Page 12 of Witch Please

Fucking checkmate, Dr. Pilar.

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Other than our interactions during rehearsals, it was as if Imogen had moved her residency from the library to another building entirely. Not that I routinely walked past to see if she was there. Or hoped to catch her sitting in her plush chair, staring at the flowers behind her office lost in a daydream. It felt coordinated. Obviously I was completely aware of how paranoid I sounded.

Me: Have you heard from Imogen lately?

My friend Patrick—a professor at University of Toronto—was also friends with Imogen. If anyone knew what was up with her, he would.

Patrick: Isn’t she in your play? How do you not know where she is?

Me: Obviously I know where she is, you git. I just mean has she mentioned anything going on in her life? She’s been distracted and distant

Patrick: Calling her frigid probably didn’t help things

Patrick: Taking her to task in every rehearsal for some drummed up afront just so you can act out whatever sexual frustration you’re harboring probably doesn’t make her feel warm and fuzzy either.

It surprised me the intimate level of friendship they had. While I knew that they’d been friends for some time, I didn’t know if I had anyone in my life I would share those kinds of details with.

Me: The two of you share much more meaningful conversations than the two of us do

Patrick: Stop acting like a 13yo

Patrick: Hurting her because you’re too afraid of being rejected by her? Grade school bro.

Patrick: Why not just tell her you’re into her

That was an in-person conversation over a beer. Not a text. There were too many complexities, subtleties, and many othertiesto be able to accurately communicate over a text message.

Me: You’re still coming right? Keep me on your calendar for a beer and a chat

Patrick: Us having a beer and a chat is without question

Patrick: You need to figure this one out though, probably before final curtain.

What did he know? He wasn’t here. He only heard whatever side of this story Imogen told him. In fact the more I replayed that interchange in my head, the more annoyed I was that he hadn’t ever checked with me to see what my defense was. It was evident he believed I’d done whatever the offense without so much as confirming with me to see if perhaps she’d misunderstood my intent.

Despite her constant disappearing act outside of rehearsals, Imogen had met every challenge her role commanded. As I’d always know she could—her interpretation of the witch was Oscar worthy. Each time she was on stage I hung on her every word.

Her role also seemingly leaked into her personal life—though I was never privy to the kind of information necessary to make that assumption accurately. But the standard wardrobe of the Imogen I knew consisted of unshapely dresses, cardigans, figure hiding jeans and Birkenstocks. Almost overnight, she was lipstick and wavy hair, form skimming shirts, and jeans that hugged and highlighted.

Rehearsals had gone swimmingly. It was hard to believe we were already in costuming, set to begin dress rehearsals. However for me to believe we’d make it through the week without incident was terribly shortsighted.

“Sebastian, there’s a slight problem.” Kennedy jogged up the flight of stairs to my perch in the sound and lighting booth of the theater. “Imogen took one look at the costume and flat out refused.”

Why was I not surprised?

“Where is she?” I stood, gesturing to Kennedy that I’d follow her back down to the backstage area—where I assumed she was.

“She’s actually up in the attic going through every costume in the college’s inventory.”

Good lord. Of all the days I didn’t want to be tested. First with Patrick and now the church mouse decided to go forage in the attic? Maybe Dr. Krane had turned into such a stick in the mud because he grew tired of the daily frustrations of thirty something opinions of various cast and crew. I almost began to understand his desire to keep everything status quo. No complaints. Set expectations.

“Care to explain why you’re up here combing through racks when you have a perfectly good costume?”

I found her right away. Panicked and yanking clothing off hangers to examine, tossing aside, only to repeat the process.

“Sebastian, you have pushed—you have acted in ways I haven’t agreed with. I’ve written most of it off to you being—well you. And also having the weight of a production on your shoulders.”

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