Don't Touch by Rachel M. Wilson Page A

like” her—because what does that mean? Crazy? Breakable?
    â€œI’ll read with you,” Hank says.
    Peter hands me the scene.
    â€œOkay, but I’ve got to run to the bathroom real quick,” I say, and I scurry to the guest bath in the hall.
    Behind me, Mandy asks, “Who needs a second round?” and I bless her for keeping them occupied. I’d hate to picture them all sitting silently, waiting on me to perform.
    At the bathroom mirror, I smooth my brow. Even though I haven’t made any blunders, I’m tempted to wash. Oscar was sitting close to me. What if my pants leg rode up, and his hand brushed the skin at my ankle but I didn’t notice?
    Stop it, I think. Don’t freak out.
    There’s no touching required in this scene. Performing in front of them has nothing to do with my game. If I start scrubbing myself every time I feel anxious, I’m going to get caught. Lady Macbeth is Shakespeare’s obsessive-compulsive hand-washer, not Ophelia.
    I take a deep breath, blow it out, and run my gloved hands down my sides as if I might press myself back together. I picture myself walking into the den and showing what I can do, being one of them.
    Be brave. Be brave.
    When I get back to the room, Mandy’s sitting in Drew’s lap, and he’s playing with her hair. Livia’s arguing with Oscar about whether or not a magazine ad featuring an impossibly skinny girl is sexist.
    â€œJust because it’s sexist doesn’t make it less hot,” he says.
    â€œBut it should !” she says.
    Hank’s laughing at them.
    Only Peter looks bored, like I’ve kept him waiting.
    â€œReady?” he asks. He’s smiling, but it feels like he’s my director. I’m late for my audition and I’ve got something major to prove.
    â€œYeah, let’s get it over with.”
    â€œI’ll be gentle,” Hank says, and reaches toward my arm as if for a reassuring squeeze.
    I jerk back and he laughs breathily in surprise.
    â€œSorry,” I say. “I think I’ve got stage fright.”
    â€œHappens to the best of us,” Oscar says, “which would be me!” He raises his glass.
    â€œTake it from Hamlet’s last line before her entrance,” Peter suggests.
    And Hank starts, “Soft you now! The fair Ophelia!”
    Ophelia’s being watched, like me. She would be nervous too. “Good my lord, how does your honor for this many a day?”
    â€œI humbly thank you,” he says, “well, well, well.”
    She wants to seem strong. I make my voice hard: “My lord, I have remembrances of yours, that I have longed long to re-deliver.” I hold out my script like it’s a gift.
    â€œNo, not I,” Hank says. “I never gave you aught.”
    Now some of the emotion should seep through. I let my voice quaver, plead with him:
    â€œMy honored lord, you know right well you did; and, with them, words of so sweet breath composed as made the things more rich—”
    â€œYou’re acting,” says Peter.
    â€œWhat?” He didn’t stop anyone else like this.
    â€œSorry, I just—you were in the scene at first, but now you’re overthinking it.”
    â€œLet her get through it,” Mandy says.
    â€œNo, he’s right. Can we go back?”
    We do the first part of the scene over again. I still can’t think about anything but them looking at me, about how bad a job I’m doing. At the same spot, I stop and say, “I’m sorry, Hank.”
    â€œThat was better!” Peter says. “Why did you stop?”
    â€œI was just saying the lines. I wasn’t feeling anything.”
    â€œThat’s better than fake feeling. You sounded honest.” Peter hops up to talk only to me. “You’ve got to let go of some of that control,” he says, “that tension, like Nadia says. It isn’t helping you.” Peter takes me by the shoulders and