My only love sprung from my only hate!
Too early seen unknown, and known too late!
Prodigious birth of love it is to me
That I must love a loathèd enemy.
Romeo & Juliet Act 1, scene 5
Chapter 1
Naya
My heart is fluttering as I walk toward the brick building that will house the majority of my four years of college: Stanley Hall. Even though I’ve seen the building a million times on-line, seeing it in person leaves me breathless. I actually have stop in mid-stride to take in its beauty. The worn red brick coupled with crisp New England charm make the theatre complex nothing short of intimidating.
Tucking a stray strand of my too-straight, too-black hair behind my ear, I take a nerve calming sip of my coffee mug and march toward the door, determined to not let my fear of not measuring up get the best of me.
“You made me give up Florida State for this?” a voice whispers in my ear.
I just about jump out of my skin. “Seth! You scared me!” I scream, punching him lightly on the arm.
“You know it’s not nice to hit,” he says, pleased with himself.
“Sorry. I’m just a little…intimidated at the moment,” I say, tucking that same damn strand of hair behind my ear again.
Seth just laughs at me. He takes my chin in his hand, forcing me to look at him. “Hey, remember what my dad says. ‘Never let them see you sweat,’” he says before he pulls me in close to his chest.
“Right,” I say, putting on a brave face. Seth hates to see weakness in people. Especially in me. “I should go.”
I push him away gently and turn toward the theatre and take my first tentative steps before I am struck by a thought. I turn around and find Seth still there, smirking at me.
“What are you doing here anyway? You don’t have any classes today.”
“I know,” he grins. “I just wanted to see my girl before her first class.”
Or check up on me, I can’t help but think, but I smile, because a smile is what he expects.
“You’ll meet me for lunch and tell me all about it,” he says, before he presses his cool lips to mine. I nod in understanding before he lets my hand go.
I watch him disappear down the hill toward his dorm before I turn back to my face my current nemesis.
Here goes nothing.
As soon as I walk into the building, any courage I had managed to build up disappears and I am overcome with childish jitters. Nervously, I pull out my schedule, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, to look again at the room number of my first class: 111. Honestly, Naya, how hard is that to remember?
Casually glancing up at the doors as I walk past, I notice that the numbers are climbing up; I’m heading in the right direction. When I round the corner at the end of the hallway, I find it. ‘Movement for the Actor.’ Butterflies fill my stomach. Squaring my shoulders, I steady myself and walk through the door.
A quick survey of the room reveals nothing overtly intimidating. It’s just a large, open space. In the corner there is an area set up with chairs and a movable white board. Along the back wall are his and her bathrooms. The opposite side of the room is lined with floor-to-ceiling mirrors. Aside from that, the room is completely empty.
Great. Not only am I a freshman with no friends (because let’s face it, boyfriends shouldn’t count), I am also that girl: the one who is always early, eager, and ready to learn.
Dragging my much-too-prompt feet toward the chairs, I plop down in the back row and pull out my tattered copy of Romeo & Juliet from my backpack to create the illusion of being ‘otherwise engaged.’ It’s my favorite play, and not because of their ridiculous, unrealistic love affair. It’s Shakespeare’s use of poetic irony that is simply priceless: just when you find Mr. Right, death comes knocking. It’s perfect. But then maybe, just maybe, I’m a little bitter and the subjects of love and death are still too raw for me. Maybe.
Opening to where I had dog-eared my page, I settle deeper into my chair. I’m just about to dive into Act Two, when he walks in.
Etash
I’m already awake when the sun comes up, but I’m too annoyed to get out of bed; I hate first days.
When I’m finally able to talk myself into a shower, I debate briefly whether to shave the beard I’ve been trying to grow all summer, or keep it. Screw it. I’m shaving it. The damn thing never grew in where I needed it to anyway.
I’m hopeful that this year will be easier since most of the student body got their ‘grand reveal’ last year, it’ll only be the freshman I’ll have to try hiding from until they’ve managed to sneak a peek. Thankfully, after a few weeks, they too, will ignore me and then I’ll be able to breathe and be myself again.
Pulling into the almost-empty lot, I turn off the engine of my ’89 VW, yank out my schedule and shake my head. Acting. Although I can understand the rationale for having to take acting classes as part of my directing major, I’m still not happy about it. This face needs to be offstage, not on it.
The only thing that will make this class bearable will be Professor Williams. As a former Broadway star, he knows his stuff. I was able to stage manage for one of his shows last year, so he and I get along nicely. I do as he asks and he keeps his eyes off of me. A perfect working relationship.
Checking the clock on the dashboard, I note that I’m 20 minutes early. Right on time. Being early is one of my few indulgences; it allows me just enough time to find a seat without a ton of eyes watching my every move and whispering remarks behind my back.
So when I open the door to class, I am extremely annoyed to find that another student has beaten me there–forcing me to walk past her and her predictable stare.
Naya
There is nothing unusual about how he enters the room, unless you notice his dark eyes glued to the floor, which I do.
I am instantly struck by how uncomfortable he seems to be. His shoulders are slumped so low that it looks like he’s trying to crawl inside his shirt. He grabs a seat in the front of the room, diagonally from where I sit, his left side facing the wall.
Needing something to do with my hands, I push up the sleeves of my deep plum v-neck. The dark color does nothing to hide my overt paleness, but I haven’t worn light colors since… well, a long time.
Several minutes pass and we remain the only two in the room. I feel like I should introduce myself, or at least say ‘hi,’ but there is something about the way he sits in his chair that makes me hold my tongue. It’s as though he’s willing himself to blend in with the room and not be noticed. I can respect that; I want the same thing.
Picking up my book again, I try to move my eyes back to the page, but no matter how hard I try, they disobey me. They stay transfixed to the back of his dark, curly hair; mesmerized.
Perhaps it’s because I have never seen someone with his exact coloring before. It isn’t tan. No, definitely not tan, but more, what, olive? Is he Asian? No. Middle-Eastern? Indian?
I want desperately for him to turn his head, just a little, so I can get a glimpse of this person from whom I can’t manage to pull my gaze. But he holds his focus on a book he’s drumming his thumb on. Curious to know what he’s reading, my eyes allow a quick move towards the cover. It looks familiar–really familiar. No way. He’s reading Romeo & Juliet too. I actually laugh out loud. No, laugh is too polite a word. I guffawed. His dark eyes turn over his shoulder, ever so slightly, to glare at me. The girl who is openly laughing at him. Shit.
My mouth hangs open as I try come up with an apology for my overt rudeness, but the second our eyes meet, I feel a sudden liquid-hot jolt run through me which causes me to flinch. Out of the corner of my eye, I swear I see him do the same, but he doesn’t acknowledge it. He just keeps his dark, piercing eyes focused on me, waiting for an explanation for my outburst.
“Ah, we seem to be reading the same thing,” I blurt out, holding up my copy.
“So it would seem.” He continues his over-the-shoulder stare for a long moment as though trying to figure out some great mystery.
The sound of the door opening breaks the spell and I’m able to look away from him. Alarmed by the blush that is creeping onto my face, I bury my head in my book.
I force myself to focus on the words printed on the page, to breathe in and out and forget about the boy with the dark eyes. Slowly, I begin losing myself in the world of Capulets and Montagues. But even The Bard can’t keep my attention held for more than a few minutes. The desire to sneak another peak at the dark boy is too strong.
Lowering my book a fraction of an inch, I chance a glance up, unable to resist any longer. Thankfully, his eyes are safely focused on the professor that I didn’t notice come in. In fact, there are quite a few new additions to the room. Looking around the once empty space, I find that it is now almost full. When did that happen?
Nearly all of the chairs have been taken; save for the row I am sitting in. Apparently the back of the class is not the place to sit in an acting class. Who knew?
“Good morning everyone. I am Professor Williams and this is Movement for Actors. And for the record, I’m no more thrilled with this 9:00 am slot than any of you are,” he says, taking a sip of his coffee for emphasis.
He is dressed casually; dark corduroys, paired with a light sweater, and light brown sports coat. Only the worn cowboy boots seem out of place.
Professor Williams scans the room briefly, getting a feel for his newest crop, when his eyes stop on mine.
“You, in the back, what’s your name?” he asks.
I clear my throat, finding it very hard to speak at the moment.
“Naya. Naya Adams,” I manage to croak out.
As I look back down to my chair, I notice all eyes in the class are on me; all of them.
“Well, Ms. Adams, why don’t you join the rest of the class? You seem so far away from me back there.” He motions for me to come down closer. “There’s a seat right here, down in front.”
A seat right next to him.
Of course.
Cursing under my breath, I make my way to the front of the room. It is at that moment, the moment I settle my weight into the chair, that I feel it; the full dose of what had only been hinted at earlier.
The tiny hairs on my arms and the back of my neck stand up on end. A crushing pressure is building inside me making it feel like my insides are about to collapse in on themselves. But this pressure…it’s not like a force of gravity pulling me down to Earth. This seems to defy gravity and instead pulls me sideways, toward him.
My heartbeat quickens and my hands ball into fists trying to control the light trembling that has begun there. With great concentration I’m able to turn my head just enough to see his hands in the exact same position as mine. What the hell is going on?
“We’ve just met Naya,” Professor Williams’ voice manages to register in some faraway corner of my mind, “Why don’t we go around the room briefly and introduce ourselves?”
Turning my head back to my hands, the pressure decreases by the smallest of increments. I’m now able to make out the other students’ voices as they start rattling off their names, where they are from and such, but I can’t seem to actually register what they are saying. Only one name is allowed in.
“Etash.”
Etash
Now that she’s sitting right next to me, I’m somehow hyper-aware of everything about her. The ram-rod way her back is pressed against her chair, the sound of her heart fluttering wildly in her chest, her midnight black hair moving gently across her shoulders. But it’s her scent that’s killing me. It’s wafting off her snowy white skin, overwhelming my other senses. And it’s more than the obvious stuff too, like the coffee she’s had or the smell of her shampoo, but harder to pick up stuff. I can clearly make out her subtle hint of peppermint toothpaste, lavender smoothed across her pale arms; even the waxiness of lip-balm.
All of those smells combined are easily ignored compared to the one that’s taken hostage of her clothing. This lone scent causes my nostrils to flare and clench my teeth together dangerously hard. Men’s cologne. Inexplicably, I am suddenly furious with whoever was close enough to place his rank scent on her: on my Naya.
Whoa. Wait. ‘My Naya?’ I don’t even know this girl!
Desperately needing to get a grip, I bring my focus back to my hands, which are still pulled together so tight that it’s starting to hurt. They won’t come apart no matter how hard I try, so I press them under my arms to try and pry them open against my rib cage. I’ve almost got one of my fingers free when I see her getting to her feet. She’s being pulled up to the front of the class by a tall brunette.
As soon as she’s on her feet, it washes over me. A sensation so strong that it feels like a hundred hands on me, all pulling me in the same direction: toward her. Confused, I push back against the mounting pressure and manage to keep my butt firmly planted in my chair, for the moment anyway.
Once she’s several feet away from me, however, the sensation lessens, allowing me to relax my body enough to release my fists. They ache from the strain of being held prisoner for so long.
Although physically no longer chained to her, my eyes haven’t gotten the memo; they never leave her. I literally can not stop myself from watching her every move. She is simply too mesmerizing to stop. Her jet-black hair is like liquid lava as it falls down her back and against her beautiful soft, ivory skin. And her face–her face is so fresh and clean, void of the harsh make-up worn by most of her peers, making her even more stunning to look at. It strikes me that because of her natural look, some might call her plain. Just the errant thought of someone even thinking about her as less than perfect, makes me feel utterly and irrationally hostile.
Naya
I can feel his eyes on me as I try desperately to follow the professor’s instructions. My head is screaming at me to turn around and march back to my seat—back to him, but I’m refusing to listen.
Forcing my body into the positions Professor Williams gives us, I deliberately avoid eye contact with anyone. Just focus on the movements, Naya. Arms over head, right knee up, and twist. Ow. Other side. Good.
After leading us through Salute to the Sun, a yoga pose I thankfully already knew, Professor Williams excuses us and asks for a few more volunteers. Etash, mercifully, jumps out of his seat before I can approach him and joins the next group and stands in profile.
Rolling up his sleeves as he moves forward he exposes more of his glorious, glowing skin. Looking at the dark curls on the back of his head, it dawns on me that I haven’t really seen his whole face yet, noting how careful he has been to keep his face hidden. Carefully, I steady my focus on the top of his head. Not wanting to risk looking in his eyes again, I skip past them, remembering their blackness from when he came in. Moving to safer territory, I take in his nose, which is straight and thin. His jaw is slightly chiseled, showing off amazing cheekbones. His lips are a bit smaller than my full lips, but far from thin. And those curls! Dark and lush, hugging every contour of the right side of his face.
I can’t help but notice that Etash is exact opposite of Seth with his surfer-blond hair and pale blue eyes.
That’s when it happens. He turns his face with the movements and I see what he has been so carefully hiding from everyone since the moment he walked into the class: a long, painful and angry looking scar runs from the corner of his left eye and down past his jaw line before it disappears under his shirt.
Seeing his beautiful face mutilated, my heart lets out an involuntary cry knowing it must have once caused him extreme pain. I’m overcome with irrational fury toward whoever caused it.
You would think that his scar would make him less attractive. But it doesn’t. In fact, it does just the opposite. He is positively stunning.
Unfortunately, my peers don’t seem to agree with my assessment. Listening to their hushed whispers as they stare at him makes me want to turn around and pummel them all.
Whoa! Naya, chill out!You don’t even know this guy!
Needing to play it safe, I keep myself as far away from Etash as possible. Which thankfully, Professor Williams makes easy by keeping us on our feet for the remainder of class, so I just counter every move Etash makes while he seems to do the same.
When class finally ends, I’m surprised to find that my heart skip a beat watching him disappear off the floor with a herd of other students. I deliberately stay put, chatting nervously with the tall brunette who pulled me onto the floor earlier. I think she said her name was Kari, but I’m not even sure who I am at this point. Although I want to give this girl my undivided attention, I can’t help but stare at Etash as he storms out of the room, my entire body mourning at his departure.
Etash
My next two classes, directing and lighting, pass in a daze, which is extremely frustrating. Normally these would be classes that I would be excited about, but all I can think about is that stupid girl. It’s not like me to think about girls like this, period. Thinking about her, or any other girl in any way other than a platonic relationship, will only lead to my heart getting trampled on.
But I can’t help myself! Her face is there, burned into my retinas, every time I close my eyes. My stomach is twisting itself into knots just thinking about her. By the time I meet with Elizabeth Campbell, the director I’m working with for the fall show, I am a wreck.
“Yikes. What train just hit you?” she asks, pulling her purple glasses off, resting them on her head.
I flop down into the chair in front of her desk, tossing my bag hard onto the other one.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I hiss at her with more venom than she is owed. She looks at me wide-eyed, then purses her thin lips into a hard line.
“Fine. I didn’t want to hear it anyway,” she replies quickly retrieving her glasses again. I can tell she has been stung.
I’m a prick.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that. I’ve just got a lot on my mind right now.”
She smiles at me, letting me off the hook. She’s cool like that.
“Well, you’re about to have a lot more on your mind” She slides over a flier with the audition notice. The words ‘come prepared to move’ are highlighted in yellow.
“You sure you still want to do this show without words?” I ask, shaking my head at her and her crazy ideas. “It’s not too late, you know.”
She glares at me and grabs the flier out of my hands.
“Yes, I’m sure. With our combined dance skills, this show is going to blow people’s minds.” She sits back in her over sized office chair that practically swallows her small frame and smiles. “That’s why I hand-picked you to be my Assistant Director, you know? You really are an amazing dancer.”
“And here I thought it was because of my boyish good looks,” I snort.
She leans across her desk, all traces of amusement disappearing from her face.
“Why aren’t you a dance major?” she asks. “Not that you aren’t going to be a wonderful director, you are. But dancing is where your heart is. Even an old lady like me can see that.”
Such a stupid question. I turn the left side of my face to her and point. “This is why I’m not a dancer,” I hiss.
She starts blathering something about how I’m always hiding behind my scar. Blah, blah, blah. I’ve heard it all before from too many people. I’m not about to take it from her too.
Frustrated, I lie and say I’m late for my shift at the bookstore. I leave before I have to see the pity seep into her eyes.
Back at my apartment I pull a veggie burrito out of the freezer, toss it in the microwave, grab a water from the fridge and flop down on the couch, trying my best not to think. I take my time eating, concentrating very deliberately on each bite, ignoring the fact that Naya’s face keeps popping into my head every time I close my eyes.
I take my time washing my one cup from this morning, spending a good five minutes filling the sink and squirting on the liquid until it forms a foamy hill. After it’s been thoroughly dried and put away, I look around my empty apartment and feel absolutely alone.
Needing a distraction, I take out my script and start pouring over the pages of notes Elizabeth and I have worked on during the summer.
She got her insane idea for the show last year when she flew to Chicago to visit her sister. At a little no-name theatre there she saw a production of Anton Chekhov’s The Seagull done without words, just music and movement–and she was sold. All thoughts of doing the fall show straight were abandoned from that point on. She called me the second she got back into town and asked me to be her assistant director.
Elizabeth is one of a handful of people who know that I can dance. For obvious reasons, I dance only in private. For most of my freshman year I had managed to go unnoticed; until last spring. It was semester break and the campus was deserted, so it should have been a safe time to dance, but Elizabeth had had the same idea, bursting into the same studio I was in. She apologized for intruding, but asked if we might share the space. I was about to politely decline when she put on some Celtic music I’d never heard before. The tracks were so haunting and full of sorrow and loss that I couldn’t stop myself. For some reason I was comfortable with Elizabeth. She never once diverted her eyes when looking at me. It was surprisingly refreshing.
From then on, we would meet during semester breaks to dance, each bringing in music the other had never heard. As a result of those times, we became close. In fact, this summer, she even invited me to dinner with her and her husband, a jazz musician, at their beach house.
It was the type of house I would love to have. Although it was small, just one bedroom, it was perfect. The best part about it were the walls. Every square inch was covered with family photos in mismatched frames. Snapshots of weddings, reunions, smiling little children and couples who looked too perfect to be real. I remembered thinking that the pictures were a testament to the idealistic life they had led. And I couldn’t help but feel a pang of jealousy.
“Your family must love coming here to spend time with the two of you,” I had said, looking at one frame with a small child and a dog running in the sand.
She smiled a sad smile and took a small sip of her wine.
“They would. If I had any.”
“Oh, but I thought…well, all the pictures on the wall…”
Elizabeth sighed. “They came with the frames. The house felt empty before I put them up.” She got up and slipped outside and stood with her feet buried in the sand.
We never spoke of that moment again, but I understood then that we had a common hurt. Each of us longing for something we could never have.
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