Page 111 of Cut Off
I show up way too early anyway, just to walk the space.
The stage is the same one from my own third-grade musical—it’s been repainted blue, but the curtains haven’tchanged. Someone took the time to tape up more signs: “SUPERHEROES THIS WAY.”
I kill a few minutes by lurking near the coat rack. Phones are out everywhere. Parents in blazers and work shoes, toddler siblings running full laps around everyone. I spot my parents near the front row, Mom fussing with a bouquet, Dad already shaking hands with two other ex-coaches from youth league days. They’re in full grandparent mode.
I don’t have time to go say hi because I’ve just spied something that gives me an idea.
All plays have a flaw in the system, and today, the flaw is Mr. Barrett.
He’s the second-grade math teacher—bald spot, glasses, voice that carries all the way to the playground. He’s playing Turdman in the show, which I know because the flyer in the lobby says, “Turdman,” and has him wearing a poop emoji costume. Legend.
But right now he’s limping up the hall, one hand on the wall for balance, the other clutching what has to be the Turdman suit.
I pounce. “Barrett.” I keep my voice low.
He jumps. The Turdman dome almost slips out of his grip.
“Oh! Mr. Holt. Didn’t see you there.”
I nod at his leg. “Hamstring?”
He grimaces. “Pickup soccer. Never again.”
I keep it simple. “I’ll take your place in the play. I mean, if that’ll help.”
His eyes go round. “You’ll—wait. You want to suit up as Turdman?”
“Yeah. If you want. No pressure.”
He looks left, then right. “You’re cleared for that? With the visitation?”
“I’mallowed to be here. If there’s no contact, there’s no problem. I’ll just play my part.”
Another beat, probably to measure if I’m fucking with him. Then he flashes a relief-grin that says he was dreading this so hard he probably didn’t sleep.
“Take it. Oh my God, take it.”
He shoves the bundle at me, and the “smell prop”—a green feather boa zip-tied to a hanger—gets tangled in the dome. Then I get a quick download: go out right after Blastman’s second big speech, plant the feet, deliver the line, wait for cues. He’s got a whole staging chart on a Post-it: Turdman left, Blastman right, crowd in the middle.
“Anything else?” I say, because now we’re in this together.
His look is desperate. “Just—don’t let the dome slide off. It’s weighted with deck screws.”
And now I know why it’s heavier than some actual game gear. I almost laugh.
“Got it.”
“Good luck.” Barrett limps off, muttering about ice packs, and I duck into the “costume area,” which is really a janitor’s closet with a cracked tile floor and a box of old musical instruments in the corner.
The suit is foam-padded, low-rent couch brown, stitched up the back with safety pins and what might be fishing line. I get one leg in, then the other. The thigh padding is fine, but up top? Disaster. My shoulders make the chest stretch so hard I’m afraid I’ll blow a seam. The dome—the oversized poop emoji, complete with googly eyes and felt eyebrows—barely fits, but there’s a hole for my face. I wedge it on and rub brown face paint on.
I’m sweating already and it’s not even showtime.
Ready to leave, I glance up and freeze.
A second-grader stares at me through the door. Just a sliver of face—big eyes, no blinking.
We lock stares for a solid five seconds.
