Chapter 12: Star Power

I follow Miller to the lobby, gently slipping through the crowd gathered in the small space, chatting about the show. My hand is slippery and damp on the crumpled program I hold, and I have to shake out my fingers to keep them from cramping. I still feel the sting of my palms from all the clapping I did, but it's worth it. So worth it when Miller guides me, with his fingers wound through my opposite ones, to a side door, painted dull black and barely noticeable. He doesn't even look at the guy with a nametag who waves us on. I glance back over my shoulder, cheeks aching from my excited smile, and see Aleah has hooked arms with Piper on one side and Ruben on the other. The three of them sing a tune I don't know, their voices suddenly loud as we pass through the door, and I wonder if they are making it up as they go along.

I'm too wrapped up in the moment to pay close enough attention to find out. As soon as we step into the dark hallway on the other side, I'm in heaven. Backstage bustles with people, most in black clothing, the crew rushing about to complete their after-show tasks. I dodge a young man carrying an extension cord as thick as my wrist, losing my grip on Miller as I do. I reach for him again at the exact moment he reaches back for me.

He laughs over his shoulder.

I look around as if I've never been backstage at a show before, because this one is nothing like the shows I've been part of. Yes, the activity is similar, the people, but these are all pros. The energy feels professional, not the giddy horsing around I'm used to.

Miller heads for the dressing room at the far end of the narrow hall. I glance to my left, see through the wings and out onto the stage, the curtain now up as the crew resets for tomorrow night's show. It's a beautiful view from here, alluring, calling to me to step out past the hoisted curtain and onto the stage, even in the empty house, and say something.

Anything.

And then we're past, slipping by a pair of actors chattering their way out, still in their stage makeup, smelling of sweat and peppermint, until the last door in the hall looms. There's a star on it, a sliver of gold paint left behind as though it had been lovingly applied there ages ago but was left to fade. Not that it matters, because I know what it means and who is behind it.

I'm suddenly nervous and fangirling. I can't wait to finally be introduced to Bianca officially, to talk to her about her performance, to ask her if she knows how crazy talented she is.

Miller reaches for the door handle just as it jerks open. My new idol stands on the other side, blonde hair down from the updo she wore in the last act, dressed in a thin robe hanging open to show her lace bra, her skin still heavy with makeup.

"Bianca." Miller leans in, kisses her cheek as she turns her face to him. Her eyes rove over the rest of us, settle on me. I feel my mouth open, about to blurt my adoration, when Miller hands her the flowers. Her eyes fall to them, to his hand holding mine just as he releases me. I miss the warmth of his touch and look up to see Bianca accepting the bouquet I carefully created to celebrate tonight.

She's frowning as she lets them dangle from her hand like a burden, the plastic wrap unopened and I feel a tiny hurt she doesn't appreciate them. Silly, she has no idea who wrapped them or, even more, couldn't care less I put them together for her. I feel more for Miller who seems crestfallen she ignores them so easily.

Aleah snaps her fingers, coming to my side. "You going to let us in?"

Bianca's eyes narrow, but she stands aside without a word. Miller moves past her with a murmur that sounds like an apology for Aleah as my glamorous friend sweeps by like a dusky queen examining her realm for the first time. Piper pauses, arm around his boyfriend, so Ruben can kiss Bianca's cheek, though I notice Piper doesn't follow suit. I see her eyes roll before she turns away. Watch her dump the carefully wrapped roses on the chair next to her makeup table and turn, arms crossing over her chest.

I'm making excuses for her lack of welcome. She must be tired, probably just wants to have a shower and get out of here. But I hear someone pause behind me, her name spoken and, in that instant, I see Bianca light up as though none of us are in the room.

When her admirer continues on without entering, Bianca's dull, irritated expression returns and my heart staggers. Still, I shouldn't judge her. She's brilliant.

I open my mouth to tell her everything-how much I admire her, want to talk to her about the craft.

Miller speaks up first. "Bianca Sullivan," he says, "this is Riley James."

She raises one eyebrow at me. Gives me the once over as though we've never met, as though she didn't kick me out of the improv circle the other night. And says, "So I hear you think you can act."

My whole world begins to crumble the moment I realize she isn't who I saw on stage, not the person I hoped I could connect with, talk with. It all falls apart completely when she crushes my last hope she might actually like me, maybe. All my excitement, the thrill of what I just witnessed, shatters as my open heart closes over like a dying flower too long in the sun without water.

Aleah turns on her with an instant scowl, Miller lurching forward with a muttered, "Bianca," in a disapproving tone. But I'm still staring at the beautiful blonde who ruined the moment out of spite or whatever reason she's chosen to be a bitch. And my admiration burns into ashes.

"I just wanted to tell you how brilliant you were," I say, voice hollow, dim in my ears. I'm amazed I'm able to speak at all. Turn on my heel and leave, feeling numb and broken, wanting nothing more than to escape backstage. Ian appears to me, his dying form making things that much worse. It's suddenly claustrophobic for me, now. As though everyone is staring as Ian's dying face is staring, like I don't belong there. And I don't, I really don't.

I just have to get out to the street and breathe.

Hands grasp me, turn me around in the path of one of the crew who snaps at me, "Be careful." Miller pulls me aside, but I'm dragging him, this time, toward the door. Out into the lobby. Past the glass doors and into the open air.

"Riley, I'm sorry." Miller tugs me to a halt, hugs me suddenly, breath tickling my ear as my numbness fades at last. Leaving a nasty hurt behind, a little girl's hurt that she doesn't understand or deserve. "Bianca can be such a bitch sometimes."

I shrug it off, shrug him off, backing away, the heel of my sandal catching a crack in the sidewalk. He grabs me before I can fall, holds me upright as I steady my breathing.

"It's fine," I say. While dying Ian weeps over Miller's shoulder, fueling my pain and loss. And his. His imagined empathy, that of the instant destruction of my hope, my moment of need to connect with someone through my mother's talent and memory.

"It's not." He lets me go. "She's just jealous. I should have known."

Jealous? I shake my head, sniff so my nose won't run, so I won't sob like a baby. "Of what?"

Miller laughs softly. "She's seen you act," he says.

So? "I don't understand." His words mean nothing to me, not while Ian cries and his face crumples in sadness and illness, telling me to run, get away, be safe from hurt. To escape back into my fantasies and forget any of this happened.

"Riley," Miller says, stepping closer, blocking my imaginary commune with my dead boyfriend, breaking the hold the hurt has over me. His hand settles gently on my elbow, eyes earnest. "She's jealous of you."

I laugh in his face, practically choke on it. "You're cracked." Bianca has nothing to be jealous of.

Miller's smile is sweet, kind. "You have no idea," he says. And turns away. Spins back. I can see the shift in him, he's not himself anymore and I feel, despite the lingering pain, a thrill all the way to my toes even as I look around, self-conscious.

What is he doing? Acting? Right here on the street?

"You left me too soon, Delores," he says. I know that name. It's one of the scenes we played at the night before. And I know what comes next. But I'm flustered, aware of the people still emerging from the theater, watching now. Wondering what he's up to as Miller falls to one knee. "You left me a broken man."

I can't do this, just act. On cue. And yet, I can, I have. That's what acting is all about. Still, this is different, surrounded by strangers, people who have just come from seeing Bianca perform.

She's a pro and I'm just...

Just what? I look up, expecting Ian to be there, still sad.

He's gone. And so is my moment of loss in the face of what I love.

My body takes over. I lean away from Miller, eyes downcast. And I pour myself into the part even as the outside world fades away.

And comes back, crisp and clear and full of hurt as Delores tells Horatio why she left him.

The scene is painful and raw. Lost children, death and betrayal. I'm aching inside, Delores devouring me with her grief and need to strike out at her husband. And Miller takes it, feeds it back to me as Horatio.

I love every second of it.

When the scene ends, Miller holding me close, I break from the moment to the sound of applause. For me and for him. And I laugh. He lets me go with a kiss to my cheek, grips my hand. Turns me to face the circle of theater patrons and passers-by who smile and clap and throw money on the ground at our feet.

As though I'm worthy.

***