rooms and down the back hallway. He pushed open the door to his bedroom and pulled Michael through the door, pushing it closed behind them. He leaned back against the door and pulled Michael's body close, wrapping his hands around the other boy's neck and looking up into his eyes.

"This private enough, Mikey?"

Michael smiled, slight dimples showing. "Gene calls me that, calls me 'Mikey'."

Angel studied his face. "Does that mean it's okay to call you that?"

Michael nodded. He bent down slightly to kiss Angel's lips. Angel pulled back and pressed a finger to his lips.

"Michael...about you and Gene...." he began.

Michael raised an eyebrow, still smiling, and shook his head.

Angel winked. "Never mind." he said, and kissed Michael again. Michael responded fast, pushing him into the door and sliding his hands down Angel's sides. Angel moaned, panting as they kissed. He couldn't believe how turned on he was, how much he wanted Michael. Jesus, his pants felt so tight. He desperately needed to unzip them but wanted to unzip Michael's even more. He slipped his hand between their bodies and onto Michael's fly, stroking against it. He felt Michael tense, then pull away from their kiss slightly, breathing hard.

"Jesus, Angel!" He laughed. Angel smiled mock demurely, then grinned.

"Umm?" Angel's hands fumbled with the button to Michael's fly. Michael was trembling slightly and breathing in gasps.

"Don't." he said gently, reaching for Angel's hands and enclosing them in his own.

Angel looked up, startled. "Don't?"

Michael nodded. "Yeah...don't. I mean..." he exhaled slowly.

"I want to, Angel, I want to so bad I could almost, um... do something I haven't done in my jeans for years," he blushed, "but..."

"But what?"

Angel was starting to get annoyed. He pulled his hands out of Michael's and crossed them over his own chest.

Michael sighed. "Look, Angel...I told you what...I told you that I wanted to...go out with you, like, seriously and all that. I want us to be...boyfriends." He paused, his eyes searching Angel's face. Angel's expression was unreadable.

"Listen, I don't want to be just, yanno... like this. I want....well, I want a lot more. And I want the first time with you to be something special, Angel, and not something fast in the back room at a drama party." Michael's voice gained certainty as he marshaled control of his breathing, his thoughts.

Angel frowned.

"You want us to be boyfriends?" he asked icily.

Michael put his arms around the other boy. "Don't be like that Angel." he said quietly.

Angel pulled out of his arms and pushed away from the door. He walked to the side of his bed and sat down, sliding out the top drawer of the table there. He reached for the pack of cigarettes and tapped one out. He reached for his pink Bic lighter.

Michael sat down beside him.

Angel looked up while he lit the cigarette. He took a drag from it and exhaled in relief, then spoke.

"Michael...I never said we could be boyfriends." His voice was even.

Michael frowned.

"What the hell were you doing then? Did you think I was just gonna...well, do it here in the back with you just...just for...well, for fun?" He tried to read Angel's expression and failed. "Angel, I thought I told you...I... love you."

Angel took another drag from the cigarette. "Actually, Michael, you didn't say that...you asked me out. And I said no."

Michael reddened and bit his lip.

"Well..."he sighed heavily. "okay, I do love you, I'm in love with you, Angel, I've been in love with you and I'm not gonna fuck at a party for our first time...I just..."

Angel flicked ash from his cigarette on the side of the glass ashtray.

"You're assuming about five things right there that maybe you shouldn't, Michael."

Michael's jaw clenched, his nostrils flaring slightly. He sat up straighter on the bed.

"You're gonna tell me you don't like me, Angel? That's bullshit and you know it."

Angel shrugged, avoiding his eyes.

"To be honest, Michael, I don't know what I think about you. You're a jock, you're friends with Ryan, and if you're gay, well, no one knows about it but you. And, I guess, Gene." He grinned, then, seeing Michael's frown, he shrugged again. "Well, whatever. The thing is that....well, I mean, what would everybody think? I can't imagine what my friends would say, not that I'm sure I care...but I still don't know what they'd say. Hell, what would your friends say, what would they do?"

Michael put a hand on Angel's knee and spoke carefully.

"Angel, I don't give a shit what they say and, by the way, Ryan is not my friend, I can't stand the fucker. And about me being gay...well, I guess people are gonna have to find out is all. And... I can deal with that. And if anybody bothers either of us, if anybody bothers you, I will kick their fucking ass to the fucking moon."

Angel smiled sadly. "That might be a full time job, Michael."

He shook his head. "I don't care, Angel. I want to you to be my boyfriend. I don't care about the rest of it."

Angel looked at him silently, smoking. Michael noticed the cigarette.

"I thought you quit."

"One fight at a time, Mikey." Angel was smiling. He ground the cigarette out in the ashtray. Michael leaned close, hesitating and then kissing him. Angel closed his eyes and parted his lips, pressing closer involuntarily. Angel felt desire creep back like a cat to wrap itself around his waist, tail tickling between his legs. He felt his groin tighten, his cock filling slowly. He put his hand on Michael's head, fingers through his brown hair. Michael pushed him back gently, not breaking the kiss. Angel resisted, his body stiff, then relaxed into it as Michael wrapped his arms around him and pressed him into the satin comforter. He pulled Michael's head against his lips as he kissed him harder this time, eyes closed, breathing hard, his body arching up into Michael's. He felt Michael's lips against his ear.

"Angel..."he breathed, "I love you, Angel de la Torres."

Angel felt something in his chest tighten; the backs of his eyes stung. He shook his head gently.

"Michael...I don't even know if I want a boyfriend, any boyfriend, not just you."

"I know." Michael whispered in his ear. "And I'm just trying to help you make up your mind." His right hand slid down Angel's body and under his bottom; stroking, cupping his hand around that firm cheek, those tight jeans.

Angel moaned. "This isn't fair, Michael." he complained. He could feel Michael's erection against his thigh. He didn't think his could get any harder, his balls ached with need. He felt Michael's lips trail down his neck to nestle in the hollow of his throat, licking him there on his bare skin. He groaned. He heard Michael's voice, felt hot breath against his throat.

"I'm not trying to be fair...I'm trying to win. Sometimes you have to be willing to do whatever it takes to win." Michael murmured into Angel's neck. "And I'll do anything I have to...to make you my boyfriend, Angel." He pulled up Angel's shirt and kissed the hollow between his nipples. The fingers of his left hand stroked and pulled at Angel's nipple.

Angel's pulse raced, he couldn't think. His nipples were hard, his dick was harder.

"Michael? Are you sure you don't want to..." He felt Michael smile, his lips against Angel's chest.

"I'm sure I do want to, Angel, but this isn't the way I want to start with my...boyfriend. I want something more... romantic, more private."

Angel groaned. "Michael," he managed to say, "I didn't say I'd be your boyfriend."

"I know." Michael repeated. "I told you...I'm trying to help you make up your mind."

His mouth moved down Angel's belly, he touched his tongue into Angel's bellybutton. An 'innie'. He smiled to himself as Angel writhed under him. His slender body felt so good under Michael's. Michael was going to have to stop now or he was going to shoot, he was that close. But, God, it was wonderful to be like this, to feel him so warm, so willing, so aroused. And he hadn't exactly told Michael no. He just hadn't said yes. Yet.

Reluctantly, Michael pulled away from Angel and sat up on the bed, looking down at the other boy. Angel gasped for breath, his face flushed, his eyes wide, the front of his jeans impressively filled out. Michael reached to adjust himself and smiled. Angel grinned and covered his eyes with one hand.

"I hate you, Michael." he said, laughing softly.

"I don't think you do, Angel." Michael fought his own smile and ran his hand across Angel's bare chest.

Angel shivered and removed his own hand from his eyes, looking up at Michael.

"Okay, I don't...hate you exactly." he admitted.

Michael laughed. Angel grinned, blushing. He pushed Michael's hand away.

"Cut it out...or I'll tear your clothes off. I've already got a serious problem here and you're not helping. That is...unless you want to help..." he ran his tongue over his lips.

"Hmmm....its not that I don't want to help, Angel. I'd love to unzip your pants and 'help' you for about a three hours but I told you, this is not the what I want it to be like...with us."

Angel sighed and sat up, reaching down to adjust his discomfort but unable to do much with such tight jeans. He shot Michael an annoyed look.

"I didn't say yes, Michael, you're still assuming too much. I don't have boyfriends, I've never had boyfriends."

"I know." Michael said, standing up. He smiled down at the seated boy. "But you didn't say no, either, Angel."

Angel snorted and reached for the pack of cigarettes.

"Goodnight, Angel..." Michael said softly. Angel pretended to ignore him and lit a cigarette. Michael leaned down, kissed his cheek and left the room, pulling his cell out of his back pocket as he went.

Angel stubbed out the unsmoked cigarette in frustration, bending it down and crumbling the tobacco into the ashtray. He reached for and lit another nervously.

Dammit, since when do I not know how to tell a jock to fuck off, thought an irritated Angel.

Probably since I'd thought about asking a jock to fuck, he thought wryly. I guess Hell must have frozen over last night, he told himself. I really do...like Michael. But I don't do boyfriends and I don't do jocks. I've got to stop thinking with my dick around him. He tapped ash from the cigarette on the side of the ashtray.

And that's assuming it's just my dick I'm thinking with, Angel told himself. I'm half-afraid it might also be my heart.

'I'm trying to establish the direction of the wind.'

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead (Tom Stoppard, 1967)

Jaye sat up in the driver's seat of the Mustang and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He reached under the seat for the towel he kept there and handed it to Trey. Trey looked a little dazed, Jaye thought, as he watched him clean himself up and zip his pants. Jaye grinned and leaned over, kissing Trey suddenly on the lips. Trey's gray eyes widened. Jaye laughed and leaned back to tuck his own cock into his jeans, sliding up the band of his briefs and zipping carefully.

"Want a cigarette?" he asked Trey.

Trey shook his head, looking lost. "I don't...smoke."

Jaye laughed again. "You were smoking earlier, inside."

"Um..."

Jaye laughed harder, putting his hands on the steering wheel for balance. Trey frowned. Jaye saw and stopped laughing, or, at least, damped it down a notch.

"Sorry, Trey, but you're just sooo cute, babe!"

Trey tried to smile but ended up laughing.

"Shut up, Jaye." he said without heat. That started Jaye off again. Trey sighed.

"Okay, look, Jaye, I need to go find my car and go home. I told my parents I'd be home by one and it's past that already."

"I guess you got sidetracked, huh?" Jaye managed to say through his laughter. Trey snickered.

"Um...yeah." Trey admitted.

"Okay, Trey, where's your car?"

Trey shook his head.

"No, that's okay, I can walk. I'm fine. You're the one who drank too much, you really shouldn't be driving, Jaye."

This set off another round of giggles from Jaye. Trey shook his head and climbed out of the car, leaning in once to try to say goodbye but Jaye was still helpless with laughter. Trey snorted and slammed the car door. He stood up and looked around, trying to remember where he parked the pickup. Nothing came to mind. Damn, that really was the best cast party ever, thought Trey with a sheepish smile.

He sort of had the idea that he parked over on the next street. He walked in that direction, finally seeing the red pickup in the distance. He fished out his keys from his jeans and peered at them in the dark. Damn, how much had he had to drink? No, he was fine. He just needed to get home.

He stood beside the pickup under the orange lamplight, trying to get the keys into the lock. He couldn't seem to get it in the hole. This thought started him giggling again and he dropped his keys to the ground. He had knelt down to find them when he heard the voices. He looked up, still on his knees in the curbside grass.

Three guys stood there, all wearing rubber masks that looked like the President's face. Trey started giggling again. Dubya sucked, everybody knew that. He thought he recognized the body of the nearest boy.

"Tony?" he asked between giggles.

Then Trey saw the raised bat just as it came down, whistling through the night air toward him. He froze.

Trey heard the crack of the bat as it hit his head, just as the ground slammed up into him. His head exploded in colors and pain.

Everything went dark.

Guildenstern: That may very well be true, but do we want to go? Rosencrantz: We'll be free. Guildenstern: I don't know. It's the same sky. Rosencrantz: We've come this far.

[He moves towards the exit. Guil. follows him]

And besides, anything could happen yet.

[They go.]

Blackout.

From Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead (Tom Stoppard, 1967)

[End of Part 10]

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