Chapter 6
Dafne
I’d consider myself a patient woman. Understanding, too, even when people make it hard for me to be. But if there’s something I don’t tolerate, it’s disrespect. And this is too bloody much, even for Theodore Price.
“Look, Wright,” he starts but I raise my free hand to shut him up, and I’m more than satisfied to see it works.
“No,” I say simply. “You don’t get to do this. ‘Talent means little if you can’t back it up with passion,’” I recite. “‘Let’s just say I’m not sure passion is Dafne’s most shining quality’–did I get it right?”
“You know how these things are, they caught me off guard with that question–” he looks around us, surely terrified Mr. Hackle will overhear. Lucky for him, I’m not that kind of person, and made sure our director left before confronting him about what Isabel showed me: a video interview on APDAS’ Instagram page where he talks about his recently obtained role as Romeo, as well as, apparently, answers questions about me. His shoulders slump, and perhaps for the first time since I’ve known him, he looks unprepared.
“The difference between you and me is that I have the guts to say things to your face,” I add before turning around, placing Isabel’s phone back in her hands, and grabbing my bag as I walk out of the theatre.
I’m trying very hard to keep my composure, but it’s like I can feel my brain heating up, processing Theodore’s words. But I promised myself I wouldn’t do that a long time ago.
It’s not worth it.
It was stupid of me to believe he could be nice, if only for the sake of peace during what is an insanely stressful time for all of us, but of course not. I fish for my phone in my tote bag as I rush down the hallway, hoping nobody will notice the frustrated tears welling up in my eyes. I like to think I’m tough enough, but I’m also an easy crier, which proves useful when you’re an actor, much less when you’re supposed to be a functioning human being in society. I’m about to call Phoebe so I can distract myself and calm down, when a voice stops me in my tracks.
“Oy,” Ollie calls. “Where are you running, Forrest?” I look over at him as he closes the men’s bathroom door behind him, and I can’t stop an angry tear from slipping out.
“Daf, what is it?” he says, his thick brows knitting together.
“It’s nothing, that’s the point. I let stupid things stupid people say get me worked up and–” I take a deep breath. “Can we go get hot chocolate?” I sniff. He pats my shoulder twice and chuckles lightly. “Sure. Let me grab my stuff and then we’ll get some serotonin in your system.”
As soon as I’m cradling a steaming cup of coconut-flavored chocolate between my hands, I figure it’ll be easier to put things into perspective.
“It’s not groundbreaking news that Price is a dickhead,” Ollie says simply, munching on his sugar-free muffin. We love having breakfast food in the evening–it was always our thing before APDAS, and Ollie is determined to keep the tradition until we’re old and grey. “He’s all smiles and charm as long as he doesn’t feel threatened, that’s what his problem is.”
I scrunch up my nose as I listen. “Threatened? By me?” I ask. I suppose there has been an unspoken challenge between us, but we’re Romeo and Juliet now, for crying out loud.
We should have the same goal, just this once. Ollie eyes me, eyebrows raised. “Don’t tell me you never noticed,” he continues, trying to take some of my chocolate with his spoon. I bat his hand away playfully, then rotate mine as to say do go on . “It’s been that way ever since our first class here. Your Lady Macbeth obliterated his Edmund,” he says matter-of-factly, making a cut-throat gesture. “Add that to the fact that you got in with a full scholarship with the fact that you could fill an Olympic-sized swimming pool with the guy’s ego … two plus two equals four.”
I grab an abandoned blueberry from Ollie’s muffin and roll it between a thumb and forefinger.
“It’s not like I stole his place or something,” I say thoughtfully. “I’ve earned it, same as anyone else. And that interview is a whole other beast, Ollie. That’s public humiliation.”
Ollie shrugs in agreement. “There’s always the other option,” he adds quietly.
“Which is…?”
“He was born an arsehole and he’ll die as one,” he says simply as he props his head on a fist.
“That’s a possibility,” I smile, “except for the fact that he doesn’t seem like such an arsehole around other people. He’s always been decent to you . It’s like I’m a red cape and he’s the bull.” I rub the tip of my finger on the border of my cup, when something else occurs to me. “He also probably hates kissing me, so that’s just–” Ollie interrupts my self-deprecating moment by clapping his hands.
“Do not finish that sentence. I know for a fact you’re a great kisser,” he says with a smirk, and I roll my eyes. “We were twelve . And if I recall correctly, you started dating Maisie Anders a few days later,” I remind him as I rest my chin in my hands.
“The two things were not correlated at all,” he says, trying to stifle a yawn.
“Still haven’t caught up with sleep hours, huh?”
“Don’t even get me started,” he groans. “What kind of monsters wake you up at five in the morning every single day for two weeks? Not to mention Tam has been pestering me with messages all the while.”
Tam is Ollie’s ex-girlfriend. They’d been together for four years all through college.
I liked her; she was fun and sensible and really smart, but when she and Ollie had to part ways–he at APDAS and her at the University of Limerick, Ireland–she told him long-distance wasn’t good enough for her, and broke things off. It’s been literal years, but every so often she starts to text and call him and beg him to give her another chance. Ollie was inclined to do so at first, but then he realised she was unreliable, and he didn’t want to risk getting hurt again if he could help it. That’s just one of the many things he and I have in common: we were let down, and don’t feel like playing spin the wheel for another try. On the bright side, APDAS keeps its students busy, so thinking about a relationship is the least of my worries (and no, the occasional one-night stand doesn’t count, a girl has needs).
“Is she going to call me in tears again? I’m out of ex-cuses as to why you won’ t pick up the phone, Ollie.”
“She could have gotten on a plane if she was so desperate,” he retorts.
I nod in agreement, and while I support him all the way, I can’t help but feel sorry for her. I’ve been in her position, after all. As if he heard my thoughts, Ollie says, “Speaking of arseholes … Have you heard about Noah?”
I look up at him, my brows furrowing at the mention of the biggest sod that has ever lived, also known as my ex.
“Heard what? I’ve blocked him on social media and never bother to answer his stupid birthday wishes, you know that.”
Ollie grimaces and says, “I know, it’s just … he’s engaged.”
I tilt my head, not even sure I’ve heard him right.
“Engaged as in–”
“To be married,” he confirms softly. He’s looking at me like he’s afraid I’m going to crumble to the floor at any second. I feel a smile creeping on my lips, and the news should probably make me want to throw up, but I feel the weirdest mix of relief and disgust. I really am through it, but the memories still sting. His last gift before we parted ways forever was a packet of trust issues tied with a pretty bow. “Well then, I hope they’re terribly happy,” I say as I raise my mug for a toast. “Cheers to one less idiot roaming the market,” I add as Ollie clinks his mug with mine and laughs .
Theodore
After a night of staring at Tom Hiddleston’s life-size cardboard cutout creeping in a corner of our dorm room–that I never would have allowed Devon to get if not for a lost bet–my alarm goes off, and I practically fall off my bed out of sheer exhaustion.
Guilt is a strange thing. It starts as a kernel of flame, fed by increasingly bigger chunks of wood, and the next thing you know, it’s a whole bloody bonfire. I hate it. My alarm keeps ringing obscenely loud, but Devon doesn’t budge; I’m not sure a herd of elephants playing the trumpet would be enough to wake him up when he’s snoring like this.
I wash my face in a poor attempt to look like I’ve had more than ten minutes of sleep, brush my teeth, and force my brain to focus on picking out an outfit. I throw a slipper at Devon’s head, who suddenly sits up on his bed mumbling a “I want a real sword this time!”
“You want a real sword, I’m afraid you’ve chosen the wrong career path,” I say, and he groans a Shut up . “We’re not allowed to skip class so we can get more sleep,” I remind him, picking my rucksack up. “Get ready, and for the love of Tom,” I point at the cutout with my thumb, “do not be late.” As I’m closing the door behind me, I hear the muffled thump of the slipper being thrown at the door and laugh. Perhaps today won’t be as bad as I thought. Maybe Dafne will have forgotten all
about it. Right?
I’m going through my usual stretching routine, keeping my eyes as wide as possible in a desperate attempt not to fall asleep on stage. Isabel and Oliver are chatting while stretching a few feet from me, and I, unwillingly, pick up on their conversation.
“It was awful,” Isabel says, the grimace on her tan face evident in her voice. “I should have said something, but I didn’t want to interfere.”
Bollocks. She’s talking about last night, isn’t she?
I have my back to them, so I don’t see what Oliver does in the next few seconds of silence, and I hold my breath.
“Dafne’s not mad at you, don’t worry. She can handle arses like him,” he says.
Yeah, the arse is me. My stomach drops. I really need to apologise–I’ll do that as soon as she gets here.
I didn’t realise how harmful my words could be when I did that stupid interview, and when I was asked about Dafne … I panicked. What was I supposed to say? That she’s likely the best student this school has ever seen?
Maybe. It wouldn’t be a lie.
My thoughts are interrupted by Dafne’s presence, as Isa-- bel calls her name to greet her. I release a breath, then turn to them. She’s smiling to her friends, her bag smoothly slipping off her shoulder, and then she shoots me a look. It’s not angry, it’s not sad; I would never able to tell if she’s imagining strangling me or doesn’t care enough to have murderous thoughts about me. Either way, I need to patch things up and not allow this thing to hover over us for the rest of the year.
I take a few steps towards her, and she raises an eyebrow, her arms crossed against her chest. I reach her, Oliver and Isabel, who are standing in a semicircle, and clear my throat. Her friends don’t even bother to look at me, and Dafne scoffs lightly.
“Can I talk to you for a second?” I ask, shoving my hands into the pockets of my track pants. Dafne considers me for a moment, eyes narrowing as if she was reading something written on my forehead in too-small handwriting. Oliver eyes me then, displeasure clear in his gaze, and I try my best to ignore it.
“Sure,” Dafne says, and walks to the proscenium. When we’re out of the others’ hearing range, she cocks her head in silent question, a bored look on her face. Her cheeks are lightly flushed.
“Look,” I start, licking my lips. Suddenly my salivary glands have bid me farewell. “What I said was… distasteful.”
Her eyebrows shoot to her hairline. “That’s one way to put it,” she smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. I’m about to apologise properly, because I know anything else won’t do, but she interrupts me.
“You know what, Theodore?” she resumes, that weird smile still on her lips. “I don’t know what your problem is. I don’t know if you’re so unsatisfied with your life, you feel the need to take it out on me.” She ponders, her calm tone not matching her words, and I can feel the color draining from my cheeks.
“But from now on, I demand respect . You’d rather share the stage with a different Juliet because of some petty disliking you took to me for no apparent reason or just because you’d rather be kissing someone else– I don’t care. Own up and do your job and I’ll do mine, and we never have to breathe the same air again once this is over,” she snaps before walking away, her ponytail swishing.
My throat is completely dry, my stomach has plummeted to unfathomable depths, and I know all I can do is exactly what she’s asked of me.