Denise had been listening. That Guy looked very attentive, but in an inattentive and cool way, as always. It was a small class today. Not like small people. Just a small number of people. A low number? There were not very many people in class.
You know that the teacher will call on Denise. She’s the only character whose name you know. It’s inevitable. What will she have written? Does she have dreams? Could we get some plot going here for her, rather than all of this splashing around in characterization? Plus, she has to read with him. With That Guy. Right? Obvious.
The teacher scans the room. His eyes land on the gentleman in question. “Ready to go?”
“Yes, sir,” That Guy says, jumping out of his seat. He’s holding two copies of his scene.
“And the scene calls for, what, one more person?”
“Yes, sir.” Adorable. Sir. Well done.
“Well, have at it,” says the teacher, leaning back.He flips open his notebook as if to make significant reflective remarks and not a grocery list. Anything is possible.
Scanning the room, That Guy looks right at everyone. Right. At. Every. One.
Denise feels her face flush. She’s read this story before. She tries to fix her hair without appearing to fix her hair. She checks her teeth with her tongue. Not that it’s possible to tell anything that way.
“Grace? Would you mind?”
In one version of this scene, Grace would be a peppy and blonde seductress, somewhere between 20 and 22, with long legs and a tendency to blush delicately at the seemingly accidental double entendres she couldn’t help but drop everywhere in her wake.
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