We’re fine, I say loudly and more confidently than I feel. Just keep walking like you belong here.

And that’s what we do. Because we belong to the city and the city belongs to us. And we have each other, and Becky is going to try to maybe make things work with Andy, and James is opening a show, and I’m falling in love and done being dismissed, and everything, everything, seems possible.

Part Three

Blood Makes Noise is plastered on the marquee outside the theater, followed by James’s name, the names of two other actors, and that of the director.

We show our school IDs to the guy manning the list at the door and wander into a warehouse-sized space more suited for a parking lot than a theater.

Once we’re in, though, it seems fitting. It’s obvious that Blood Makes Noise is more of an event than a play. There are no chairs. Just open air. Huge speakers. Lights hung everywhere. Curtains on the walls.

And people. People, everywhere.

We mill around until the spots dim.

Then James and the other performers enter the room from all sides. Each dressed in a single color, they float like a deconstructed rainbow. Sounds screech through the speakers at sometimes ear-splitting levels. A cat’s purr. Car horns. Some classical piece. Guitar sounds that I recorded for him. Noises I can’t quite recognize. A zipper being pulled, perhaps? A needle dragged across a record. Nails on a chalkboard. Humming. A thunderstorm.

Then silence.

And a heartbeat. Behind everything. That.

Here’s the gimmick. Anyone who can stay silent through the entire performance gets their admission refunded. Anyone caught talking is asked to leave.

Performers stop in the middle of the crowd. They’re wearing those clip-on mics, and they combine, then break apart and combine again in different combinations to discuss random facts about life. Politics. Sex. Love.

It’s kind of like Dial-a-Daze, Becky whispers, trying not to move her lips so we don’t get kicked out.

I’m guessing all those facts are from James, I whisper back.

Then silence.

Heartbeat.

Beat. Beat. Beat.

Silence.

From all around us, speakers blare the words, I stay silent…

Then the actors begin to speak, filling in the rest of the sentence:

…because I don’t think anyone will believe me.

…because I’m not sure I have anything to say.

…because I’m not sure if I’m right.

…because we are at war.

…because I don’t know how I feel.

…because no words can explain.

…because I’m tired of arguing.

…because I love you.

The words overlap and get mixed up and tumble around each other until James, in the center of the crowd, ends with: …because I’m scared.

The room is hot, but the hair on the back of my neck stands up as if I were outside in January snow. Becky squeezes my hand. She looks at me, puzzled. I’m not sure what to tell her, which is fine since we’re not supposed to talk anyhow.

The actors come together, performing small scenes—sometimes only a line or two of dialogue—that end in someone keeping their feelings to themselves. Threats. Attacks. Fights. Illnesses. Politics.