Page 29 of Merciless Prince
The producer held up the fingers on his left hand and started to count down as another production staffer reached for the door handle. “Go,” he finally whispered.
The door swung all the way open, and I stepped out onto the stage. The set design was a little different than I expected. It was meant to be a random West Wing office, but instead it looked exactly like the Oval Office.
“Thank god! She’s finally here!” one of the actors on the other side of the fake office said. I didn’t recall that line from the script, but I knew it wasn’t uncommon for the show’s regular actors to improv lines here and there.
I turned to look at Theo Stanley, who was playing a presidential aide. “Sir, the president needs to see you.Now.”
Confusion flickered in his eyes, but he didn’t miss a beat. “Well,” he said with a smile. “It’s a good thing thatyou’rethe president, then.” He dipped his chin in a deferential nod. “Madam President.”
I stared at him with my mouth slightly open. He wasn’t supposed to say that. I was just a White House intern in this skit. Not the president.
“Madam President, we have a problem,” one of the other actors said, briskly stepping across the stage. A file sat in the crook of her right arm.
I stared at her. That wasn’t her line either. It wasn’tanyone’sline in this skit. What the hell was going on?
“What is it?” I asked her, even though that wasn’t my next line.
Her brows furrowed, and she held the file out to me. “The press got a hold of your emails discussing your plan to put all men in cages. Should we play it off as a joke?”
My next words dried up in my mouth as panic rose in my chest. None of this was right. No one was following the script. I had no idea what to say. No idea what to do.
My fellow actors stared at me with expectant expressions on their heavily made-up faces. One of them gently cleared his throat and darted his eyes toward the cue cards in front of the stage.
I quickly looked over and saw a wide-eyed assistant jabbing her finger at a cue card which had someone’s next line written on it in huge black letters. Judging by the horribly awkward silence reigning in the studio, it was mine.
But itwasn’t. I’d never seen it before.
My knees began to feel weak. I had no idea what was going on or how I ended up in such a hairy situation. It was like one of those dreams where you walk out onto a stage and realize with a jolt that you’re completely naked and also have a high school physics exam to complete in front of everyone, even though you’ve never studied physics before.
“N-no,” I said, looking back at the actress in front of me. “We’ll, uh… we’ll just enact the plan a month early.” I swiveled my body toward Theo. “I suppose we might as well start with you.”
I cringed internally as I finished delivering the line. I’d spoken every word that was on the cue card, but I’d stuttered. Twice. I knew I didn’t look commanding or presidential, either. I looked like a complete idiot with my trembling hands and saucer-wide eyes.
Panic continued to flood my veins as Theo said his next line, and the stage seemed to spin around me, making me think of circus animals going round and round on a carousel ride.
This was a disaster. I must have stumbled into the wrong skit. But that didn’t make any sense, because everyone else on the stage seemed to know what they were saying and doing. I was the only one who seemed clueless and out of place.
Oh, shit…
Comprehension finally dawned on me. I had the wrong script. Whoever was responsible for sending them out to the actors must’ve uploaded the wrong one to my email by accident. Seeing as I’d missed all the rehearsals, I had no way of knowing about it.
The other actors kept going with the skit, clearly trying their best to cover for me and evade the awkwardness and embarrassment that my mere presence seemed to exude. I managed to get a few more lines out by glancing at the cue cards, but it was still excruciatingly obvious that I’d stumbled out onto the stage with no preparation. I looked like a complete and utter fool, and the skit barely got more than three weak laughs from the audience despite the other actors’ attempts to save it.
When it was over and the cameras were focused on another stage, I looked out at the closest members of the audience to gauge their final reactions. My heart skipped a beat when I saw who was sitting in the front row.
Killian.
He was staring right at me, lips twisted into a smirk. When he saw me looking at him, he made a thumbs-up gesture with his right hand. “Nice job,” he mouthed. I didn’t need more than two functioning brain cells in my head to know he was being sarcastic.
I swallowed a lump in my throat and looked away. Of course someone like Killian Knight was here to witness my abject humiliation. It was just my luck.
My fellow actors left the stage without a word to me. Cheeks aflame, I slinked through the door behind them, wishing I could melt right into the ground.
The senior producer of the show—Samantha Schmidt—stormed toward me in the hallway, eyes alight with rage. “What the fuck was that?” she shouted, throwing her hands up. “Seriously, what thefuck?”
“I… I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened,” I said. Tears were stinging my eyes, and my heart felt like it was about to pound right out of my chest.
“You fucked the entire sketch up. That’s what happened!” Samantha replied, practically spitting the venomous words out. She got right up in my face and narrowed her eyes on mine. “Let me tell you something, Shay. We’re used to our actors breaking character, laughing, or randomly deciding to improv extra lines. That’s fine. It works, because they know what they’re doing, and it’s part of what gives the show its dorky charm.” She drew back slightly and held up all four fingers on her right hand, leaving her thumb tucked into her palm. “Only four people have ever messed up their lines badly enough for the show to be horribly awkward and unwatchable instead.Fourin thirty years. You’re one of them, Shay. So congratulations onthatachievement. I hope you’re fucking proud.”
