Sixteen

When Alison had turned around and gone back for Paige, it had become so clear to her why she played Chaturanga. It was an excuse to spend quality time with her friend. To share something unique and special. Maybe that’s not why she started, but it was definitely why she kept going. So it stung especially that things were going to be different now. She’d seen it many times: that look we give when things go sour. And she saw it in Paige the night before. It killed her to sit in the uncertainty of how Paige would respond, but she also wasn’t about to smother her with texts. No, when someone asks for space, the ball’s in their basket, or whatever the sports metaphor was.

After a bout of doom scrolling, Alison realized her phone wasn’t going to do anything on its own, so she tried to keep herself busy. She went for a run, aggressively cleaned her room, the kitchen, and bathrooms, and even resorted to getting her homework done. On time. None of it made her phone buzz.

“Alright, then, phone. If that’s how you wanna play, then that’s how we’re gonna play. I’m going for a hot dog.”

Alison’s phone said nothing.

“In New York!”

She flipped the device into a spinning baton motion, letting it rotate a few times in the air before swatting it into her clothes hamper. Then she turned on her heel and left the room, slamming the door. A few moments later, she came back for her keys, repeated her tantrum, and slammed the door again. She had almost made it to the front door when she turned around a second time.

“Don’t get any ideas, I’m just coming back for some CDs.”

Once properly on the road, she took a breath and smiled cathartically. She had a few wordless thoughts to muster up her feelings at the moment, but the only idea that could form a sentence was “That’ll show him.” Apparently, her phone was a boy.

The endless snow-capped conifers made beautiful patterns in the distance as the interstate twisted and turned. Flashes of green needles jumped out amongst the snow and earthen tones of giant rock formations. There was a certain lull to the lonely drive that made Alison feel at peace. One hill climbed to reveal verdant mountains and new vistas on the horizon, only to be hidden again after the steep drop-off and smooth corners. She flipped back and forth between the four CDs she had scooped out of her end table drawer. All of them, she decided, were going to make her cry, so she might as well just grab one. She looked away and grabbed one at random. It was Rooney’s 2003 self-titled album.

“Dang,” she said as she swung open the cracked jewel case. “This one’s gonna make me cry.”

Despite several ballads on the way up, she held it together until track six: I’m Shakin’. The poppy, upbeat four-four drums, the laid back surfer guitar licks, and just the general contagious energy caught Alison by surprise as she began to bounce around, shift gears in time to the beat– not recommended– and sing along in her mad voice. It couldn’t be helped. The catchy, delicious Nor-Cal vibes took hold, and she was transformed.

I‘ve forgotten what it feels like to feel normal
To be normal
And I’ve forgotten what food tastes like
The way it tastes right
The taste buds taste right
Well, I wake up in so much spit and sweat
It is not normal
What is normal?
Well, I go to bed
When I wake up
After cleaning all
All the spit and sweat

Now I’m, now
I’m sh-sh-shakin’, sh-shakin’
I’m sh-sh-shakin’, sh-shakin’
Now

Technically, she didn’t cry until after the song. Maybe it was just so fun that it broke the emotions loose. Maybe it was the lyrics that reminded her that we all have trouble sleeping when we’re having a hard time. Maybe she was just due for an unspecified cry. Anyway, it happened, and it passed. And she drove four and a half hours to New York City for a hot dog.

Honestly, it was a really good hot dog. And while we’re being super honest, it was actually three hot dogs. Two for now and one for later. The ol’ New York Pocket Dog. Alison wandered around Times Square for an hour or two with her pocket dog and some ice cream– it was no Frosty Jane’s but it would do– when she stumbled upon an obnoxious neon installation. Upon further inspection, it turned out to be a silent disco. This was in fact the perfect introspective activity: day-glo cyberpunk decor, loud music pumped direct-to-brain via headphones, and lots of people but they can’t talk to you. The music was actually better than expected. She bopped around to Franz Ferdinand and The Kooks while she finished her pocket dog and took in the faces that she’d never have to see again.

At two AM, she awoke in her car, a fine puddle of drool amassing in the space between her shoulder and the car seat headrest. “Hey, just like the Rooney song said I would. A prophecy foretold!” She looked around to find the streets no less alive than they were in the waking hours. Feeling kind of rested, she released the parking brake and headed back to Providence, taking just a quick second to make sure all four CDs she brought were still in the passenger seat. They were undisturbed. In fact, she had buckled them in. “Safe as houses. Not gonna let anything happen to you, Tragic Kingdom.”

Returning to her home at nearly seven AM, Alison zombie walked up the stairs to her room and face-planted into her bed, still strapped into her cutest pair of jeans. And then it was 9:30. She had done it! Twelve hours of no phone. When she dug it out of the hamper, she found a voicemail from a 401-number and a text from Paige. It read “Hey, girl. I think I need a little break from the game. I’m so behind on my classes and my lines and I just need to try and come up for air. Let’s check in after Hamlet and I’ll let you know where I’m at.”

This was incredibly reasonable, all things considered. Alison had run through a number of possible conversations in her head on her drive. She thought about defending herself and begging Paige not to be mad at her. But she knew Paige wasn’t really mad at her. She was overwhelmed– by boys and privilege and Hamlet and school and a badly scraped knee. She tore a calendar off the wall and flipped it to the next page. Opening night was in three weeks. She sighed one of those horsey sighs. Three weeks with no Paige! Dang, that was going to be rough. She drafted about forty responses before landing on “Totally understand xxox.” She felt good about that text. It was a good text.

Keeping busy for three weeks was actually quite doable with midterms and mom tending, office hours with Cap’n Casey, production meetings and tech rehearsals. The list went on. A fresh day upon her, Alison decided to eat the biggest frog first. She made an appointment with Dr. French to figure out her mother’s dosage and insurance. As luck would have it, they had a cancellation at four. Irene made Reubens for lunch and watched Harold and Maude with her daughter before they jumped into the Camry to sort out the endless battle between capital and inalienable human rights which seemed to become more alienable lately. Dr. French played around on her computer until she found a brand and dosage and monthly schedule that wouldn’t murder her patient or force her into homelessness. Alison made a huffy speech about the extra administrative burden most likely leading to too many patients getting railroaded into one of those outcomes or the other. The good doctor laughed sardonically in agreement, wishing quietly that there was more she could do about it.

On Monday, Alison wrote a painfully mediocre essay about the limited access to union membership for Hollywood stunt performers and how they might fare better on the New York stage if only they could find a place in Staten Island and didn’t mind the commute. And of course, move across the country and leave their families and friends behind and stuff.

On Tuesday, she had another practice in her office with Casey Harrington. He had improved quite a bit, much to her surprise. Something about his energy seemed less floppy and dangerous than it had before. He seemed significantly more in control than in previous workouts. His knaps were on time, his spacing was good. He looked kind of on-schedule to avoid knocking out Laertes on opening night.

“What’s up, Casey? That was a really good exchange. You been practicing at home?”

Casey smiled. “Yeah, sort of.” He looked a little embarrassed. After a beat, he continued. “So, I was thinking about our last conversation, about not knowing my own strength and stuff. And, I went to visit my parents, and I was watching Mr. Rodgers on PBS with my little sister, Sammy. She’s seven.”

Alison nodded, not about to interrupt him during his most introspective monologue yet.

Casey went on. “So, on the show, he gave one of the boys an egg to carry around because he had accidentally been too rough with his friends. And Sammy was like ‘Casey, you should try that!’ So we got an egg, and I’ve had it in my backpack ever since.” He went over to his backpack and, from the front pocket, produced a bright yellow egg with a little face drawn on it and a tail shaped like a lightning bolt on its backside.

Alison giggled. “Why is it Pikachu?”

Casey blushed a little. “Sammy likes Pikachu. She made me promise not to hurt him. It actually helped. I gotta be careful with the little guy. She’d be devastated if I squished Pikachu.”

Alison smiled again. It was a really nice outcome. She had influenced someone! “Wow, Case. That’s– that’s really– NICE.” She had really landed hard on the last word. There was an unusual gruffness in her voice which made Casey laugh. It was good to have something to humanize him. Something to give him an anchor. Although lord knows he had enough anchors in his wardrobe. Still, it was, to quote a great fight director, really NICE.

On Wednesday, Alison met with The Lord Chamberlain’s Men. They were down to three. Dalton and Ward filled two other chairs reserved for assets. Peters took up the large recliner. Paige’s chair remained empty.

“She’s not dead,” Alison blurted out as the first topic of business. “She just needs a little space from Chaturanga while she gets ready for Hamlet.” Her teammates nodded in understanding as she continued. “She also got banged up pretty badly on the op. It was a darker side of the game that we haven’t really seen thus far.”

Control chimed in here. “We try to keep the gentlemen’s agreement that hand-to-hand combat should avoid unnecessary cruelty. However, our esteemed engineers have been stepping on the toes of that agreement in recent years.”

Dalton’s knuckles were digging into his armchair as he processed this. “Elephants,” he said, exasperated.

Peters took over again. “Did Baker and company walk away with the Raja?”

“Yes,” said Alison, plainly.

“Do we have it on good information at this juncture that Nick Rodgers is working for the Elephant faction?”

“Yes.”

Peters smiled. “Then, good chaps, we may count ourselves with another victory, for information is everything in these affairs.”

Before Alison could protest, the three merry gentlemen were banging their palms on their armchairs in thunderous applause. Puzzled, but not to be outdone, she gave her chair a few good slaps as well. “I don’t know how you boys remain so positive when we’re in last place and falling.”

“Sir,” said Teddy Dalton, his baritone voice carrying a calming air. “Last place is a very special place to be in. Only from last place do we have nothing to lose.”

On Thursday, Alison remembered that she still had a voicemail on her phone from her solo trip to Pocket Dog City. She was in class when she made this realization, and wasn’t about to step out just to hear some telemarketer. At top of the hour, she wedged her phone between her shoulder and her ear as she plopped two bananas and some dry cereal on her tray in the South Dining Hall.

“Hey, Alison!” it started. Then the words went blurry, as though some sort of spell was preventing her from understanding them. She registered the vaguely familiar woman’s voice and friendly tone. But the words themselves just suddenly didn’t have any meaning. Like the voice on the other end switched languages somehow, though Alison knew she hadn’t. It ended with “Break a leg, honey. I know you can do it!” A heartening sentiment, but for what? She sat down and worked on one of her bananas and decided to give it another try. But she was hesitating. Something seemed– off. She shook off the haze and popped her phone open again. This time she would focus on what this person was trying to tell her.

“Hey, Alison! It’s Annie Watts. Listen, I have some bad news. Well, bad for me, but could be good for you, I think! I have mono, and I’m just not going to be able to take any chances with doing Ophelia. They say that symptoms can last for like, months. I feel like old soup. Anyway, I talked to Peters about it and we agreed that you should take on Ophelia. So sorry for the timing of all this, but, I guess that’s why we have understudies! You’re such a good actor, so I know you’re gonna be great. Break a leg, honey. I know you can do it!”