He Shoots, She scores

Chapter Thirty: Gracie | Burnout

"Sorry guys" I mumble, for what seems like the hundredth time today.

Our musical director, Madame Harold, claps twice, the jaded bangles on her wrist clashing with the movement. "Take five!" she screeches. And then, pinching her nose, she stares straight at me and curls her finger. "Gracie, dear, a word, please?"

The background dancers around me disperse off the stage in groups to chat and get a water break. We've been running the same scene over and over all morning. It's the sequence in the diner where I sing "I need a hero" which involves dancing and some group lifts. But I've had a rough week, and when my head isn't in the right space, I mess up. A lot. This doesn't go unnoticed by the others, and this definitely doesn't abide well by Madame Harold, whose looking at me now like she's regretted her casting decision.

When we're far from earshot, Madame says: "Gracie, you've stumbled over your lines three times, you forgot your marks, at one point you were spinning the opposite direction, and you're already out of breath one minute into the song!" Her calm tone quickly turns to impatience. Through the corner of my eye I spot my castmates staring at us, wondering what the heck is going on. Honestly, I'm wondering that too.

"Sorry, I'm so sorry" I squeak out like a pathetic mouse. "I've had a rough night. I've barely gotten any sleep."

"Gracie-"

"I'll get my act together, I promise."

Madame holds her stern gaze but eventually her body posture softens. She lets out a grandmotherly sigh and pushes her glasses up to her forehead. "You're stressed. I can see it."

I nearly snort, because of course I'm stressed. It's mid-term season which means every student with a pulse is stressed. When I'm not studying, I'm in rehearsals, or prepping my lines, or practicing my musical numbers, or working a double shift at Starbucks. The only positive outcome to this hectic schedule is that it keeps me away from home, which means if I stagger my time properly, I won't have to see Weston.

Ever since Halloween night I've been putting extraordinary efforts to avoid him. It's been a few weeks now and the most I'll exchange with him is a mere "good day." I wake up an hour early to take the bus to campus. I work extra hours so that by the time I come home, Weston is already gone at a game or to the gym. I've purposely missed his last game. Anytime I spend at home is normally isolated in my bedroom. Once though I opened my door and found Weston brushing his teeth in the hallway. Shirtless. We locked eyes and then I shrieked like a dolphin and slammed my door shut. Embarrassing, I know. But I'm doing the right thing. I cannot afford the distraction contained in that 6 feet, gorgeous body with a cocky attitude.

Yet despite our opposite schedules, he finds ways to be present. Buying me roses and leaving them outside my bedroom door. Or I'll come down to the kitchen in the mornings and find breakfast already made with a note: "Please give me a chance, sweetheart."  The fridge will be stocked with my favourite desserts and treats. If only he had been like this from the start, then maybe our relationship would be saved.

"The opening night performance is in a month and a half. It may seem like we have lots of preparation time, but really, it will just sneak up on you. You need to be more rehearsed, Gracie." Madame is one of those nice older ladies who reigns superiority and confidence. By nature, you want to respect her. And if you disappoint her, you feel it deep down in your bones. "You're a talented girl. I had no doubt when I casted you as the lead. But now you need to prove yourself."

I'm nodding viciously. "I am. I will. I swear, I won't let you down."

Her violet lips gradually tilt upward. "Good." She pinches my cheek before calling out, "Five minutes of break! And then we're starting the bar scene from the top!"