Irresistible - Zayn Malik Short Story

Four.

4.

I make it to practice just in time to see the stagehands beginning their set-up. The first Rehearsal for Wicked couldn’t have come any slower… I am about to die to see my cast mates and the tech people that will be working to make this show amazing. I’m already singing a few of my songs, watching patiently as the other cast members arrive and the director, Mr. Vanderburg, direct us to our dressing rooms to leave our things.

We’re meeting back up in the auditorium to begin running lines when I see a very familiar face arrive from the front entrance of the theater. His eyes are on me as he approaches Mr. V with a smile. I can barely hear him over the tiny chatter that bounces from the theater’s walls, but I try my best to listen to his voice and find out why he’s here. “I’m Zayn Malik… I’m, um, here to help paint and stuff, I guess.”

“Ahh, yes, you are the one that recommended Mrs. Rohl for our lead part?” I watch Zayn nod, feeling my mouth fall to my knees in confusion and awe. “Yes, yes…that’s right,” Mr. V continues. “I’ll have you work with our artists in a while, after we begin our blocking and get a little out of the way.”

He did what?

He is definitely unaware that I am listening. I pretend I didn’t hear and meet up with Shelly, the blonde girl that will play the part of Glinda in the play. We start rehearsing a few of our lines together and I try to forget what a lovely, flattering thing Zayn has done for me. I try to forget that he is here at all… otherwise I will run into his arms and make a fool of myself. The weird thing is… I auditioned for Wicked nearly a month ago… Zayn and I had just met at the time, and I’d completely bombed the audition. How in the world did he pull off something like that?

I am going to find out, and quickly.

I can hardly concentrate on learning my new lines and the songs, nor can I pay full attention to the director’s instructions. I can’t find Zayn and assume he has gone to work on painting a set somewhere out back. As soon as we get a break, I rush to find him, nearly twisting my ankle a few times on tarps and props that lay around the stage. The back door is open, of course, and I find Zayn and a few others slaving easily over three huge wooden boards. They are being painted green and will be used as the backdrop or steps or something for the set, I am sure. I stand at the door and watch him for a moment, the way his arm moves effortlessly up and down, his sleeves rolled up to reveal his tattoo. He’s sweating, too – mid-summer in Chicago still gets pretty warm – and the outdoor work area has taken a toll.

When he sees me watching him, he raises an eyebrow and smiles. “Hey… I think I can finish up here if you’re done. I’ve got Elphaba to help me for a while, anyway.” He addresses his helpers, who seem to be thankful for his suggestion.

The two helpers see me and smile timidly before filing past me and back into the cool auditorium. I breathe a sigh of relief and finally trot over to Zayn. Without asking, I grab a leftover paint brush and begin to lather the bright green paint onto the wood. It’s silent for a while. I hear the pitter-patter of the brushes and the light wind that passes over us.

“What did you do?” I finally ask, looking at him from the side. He knows what I’m talking about, thankfully. I don’t have to explain myself. That makes one of us.

“I decided to give you a chance. If I did something wrong….”

“No, no,” I jump in quickly. “You didn’t. This… this is what I want to do, Zayn. Perform. Thank you. I just wanna know how you did it.”

“I… I may have given them a few pieces of art.”

“What?”

“The one I drew of you the first day we met… another one I’ve been working on. No one’s gonna know that the paintings are of you… but they’re gonna display them in the front venue for people to see when they come to see the show.”