Page 113 of Cut Off
He sees me.
The dome, the brown, the boa—none of it matters. He zeros in on my face, and he just—
smiles.
Not the tiny, polite smile. This is the one that cracks his whole face, top to bottom, lights up every freckle. It hits so hard, I nearly forget I’m on a stage.
He gets it,and for the first time since I’ve known him, I see all the way inside: not the kid holding it together for everyone else, but the kid who is, for one fucking moment, absolutely glowing.
The audience loses its shit. Laughter is so loud, the second-grade teacher plugs her ears.
I give Eli a tiny nod. One inch, no drama. You’ve got it, kid. Now go.
He straightens up—cape swings loose, voice jumps up a register, and he finds the next line like it was loaded in the chamber. “Tell me why you’re the best sidekick, Turdman.”
I play my role. “I don’t take no crap.”
The crowd howls. Barrett is holding the curtain offstage, doubled over.
God, I wish Zoe was watching this. She would love it. I’d love seeing her love it.
Eli rides the laugh with perfect timing. “Then let’s flush these villains!”
There’s a bit with the boa. I whip it around—smell cloud strikes!—and three evil henchmen go down in a tangle of pool noodles and orange vests. Eli gets the solo, blasting the “stink bomb” out of a can of Silly String. The crowd is standing up now, phones in the air, total mayhem.
The script is silly. The acting is silly. But the kid on stage? Not silly at all. He’s flying.
I say it three more times:
One mid-battle: “I don’t take no crap!” Evil Minion wails and falls off the bench.
The second during a moment of despair: “We’re stunk, Blastman! But I don’t take no crap.” Eli ad-libs, “That’s my Turdman!” like he’s won an Oscar.
Three, the grand finale. The script called for Turdman to pop back on stage and wave, but I step up, throw one armwide, and shout so loud I might get banned from the district for life:
“I. Don’t. Take. NO. CRAP.”
Riot.
Kids in the first row have tears in their eyes; they’re laughing so hard. Several parents and grandparents record the whole thing. Mom’s dissolving—face in her hands, bouquet forgotten. Dad’s gripping her elbow, probably to keep from falling out of his chair.
Final scene: Eli and Turdman, standing in triumph over a pile of villains, faces shining in the hot gym lights.
Curtain call.
I fumble my bow, dome bobbing. Next to me, the real Mr. Barrett takes a bow, too, a little sideways, but the spotlight is on the little actors. The applause is full-on playoff-level, and the sound lands in my chest.
After the curtain drops, chaos erupts in the wings. Kids tripping over pool noodles, teachers herding chaos, confetti flying everywhere. I try to pull off the dome, but it’s wedged too good; I just stand there, woozy and sweating, until Eli finds me. Gwen is with him, standing off to the side, so I’m allowed to talk to him.
Eli steps up, still in his cape, hair wild, cheeks red. “That was the best thing I’ve ever seen in my life, and I’ve seen a lot of things.”
It knocks the air out of me.
I laugh—real, and raw, and so big it rattles around inside my head. Crouch down so I’m at eye-level, foam suit and all.
“I meant the line, by the way,” I whisper.
Eli nods. No smile now, just dead serious.
