At school, Colleen can tell how distracted I am. Everything looks different, smells different. The atmosphere is alien to me, like I’m sucking down the air from Mars.

“You are so dramatic,” Colleen says. “I still can’t believe you’re a costume designer and not an actor.”

“What’s happening to me is incredibly traumatic,” I say. I’m constantly looking every which way, even squirreled away in our secret hallway, afraid that Conner will show when I least expect it. Or maybe that’s what I’m hoping for.

“Less trauma for a second,” Colleen says, pulling out a hefty block of script pages, “and more focus on this.”

I take the script from her hands. This year, the drama department is putting on Les Miserables for their winter play, a decision I’m begrudgingly interested in. Usually, I hate the selections Ms. Featherworth chooses—you don’t know Hell until you’ve suffered through a sophomore’s attempt at a cockney accent in My Fair Lady—but this year, I’m excited to tap into the aesthetics of the French Revolution and dress up actors like sex workers. 

“Who are you going for, again?” I say, flipping through the pages of the play.

“Fantine!” she says before collapsing to her knees and twisting her face into a wretched sob. 

“Oh, good,” I say. “This will finally force you to get a haircut.”

“Shut up. This is a perfect senior showcase for me. Dirty face, ragged clothes, show-stopping song, a bad cough then, bam—I’m wrapped before intermission.”

“That’s the way to do it. That’s exciting. I think you’d make an amazing Fantine.”

“Thank you, I agree,” Colleen says. “You’re doing costumes?”

“If I can withstand the tyranny of Ms. Featherworth for a semester, yeah.”

Colleen shrugs. “I heard she broke something over the summer, so hopefully it was her throwing arm.”

I go through lines with Colleen, trying to help with her memorization. She’s a very careful, understated actor, especially compared to most of the other theater kids—Bridget and Felix included. Bridget has a tendency to yell a lot of her lines, and Felix delivers his with the cadence of a psychopath trying to mimic human behavior. Sometimes, it makes for compelling viewing.

As I sing-mumble the lines, my mind starts to wander to Conner. I wonder if he’s ever seen Les Miserables. Yeah, he’s a loser-wrestler-jock, but there’s definitely something else in the core of him. Maybe something more tender and arts-loving. If he came to the show, he would see all the costumes I’d made. I wonder if he’d like them, if he’d be wowed by them, or if he wouldn’t even pay any attention to them.

“Dean,” Colleen says. “Dean. Your line.”

I try to come back to reality. It’s not as warm as where I just was.

“Sorry,” I say. “Okay, where were we?”

Footsteps from the hall. 

“Is that Bridget and Felix?” I say.

It’s not. Coach Ben turns the corner, his footfalls loud and heavy.

“Coach,” I say. “Hello. We’re not blocking the hallway.”

“You are not,” he says. “I’m just doing the rounds—getting acquainted with the school. What’s, uh—that?”

He points to the scripts in our hands.

“Why?” I say. “You need to confiscate it?” Colleen watches the two of us with big eyes and no idea how to jump in.

“No, no. Just curious. It’s for—”

“School play,” Colleen says. “Les Miserables.”

“Your favorite,” I say to Coach Ben.

“It sounds very interesting. French?”

“French.”

“A wonderful language.”

I nod slowly, not sure what else to say. Coach Ben stands still for a moment, making a weird moment even weirder.

“Welp,” he says, “Back to the tour. Good to see you, Dean.”

He walks away. Colleen and I wait until his footsteps have completely faded.

“Okay,” Colleen says. “Maybe you weren’t being over-dramatic about the trauma. Seriously. What are you going to do about Conner with—them dating?”

“Nothing,” I say. “I’m not even into Conner anymore.”

“Shut up.”

“Really. You don’t have to believe me, but it’s true. It was just a one-time thing.”

Colleen gives me those eyes that let me know she’s not buying it whatsoever.

#

After school, I head to the rehearsal space with Colleen, Felix, and Bridget. All of them are auditioning for roles: Felix for Jean Valjean, Bridget for Eponine, and of course Colleen for Fantine.

“If I were to get the part,” Felix says, “I would have to do some deep study to fully understand the character. I’d need to get into the headspace of a convicted criminal.”

“How are you going to do that?” Bridget asks. 

Felix remains silent. 

Bridget’s voice suddenly takes on a scared tone. “I said, how are you going to do that, Felix?” 

I leave my friends to finish prepping their lines as I head to the balcony. The theater space we have is pretty spare, with only a few spotlights and a closet filled with dirty props to the side. Down below, I can hear the squeak of iron and the clang of weights.

The wrestling team is hard at work, playing some AC/DC song and shouting as they count their reps. Coach Ben prowls through the group, occasionally offering encouragement, but mostly just shouting at the boys.

Then, by the barbells, I see Conner.

He’s wearing a loose t-shirt and shorts that are too short. I’ve never seen so much thigh before. It seems like a miracle of the human body, that stretch of his thigh. He’s sweating through his clothes, huffing and puffing as he raises the dumbbells to his chest. His biceps are bulging like water balloons.

But it’s only a distanced, academic interest I take. I’m over it. I’m over him.

Faintly, I hear Coach Ben shout below: “Okay, boys! Time to hit the showers.”

Lightning strikes me. I see Conner set down his weights and head to the locker room with his teammates. I’m getting hot. I feel like I was the one just exercising. I imagine Conner heading to the locker room, stripping off that dripping shirt, pulling down those shorts, showing all of that beautiful thigh, as he grabs his towel and gets ready to scrub his body clean…

The sound of a wrestler shouting breaks me from my stupor. “Last one in gets a towel whip in the balls!”

I wince, shake my head. He belongs to another breed. Thank god I’m over him. I am over him!