Alive

Chapter 1

Oliver

(Friday, May 3)

This is me.

The curtain falls, the crowd erupts into cheers, and my chest goes numb. Elation. I'm on top of the world, egged on by hundreds of people in their seats. I don't have to see them to know it. They're rising, standing, lifted by the force of my performance. I'd say the weight of it, but when did weight ever make anything float? Airplanes don't count. They use aerodynamics and engines and shit. But this? Hands flying together in a sea of noise, people screaming without a thought, rising because they can't contain the excitement— this is me.

"Get ready." Cindy nudges me, rolling her eyes when I jump. "God, don't do one of your things, Oliver. We've got tomorrow night, too. Save it for Sunday."

Cindy's always like this. Stabbing herself as my Juliet is probably the biggest challenge she's faced as an actress. And she's good. She makes such a fuss over me, I've seen more than a few tears shed over the feat. If only the audience could see her now. Her true colors. That pink shade of lipstick is probably the prettiest one she possesses. So I just laugh, brushing past her on my way off stage. Nothing can change this moment. Because I created this moment, and that makes it mine.

The curtain rises. The audience stirs again, clapping as each cast member takes their turn for the bow. This part is the best. Waiting. Listening. I can hear them, feel their eyes scanning the stage, anticipating the moment I set foot in the spotlight. There are a couple whoops as larger roles take their turns. And finally, out steps Romeo. He glides across the floor, making his bow with a flourish. The flourish that acknowledges what the crowd confirms in a storm of screams. This is my stage. This is my show. Romeo's had many faces, but nobody's worn him better than me.

For an entire minute, I'm understood. No one tells me to calm down. No one shoots me dirty looks or tells me to shut up. Not here. Every movement brings another yell, every smile an ocean of positivity. It's beautiful. Everything is beautiful. The world is mine, and I've risen to the top.

The curtain falls the final time. Everyone moves around me, but I'm just standing here. Listening. Savoring the applause as it dies down.

"Wake up, asshole." Cindy knocks her elbow into my rib. "You're in the way."

I blink, turning to meet the wary glances of a couple stage crew members. The warm lights go out, fluorescent bulbs cooling the sweat on my forehead.

Just like that, it's over.

Cindy huffs past me on her way to the changing room. This time I watch her, curls flouncing behind her, stupid as her sour attitude. I stopped questioning what her problem was months ago. It might have something to do with the time I told her I'd rather date a porcupine than her ugly ass. Which is true. She sucks. And porcupines are awesome. They don't give a fuck about anything.

I jog to the men's changing room, peeling off the layers of costume. Each one brings its own level of relief and a sense of accomplishment. It's like a reward for my performance, completed by the light, breezy fabric of my sweatpants. I pull them on, then stuff the rest of my clothes back into my drawstring bag, swinging it over my shoulder.

I'm the first to the circle, taking my seat and waiting for the other cast members to show up. Director Hallman is across the room, bent over a table of props, making notes on his clipboard. These talks are always the same. I don't know why he forces us to do them after every show. Something about teamwork or comradery. Who gives a shit, though? I came here to perform, not to make friends.

I dig my phone out of my pocket, opening the latest app I've been into. It's where you make pizzas for people. The longer you play, the more customers pile in at a time. It's crazy, challenging, and stupid. Just the way I like it.