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Class play
“Has anyone seen Nicky’s bell? He needs it!”
“I haven’t. Maybe it’s hidden in his rolls somewhere.”
“Shut up Maurice!”
“You two, stop arguing before the show!”
In the start, they all refused to behave. But the mothers molded them into obedient young actors. It was like being in the choir almost, except one had to balance acting, expressing their bodies…as much as rowdy spoiled British boys could. Father Louis always wanted to be a director, if his peculiar love of the theatre was any hint. He brought his vision to life with the boys, and picked each character as he saw fit.
Roger was dressed as the devil, very fitting if you ask him. This was probably the bastard's favorite day. All he had to do was sit in the corner and look dubious. Incredibly on par. He gives a predatory grin at with red pointy devil horns on his head, scaring the life out of Bill.
Ralph and Piggy were the sheep. Suited Piggy well enough, can’t think for himself at all.
Maurice was humorously chosen to dress as God, addicted to wiping his fake itchy beard mischievously. The two were in their own world before one of the mothers hushed them. “Let there be light!” He’d shout over and over, “let there be light!” The other boys would holler with wild laughter, clapping at his show. “Bravo!” They’d say, except Jack. He saunters away from them, strutting down hallways in search of something. Or someone.
Everyone was so thrilled to be a part of the project, by the time the recital came, and they moved single file to the grand chapel, fingers to their mouths to hush their giggles, they’d push each other to dress up five hours early.
Auditions were a simple song and name statement. Yet everybody gave it for the role that would make their mothers snap photos and brag at picnics.
Angel: the most important lead. Other than the baby Jesus that was reserved for a vintage baby doll. The one that highlighted every page and each scene.
“How come you weren’t given that one Jack?” His mother pouted. “You would look precious in an angelic robe with your blonde hair. You’d be the greatest boy there.”
“That doesn’t even fit me.” He wrinkled his nose.
His father, at the mention of the word “great” raised an eyebrow to peer at his son. “Is it your part?”
No. No it wasn’t.
His father didn’t even ask him about the date, a signature in blood that he wouldn’t dare show. His seat next to his mother glaring at him in the face. Perfect, an excuse not to try. This will be brilliant, he’ll be slick in his plans. He won’t try to ruin it, but if he wills it so, it’ll happen.
Angels had hair that was fair, to match their childlike purity. Jack had that, but he didn’t have the essence of one. The church could tell. The bitter truth.
Jack glares at his reflection in the mirror. His part was as insignificant and ugly as his feelings for this play.
Joesph. The unimportant father, dressed in plain tan robes and a head covering. Jack didn’t care for what role he got, as long as he didn’t have to work too hard.
The church picked some random girl to play Mary, he had forgotten her name already. Was it Emma, Emily, or Eliza…looks like he had forgotten. Oh no, what a shame. The lass was not remarkable in looks, just your average brunette really.
The orange aged light of the school theatre was dim. Dust particles flowed from each direction, it stuffed his nose.
“Disgusting,” Jack coughed as he traveled backstage. He brought them down with a single swipe, he was tall enough to.
Cut outs of the moon and the stars hung down in strings, on the ladder a wooly Piggy leaned over the ladder, his soft stomach peeking from his costume. Jack waited until he was just above the dangerous edge, to yell:
“HAVE YOU SEEN SIMON ANYWHERE FATTY?”
“Oh!” Piggy’s mouth scrunched up in an unimpressed scowl. The ladder wobbled like Noah’s ark in the midst of the sea. “He’s inside the corridors, he said he wanted to be alone. Why do you care?”
Jack was already behind the wall.
Each hallway branched off, giant doors too identical to give a clue. Jack passed one after the other absentmindedly. His fingers traced the wooden cravings in each, his feet stop before his legs do.
A break of luster seeps from underneath the crack.
Here.
He pushes the knob forward.
“I wonder how long we have until we start ,” a question sits in the air by itself. The person who asked it an inch away.
Biblical times were full of heroes, but none can hold a candle to the winged deliverance of God. A heavenly choir called him inside, to lead him to this trap. Jack; the troublesome imp boy. He was not chosen to represent such a symbol of divinity.
That honor belonged to Simon.
He was the angel.
Jack’s nostrils flared, wrinkled in distaste, as if the room was poisonous.
His costume was crafted by the most doting of mothers and aunts of the committee, their working hands careful with the pins and neat stitches of his white gown, glittery feather wings attached to the back. The see-through sleeves were traced with lace. Heart bangs curtained his sweet face, cheeks rosy with pride. Jack avoided looking at him, hoping it’d stop his heart from swelling twice its size.
“Well don’t you look positively radiant,” Jack snorted, eyes half lidded in mockery, a tad breathless. It was from the room. Certainly, it was stuffy. Simon silently shook his head from side to side, used to it.
“Thank you.” He lifts his gown up to reveal frilly socks to match, the final piece to his ensemble. A blush dusts in his cheeks. “I think they went a bit overboard, but I didn’t want to disappoint them.”
Pushover. Jack observed their work, up and down he took it all in.
Cherub. That was the first thought to come to mind. He was close enough to see the smooth paste of stage foundation under his eyes. Black lining to the pink edges of them. And faint rose lipstick colored his beige lips. A soft flawed power texture made his dewy face matte. He’d never dressed this way before, so elegantly. He needs to say something cruel and clever.
If he was to be the center of attention. So be it.
You look like a girl.
I bet you enjoyed it when they put it on you.
Instead he lowered his eyes: “good luck. With your speech impediment you’re going to need it.”
Simon’s shoulders rolled to hide him, an instant air of regret smoked his pride out. His white gown contrasted against the colors of the set, anyone could spot him. Could judge him.
“I can’t do it—I can never go out there Jack. They’ll all laugh at me. And what if I slip up? Father John will never forgive me. I’ll disappoint everyone. God too.”
“Get up.”
His hands leave the floor first, then as if in slow motion, his gown drops to the floor and the layers follow. Mousey brown hair shields that frown, but it’s clearly there. Blue-Green lenses were ridden with sorrow. The choir must have known a presence had risen because silence halted the world.
Jack adjusts watch. “Are you going to give up now? Or actually do something worth watching? Because it’s only once in a year's lifetime for you to do so.”
“Not everything’s ab—”
The echoes reach them through the chambers. “Boys! Now’s your time to make your way down!”
Simon glared from under his long stray strands. The exact reaction Jack desired, with a charming grin he let him leave.
Two o clock fast forwarded to Seven. The black sky’s slate perfect to set the stage. All boys rush to their destined places. Scripts long abandoned on the benches and stray chairs behind. It was show time. SamnEric silently snaked behind, yanking the velvet curtains apart in unison.
“The seats are filling up!” Ralph cheered careful not to accidentally get caught behind the nosebleeds.
In the pews, the first person to arrive is an excitable brunette woman. Her moss eyes were down casted and sloped, Jack recognized her instantly.
“Mother!” Simon’s bunny teeth peeked from his smile and he waved curiously.
Jack glanced at him sideways. As if to say, see? You were being batty over nothing.
“Boys stop running!”
“Maurice put your beard back on.”
“Ralph darling can you pass me that prop?”
Seconds. Minutes. Others chatted about the butterflies in their stomachs. Jack felt empty, and bored. The dust dancing around each other was more thrilling.
He stared at Simon. Simon stared back.
A heavenly halo floated above his cropped curls, eyelashes dark on his eyelids.
“We’re starting soon.”
“Really? I couldn’t tell.”
“Aren’t you nervous at all?”
“Nervous? Simon. I don’t even want to be here, I’d rather be playing solitaire with my father, this is a waste of time.”
A blink feels like twenty years. Simon tilts his head, then nods.
“He’ll come, Jack.” The shade of the curtains mystified him even though they were eye to eye. “And if he doesn’t then you’ll still do amazing.”
The busy-bee chatter of their friends buzzes instead of banter.
“Let’s go.” Jack pulled from the curtains suddenly interested in preparing.
Simon watched him go, then sighs. “Let’s go.”
Bit by bit, the chapel pews poured in with mothers, fathers, children who didn’t quite understand how to be quiet yet. Cousins and Grandparents who couldn’t wait to embarrass their family. Then, places were taken, a hush over the church.
The birth of Christ was prepared. A wooden crib protected by two very giggly sheep. A cutoff of the three wise men to the left of Mary, who skillfully recited each line perfectly in a singsong, Jack fought the urge to grin. She definitely believes she’s a real actor. But even the back row could see it on his face. After Mary placed a little baby Jesus in the crib, a musical chime rang out.
Jack leaned forward to see his reaction, “is he nervous? Has to be. It’d be a shame if he was, that’d be a waste of my good efforts.”
Chiffon edges of the gown drift against the stage, he swims in it, mothers and little children in the crowd mutter in awe.
“Well isn’t he pretty,” a middle aged woman huffs to herself out loud.
Simon stuttered a bit through his. But the crowd was full of “awes” as he took the baby prop and recited them. He was wonderful. Perfect.
Jack tried not to let his mind stray on the thought for too long.
Joesph wanted Mary. The beautiful woman with the brown hair that was modestly covered. Bashful and reliant, gentle. Not the tender all knowing Angel. Who was beyond gender, above the morality of humans. A spiritual being.
But Jack wasn’t Joseph. And this was just a damn child’s play.
Simon always had that holy air around him. A cleansing voice that felt like water fresh off his back. Those green-grey eyes carried a holiness that lacked judgement, only serenity. That mocking vice came back to bite: what an angel. It’s his fault his father did not come. If Simon had been Joseph, and Jack played his part, his father would be in the front row with a subtle smile. His fists hardened, eyes narrowed in with each word. His fault, it’s all his fault. He’s no angel, he’s a devil disguised as one. AT LEAST Jack is honest with who he is, but Simon. Simon shuts others out because he’s too good—too good for—
“Jack.” A mutter broke the spell.
“Your line.”
Jack whipped his head. To the audience, a big mistake. Everyone was waiting for him, eyes straight at him. A little boy covers his mouth in a yawn. Another woman’s gaze has pity written all over it. Sweat drips down cold. How long has the stage been silent?
Simon held baby Jesus close to his chest, as if it were a real infant. His lips part in slow motion, bottom and top unraveling to whisper; “Say your line.”
The girl playing Mary blinked a couple of times, her brown eyes flickered nervously between Simon and him. The seconds stretched into a full minute.
Jack’s eyebrows drew harshly together. A slick insult determined to burn him rose from his rash throat. Simon’s eyebrows pinch together, searching for an escape to total failure.
“…you’re an angel.”
The crowd shut itself silent. Mary gawked with hitched eyebrows. “You’re ruining my grand night”, all over her face. She can sod off.
And Simon.
From his peripheral vision, he can see the hanging drops of Roger to the aware gaze of Ralph.
And that empty chair, directly in the front drains all life from his eyes. He failed the test.
Marble chapel doors slam him on his way out, cold air chilling him to the bone. God’s way of reprimanding him. His head cover falls to the ground, and Jack tatters his costume off of him. He had failed the test, so he was going to burn the grade. Dewdrops sting the corners of his eyes but he cannot, will not cry outside. He crushes his embarrassment into rage, then breaks the corner.
It’s been maybe ten minutes. Perhaps an hour. The crickets began to sing and the streets are empty for a while.
I’m a failure. That’s why he’s not here.
He is free to sob, so he does.
There’s a light at the end of the tunnel. In an angel costume head to toe in glitter.
“You did well,” an airy voice praises, “why are you crying?”
He didn’t even hear his footsteps, Simon seems to glide on water, add that to the list, an oh so incredible miracle worker.
“If you’re not going to say anything nice Simon? Go the hell away.”
A twitch of the eyebrow. Simon bent down to sit next to him. When Jack scooted away, he didn’t move closer. “Everyone in that crowd came to see us Jack, think of the rest of us. We worked hard to—”
“—My own fucking father won’t even take time out of his boring day to see me, me! I’m his son. I’m his boy. I’m more interesting than any of you!” He didn’t realize his heart was begging for air. Ribs raw from beating. “What’s the point of working hard if there’s no one to cheer for you! Answer that Simon if you’re so wise!”
Simon ducked his head down. And let him speak.
“You don’t even try and people are obsessed with you!” He hilted his voice high, “Simon’s so great. Simon’s so perfect. He’s so precious—you aren’t the half!”
Simon clasps his hands in a perfect lock. “I don’t want the attention Jack. I never did.”
Jack scoffed: “liar. I bet you secretly savor it like the dog you are. Hungry for scraps, that sounds exactly like you!” He spits from how angry he is, a drop lands on a solemn Simon’s cheek. “Your own father doesn’t even love you! You don’t need this like I do. I need it more!”
Simon’s calm disposition, his open hands. Angel. He’s an Angel. He’s God’s favorite. Everyone’s favorite.
Jack stood up. Simon flinched.
“You do not enjoy acting. You are upset because I have something you want, I’m sorry Jack…I can’t help that.” His words are gentle, but that face is exhausted.
Jack spat on the ground. “Shut up. Your ‘pretty’ face doesn’t affect me. I don’t care if everyone loves you.”
Simon lifts his chin, an emotion not unlike hope gleamed in his eyes. “Pretty?”
Joseph's can’t want Angels.
But this one does.
“I hate you.”
Jack yanked him towards his lips, Simon’s muffled jump as his teeth chip into his. Thin hands cup the back of his head, bends his stupid halo, blunt nails dig into the glittery wings and tear the feathers off them. A murmur fights against it, Jack squeezes his eyelids until they ache. A small gasp mixes in with Jack’s determined hums, that spark lasts in the split of time. A golden burst of glory turns Jack inside out.
“Jack!” Simon shoves him off.
He hits the dirt hard, grunting on impact. Angel feathers fly around him, ripped from their host.
Simon looks as if he’s been shot by an arrow. The dots in his pupils shrink at his ruined wings. All that’s left is silver wire, horrifying to see. “No…” His breath rises. “This is awful— My costume… Miss Sarah worked so hard on it! How could you?”
Jack wipes the dirt off his lip. “Because you’re not an angel. You're as mortal as any of us.”
A beat.
“Just as you are a bully.” He’s done it now, Simon stands over him, not angry. Not even disappointed. But sympathetic. The line of his mouth is flat, no sign of emotion. Any hint he was human was the smudge of lip color. It enrages the sins inside Jack's mind, drives him mad. “And you don’t hate me either,” Simon added.
An outstretched hand.
Jack shields himself from the beam of mercy, his skin scorches.
“Take it,” the demand sounds like a blessing. “Please.”
“Fine.” Jack snaps. Efforts in vain. He accepts the fact that Simon was an angel even without the costume. He reserves the power back to him in a single pull. In Genesis, the angel cannot resist the temptations of man. So they fall to Earth.
Simon descends to the grass, his gown pillowing under him. He stares up at the stars, the real stars, and hums.
“It’s beautiful,” he says.
There’s grime, mud, ridden on his angelic get up. Sweat glues long black lines of hair against his forehead, he has deep purple under circles in his eyes. From lack of sleep, and flood of stress. And of course, the boy does not complain. Jack smiles to himself, perhaps theatre isn’t so bad afterall. Simon; the speckled human boy, imperfect and blemished.
“Hm.” He muttered. Lost in thought, unaware of how concerned he seemed to the other.
Simon’s no angel. Not a being of Nature or some greater good. And Jack’s not destined to be an unfulfilled Joseph. Not quite, they are both simply regular, imperfect, boys.
Now, they’re even.