All The World May Be a Stage, But We Can't All Be the Best of Actors

It was Saturday, and only two days until drama class would take place--the drama class that James and I would act out our scene. The tension between the two of us had begun to fade, and the upcoming performance was not so terrifying anymore. I was unsure if our performance would be better than Jenna and Todd's, however I was beginning to care less and less. There was something about James, no matter how cold he seemed, that had taught me something about myself. I resented admitting it, but after he had embraced me in his dilapidated apartment, something inside of me changed. I was unsure what it was, but some sort of force from his touch had caused something inside of me to catch aflame. Realizations came to me like a rain of bullets. Perhaps, my rivalry with Jenna Coalman was not as important as I had once thought.

I was itching to go to James's apartment, however, my father was home for the weekend, which was a rarity. My father's job is traveling around the working and critiquing resorts, restaurants, hotels, and attractions so travel agents could plan vacations for clients. It was unusual for him to be home for more than a day on days other than holidays, thus my mother insisted I stayed home to spend some time with him.

Speaking with my father was awkward. Wer were less than close and the small talk was always excruciating. He knew the basic things about me. Everything that was on my online profile was the extent of my father's knowledge about my life, since that was the only way we ever conversed. He was aware of my sexuality, my love for drama, and my thirst to be the best. As far as anything else, my life was as much a mystery to him as his was to me.

"So how's school?" my father asked. It was a typical question. Even on Christmas, that was probably the first thing he asked me.

"Boring," I answered, as always, and asked him, "and how is work?"

"Same old, same old. Greece was nice. Sweden, not so much," he said with a chuckle. "Damn! Colder there than it is here!"

I laughed, nervously, unsure how to respond. Though my father had been offered extra tickets for his job, he had always refused to take the rest of the family on one of his trips. He claimed that Mable was too young. Before Mable was too young, my mother was pregnant. Before my mother was pregnant, he was afraid I would get motion sickness. I had never traveled outside of the United States, therefore, I did not know what a foreign country would be like. I had no experiences to share, thus all I could do was listen.

"Glad to be home, though," he continued. "Gets mighty boring laying around hotel rooms alone all the time."

I nodded, feeling awkward. My father always gave me a strange feeling in the depths of my stomach. I had always been unsure of what the feeling was, but I knew he was not exactly the ideal father. I felt guilty thinking this way, realizing he was a much better father than some fathers were. Some fathers hardly move and sacrifice their children's lives by refusing to work or pay taxes, such as James's father did. I realized, however, that my father was still not a proper father. He met new people every day--people whom he probably knew more about than his own family. I broke out of my thoughts to listen to his questions.

"How's the whole drama thing going?" he asked, taking a sip of beer.

"It's going," I answered.

"Good," he said, trying to act interested.

We sat in an awkward silence. He continued to drink his beer, trying to focus on something other than me, avoiding eye contact at all costs. I fixed my eyes upon a vase on the entertainment center, waiting for my mother and Mable to return with groceries.

"What's your mother been up to?" he finally asked.

"She wants to be a chef now," I answered, trying to sound as serious as possible.

He nodded, again, trying to act interested. The last time my father had visited, my mother was going to yoga classes daily. She had had several other interests in his constant absence, but it was unimportant, and I did not feel like discussing it with him.

Another awkward silence enveloped the room, occasionally interrupted by the loud gulping noise my father made when he drank the beer in his hand. Biting my lip, I fixed my eyes on the blank television screen as my father's gulps became white noise. Drowning him out was not difficult, though I still felt incredibly awkward. He was only sitting on the opposite end of the sofa, and generally, sitting so close, conversation was a social rule. The wait for my mother and Mable's return was proving difficult.

The doorbell rang, bringing me out of my trance. I stood and walked to the door, opening it, and smiling when I saw James's face. Though I had only seen him the day before, I had missed him more than I should have. He smiled back at me and I stepped aside, wordlessly, to let him walk in.

He stepped inside, his old sneakers squeaking against the linoleum. Knowing my mother's rule, he removed the shoes and placed them neatly next to mine, following me into the living room. My father looked up and James looked at me in question.

"Dad, this is James. James, this is my dad."

My father smiled at James, but James did not smile back. I elbowed him, hoping he would understand my hint, but James was not one to hide his emotions through his facial expressions, though he would never say his emotions aloud.

"Call me Dave," my father said, trying to be friendly. He extended his hand and James approached it slowly, shaking it with his long, pale fingers, still scrutinizing my father's every feature.

"Come on, James," I said, urging him to follow me up the stairs. It was not difficult to foresee he was about to create an awkward situation.

James slowly curled his lips into a smug look and said, "Nice to meet you," before following me towards the stairwell. My father appeared bewildered at James's behavior as we retreated from the living room and up the steps.

My mother and Mable arrived home later than I had expected. My mother immediately began preparing our dinner. Though we were on the second story, James and I still made faces as the odor from my mother's dinner plans permeated the air.

I was suddenly embarassed, and decided to offer to buy him a small pizza.

He shook his head, "No, no. It smells great." He forced a smile.

I laughed a little at him and he beamed.

My cheeks grew warm and I asked, "What is it?"

He shrugged, "Nothing."

"Tell me!" I argued.

He laughed, "It's nothing, really."

"Please tell me?" I pleaded.

He laughed a little more, "You're just cute when you laugh is all."

His pale cheeks had a rosy tint to them that I had never witnessed before. He had been embarassed in front of me before, but never to the point of blushing. I was blushing even more now that I had processed what he said, but I did not want to make more out of it than it really was.

Some deity was on my side that night, for I had them to thank for yet another interruption.

"Dinner!" my mother called.

James followed me down the stairwell and we walked into the kitchen. I sat beside him, across from Mable and my mother. My father sat on an end, as vacant from the rest of us as he usually was. He looked at James and I, but said nothing, though I knew what he was assuming. I blushed at the thought, looking away from James so he did not notice me doing so.

"What's on the menu tonight, my little chef?" my father asked my mother.

James stifled a laugh, knowing quite well by now that my mother was not a chef. My mother blushed at his new pet name for her, and I simply gaped at the two. I never had understood how my mother's feelings for my father's did not fade since they only saw each other but a few times a year, and talked on the phone perhaps less than he was home.

"It's my own dish, actually," my mother said, setting a sirloin steak on my father's plate and pouring some sort of gravy atop.

"What's in it?" he asked, acting interested as usual. It astonished me that my mother had never seen through his signature act.

"Oh a little of this, a little of that. Mango, strawberry, basil..."

"In gravy?" my father asked, looking shocked.

James and I exchanged glances. We both knew that any insult to my mother's food would result badly. When Mable had thrown it at the wall, she was sobbing for hours. I could not even fathom to think of what she was going to do now that an adult complained about it.

A hurt expression fell across her face, but she held her tongue, and slowly began serving the rest of us. James and I began eating it, immediately. I was still embarassed of my mother, and I felt horrible for letting him eat the monstrosities, but he had not complained once.

My cut Mable's steak for her, and looked back to my father, hopefully. He still refused to eat the steak. She sighed and began to eat her own meal.

It was not long before my father excused himself from the table. James watched him warily as he walked toward the living room, his cellular telephone in hand.

We were sitting in my room, listening to music and talking, as we usually had. James had grown on me. He was completely the opposite of what I thought he was. I had began to crave him. I craved his smooth, silky voice. I craved his scent of cigarettes and cologne. I craved his opinions, his honesty. It was all very terrifying, but one of the things James had taught me was that pushing one's emotions away is unhealthy. I learned to accept that James had a place in my heart, and I did not fight it. I did not act on it, but I did not try and push the feelings away, either.

"Your dad carries his cell phone," James said.

I raised my eyebrow, "Yes? So?"

"No, I mean he doesn't let it out of his sight. When I first saw him, it was in his shirt pocket. At dinner, it was in his hand the whole time. When he left the table, he had it. It's really weird."

I shrugged, "I guess."

"Hold on a sec. Bathroom," James said, standing up. I nodded and waited for him.

I let myself drift into my own thoughts. It was so odd to have my father around. I felt as though he did not belong. Our family consisted of my mother, Mable, and me. He felt more like a distant cousin than a father. He had absolutely nothing in common with my mother, and nothing in common with Mable or me. His world was about his job. My mother and I had worlds that consisted of hopes and dreams. The puzzle pieces just did not fit.

James walked back in, a sad look on his face. He looked to the ground and took my hand.

I blushed and felt a tiny jolt of electricity, but I realized he was not only wanting to touch me, for he was pulling me. I followed him down the hallway and asked, "What are you doing?"

He held his finger to his lips and mouthed, "Listen."

I listened. I wish I could say what I had heard was a surprise, but I would only be lying to myself. My father was home but five times a year for more than a day. His mail was sent to his own personal P.O. box, and he made no efforts to help our family. He was a puzzle piece that did not belong. He had jammed himself into the hole of which he did not fit, and the pressure had finally pushed him back out.

"I'm in America but I'll be back to see you soon. I love you, honey. Bye." Then his cellular telephone clicked.

I felt a tear fall down my cheek, not for myself, but for my mother. James squeezed my hand I remembered he was there. I felt a little better.