manicpixiedreamgirl by Tom Leveen Page A

pole. “What’s going on? You said you still want me to come over?”
    Try not to sound
too
desperate there, cowboy.
    Becky sighs softly. “It would … no, I don’t know.”
    “I can,” I say, because by this point, I’m positive I’m okay to drive. Getting my keys back from Robby, though, even if he
is
a bit woozy, will be a challenge. And I haven’t replied to Syd’s text.
    “I … I
can’t
,” Becky says.
    Her voice catches on the last word, like she’s about to lose it. The thought of her actually crying doesn’t feel quite as sexy as I’d dreamed. It just hurts.
    “What is it, Becky?” I say. “What’s wrong, what happened?”
    “I don’t know how much more I can take, Ty,” she says. And though she’s not crying, she’s definitely holding it back.
    “How much more what?”
    I almost add “sweetheart,” but bite it back just in time. Then I get scared, thinking her “more” is us.
    “My fucking asshole parents.”
    Half of me gets righteously pissed then, ready to drive there right now and swing a tire iron at the Webbs’ kneecaps for making her feel this way. The other half of me—I’m ashamed to say—is just relieved it’s not me she’s upset at.

    Play rehearsals lasted eight weeks. I found reasons to be at every rehearsal, even though I wasn’t required to be. I still had a lot to learn about the job, I explained to Sydney. I had to meet with the stage manager, Robin. I had to meet with Mrs. Goldie about the lighting design. I had to match the
color temperatures
of the
lighting instrument filters
to the paint color of the
set
, do a
light hang
and
focus
, go through a
paper tech
with Robin …
    I said all these things to Sydney, throwing around asmany of the theatrical terms I’d picked up as possible to make it all sound legit. Some of it was. Most wasn’t.
    And I was pretty sure she knew it.
    “I don’t remember Nick doing all that when he was running lights,” Sydney said in week six.
    “I couldn’t say if he did or not, but he also knew his business, and I don’t,” I said.
    “Uh-huh,” Sydney said. Shaking her head, she leaned over and kissed me. “You go do whatever it is you have to do, Tyler. I’ll be here.”
    We left it at that.
    As for Becky, we’d say hi to each other every day at rehearsal. Sometimes, during a break, we’d hang out together in the auditorium seats and talk about the show. She really was good up there, no exaggeration. Maybe it was that the rest of the cast was unremarkable, but whatever. I thought she was brilliant, and I told her so.
    “You’re just saying that,” she said one afternoon.
    “No, I’m not,” I said. “You really are incredible.”
    Becky reached over and messed up my hair. It was the first time we’d made physical contact, and it sent lightning through my body.
    “Thanks. You’re sweet,” she said.
    It wasn’t “I love you, let’s get together,” but it came pretty close.
    Speaking of lightning: a week later, I got electrocuted.
    I was testing some lights behind the set to make sure all the lamps worked. This junior kid, Pete, was up in the booth,manning the light board for me. I’d plug in an instrument and yell, “Amp thirteen!” or whatever channel the light was plugged into, and Pete would power up that channel to see if the light came on or not.
    This worked for the first three lights. On the fourth, Pete amped the channel just as I was plugging the instrument in, and a blue-white spark shot from the plug and burrowed into my hand. The voltage scurried up my arm, down my spine, and back up again to my skull. The next thing I knew, I was on my back looking up at the high ceiling, with Pete standing over me, laughing.
    “You okay, Sparky?” he asked.
    I said, “Pity … prissed … pretty …,” and couldn’t say much else as my eyeballs traded places in my skull.
    Pete laughed again and hoisted me to my feet. “Happens sometimes,” he said. “Sorry, man.”
    I nodded weakly, and