Page 20 of Dream On

That might be because Lex is seated on the edge of the stage, his legs dangling over the side as he stares at me across the auditorium, his own script tucked in one hand. He’s early for once. I guess he’s taking this show seriously.

I swallow when he looks away. Glancing back at Wren, I drink in a breath that does little to temper my nerves. “What role did you get again?”

The candy leaves her mouth with a popping sound. “Nini. I’m a schemer and a flirt.” She mimics a curtsy.

“I can see it.”

Mr. Hamlin summons us to the stage in his black-rimmed eyeglasses and swanky suspenders, his arms moving animatedly. He always wears suspenders, a new color every day since the beginning of the school year. I can’t help but wonder what he’ll do when he reaches the end of the color spectrum. Start all over again? Blow our minds and start wearing jeans? The suspense grows heavier as the days press on.

“All right, gather around,” he announces. “Opening performers, take the stage. Everyone else, have a seat.”

Wren skips ahead of me. “Pep talk time.”

I gnaw on my lip, my gaze floating back to Lex. He’s already on his feet, leaning against the far wall, looking jittery. Must be due to the paper cup of coffee in his right hand, permanently glued there. I consider how much espresso one person can consume before they vibrate right out of their skin.

My mind wanders as my eyes linger. I can’t help but recall our strange run-in last week when he showed up at my house for an impromptu practice session. A streak of expensive blue had whizzed by, the bright color only rivaled by the indiscreet engine roar. Even the chickens were scandalized. I wonder why he showed up like that, uninvited and out of place, a lion in a henhouse. I should press him for more details, but our paths have yet to cross long enough for me to interrogate him. He’s always moving, always dodging.

Lex is a walking contradiction: the popular loner.

My footsteps echo in time with my pulse as I move down the aisle and sit in the front row, the red velvet seats stretched out behind me like a sea of spectators. I’m not part of the opening scene, so it’s just Lex on stage along with Rigs,who plays Toulouse-Lautrec—a charismatic artist—and Barron, portraying the Argentinian performer, Santiago.

Mr. Hamlin’s enthusiasm is contagious as he claps his hands, signaling a spark that ignites the collective energy in the room. As the men begin to converge, forming a loose circle at the center of the stage, Lex hangs back, shuffling his feet. His long fingers comb through his perfectly styled hair, a juxtaposition to his turbulent eyes.

“We’re going to run through the opening scene,” Mr. Hamlin declares, hands linked behind his back as he starts to pace. “The initial read-through went well, but now it’s time to bring the spectacle to life. Remember, this is the Moulin Rouge. Every movement, every note, needs to be vibrant and full of passion.” He stops and looks among the cast. “I want to see fireworks. Lex, capture that vulnerability and wide-eyed wonder. And everyone else, keep the energy high and the chemistry electric. Let’s make the audience feel the magic right from the start.”

I smile from my chair, assessing a few in-progress set pieces lined up along the wings, a glimpse into the world we’re about to create.

Mr. Hamlin plucks his script from his back pocket and motions his hands. “Places, everyone.”

Our opening number begins with “Welcome to the Moulin Rouge!,” a vigorous routine that establishes the nightclub, leading into the introduction of Christian.

My feet start tapping.

My hairline sweats.

Lex ditches his coffee, and his character arrives in Paris, sharing his dreams of love and artistic success through a song as we meet Toulouse-Lautrec and Santiago, who invite him to join their plan to pitch a show to Zidler.

Cast members move and dance, but my eyes never stray from my golden-haired counterpart. I study him like a homework assignment I never want to complete. The scene transitions to something quieter, more introspective, as Lex steps up onto a single platform and sings of his dreams taking flight beneath the city lights. The act will eventually feature a starry night sky backdrop, giving off a dreamy, bohemian feel.

Lex sheds his usual persona and transforms into a tragic, hopeful artist. He doesn’t miss his mark. Not once. The stage is his playground, his escape.

Emotion stings the back of my throat, my eyes.

We all have an escape, and I have a few—playing piano, performing, singing. But my greatest escape is the roof of our farmhouse. There’s a dormer window attached to my bedroom, which was once a dusty attic; I sit out there sometimes to watch the stars. I talk to them, sing to them.

There’s one star in particular that twinkles brighter than the rest.

Lex finds me in the scant crowd and catches me staring at him—transfixed, fused to my seat in the first row. He knows I’m watching him, memorizing his every move and each expertly sung note. I don’t try to hide it. I can’t look away. He’s so different when he’s up there. So stripped down and raw, a force that tugs at me, drawing me in.

As the scene dissolves and the moody lyrics fade in time with the spotlight, I take a moment to swipe away the treacherous tears.

The next few minutes are a blur before Mr. Hamlin gestures at me. “We’re going to end today’s practice with the introduction of Satine.” He waves at me again, an order to get my ass moving. “Stevie, please join us.”

I pop up from my seat and climb the steps. Reaching the stage, I pause for a moment, taking a deep breath as the smell of old wood and faint traces of paint does its best to ground me. There’s still a tight knot in my chest as the scene shifts back to the nightclub.

Satine, the star courtesan of the Moulin Rouge, will be introduced performing the iconic song “The Sparkling Diamond,” establishing me as the leading lady and love interest. Eventually, I’ll be lowered from the ceiling on a swing, adding a touch of glamour.

My eyes swerve to Lex, who watches me playing with the edges of my script until paper cuts draw lines across my fingertips.