The Hanahaki Club: Episode 9
Episode 9: Rivals, Part 2
So far…
The hanahaki support group met for the first time on Thursday evening in the Blue Room of the Fenway Community Centre. Now, it’s the day after that meeting.
Episode 9: Rivals, Part 2
Hassie
The Hickley University Theatre Soc committee meeting was an entirely different meeting from the one Hassie had attended yesterday evening. For one, everyone wanted to be here—were proud, even, to sit in a meeting for an hour on a Friday evening, just because they’d been voted to run one of the most popular clubs on campus.
Secondly, everyone always had something to say and none of them had any hesitation about saying it, even over other people having their say, over other people who also insisted on being heard over whoever had started talking in the first place... and who exactly that might have been was always impossible to tell, because meetings never really officially started. Committee members would turn up, chatting enthusiastically the moment they came through the door, sit in a circle in the middle of the drama studio, and then no one would ever actually stop talking to allow the meeting to start. There was never a pause in the conversation, which would weave social gossip and club concerns seamlessly as if they were one and the same, and often with more than one conversation happening at the same time. If anything on the agenda, which Myra sent out the day before, ever got discussed or resolved, it was entirely by accident.
And Hassie loved every second of it. The chatter. The camaraderie. The chaos. It was one of the highlights of her week to sit back and watch it all. Theatre people were fascinating. Loud and opinionated—but fascinating.
On her right, Izaak was sitting with his arms folded. He was wearing the air he always wore in committee meetings—a sort of resigned annoyance, which, some people would say, was his usual attitude, ninety-five percent of the time. But those people didn’t know Izaak as well as Hassie. Beyond the scowl, there were clues to the generous soft-hearted core underneath it: little nuances to the slope of his mouth and crease of his brow that revealed the kind, gentle, loyal and fiercely protective person Hassie had always known. He was here because he cared. If he really hated these meetings, as he often claimed, he wouldn’t bother coming to them all—especially as he usually had a work shift immediately after.
On her left, Myra was sat impatiently tapping her notepad with her pen, as she listened to the current conversation about who should be on the auditioning panel for the Spring Festival show.
“We don’t need more than three people for the panel,” she cut in eventually, her voice silencing most of the circle, although a whispered conversation between Tabitha and Camie continued diagonally across from her. “Hassie and I are co-directing, and Zeke is the scriptwriter, so it makes sense for us to hold the auditions. We only need a couple of volunteers to help organise the auditionees and a team to help advertise the audition dates.”
“Auditionees?” Harry asked. “Is that a real word?”
“Yes.”
“Sounds weird,” Harry said.
“It is a real word.”
“I’ll look it up,” Camie offered, taking out her phone.
“I still think we need one more on the auditioning panel,” Zeke said.
“We can’t have four,” Myra said matter-of-factly, pen still tapping her notebook. “It has to be an odd number.”
“Why?”
“To avoid a deadlock,” Leon explained.
Hassie’s heart gave a treacherous thumpity-thump as her gaze shifted to him. This was Leon’s first committee meeting. First-years weren’t usually given positions on the committee, but after the Christmas performance, Leon had proven himself sufficiently dedicated to the club to be given the vacant role of treasurer—a role that Myra and Hassie had been jointly filling since last May because no one else had wanted it. Leon had been keen to help and Myra had been persuaded to let him stand for the position because he had connections that could get the club more sponsorship, as well as an impressive gift for haggling prices. He’d been voted in immediately, so now, here he was, sitting across from Hassie in the circle, looking comfortable and confident, as if he’d always been part of the committee.
“But that’s not fair!” Zeke protested. “Myra and Hassie are going to gang up on me. I need someone on my side!”
“How do you spell ‘auditionee’—is it one ‘e’ or two ‘e’s at the end?” Camie looked up from her phone and scanned the circle for a response to her question. When Hassie silently signalled ‘two’, she nodded and went back to typing on her phone.
“No,” Myra said flatly. “I’m not wasting time fighting two-on-two over casting decisions.”
“Can’t you have four judges and give one person a weighted vote?” Tabitha suggested.
“That’s not going to work,” Izaak said.
“Why not?” Tabitha asked.
“Oh!” Camie exclaimed. “It is a real word!”
“What?” Zeke asked.
“Auditionee—it’s a real word.”
“No way,” Harry said as Camie leant over Tabitha to show him the evidence on her phone.
“Who would get the weighted vote?” Izaak continued wryly.
“Well, I’m the writer, so I would,” Zeke replied.
“I’m the director,” Myra said. “I would get the deciding vote.”
“No way! It’s my creative vision.”
“No. It’s your words. It’s my creative vision.”
Izaak unfolded his arms to make a ‘See?’ gesture to anyone in the circle who was still paying attention. Across the circle, Leon grinned in acknowledgement and then winked at Hassie.
Thumpity-thump.
“I still don’t believe it,” Harry said, handing Camie’s phone back to her. “Sounds weird.”
“Hassie’s the co-director, she could have the deciding vote,” Leon suggested.
Hassie shook her head and gave him an alarmed look—don’t drag me into this!
Leon laughed softly.
Thumpity-thump.
“Hey!” Zeke said, jabbing Leon in the ribs with an elbow. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”
Leon laughed again. “Why?”
“We’re friends!”
“That’s just English for you,” Camie said, pocketing her phone and then yawning.
“Isn’t it French?” Tabitha asked.
“Sounds French,” Harry agreed. And then added, with an embarrassingly bad attempt at an accent: ‘“Auditionee!”
“It’s Latin,” Myra said, before pointing her pen at Zeke. “It’s going to be three people on the auditioning panel: you, me and Hassie.”
“But it’s my play—I’m the writer.”
“I’m the President.”
Zeke folded his arms and conceded with a sigh. “Fine. But that’s not how this committee is supposed to work, tyrant.”
“Suck it up, minion,” came Myra’s response.
“Sounds French to me,” Harry said.
“Minion is French.”
“No. Auditionee.”
“I thought this was supposed to be a democracy,” Zeke pouted as he slumped down in his chair and Leon patted him on the head.
Camie took out her phone again. “I’ll look it up.”
“It’s a benevolent dictatorship,” Myra said, going back to tapping her notepad with her pen. “You can have a democracy when I resign, after the Spring Festival.”
“Fine,” Zeke said softly, seeming more upset at the mention of Myra’s impending resignation than he was about being overruled.
“It makes sense to hold the auditions on Friday evenings and Saturday mornings,” Myra continued, “Since that’s when we meet anyway.”
“Not Saturday mornings!” Harry complained.
“It is Latin,” Camie announced.
“It’s only for a couple of weeks,” Myra said, “We need to get the casting sorted as quickly as possible—especially the principals. We’ll allow a week to advertise the auditions and then run the first ones next Friday. We just need a couple of people to help with organising the auditionees.”
“Latin,” Camie said again, offering her phone to anyone who was still interested.
“Yeah, alright, I’ll do it,” Harry said as he took Camie’s phone and gave the website she’d been looking at a cursory glance.
“I will too,” Camie said. “If I can have a clipboard. And I’ll stick up posters to advertise—can I have my phone back?”
“Why is your home screen a picture of a pigeon?”
“I like pigeons.”
“Are we nearly done?” Izaak asked. “I’ve got a work shift in twenty minutes.”
“Zeke, can you get a poster made in the morning?” Myra asked. “The printers will only be open until one pm tomorrow.”
Zeke wriggled back up into a more upright position and nodded. “Yup, no problem. How many do you think we need?”
“What could you possibly like about pigeons?” Harry asked.
“A hundred,” Camie suggested, snatching her phone back from Harry. “What have you got against them?”
“We don’t need a hundred,” Myra said. “We’re only advertising on campus and most interest will come from the club members anyway.”
“Thirty? Forty?” Zeke suggested.
“Better check the cost and the budget first,” Myra suggested. “It’s only for auditions; I don’t want to spend too much on it.”
Zeke gave a double thumbs-up. “Got it.”
“They’re kind of ugly.”
Camie glared at Harry. “You’re ugly!”
“Are we done?” Izaak asked, getting up from his chair and shrugging on his jacket.
Hassie got to her feet too and grabbed her scarf from the back of her chair.
“Are you coming to the pub, Hass?” Zeke asked.
“I’ve got to drop Izaak off at work.”
“And then back for the pub?”
“Maybe. Where are you going to be?”
“We’ll probably still be here by the time you finish your drop-off,” Tabitha said, gently nudging Camie off her shoulder as she tried to show off her gallery of pigeon portraits.
“This one looks like a fluffy pillow.”
“Yes, very nice, Camie.”
“No, we won’t!” Harry said, heaving himself out of his chair. “We’re going now. Let’s go to the Red Herring—I don’t feel like trekking off campus.”
There was immediate unanimous agreement with this decision—which was unsurprising since, even if other establishments were occasionally mooted, they always ended up going to the campus bar after their meetings. Everyone started getting ready to leave now, stacking the chairs and wrapping themselves into coats, hats and gloves.
“They’re full of diseases—basically flying plague-rats.”
“That’s a myth. They’re no more diseased than any other wild bird.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Here, I’ll show you…”
Izaak tugged urgently on Hassie’s sleeve and she followed him to the door.
“Come back for a drink, Hassie!” Zeke called after them.
Hassie gave him a vague wave in response before closing the door behind her.
“You should go for a drink,” Izaak said, as they hurried out of the building and to the carpark.
Hassie coughed into her fist and then adjusted her scarf so that it covered her chin.
“I’m tired,” she said.
“Just for an hour?” Izaak suggested, slipping an arm around her shoulder and rubbing her arms to warm her.
Hassie’s phone vibrated with a notification, so she chose the distraction of plucking it from her coat pocket to read the new message instead of getting into a fruitless back-and-forth that would only make her feel worse than she already did.
HiTSOC CHAT
LEON: @Vice-pres I’ll save you a seat.
Thumpity-thump. Thumpity-thump.
“Are you sure you don’t want to just shoot your shot?” Izaak asked, reading the message over her shoulder.
Hassie pressed her phone to her chest as another cough made her shudder. From behind them there suddenly came the sound of voices, carrying clear across the carpark.
“Come on pigeon-lover, I’ll buy you a drink. What do you fancy?”
“Vodka!”
“Vodka and what?”
“Vodka!”
“Vodka and what?”
“Oh… uh…”
Hassie and Izaak both half-turned to see the committee shuffling out of the Drama & Dance building. Myra was out front, her boots clacking crisply on the tarmac as she strode along the path. Harry and Camie followed close behind her—Camie moving restlessly as she always did, sometimes turning on her heel to walk backwards as she chatted to Harry, who had his hands stuffed in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold. Dragging behind them came Zeke, Leon and Tabitha—Leon in the middle, Tabitha with her arm linked through his and her hand clutching his upper arm as she laughed at the boys’ banter. A group of six friends, united by one passion despite their differences in years, subjects and backgrounds.
Hassie couldn’t help fixating on where Tabitha leaned against Leon, her arm wrapped around his like they were two pieces of a puzzle that belonged together. If Hassie joined them at the pub, where would she fit in the company? Probably not where she really wanted to be—where she desperately wanted to belong. She yearned to slot into that space as easily and naturally as Tabitha did right now; as if she was the only one meant to fill that spot.
Thump. Th-um-p. Thump.
Hassie swallowed the urge to cough again as she turned away and started walking towards the car.
“Just because she likes him, doesn’t mean he’s interested in her,” Izaak said, as they reached the car.
“I know,” Hassie replied, fishing out her car keys and unlocking the doors.
“You’ve got a better chance than Tabitha.”
Hassie gave him a cynical look over the roof of the car before sliding into the driver’s seat.
He’ll never choose me—she wanted to say. He didn’t the first time.
But she didn’t say it, because those thoughts were nonsense.
Choosing had nothing to do with it. The first time, back in high school, Leon had been dating Guinevere Block months before Hassie’s silly little long-term crush had turned into something more. They hadn’t even really been friends—nothing more than classmates who happened to sit next to each other during their final year of history lessons. Just two people who happened to both be in the school play: Leon as the male lead, Hassie as an extra, doubling-up as backstage support. Leon was always friendly—would always smile when he passed her in the corridor or caught her eye across the stage during rehearsals; he would always chat to her in class about their work, and thank her when she fixed his costume or located a prop—but that was it. Their relationship never extended beyond those school activities. By the time Hassie realised the extent of her feelings, Leon was off-limits anyway—he belonged to someone else, and belonged to them first. He never had a reason to even consider Hassie an option.
And this time, even though they were closer, something more like actual friends, and Leon was now single, nothing had really changed. Hassie was just an old, high school acquaintance, the vice-president of the Theatre Society, Izaak’s sister, a familiar and safe anchor in the uncharted waters of university life. There was no reason why she should suddenly become an option for anything more, especially when there were so many others to choose from. Hassie couldn’t even think of girls like Tabitha as rivals—Hassie wasn’t even in the main cast. Once again, she was a mere extra, relegated to a supporting role whilst other girls auditioned for the right to stand opposite Leon in the limelight.
What an idiot, to fall for the same person twice—and still get the same result.
That’s why Hassie was going to get the operation. She’d quit theatre club after the Spring Festival and bury herself in her studies for her final year. She didn’t live on campus anyway, and most of her third year would be dissertation work, so there would be little opportunity for her to cross paths with anyone she knew. She had time to lay the groundwork this year: pull away from the group bit by bit until they wouldn’t notice her disappearing from their circle completely. University life was all-consuming: people frequently came and went, moved courses, swapped accommodation, dropped modules. Friendships formed quickly and drifted apart just as fast; new friends and bonds were made, new societies were joined, and new pubs became favourite haunts. And at the end of it all, in just a few years, they’d all go their separate ways anyway—scatter across the country, settle down in new jobs, with new colleagues, new partners, new families and new friends—and these heady days of self-discovery would become nothing but distant, fond memories to look back on with rosy nostalgia.
At least Hassie’s friends would get to keep all of their memories, even if they faded and became confused with time. Leon would get to remember her, even if he forgot the colour of her eyes, or her last name; even if he only remembered her as Izaak’s sister or some girl he once went to school with. Leon was lucky; he’d get to remember something.
Once they cut the flowers out of Hassie’s lungs again, she wouldn’t remember him at all, for the rest of her life.
Next time: Episode 10—Rivals, Part 3
Teaser:
Taran lunged at Kai to slap the sticker on his forehead and Kai twisted away gleefully.
“Let me guess,” a voice said from behind Taran, “The banana sticker prank, right?”
Taran froze, feeling the blood that had earlier left his face rushing back to his cheeks and his ears with full force.
“Hey, Cherie,” Kai said.
The Hanahaki Club Index
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Author’s Notes:
I would like to dedicate this episode to the pair of pigeons who live in our communal garden and keep me endlessly entertained with their antics.
Next week: Episode 10—Rivals, Part 3
PJ
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