She’s tapping her foot on her crossed leg, not listening. Tapping away on her phone.

I look at Kiera, who shrugs.

“Hey, Aim?” I sit down next to her.

She looks up. “Sorry. Fucking … crisis, ugh, dammit.”

“What’s going on?”

She drops the phone on the table and stares at the ceiling. “The girls have dropped out.”

“The girls meaning—”

“The actors. The two leads of the show. The only people in the show. Basically.”

“What? Those assholes. Let me see the text.”

She gestures at her phone and out of some ancient habit, I guess her passcode—all fours—and open the text thread. It’s a group text between Aimee and two girls named Rebecca and Val.

Aimee—hey so, were really sorry to do this over text, but were both way to busy getting ready for the 1 act festival coming up and the summer term is way more intense than we thought it would be … and tbh it seems like the show is not gonna be done in time anyway? and neither of us want that critic to see us in something that seems unfinished. Itd be like the first time he sees us in something and we just dont think its a good idea for our careers. hope u figure something out though! please dont be made at us! xx

Then:

mad*

And:

ily, xx

Those texts came from Rebecca’s number, and are followed by a text from Val.

we feel so bad! Xx

On one hand, I get where they’re coming from. It’s insane that she’s not finished the last few scenes, and without something complete, it feels unlikely that they’ve reached a good flow with the rest of it.

But logic is simply not what friends are for. “Those absolute bitches!” I say, handing the phone to Kiera, who has feebly come over. “What careers?”

“Exactly! They’re sophomores!” she exclaims. She’s been balled up with her knees by her chest, but now she releases her limbs, throwing her arms in the air with fury. “They’re college students! They’re supposed to take every opportunity handed to them!”

“Haven’t they ever heard of commedia dell’arte?” I say. “Has that fancy school not informed them of devised theatre?”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” says Aimee. “That’d be like me lighting my hair on fire when striking a match and then calling it experimental art.”

Kiera raises a hand. “I have a degree in that very thing, from that fancy school, and let me tell you, you’d have a grand chance of winding up in the history books with a stunt like that.”

I want to laugh, but resist. “It’s okay, Aimee, we can—”

Aimee shakes her head. “I don’t even blame them. It’s a shitty show.”

“It’s not a shitty show,” say both Kiera and I at the same time.