If We Were Villains: A Novel

During dress rehearsal the following night I didn’t take my eyes off Richard, but as it happened, when he went too far I wasn’t the only one watching.

We had just finished Act II, Scene 1, which included Brutus’s conference with the conspirators, his conference with Portia, and his conference with Ligarius. (How on earth James kept all of his lines straight, I had no idea.) Wren and Filippa had exited stage right and were peering curiously around the curtain. James and Alexander and I had exited stage left and waited restlessly in the dense darkness of the wings for our next entrance: Three-One, the assassination scene.

“How much time do you think I have?” Alexander asked, a hoarse whisper over his shoulder.

“For a smoke?” I said. “Enough, if you go now.”

“If I’m late coming back, stall for me.”

“How am I supposed to do that?”

“Pretend you’ve forgotten a line or something.”

“And invoke the wrath of Gwendolyn? No.”

Wren put her finger to her lips on the opposite side of the stage, and James nudged Alexander with one elbow. “Stop talking. They can hear you on the other side.”

“What scene is this?” Alexander asked, in a lower voice.

Richard had already entered—tieless and coatless—and was talking with a servant, played by one of our inexhaustible second-years.

“Calpurnia,” I murmured.

As if I had somehow summoned her, Meredith appeared between the two center columns, barefoot and wearing a short silk bathrobe, arms tightly folded.

Alexander whistled under his breath. “Would you look at her legs? I guess that’s one way to sell tickets.”

“You know,” James said, “for a boy who likes other boys, you provide a lot of heterosexual commentary.”

Alexander: “I might make an exception for Meredith, but she’d have to be wearing that robe.”

James: “You’re disgusting.”

Alexander: “I’m adaptable.”

Me: “Shut up, I want to hear this.”

James and Alexander exchanged a look, which I didn’t understand and chose to ignore.

“What mean you, Caesar? Think you to walk forth?” Meredith asked, when the servant had exited. “You shall not stir out of your house today.” She stood with one hand on her hip, expression dark and judgmental. The scene had changed since last I saw it; Meredith descended into the Bowl, and as she described her dream it sounded more like a threat than a warning. Richard, judging by the look on his face, was having none of it.

“Well,” Alexander said, “I wouldn’t count on him remaining at home.”

The servant entered again, clearly terrified to even be on the same stage with the two of them.

Richard:            “What say the augurers?”

Servant: “They would not have you stir forth today.

Plucking the entrails of an offering forth,

They could not find a heart within the beast.”

Richard rounded on Meredith.

Richard: “The gods do this in shame of cowardice:

Caesar should be a beast without a heart,

If he should stay at home today for fear!

No, Caesar shall not.”

He seized her shoulders and she twisted in his grip.

“Is that the blocking?” I asked. Neither James nor Alexander answered.

Richard:            “Danger knows full well

That Caesar is more dangerous than he:

We are two lions litter’d in one day,

And I the elder and more terrible—”

Meredith squirmed and let out a cry of pain. Filippa caught my eye from the opposite wing and shook her head, just barely.

“And Caesar,” Richard bellowed, “shall go forth!” He thrust Meredith away from him so roughly that she lost her balance and fell backward onto the stairs. She threw her arms out to catch herself and there was a sharp crack as her elbow hit the wood. That same vindictive reflex I’d felt on Halloween made me lurch forward—to do what, I had no idea—but Alexander grabbed my shoulder and whispered, “Easy, tiger.”

Meredith pushed her hair out of her face and looked up at Richard with wide, angry eyes. The auditorium was silent except for the soft buzz of the lights for a split second before she said, “I’m sorry, what the fuck just happened?”

“Hold!” Gwendolyn yelled, from the back of the house, her voice shrill and distant.

Meredith climbed to her feet and whacked Richard’s chest with the back of her hand. “What was that?”

“What was what?” He, for some unfathomable reason, looked even angrier than she did.

“That wasn’t the blocking!”

“Look, it’s a big moment, I got caught up in it—”

“And you decided to throw me on the fucking stairs?”

Gwendolyn was running down the center aisle, shouting, “Stop! Stop this!”

Richard grabbed Meredith’s arm and yanked her so close he could have kissed her. “Are you really going to make a scene right now?” he said. “I wouldn’t.”

I bit back a curse word, knocked Alexander’s hand off my shoulder, and ran out onto the stage with James right behind me. But Camilo got there first, jumping up out of the front row. “Whoa,” he said. “Break it up. C’mon, calm down.” He wedged an arm between them and pried Meredith away from Richard.

“What’s going on here?” Gwendolyn said, when she reached the edge of the stage.

“Well, Dick decided to improvise some blocking,” Meredith said, pushing Camilo away. She winced when his hand brushed her arm and her eyes flicked down; a drop of blood snaked out of her sleeve. My own vicarious outrage—overlapping and confused, half for James, half for Meredith—roared up in my chest and I ground my teeth together, fighting a suicidal urge to tackle Richard into the orchestra pit.

“I’m bleeding,” Meredith said, staring at the spots of red on her fingertips. “You son of a bitch.” She turned and flung the tab curtains back, ignoring Gwendolyn as she called, “Meredith, wait!”

Richard’s anger flickered off like a bad lightbulb and left him looking uneasy.

“Everyone take ten,” Gwendolyn told the rest of us. “Hell, take fifteen. We’re having intermission now. Go.”

The second- and third-years were first to move, leaving the auditorium two by two, whispering to one another. I felt Alexander hovering behind me and took a bracing breath in.

“Camilo, would you make sure she’s all right?” Gwendolyn asked. He nodded and exited upstage. She turned to Richard. “Go and apologize to that girl,” she ordered, “and so help me God, don’t pull anything else like that or I’ll have Oliver learn your lines and you can watch from the front row on opening night.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize to me,” she said, but her ire was already fading to exasperation.

Richard nodded—almost humbly—and watched her make the slow walk back to the top of the house. Not until he turned around did he seem to realize that the other five of us were standing there, glaring at him. “Oh, relax,” he said. “I didn’t really hurt her. She’s just angry.”

Beside me, James had clenched his fists so hard his arms were quivering. I shifted my feet, too agitated to stand still. Alexander leaned forward, like he was ready to throw himself between the two of us and Richard if he had to.

“For God’s sake,” Richard said, when nobody replied. “You all know what a drama queen she is.”

“Richard!” Wren said.

He looked guilty, but only for a moment. “Really,” he said, “do I have to apologize to all of you, too?”

“No, of course not,” Filippa said, in a calm, even voice that distracted me from the sound of my own pulse in my ears. “Why would you? You’ve only interrupted our run, fucked up Gwendolyn’s blocking, forced Milo to break up a fight, possibly ruined a costume, maybe damaged the set, and injured one of our friends—not for the first time either. Now Oliver might have to learn all your lines and play your part and save the show when you inevitably fuck up again. And you have the balls to blame it on Meredith being a drama queen?” Her blue eyes were cold as frostbite. “You know, Rick, people aren’t going to put up with your bullshit for much longer.”

She turned her back on him before he had time to respond and disappeared between the tabs. She’d said what we all wanted to say, and, ever so slightly, the tension eased. I exhaled; James unclenched his fists.

“Just don’t, Richard,” Wren said, when he opened his mouth again. She shook her head, with a tight, pinched expression not unlike disgust. “Just don’t.” And she followed Filippa.

Richard sniffed, then said to me, James, and Alexander, “Anything else?”

“No,” Alexander said, “I think she pretty much covered it.” He gave one warning look to me and James before he exited through the wings, already fumbling in his pockets for rolling papers.

Only three of us left. James, Richard, me. Gunpowder, fire, fuse.

Richard and James stared at each other for a moment, as if I wasn’t there, but neither spoke. The silence between them was unstable, precarious. I waited, wondering which way it would tilt, the apprehension making all my muscles tighten under my skin. At last, James gave Richard the tiniest smile—a glimmer of petty triumph—then turned and followed Alexander out.

Richard’s eyes settled on me, and I thought they might burn right through me.

“Don’t start learning my speeches yet,” he said.

And he left me onstage alone. I was quiet. Motionless. In my own estimation, pointless. A fuse with no fire and nothing to ignite.