Chapter 2
Dafne
As we take our seats around what students call ‘The Round Table’ –not for its actual shape, but because you know that if you get a seat at it, you qualify as acting royalty in this school–I take my stationery set out and glance around the room with casual indifference. The whole cast is here on time, as no one would dare be late at Mr. Hackle’s table reads. He’s the most feared teacher in the entire faculty, both by students and other teachers. According to the legend, a student that was playing Titania’s monologue from A Midsummer Night’s Dream used the word lies instead of forgeries; he shouted at her with such sheer force, the very core of the school shook, and the massive portrait of the Bard that hangs in the middle of the main hall fell and cracked in half. It’s a myth, of course, but he is still the one professor you don’t want to upset. You know, just in case. As our play’s director, though, he chose me among twenty-one candidates, and that has to count for something. Despite what people say about him, he’s an incredible teacher, and as much as I have never been the kind of person with a burning need for everyone to like them, his opinion matters to me. Much to my dismay, the seat to my right is lifted from the floor as its soon-to-be occupant sits next to me without sparing a look in my direction. I said I wouldn’t let him bother me, and I suppose that if we’re going to be Romeo and Juliet, we can’t be at each other’s throats all the time, so I say nothing. Mr. Hackle enters the room with his spotless script in hand, a bottle of sparkling water in the other, and everyone scrambles to the nearest chairs. It’s its own type of funny, really, how a single plaid-clad man can be so intimidating, even when all he does is walk into a room. I steal a look at Theodore, who has schooled his features into perfect student mode; he’s already annotated his script in that illegible calligraphy of his, which is perhaps the only not so perfect thing about him. While I can’t read what words he used, I know for a fact he’s filled the pages with personal notes on the character, because I have done the same.
“Right, before we begin, allow me to set some ground rules, which you should already be familiar with–but just in case. In my plays, nobody slacks off, nobody ever misses a rehearsal, and nobody ever comes unprepared,” Mr. Hackle says, not bothering to meet anyone’s gaze, which is somehow ten times more threatening. “Fail to appease these simple rules, and I will have no trouble replacing you. In fact, your understudies will be glad to do so.” Someone’s swallow in the silence echoes as if they’d just yodeled on top of a mountain, but if Mr. Hackle notices, he doesn’t let it show.
“Let’s begin,” he huffs, and the familiar flipping the script open to the first page expands across the room.
Fun fact about Juliet: she doesn’t have the most lines in the play, yet it’s every actor’s dream to tackle her role. To me, it was never about having a lot of lines, but having the lines everyone is anticipating, even those who are not familiar with the play; when Juliet declares her love on that balcony, you just can’t take your eyes away.
The table read starts, and Romeo’s first words are uttered at my side. My eyes dart to Theodore, my ears attuned to the clear but deep timbre of his voice, and just for a second, my mind wanders to an alternative reality in which things might’ve been different.
After our very first class together nearly three years ago, I’d been so impressed with his skills. We’d never gotten the chance to act together in any of the school plays because, upon admission, APDAS splits new students into two groups to train separately for the three years of courses. We only shared certain classes, and always worked on separate shows with our respective groups. Until now, the third and last year, when we were allowed to audition for either play if we wished to. No offense to As You Like It , but who wouldn’t want to at least give R and J a try? Being cast as the leads, the Ro-meo and Juliet, in our final year’s showcase–it’s a big de-- al. But Theodore and I being civil, if not friends, is just wishful thinking. If only I knew what put those ill feelings towards me where they have taken roots, perhaps I could also eradicate it. But why would I even want that, when he’s done nothing but antagonise me? He has determined he can’t stand me and made it very easy for me to reciprocate the feeling.
I force my gaze back to my own script, pretending to annotate something, and stare at the pages as I wait for my turn to read in Scene Three of Act One, when Juliet is getting ready for the family ball. Isabel and Margaret, who respectively play the Nurse and Lady Capulet are reading too, and I’m glad both got cast along with me. It’s not long after that that the Garden Scene comes, after the young lovers have met at Juliet’s family ball, and it’s so romantic it simultaneously makes me want to sigh and be sick. I have a complicated relationship with romance in real life, which is why I try not to entertain the idea of developing romantic feelings again anytime soon. So it’s clear how playing a girl whose greatest wish is simply to get to be in love is no small feat to me. That’s part of the reason I wanted this role so much though; I’ve never shied away from a challenge. We get through the dialogue unscathed, and from the corner of my eye, I see Theodore stealing a glance at me. I refuse to look back, to acknowledge whatever resentment is surely simmering in his hazel eyes. Maybe he’s not above making a scene, however subtle, in front of our colleagues–but I am .
Theodore
Once out of the table read, I pause for a few minutes just outside the door. I like observing people and stealing mannerisms, expressions, the way someone will furrow their brows in thought, or tip their head when laughing at their friend’s joke. It’s not as creepy as it sounds, I promise. It’s one of the first things we were ever taught: steal what you can from any person you meet and reapply to your characters. Dafne Wright passes me, eyeing me for a fraction of a second, so I eye her right back. She has this power to get under my skin just by looking at me, and I don’t like it. It’s as unsettling now as it was when I first met her. It wasn’t my intention to come here and have petty fights with my supposed colleagues. I came here to be the best. But it seems that she had different plans for me and started messing with my head with that disarming honesty of hers. I’d never met anyone who speaks their mind all the time; what kind of sociopath does that? I wasn’t raised to be rude, but she manages to push my buttons with little effort. It doesn’t help that she is wildly talented, though I would rather let a herd of chimpanzees walk over me than ever say out loud. I’m about to put an earbud in my ear when an arm abruptly wraps around my shoulders and steers me towards the hall.
“So,” my roommate and best mate Devon starts, “that was intense, huh?” I narrow my eyes at him. “If you’re referring to Mr. Hackle’s terrible aftershave, then sure, could be smelled fr–” he interrupts me by lightly hitting my nape.
“No,” he rolls his eyes, “the read. You and Dafne looking like you either wanted to stab each other or make out on the table.”
I choke on my saliva. “What on earth are you talking about?” I whisper, my eyes flickering around us, dread-ing someone might hear Devon’s nonsense.
“Oh, alright mate, you want to pretend that never happened, then it never happened.”
I love Devon, I really do, but he’s a gossip. He watches too much Netflix, that’s his main problem; sees dramatics and romantic ploys where there are none. Certainly not between Dafne and me–she’s insufferable, that one. I’m convinced she thinks having the shiniest hair you’ll ever see is a personality trait. “You should spend more time working on your downward blow now that you got Tybalt, rather than making up scenarios for your own entertainment,” I say with a sigh.
“I assure you my blow is just fine,” he teases as he winks and begins walking backwards ahead of me. I shoot him a dry look, and he does finger guns at me, which in Devon Language means see you later. I have five minutes before I need to head to my next class, so I rummage through my jeans’ pocket again for my earbuds, pluck them in, and grant myself four minutes and thirty seconds of blissful peace as I allow The Chain by Fleetwood Mac to fill my ears.