“What are you sighing about?”

“I was acting, Aimee.”

Comprehension dawns and she says, “Oh. Right. Sorry. Go on. I can’t believe they still have the same lattice.”

“It’s probably not even in there, and if it is, who cares? It’s like, two Polaroids and some expired candy.”

“Fine, don’t help. I’ve climbed this thing a million times without you.”

“Will you stop?” I yell, my voice echoing around the empty theater.

Aimee looks startled, but then carries on. “What are you so afraid of?” she reads.

I hesitate and then put my hands on my thighs and bend over, embodying Lola’s exasperation. “I don’t want to dig up the past.” I laugh. “I mean, really, let’s not go back there.”

I stand and breathe in deeply, letting it out as my head tilts at Aimee.

“I know you’re acting,” she says, once again going off script. “But it’s really weird to hear you saying the lines. I pictured you when I wrote them, even though I knew you wouldn’t come out to auditions or anything.”

We spend the rest of the afternoon rehearsing. The lines are working. They’re not awkward or stilted. But there’s no heart in them. There’s no heart in her delivery. I wonder if either of us will be able to open up enough to make this thing real. To make it special.

It’s like a modern Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? but with more comedy. The two female characters don’t speak anymore, but come together for their high school reunion; ultimately, the decision of whether or not to break into this house for the time capsule becomes a metaphor for the past they can’t agree to revisit. Throughout the story, they switch back and forth on taking the lead in saying they want to break in for it.

The show takes place in a backyard, and I can see that the set builders are more than halfway through with the backdrop. A velvety blue sky with holes for starry lights to shine through. They’re testing the lights, securing them on the back. There’s an old white wrought-iron patio set that’s stunningly similar to the one Aimee had growing up.

I wonder if anyone in Avalon knows her well enough to recognize it besides me.

Theo, I guess.

We spend hours going through it. Over and over and over, surviving off of protein bars and gallons of water. The lines are deeply engrained by the time we finish, and now I can start focusing on how to deepen the delivery, work on the character. We only stop because I point out that we’re no longer improving, and that we’ve peaked for the day and any more rehearsal runs the risk of actually making us worse.