“Uh, thanks. Yes. I am totally going to audition. I sent in my sketch last month.”
“Which one was it?” He settled an arm over the chair between us.
“The one about the zombies suing the creators of Walking Dead for defamation of character?”
A slow smile spread across his face. “That was you?”
I turned my body to face him. “You remember it?”
He nodded slowly. “Oh, I remember it. The part where they eat the brains of the IT guy for taking too long to set up the LCD projector?” He reached over and poked my bicep. “That was funny stuff.”
I grinned. “Thanks.”
He poked me again and my stomach flipped over. “Why are you all alone . . . uh . . . I can’t remember your name?”
“Zelda. And you’re Ben.”
He laughed. “Good memory. Zelda . . .” He made a confused face. “Like the video game?”
I nodded, used to this. “And the Fitzgerald.”
He stared at me blankly.
“F. Scott Fitzgerald’s wife was named Zelda.”
He shook his head.
“He wrote The Great Gatsby?”
He frowned. “With Leonardo DiCaprio?”
“The movie is with Leonardo DiCaprio. Yes. It’s also a good book. And F. Scott Fitzgerald’s wife, Zelda, wrote and danced and was an amazing artist in her own right. But it was the 1920s, so she didn’t get the attention her husband did.” I could feel myself rambling. And lecturing. I tried to rein it in and shrugged. “My mom loves Zelda Fitzgerald.”
He nodded and gazed over my shoulder.
I was losing him.
Balance giving and taking.
“Who’s named Ben?” I blurted.
He quirked his head. “Huh?”
My cheeks reddened. “In your family. Is some relative named Ben? Or are you Ben for Ben Franklin?”
He laughed. “Now him I’ve heard of. No, I’m Ben because my dad liked the name Ben. But maybe I should make something up.” He folded his super-muscular arms across his chest. “I’m Ben for . . . that clock in London. Big Ben. Tall, important, great at telling time.”
Big Ben is actually the name of the bell, not the clock, but after the failed Zelda Fitzgerald history lesson, I decided another one back-to-back wasn’t going to win me any fans. Keeping it positive, I just smiled. “Those are definitely qualities you want for your child.”
He laughed again and met my eye. “Funny girl . . . You’re dangerous.”
Dangerous? Was he flirting with me? He couldn’t be flirting with me. No one flirted with me.
“Too dangerous to eat dinner with?” I asked, shocked at my own forwardness.
One corner of his mouth drew up. “I could risk it. If you promise me one thing.”
I couldn’t tell for sure if my shortness of breath was Ben or altitude-related, but I had my suspicions. “Yes?”
“Promise me—”
He kept talking, but his comment was drowned out by the squawking feedback of the PA system as a round man in his sixties with a deep tan and salt-and-pepper hair took to the microphone.
“Hello, hello, sorry about that. Okay. Got it? Do we have it?”
I looked back to Ben, but he was eyes-forward on the speaker. I really wanted to know what I was supposed to promise him, but he was all business.
“Hello, everybody. Paul DeLuca here. And this other old guy is Paul Paulsen. Welcome to the thirtieth summer of Rocky Mountain Theatre Arts!”
Everyone whooped and clapped. Paul DeLuca basked in the applause as a tall, balding Paul Paulsen climbed on stage to join him. Paul Paulsen clutched a clipboard in one arm and nodded at us, his pinched facial features attempting a smile under bushy eyebrows.
I couldn’t believe I was seeing Paul DeLuca and Paul Paulsen in person. They had started RMTA with Jane Lloyd all those years ago. The only thing better than seeing them would have been seeing Jane.
Paul DeLuca held up a hand to quiet us down. “We’re very excited for your two weeks with us in these beautiful mountains. And to maximize that enjoyment . . . we have a few rules.”
We all chuckled at his joke, and his smile broadened at the acknowledgment.
“One, drink water. Drink more water than you’ve ever drunk before. We have a slogan up here—‘Pee Clear.’ ”
The crowd tittered. I looked over to catch Ben’s eye, but again, he was focused on Paul.
“Altitude sickness is very real and very painful, so stay hydrated. There are big orange water jugs on the front porch. Just refill your water bottle whenever you pass by. P2?”
P2? . . . Oh, I realized, Two Ps. Paul Paulsen.
P2 regarded his clipboard and leaned over the microphone. “Two, curfew is at nine p.m. Later than that, and it gets very dark.”
Paul DeLuca smiled and added, “Much darker than city kids are used to.”
We chuckled again and his chest puffed up. “Rule Three. The Boy Scout camp is across the road. They come through here to access some hiking trails and to see our shows—”
There was a single whoop from someone, and everyone laughed. It was a bigger laugh than Paul DeLuca had gotten. A tiny frown of annoyance flashed across his face, but it was quickly pushed down by a theatrical smile. “In turn, this year, for the first time, we are going to get to use their high ropes equipment for team building and whatnot. So be nice to the Boy Scouts.”
Paul Paulsen leaned back over the mic, his voice tight. “Lastly, we have a very strict physical violence policy. If you get in a physical altercation, you will be sent home. No exceptions.”
“Well,” Paul DeLuca drawled, “unless it’s in a scene.”
Paul Paulsen raised disapproving eyebrows at Paul DeLuca. Noticing them, Paul DeLuca held up a hand and forced a chuckle. “I know, I know. I’m joking.” He grinned at the audience and wagged a thick finger at us. “Keep those fight scenes to a minimum.”
Paul Paulsen’s eyes returned to his clipboard, and he slid a pencil behind his ear and sighed.
“Now, dinner is almost upon us—” Paul DeLuca began.
More cheering from the crowd.
“But before we eat, we are very excited that we have five girls at camp this year. So girls: welcome!”
My eyes sought out the other Gildas. Five was exciting? I thought about all the girls who did improv back home. Plus, Jane Lloyd had started this camp, and she was a girl.
What was up with this place?
I leaned over to Ben. “How many girls have there been in the past?” I whispered.
He shook his head, eyes front.
I gave him a look, but then shrugged. Maybe he didn’t want to be rude to Paul.
Paul Paulsen climbed down the steps away from the stage as Paul DeLuca continued. “Okay. Anyone who wants to audition for the upper-level teams, that starts right here at nine a.m. tomorrow morning. You’ll be in team cabins by tomorrow night. Well, except for the girls. You’ll all stay put in Gilda Radner. And now! Let’s eat!”
Chatter and scraping of chairs echoed through the Lodge as groups stood up to get in line for food. I frowned a little. Everyone would be in a cabin with their teammates except for the girls? We’d miss out on so much. I could already imagine the inside jokes piling up.
On the other hand, with only five girls, what else could they do?