The Impaler

than I am, she thought, and felt her face go hot at the thought of liking him all the more for it. She hadn’t had much time to speak with him over the last week—they kept missing each other because he was out in the house with Jennings or under the stage in Hell—and she hoped he couldn’t see how happy she was to finally talk to him alone.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I was going to see if the door was unlocked. Needed a place that was quiet to focus before the show.”

“I can lock the doorknob, if you want,” Edmund said. Cindy was confused. “So no one will bother you. The doorknob is only locked on the outside. Jennings gave me the keys. You can leave whenever you’re finished. See?”

He locked the door and turned the inside knob; demonstrated by closing the door, then opening it from the inside.

“That’d be awesome, Edmund. Thank you.”

He smiled and let her in, unfolded a chair, and placed it in the corner behind a rack of coupling cables. He was so cool around her—but in a good way, Cindy thought; not aloof, not superior, yet not awkward or trying too hard to be smooth like Bradley Cox. Edmund Lambert was just … well … present was the only word Cindy could think of to describe him. He listened to her when she spoke; really listened for the sake of listening only. No hidden agenda. No underlying intention of wanting to bang her. He was just there, taking her in with his steel-blue eyes. And when he smiled—which she had never seen him do with any of the other girls—well, she never had to question whether or not that smile was genuine.

But what Cindy really liked about Edmund Lambert was how she felt when she smiled back.

“I’m going to watch the show tonight,” he said, “but I’m not part of the running crew. Won’t be back until photo call on Sunday unless something goes wrong with the trap. Means you’ll have to get a stage manager to let you in here from now on.”

“I should be all right tomorrow,” Cindy said. “I can find another place if it’s locked—but this is great. Just opening-night jitters, I guess.”

“You shouldn’t be nervous.” Cindy loved the way he said nuh-vuhs. “You’re doing a great job. You steal the show from Bradley Cox.”

Edmund was so matter of fact in his compliment, yet at the same time so devoid of any pettiness toward Cox, that Cindy felt herself blushing.

“Thank you,” she said. “I really appreciate it. And this, too. Letting me warm up and focus in here, I mean.”

“No problem. I’ll be back in about twenty minutes, but I won’t disturb you if you’re still here. Break a leg tonight, Cindy.”

Edmund was almost out the door when Cindy called after him: “Did you decide yet if you’re going to the cast party tomorrow night?”

“Probably not. I have a lot of work to do around the house this weekend.”

“Well, it might be fun if you made an appearance. I won’t be there long, either. Just a couple of drinks and I’ll have to stick around for Brown Bags. I know you’ve never been to a cast party here, but do you know what those are? Brown Bags, I mean?”

“Yes. I’ve heard people mention them in the scene shop. The awards the seniors make for people in the cast. Inside jokes written down on brown paper bags, right?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“I hear sometimes they can get pretty mean.”

“Yeah, they can, but it’s all in fun, I guess. You have to have a good sense of humor. I’m sure mine will be pretty brutal if Bradley has anything to say about it.”

Edmund said nothing.

“Anyway,” Cindy continued, “maybe you could come along and save me—not from my Brown Bag, I mean— but, well, I pretty much don’t like the people who are going to be there. I ’d rather talk to you than any of them, to be honest.”

“If you don’t like them, then why you going?”

His question was sincere and nonjudgmental—almost childlike in his curiosity, Cindy thought. “Because I’m weak,” she said. “Because I’ve gotten the reputation of being a snob, and I don’t want to give people the satisfaction of being able to say, ‘See? I told you she thinks her shit doesn’t stink.’” Edmund smiled vaguely and looked away from her for the first time. “I hope you don’t think less of me for admitting that to you.”

“Not at all.”

“I don’t know, maybe we could just hang out together, have a couple of drinks and just chill. Might be nice just to talk. You know, away from the theater, the show, all the stuff on our minds when we’re here.”

Edmund stood by the door, thinking. Cindy suddenly felt uncomfortable.

“If it’s too much of a big deal,” she said quickly, “like, if your girlfriend will get pissed off or something—well, I mean, I totally understand.”

“Let me see how things go tonight,” Edmund said finally. “Okay?”

“Okay.”

He smiled and was gone.

Alone in the electrics shop, Cindy suddenly became aware of her breathing and the steady thumping in her chest. Did she really just do that? Did she really just ask a man out on a date for the first time in her life?

But he didn’t say yes, said a voice in her head.

But he didn’t say no, either, replied another voice.

But he wanted to say yes, said the first voice. Couldn’t you tell?

You saw it in his eyes, too, then?

Yes, I did!

Cindy didn’t sit down in the chair Edmund had set out for her. She was too excited, felt a hundred pounds lighter, and began pacing behind the cable rack. She tried going over her lines, tried saying them out loud and imagining Edmund Lambert as Macbeth instead of douchebag Bradley Cox, but the voices in her head kept analyzing what had just passed between them, making her nervous but proud at the same time.

Edmund Lambert was going to come.

She just knew it.

Then, out of the corner of her eye, she spied his book bag on the chair by the electrics shop computer. She’d seen him with it many times and recognized the Army-issue camouflage.

She got an idea.

Cindy ran to the door and peeked out—saw a freshman, a pudgy kid who played one of Macbeth’s soldiers, heading toward the green room. Jonathan was his name—or at least, that’s what she thought his name was. She couldn’t remember; had never spoken to him before and wondered if she was confusing him with another freshman in Macbeth’s army. No time to worry; no time to feel guilty for using him.

“Jonathan?” Cindy called out impulsively. He stopped. She had gotten his name right, thank God! “Could you come here for a minute, please?”

The pudgy soldier sauntered over awkwardly, suspiciously.

“Would you mind doing me a favor?” Cindy asked.

“What kind of favor?”

“I got lucky getting in here to go over my speeches, but I need something from my dressing room. Would you mind holding the door for me while I go and get it? Otherwise it’ll shut and I’ll be locked out.”

“What, do I look like your bitch now?”

“Please, Jonathan. I don’t want to prop the door open. Someone might close it or steal the room from me. And it’d be a huge help, you have no idea, if you’re here to tell anybody who tries to do that I’ll be right back.”

“All right,” he sighed. “But make it quick. I got stuff to do, too, you know.”

Cindy thanked him and dashed down the hall.