“But it would look better if we do it,” I say.
“Only if we can do it believably. We haven’t ever kissed, Noi. I’m not sure we can pull it off without practice.”
“I want to,” I say, even though my nerves are screaming at me to shut up. “It will give us an edge. You’re the one who keeps saying we’re comfortable enough to do this together. Anyway, it says here it isn’t a passionate kiss. Just a…” I look down atthe script, and read aloud, “tentative, exploring, closed-mouth kiss.”
After a moment of consideration, Sud nods once, and we go back to studying the scripts in silence.
We’ll definitely have to read from them while we do scene ten—there’s too much dialogue to learn in a few minutes—another reason I feel we need the advantage of tackling the kiss head-on. I’m able to read through the scene twice before Khun Intapong calls us over to begin.
I take a deep breath, telling myself,You can do this for Sud.
I don’t like being in front of people, but, over the years, my determination to do well in my studies has forced me to adjust. So, as I did with the video assignment, I disengage my mind from where I am, and the people watching us, and concentrate solely on Sud. As always, his familiar presence grounds me, and getting into character—even one I’ve only had twenty minutes to prepare for—isn’t too difficult.
The pressure is on. The first scene doesn’t concern me too much—I’m a pro at being awkward and shy. But the other one’s going to be rough. I tell myself to concentrate on one thing at a time.
Taking a moment to center myself, I close my eyes and get into the part, the way Sud taught me to do when we were filming the video. He’s doing the same thing.
Then it’s time to begin. Khun Intapong explains that one of the people at the table will be filming the audition with a tablet, and then she hands me a stack of books. The man introduced to us as the director calls out, “Action!” and I walk to the front of the room like I would any day going to class. Mid-way, I trip over something invisible, spilling the books all around me and landing on my ass on the floor.
In character, Sud rushes over to help me up. We’d discussed this move at the table. Sud offers his hand and pulls me up withmore force than necessary so that our chests collide when I’m on my feet. Not an inch between our bodies, I look up at him, and it’s so strange—in that moment, it’s like I really am seeing him through someone else’s eyes.
I guess, being around someone for years, you kind of stop seeing them. In my mind, Sud is in many ways still the rambunctious, grubby kid who ran and got dirty with me outside. Until this moment, he hasn’t really registered in my brain as the adult he is.
The realization sets me off kilter, and I almost take a step back, but Sud squeezes my arm, reminding me to hold the pose.
For long, silent ticks of the clock, we stand like that, staring into each other’s eyes—a standard bl meet-cute moment—until, by unspoken agreement, we both mumble apologies and step away from each other.
I start to awkwardly pick up my books and Sud rushes to help me. My heart is fluttering, and not in the same way it was a minute ago when I was nervous about doing the scene.
We speak a few more lines, and then the director calls a stop to the scene. The people at the table talk among themselves while I putdown the books and Sud and I turn to scene ten in the script.
Time for the harder part.
We position ourselves.
“It’s okay if you have to improvise,” Khun Intapong tells us. “We don’t expect you to know your lines, and we’d rather see you do the scene without having to read from the scripts.”
After a few minutes of review, Sud and I set our scripts back on the table and go to stand in the center of the room again.
“A little closer, boys,” the director says.
Sud and I each take a step toward the other so we’re standing toe to toe.
“Anytime you’re ready.”
I remember I’m supposed to be touching Sud. My hands shake a little as I lift them and place my palms on his broad, hard chest, then move them to his biceps. My mouth goes dry with nerves, but when Sud cradles my face with his warm, familiar palm and I look into his eyes, I feel better.
Sud delivers a line and I remember mine. We keep going, maintaining the gist of the scene if not the exact words.
The kiss is coming.
Dropping his hands to my waist, Sud leans in, his face coming closer and closer to mine and his eyes zeroed in on my mouth. I flick my tongue over my lips and hear Sud’s soft intake of breath. Heart beating a fast staccato in my chest, I close my eyes just as his lips brush mine and then press more firmly. An arrow of awareness shoots straight to my toes.
Damn. So that’s what it’s like to kiss someone.
“Cut!” The director calls, and Sud and I step back. I’m hot all over and feel certain everyone in the room must be able to tell that I just experienced my very first kiss. I keep my eyes trained on the script until someone collects it.
“Excellent boys. We’ll be in touch. Which of your numbers shall I take?” Khun Intapong asks.