I Original Play
“Writing an original script for the spring play is a terrible idea,” Caitlyn said.
“We suck at writing. And my life sucks. It’s miserable.
Our scripts will be compared to George Bernard Shaw or Tennessee Williams or Oscar Wilde.
We won’t compete. We should leave it to the professionals.
We should drink red wine. That’s all we should do - it should be our laser focus. ”
Caitlyn sat in Mitchell’s basement with some of the drama kids - Mitchell, Madelyne, and Westfield.
Mitchell made certain that his basement had everything to socialize and entertain.
Madelyne wore a nice white shirt and black skirt.
Westfield looked up both indie movies and sports scores - embarrassed about the latter.
“I want to write a one-act play, and so does Ai, and so does Mitchell,” Westfield said.
“We will either do all three one-act plays or expand the best to ninety minutes and perform it. We will see who writes the best script. May the best thespian win. I wish you luck, Mitchell, same as when we play billiards, and same with Ai, wherever she is.”
“I need to write a one-act play, and we need to perform it sometime,” Mitchell said.
“Whether or not it is the spring play is the question. Mine will be flawless - oh, let’s be honest, I am a high school thespian; it will be moderately awful and an attempt at true art.
It will be an awful apocalypse. I am still asking all of you, my beloved fellow theater kids, to perform it.
We will perform all three. I will make certain of that.
And I win at pool whenever I want to bother Westfield, which is a fair sixty percent of the time.
You have no idea how impressive I can be. ”
“Yes,” Madelyne said. She smiled her flawless smile.
“It’s going to be the spring play. Three little one-act plays.
One is Westfield talking about intellectual somethings.
The second one is about the creation of a work of art about horror and fear by Ai.
She was missing for a week and is back and is fine.
She wasn’t kidnapped, people. That was some framed, lying conspiracy theory bullshit.
The third one is Mitchell’s passion project.
We will make art. Fucked-up, terrible, but the best art we can possibly make. I believe in us. We can do this.”
“Mine is about love,” Mitchell said. “Being the big football players and the important cheerleaders and the smartest kids and the preppy kids and the people at the top of the social strata. It’s about those guys. And a self-insert gay boy in the middle of all that.”
“I proclaim you to be morons,” Caitlyn said. “You will not be capable of writing well enough to make interesting one-act plays. It will suck. You will suck. You should just do Romeo and Juliet.”
“No,” Mitchell said. “Let us dream. Let us try. Let me write my hell apocalypse disaster. I want my disaster, Cait! I need my disaster!”
“Dream!” Caitlyn said. “Write a terrible self-insert character. See if I care.”
“I resent you, Cait,” Mitchell said.
“I resent all of you,” Madelyne said.
“Aren’t you no fun? Your life sucks, Madelyne. Being queen bee must suck so badly,” Mitchell said.
“I do hate life and myself too,” Westfield said. “I agree with Madelyne.”
“I do hate all of you losers,” Madelyne said. “But you’re all I have, so I also love all of you.”
The basement held a small bar with several dozen bottles of liquor of all kinds and prices - but mostly between twenty and one hundred dollars.
The bar had room for four people to sit at barstools and hang out and drink, but they weren’t occupied: Madelyne lay on the green couch in the middle of the basement, idly watching the music video on the television.
Westfield and Mitchell played pool at the pool table in one half of the finished basement.
Caitlyn, meanwhile, sat in the expensive chair to the left of the green couch, one of those movie-theater-style chairs with two cup holders, reclining ability with a button, a light-up feature, and everything plugged into the electrical socket.
It was truly an advanced chair. Caitlyn needed the best of everything.
She had trouble managing her chair, though.
She swore a bunch and switched to water.
“Oh, we could do my podcast,” Mitchell said. “I would love to do a podcast with you guys for a few minutes.”
“Okay,” Westfield said. “We have to stop playing pool. Just as I was about to start winning.”
“You were not going to start winning,” Mitchell said. “Get on your laptop. Get in front of the darling camera. We’re starting to roll on our podcast.”
“Cool,” Westfield said. He set up the podcast by getting some cameras and microphones and laptops from his backpack.
“Westfield,” Madelyne said. “I’m bored. Entertain me.”
“Damn it,” Westfield said. “God damn it. I didn’t come here to flirt. This is serious podcasting that we’re supposed to be doing here.”
“Flirt,” Mitchell said. “Flirt with her, the beautiful woman, Westfield. Flirt before the camera. The pretty people are going to get laid, and the rest of us are going to be so jealous and angry.” “My sexual conquests are greatly exaggerated,” Westfield said. “I’m not sleeping with anyone tonight.”
“How dare you!” Mitchell said. “No, actually, it’s fine. I wanted to have our day’s podcast be about sex. I want to talk honestly about sex. I think that, in this case, I approve. I am in the yes category on this one.”
“Sex is great when I’m in love,” Caitlyn said.
“I can’t wait to fuck Ai again. It feels great to be with someone I’m in love with.
She’s back and fine. She went to Europe with the family.
She’s back to her old peppy and encouraging self.
She’s a genius, she’s in esports, she’s friendly with everyone, she’s doing amazing.
I need to fuck her. Who cares if she cries for an hour a day? That’s just being a teen girl.”
“Um, wow,” Madelyne said. “Just wow. That sounds like something you need to investigate thoroughly.” “Definitely,” Caitlyn said.
“We have a fifty-dollar superchat,” Westfield said. “Thank you for sponsoring Mitchell’s podcast. We should read it.”
“Fifty dollars,” Mitchell said. “From Trevor Caunfren. ‘I absolutely love all of you and hate myself for resenting you, especially Caitlyn. I wish I was her! She is the hottest woman at our school. Go Bulldogs!’ Thanks, Trevor.”
“Thanks,” Caitlyn said. “I agree. I’m the hottest girl at our school.” “And pretty people have drama. Everyone has drama, actually. There’s some drama, there’s always drama,” Westfield said. “Something’s always happening.”
“Agreed,” Madelyne said.
“And the cliques are less defined. I mean, I’m a geek, everyone’s a bit of a geek, really,” Westfield said.
Westfield was about to finish the podcast and try to seduce Madelyne when he was interrupted by a text from his father. His father told him to come home immediately or suffer the consequences of disappointing him. Westfield looked at Madelyne. He took her aside after the podcast.
“I have to go,” Westfield said. “I’m sorry.”
“Really? You’re turning me down for something else?” Madelyne asked. “Okay, stud. What’s more important than me?” “Family,” Westfield said.
Madelyne kissed him on the lips. “Give the doctor my best,” she said.
“He’s probably just drunk,” Westfield said. “But he says emergency, so I have to go, be a good son, see what my dad needs.”
“You could have had a blowjob from me,” Madelyne said.
Westfield hated himself for turning down Madelyne.
She was going to find someone else. He had lost his shot.
He hated himself for not being able to spend a night with her - for not being strong enough to ignore his father.
He got out of the basement and walked up to his car.
He had drunk about two sips of wine and therefore had no trouble driving home in his SUV.
He had been caught a few weeks ago - DUI- but they hadn’t stopped him from driving yet.
The authorities and lawyers were arguing it out first. He was fighting it.
He didn’t want one stupid mistake to ruin his life.
He turned the music on to the satellite radio and listened to classic rock, one of the stations that counted down the greatest classic rock songs of all time. He drove home. The drive turned out to be uneventful. He listened to Bob Dylan.
He arrived at his family’s home a few minutes later and prepared to meet the family.
He felt unease walking into his own home.
He straightened out his shirt and combed his hair a little bit.
He walked into their three-bedroom townhome, which smelled a bit of booze.
The entryway held dirty shoes on a mat and an old yellow lamp.
Inside to the left was the living room - where Dr. Westfield, Westfield’s father, sat.
The dining room and kitchen were to the right, a little messy, and Westfield would have to clean them later.
He would hate himself for cleaning up for the family, but they made him do chores. That was, they pointed out, reasonable.
“Hey, Dad,” Westfield said.
“You were drinking wine on the internet while talking about sex. I’m worried. Drinking is terrible unless it’s in extreme moderation. You could get in trouble. You could do something to ruin your chance of a good college, a good job.”
“You drink wine, Dad,” Westfield said. “And I like Madelyne. I want to impress her. I want to be with her.”
“This is ridiculous,” Dr. Westfield said. “You should worry about plays and schoolwork. Not girls and wine. I don’t approve. You are throwing away your education, your chances in life.” “I get A’s,” Westfield said.
“Right,” Dr. Westfield said. “We’ll see if that continues. And you need to understand. Your friend. The gay one.”
“What about him?” Westfield asked.