Actors Day 14

We sat in the waiting area with a group of theatre students from a nearby college. One-act plays were coming up that weekend and they were going on Talk of Boston to publicize them. Their energy was bouncy and stagey, and I would’ve pegged them theatre kids before finding out they were theatre kids.

“Think they’ll ask us to sing?” the girl with the curly brown hair asked the rest of her theatre troop. “If so, I volunteer!”

“But Josie’s the best singer.” Another pointed to the quietest one sitting at the end. “She should sing.”

“They won’t ask us to sing, Elizabeth,” said the lone guy in the group. “You always think everyone wants you to sing and no one ever wants you to sing.”

“Well,” Elizabeth replied. “Maybe we sing whether they ask or not.”

“You mean you, right?” he replied. “Just you.”

She shrugged and dramatically folded her arms.

The guy turned his attention to us. “Sorry,” he said. “We’ve been up since three in the morning rehearsing these one-acts. Mine is called Scentsationalism, A Comedy. Wrote it myself. Premiers Friday if you want to come. It’s free! And funny. Anyway, though. What are you here to talk about?”

I cleared my throat, giving myself time to decide whether to tell them or not. But what the hell. “We developed a dating App in our dorm room,” I said watching their expressive faces closely. No one seemed to know about it, which made me think we may be in the Harvard bubble, and folks on the outside haven’t caught wind of Flavor of Harvard yet. Until…

“My dad directs Harvard-Ratcliffe Drama Club,” said the quiet girl they’d all agreed could sing the best. “He and my mom loved Flavor of Love. He voted in one of the drama guys, but he’s ranked at like twenty-three, nowhere near the Cowboy. Your App is cool.”

“Thank you,” I nodded.

“What are you even talking about?” asked the one guy in the group. “What’s the dating App have to do with Flavor of Love?”

I let Wes explain it since I was attempting to focus on the upcoming interview. Wes didn’t seem nervous at all, but I was petrified. My television station down south wasn’t all that small – we shared with Birmingham’s metropolitan which served a few hundred thousand people, but Boston was gigantic compared to that. Cambridge felt like a bridge to Boston and Boston felt like a bridge to the greater United States whereas Alabama floated somewhere between Florida and the sea. After Wes’ detailed explanation the troop became animated.

“Can you open the App up to our small liberal arts college?” asked Elizabeth. “I’d love to play.”

“I don’t---”

“This sounds like a movie!” she interrupted before jumping from her chair and reaching into her tote bag with the drama smile/frown faces on it. “Here’s my card. I’d love to audition.”

Just then, a producer announced the troop to the stage and after a few last-minute huffy breathing exercises, they turned the corner into the studio. Wes’ surprise kiss on my cheek made me jump like I’d been bitten by a snake.

“Sorry,” I said regretfully. “Nervous is all.”

“You don’t have to do this, you know?” he said grabbing hold of my arm. “If it’s not your thing...”

“No,” I said thinking of what the girl from Math had said no one will ever guess it’s you.

She was so right. I thought of myself on the farm back home. Sitting in quiet spaces. Reading books, some beautiful, some tragic and others wildly offensive. Books took me away and off to places I was forced to imagine, and in my mind, I was always there. Even if the author described the main character as a flowing delicate with golden locks and ocean eyes, still, I saw myself there.

I’d interpret myself into those books as the lead, only instead of strands of blonde hair mine would be lifted sister locs and my ocean eyes wouldn’t be blue, they’d be dark brown, deep, and endless like the ocean. Mysterious, teaming with life. But most readers would never think to see me there, let alone as a developer.

Southern, Black, homeschooled girl with a chicken named Annie experiences her first dating show marathon, first kiss, and first sexual encounter within her first two weeks at Harvard. Oh, and then she conceptualizes potentially the next big, viral App while beating off millionaire, maybe billionaire, tech bros with single word emails. I am a badass, as the girl from Math had told me. I’d never seen anything like me either. And if this is what I accomplish in my first few weeks here, how far could I eventually go?

I glanced over at Wes. Such a kind-hearted guy. This had all started when he said he’d leave for England. He’d been the engine driving me forward, but he was not enough. I barely even knew him, after all. I shook the thought away and again, I thought of books.

I would hate me as a main character. So wishy-washy. So, on the fence about my main motivation – is it sex? A cute boy poet? A Harvard education? Breaking out of my country-girl box? Generational improvement? I had absolutely no idea. But this could be my chance to shatter a stigma of who gets to drive the narrative zeitgeist. Even if it was on a five-minute segment on the afternoon news wedged between weather and traffic, I could conquer all my potential motivations here and now. Who else could say they had such an opportunity?

“I can do this,” Wes smiled. “It’s okay if you’re struggling. I’ve got you.”

“No, Wes. I’ve got me.” I stood up. “And I need to show myself.”

“You’re up,” the producer called us back.

The troop passed as we walked the long hallway to the studio. “Break a leg,” said Elizabeth. “They didn’t let me sing.”

“She sure as hell tried though,” the guy in the troop said smiling. “They make it easy. It feels like two-seconds and it’s over.”

“We’ll be watching,” said another followed by a whispered chorus of break a leg well-wishes.

The lights shone through the studio door and two producers threaded microphones up the backs of our shirts.

“We haven’t had access to Flavor of Harvard,” said one of the producers as she taped a wire to my bra strap. “Which of you is most comfortable telling the details.”

“I will,” said Wes before giving me a chance to speak. My face must’ve shown disdain because he shrugged. “I’m better at that.”

I remained quiet.

The producers noticed too since they gave each other a look like my twin sisters do when they’re keeping a messy secret.

“Two-minutes till call,” said one of them.

“See you on the other side,” said the other.

We sat on velvety purple chairs while the host sat in an orange one. She wore high black stilettos with slightly scuffed red bottoms and a fitting purple dress. I should’ve put more effort into my outfit, I realized. Looking down, I wore off-black pants that could have passed for sweats. I remembered them crisp once with slice creases down the front. They’d been washed hundreds of times and retained zero professionalism. My shirt was worst – un-ironed white button down straight from the drier. Iris would murder me.

“Welcome Wesley Trammel and Sophia Maclean to Talk of Boston,” she said in a kind but powerful tone I wanted to emulate.

“Thank you,” Wes said chipper with his chin tilted down revealing the under-whites of his eyes. I was beginning to think it may be a fashioned tactic.

“Yes,’ I said with my chin high. “Thank you.”

I heard my voice confident, though I couldn’t tell if it was convincing or not.

“I must say, I’ve been excited to meet you two all day,” she said leaning in. “I was able to gain access to your Application, Flavor of Harvard, late this morning and I have never seen anything remotely similar. It is, what? A day old.”

“Two, actually,” I said forcing myself not to hide my southern accent. It was a major part of me and I wasn’t going to hide it.

“Wow,” she replied. “Two short days and you’ve created something so fresh and new. I will give a warning to our audience; you must have a Harvard.edu email address to gain access, correct?”

“Yes,” I replied before Wes had a change to jump in and dominate.

“Well, that sounds familiar,” the interviewer smiled. “Tell us about your application.”

That’s when Wesley began speaking and did not stop for nearly the remainder of the segment. I watched as the interviewer nodded and chuckled and sighed over me like I was chopped liver. The large countdown clock in the back ticked down and thirty-seconds remained while Wes was still chattering, leaving no natural place for interruption. I did so my force.

“I would like to add,” I said weightily. “Before we are out of time.”

“Yes, please do,” said the interviewer turning her cross legs away from Wesley and toward me.

“I conceptualized this App, put a team together, and provided guidance, timeline and launch specifics in days. This endeavor has been the most challenging of my life, but our momentum is great and headwinds strong.”

The interviewer leaned back in her chair, looking at me like the secretary had just taken reigns from the CEO. “So, forgive me, I must ask. Who developed the Flavor of Harvard Application?”

“I did,” I said boldly before Wes could speak again. “With the endless help of a powerful team behind me – a brilliant designer, Iris. An unmatched technological mind, Deacon. And this powerhouse people manager, Wesley.”

The time clock blared red and blinked zero. Still, she leaned in closer to me. “But you,” she glanced at her notes. “Eighteen-year-old from Alabama, Sophia Maclean. Are in charge?”

“I. Am.”