Chapter 3
Forty-eight hours have passed since the funeral, but I still feel like a wet dog who needs a full-body shake to get off all the unsettling residue.
I arrive at play rehearsal twenty minutes late.
It doesn’t matter because this is one of my “observing” nights.
When casting Camelot, our drama teacher, like a big baby, had been unable to decide whether to cast me or Amanda Drinan as Guenevere.
So he cast us both. We’re going to alternate performances, Mr. Price explained to us after he posted the bonkers cast list on the stage door.
He said it like that was something totally normal that happened all the time, even though it totally isn’t.
Even worse, there are only going to be three performances: Friday night, Saturday night, and the Sunday matinee.
Apparently, Mr. Price chose drama because he’s shitbad at math, since it didn’t occur to him that two people cannot split three performances evenly.
Instead, he pretended he planned it that way on purpose, because Saturday was the “big” performance, so the person doing Saturday, which turned out to be me, would be satisfied by the sexy Saturday glamour of it all, while the other person (Amanda) would get two doses of slightly less “big” fun on Friday and Sunday.
In reality, I think Amanda feels shafted because I get the high-profile night, and I feel shafted because she gets to perform twice as many times as me, and all the other girls in the show feel shafted because they didn’t get the lead at all.
An epic fail any way you look at it. I’m not really surprised, though.
Mr. Price’s backbone is made out of cafeteria pudding.
I realize he’s waving at me from the stage even as I’m thinking rude thoughts about him.
I give him a nod. In response, he flourishes an elaborate bow like he’s at his own third curtain call.
He might as well wear a T-shirt that reads, I WANTED TO STAR ON brOADWAY BUT ALL I GOT WAS THIS LOUSY TEACHING JOB.
I’m resisting openly cringing when I see Richard chatting with the accompanist at the piano.
Tiny jolts of electricity explode in my rib cage.
I’m suddenly aware of every element of my face—what my eyebrows are doing, the shape my mouth is making, even the creases in my forehead.
I will it all to be still and passive, to obey my strict orders to not have a care in the world as I try to figure out where a person with zero cares would let their gaze rest. Richard is the Arthur to my Guenevere.
Sounds like the most romantic love story ever, except today he is the Arthur to Amanda’s Guenevere.
Am I actually blushing now? I dig in my backpack for my pen and notebook that I use to keep track of all the blocking.
Tomorrow I’ll need to move wherever Amanda moves today and I won’t have any muscle memory to help me, so notes are key.
When I come up from the bottom of my bag with my supplies, I almost yelp.
Richard is sitting next to me. How did he even get over here so fast? Must be his swing dancer training.
Yep, that’s right. He’s a swing dancer. And a drama geek.
He is tall and skinny and his retro hipster clothes look as loose as they would draped around an empty hanger.
He even plays the French horn. All these things combined could easily make for enough total dorkage to repel any reasonable girl.
But the poles of that magnet are flipped somehow, and I’m pulled toward him in a way that feels like fate.
I have no idea if he feels the pull of the magnet, though. He’s fun and flirty with me, but he’s sort of like that with everyone. I’m not complaining. I’ll take what I can get.
What I’m getting right now is a big inhale of his laundry detergent/Old Spice deodorant/boy sweat. I want to let my eyelids droop to half-mast so I can really focus on its deliciousness, but that would look dopey. Instead, I whip myself to attention and raise one eyebrow at him.
“Your Majesty,” he says, nodding his perfect cleft chin to me. Even though his hair is a deep brown, his eyes are steely blue, which makes them somehow harder to read, more mysterious.
“M’lord,” I reply, feeling my pulse surge.
“I trust you will be critiquing my every move up there tonight. I expect a thorough evaluation afterward. Don’t hold anything back.”
“My notes will leave you vulnerable and exposed,” I say. Going for simultaneously businesslike and sensual, I click my pen a couple times.
“Promises, promises,” he murmurs, shaking his head. He reaches over and clicks my pen once, slowly. Weirdly sexy. Although he could probably pick a zit and I would think it was weirdly sexy. Could he be the one? I think he might be the one.
“Arthur! Your kingdom awaits!” Mr. Price calls from the pit and sweeps his hand from our seats up to center stage, where Amanda is waiting. Thanks a lot, Price.
“Remember. Exposed. Don’t hold back,” he calls over his shoulder as he heads up the aisle. I bite the tip of my pen in a kittenish way, but he doesn’t see it.
Part of what is hard about this role sharing is that half the time I am peripheral, bored.
I don’t get to be up there, lost in the imaginary world of knights and royalty.
Singing and dancing and moving and feeling in a space that is safe precisely because it is pretend, and none of the words are my own.
But the other part that’s hard is sharing Richard.
Either Amanda is the best actress in the world (which she’s not), or she has her own chemistry brewing with Richard.
They block out their cozy little dance routine to “What Do the Simple Folk Do?” with obvious enjoyment, each misstep highlighted by Amanda’s giggles.
I can’t really fault her. I would be doing the same thing. But I still want to gag.
I’m supposed to be taking notes, but this is killing me.
I need a break from all the nothing I’m doing.
I scoot down a side aisle and slip out of the auditorium.
Even though it’s almost seven, I can see Mr. Leary in the band room across the hall, stacking sheet music.
Officially, he’s head of the music department, but in reality, he just runs the jazz choir, because the teachers who run band and orchestra are both like dictators of tiny countries and don’t take orders from anyone, especially Mr. Leary.
He’s too sweet, too soft. There’s no reason he would need to be here now.
He must be afraid to go home and see Mason’s room, Mason’s chair, Mason’s toothbrush in a cup by the sink. My jaw clenches.
He catches me peering in from the hallway. He smiles and I force a smile back. I should go in, say something nice or comforting, but I don’t. I hurry away like he’s contagious.
I hide in the girls’ bathroom, examining my face while imagining Amanda’s.
Is she cuter than me? Her boobs are certainly bigger, but everyone’s boobs are bigger than mine, so I’m going to have to win this competition on other grounds.
Amanda’s features are small and sharp, defined.
I’m pretty sure defined cheekbones are supposed to be a good thing.
My face is rounder, more babyish, and my cheeks are always rosy like I have blush on.
My mom says I have skin that glows. Oh God, now I’m resorting to mom compliments to bolster my self-esteem?
Someone slap me. No, wait, don’t. My cheeks can’t afford to get any redder.
I head back to rehearsal, making a mental list of other ways I could win out in the Richard tournament I’ve concocted.
I want to have more mystique, but I have absolutely no idea how to do that.
I’m almost back at the auditorium when out of the corner of my eye I sense someone at the other end of the hall.
The surface of my skin prickles. Every cell in my body is telling me to look, but I’m too afraid because I know it’s Mason.
It’s my dead friend down there at the other end of the hall.
Something tells me he’s now moving toward me, but I still can’t look for fear of what I will discover.
I can’t handle this right now. I try to tell myself it’s a trick of the light, but then why is every hair on my neck standing on end?
At the last second before I rejoin the cast, I give in to the urge to know and I turn my head.
There’s nothing. Nothing, that is, except reeling pain as I walk smack into the metal dividing frame between the open double doors of the auditorium.
My skull clunks against the hollow pole with a loud reverberation, like the pole is a xylophone key and my head is the mallet.
Business inside the auditorium stops. Tears spring to my eyes, and I feel the heat of a rising goose egg on my forehead.
Amanda runs over to me, looking genuinely concerned.
“Hattie! Are you okay?”
I hate that question so much. That one little question has the power to take all your squishy insides and put them out on display. I back up, putting my right hand to my forehead and waving her off with my left.
She won’t be stopped. “Don’t worry, Mark! I’ve got her,” she says over her shoulder as she puts one arm around my waist and the other under my elbow. Calling Mr. Price “Mark” is quintessential Amanda.
“I’m fine. I just wasn’t looking where I was going. I just … need a minute.” Even though I’m dazed, I can’t help turning once more to peer down the hallway. But whoever was there, if there even was anyone, is gone.