AFTER PARTY : a short story

Chapter 1

They give the assistant director his "appendix" back. Michael Corrigan laughs, hands over his face, and rocking back and forth in the chair in Aiden Martin's living room, before he accepts it. He blinks more. Michael's eyes dart around the room like a fly. His sentiments are short. He smiles and thanks everyone.

He hates it.

What a waste of a good yam, too.

The gag gift goes over pretty well with everyone – the second the jar labeled "Michael's Appendix" comes out, most of them break out into laughter. Michael's immediate friends cover their mouths and turn away, shoulders trembling. The guy was gone for almost two weeks during rehearsal to have his appendix removed, and no one would let him forget it. But when Michael Corrigan finally gets out of the chair, Esther Walters, the assistant choreographer, takes his place. She smiles. Her brows are pulled slightly out of line. Nerves dance through her feet.

"So, we love you," Amy Johnson starts. She was our Belle, and a damned good one, at that, but the underlying fidgeting and insecurity in her posture made it difficult for any compliments to sink in. "But we also hated how hard you drilled us for Be Our Guest." Chuckles.

Esther Walters' jaw clenches, and she looks down for a second.

"And we thought long and hard about your gift." She turns to her audience. Her voice wavers a fraction. "Someone, I don't remember who – "

Me.

" – suggested..." Her eyes scan us. "I...don't think they're here, either."

I'm less than a foot away, standing above everyone's heads. I'm literally holding Esther Walters' gift. I have literally everyone's gifts in a box at my feet. Amy Johnson asked me to keep track of them for this, and I said I would.

"But we thought, being so devoted to your craft, we wanted you to lighten up a little. So..." Amy Johnson turns to me and takes the small but stout gift without looking at me. It's meticulously wrapped with three different types of ribbons.

I wrapped it. I watched a YouTube video to make it as pretty as possible for Esther Walters. They asked me to a couple of days ago. She deserves something nice for basically being bullied by half the cast.

Esther Walters starts tearing it apart. A plain, white cardboard box reveals itself first. Her face reddens as she sees what's inside. "Are you kidding me?" she laughs, reaching in and pulling out Christmas ornaments, all different depictions of gingerbread men getting a lap dance.

I sigh, frowning, and trying to hide it underneath everyone giggling and gasping. I glance down into my glass of Coke and lean forward. "I'm going to go get some more pizza," I tell Amy, but she doesn't really hear me. "The gifts are labeled in the box."

She looks at me. "What?"

"Pizza."

"No, we need you," she says. Her expression is a little harder than a second ago, and her fingers curl into her palms.

I think she doesn't like the idea of having to dig through the box for anyone's gift. "I'll be right back." When she looks down at it, I shuffle away for another slice of pizza. The kitchen is in plain sight of the living room, but its size makes it feel farther away, like a Victorian kitchen separated from the rest of the house. Its shiny, smooth surfaces slosh people back and forth like water in a bathtub, and the restraint on colors makes the house flow with a kind of fluidity that leaves the hairs on my skin perked up. It's easy to slip away.

When I look back, Jasper Gonzalez is in the chair. He was our assistant stage manager. The guy's already lightly buzzed. His head swings too easily back and forth, and his words have a gentle slur to them. He's a senior.