Page 112 of Cut Off
“Sup,” I say, deadpan.
He says nothing. Just blinks, very slow, and then disappears.
Cool. Life with kids.
It’s curtain time, so I make my way to the auditorium. Inside, the crowd’s settling, or trying to. I push out of the supply closet, dome askew, boa dragging, and head for the wings. The principal, holding a clipboard and radiating stress, almost drops her paperwork when she sees me.
“Mr.—Holt? Is that—is that you?”
“Took over for Mr. Barrett because of an injury.”
A half-second passes. Then she cracks a smile.
“Break a leg,” she says. “Not literally.”
No promises.
I tuck into the wings, heart pounding.
I get a sliver of the stage through the curtains.
Eli’s already out there.
He’s center stage, cape on crooked, mask low over his eyes, voice tight. The script is cheesy—lots of “let’s save the city!” and “evil will never win!”—but he’s in it, hitting his marks. You can tell he’s holding back, though. Shoulders hunched, voice thunking flat at the end of each sentence. Every third line, he glances at the wings.
The audience is chaos. Parents with phones up—some filming, some already doomscrolling. Grandparents smiling too hard. Siblings wriggling in folding chairs, most of them more interested in their own feet than the show. It smells like graham crackers and old sneakers.
I get a glimpse of Mom—front row, tissues out already. Dad’s next to her, grinning.
My dome itches. Under the padding, sweat collects and streams down my neck. The hanger end pokes my collarbone with every breath, but I plant my feet, steady my head, and wait for the signal.
Mr. Barrett, off right, waves. This is it.
Here we fucking go.
I lumber onto the stage.
The world goes silent, then detonates.
All at once, every kid in the front row screams. Parents howl. Some dad in the eighth row is probably peeing himself, picturing what it means to see a full-grown defenseman in a poop emoji suit, six foot two and bad decisions.
I turn all my focus on Eli—dead ahead.
He freezes.
I plant my feet, square up, and give him the line, loud as center ice with two thousand fans on their feet: “I don’t take no crap.”
And I mean it.
Time stops.
Eli stares at Turdman.
I stare back.
For a second, I think maybe I went too hard. Maybe he’s going to bail, or fuck up the next line, or melt down in front of everyone.
But then—
