I shout after her, “Thanks a lot, Louise!”
She’s already bolted down the hallway, and I am left alone. The front of my shirt sticks to me and I can smell the soda. Everyone starts to stare at me, and I flush at the attention. With no other choice, I change direction and head to the nearest bathroom. The bell rings. I’ll be late to assembly.
I can only hope that I won’t get caught, because I can’t afford to forfeit my lunch break—not today. I need to finish my script if I’m going to have any chance of meeting the deadline.
I peel off my blazer and loosen my tie. I try to wash off as much of the soda from my white shirt as possible. In the end I am wet, and the scent of the soda still clings to me. Staring at the damage in the mirror, I know that it won’t get any better than this. Annoyed, I make my way to the auditorium.
“Missing assembly, Kai,” Vice Principal Ferguson says. She stands at the auditorium door. She has the same bright red hair as her son. Her crimson lips are pursed in displeasure. She looks me up and down. “What on earth happened to you?”
“Sorry, ma’am. Someone bumped into me and caused this mess.”
“Hmmm. You’re late, untidy”—she scrunches her eyes and studies my jaw—“and unshaved. I’ll have to write you up for this. Come along.”
I groan. I know that I am about to receive my first-ever batch of demerits. As I follow Vice Principal Ferguson, I can’t help but curse Louise Keaton and Bryson Keller himself.
This is not how I wanted my Monday morning to be going.
2
With a handful of demerits, I head toward drama. I’m late for this, too. The large metal double doors swing open with a screech, announcing my arrival. Mrs. Henning circles on me in a flurry of bangles and scarves to pierce me with her accusatory gaze.
“You’re late, Kai.” I can feel the blood rushing to my face. I hate being singled out more than anything. “You should know by now that the stage waits for no man. And excuses mean very little in the theater.” Mrs. Henning shakes her head. “Hurry up and join us. You’re disrupting the class.”
“Sorry,” I say.
“Very well.” Mrs. Henning returns her attention to the rest of the class. “As you can see, everybody has already been paired up. But lucky for you, there is another latecomer this morning. Find the assignment breakdown on the chair up front. You and he will be partners. Be prepared to present on Friday. No exceptions.”
I nod and make my way up to the stage. It’s a long walk. The auditorium is large and was recently renovated. There are rows and rows of crimson seats to pass.
The rest of the class is already seated in a circle onstage. They have their copies of Romeo and Juliet open in front of them. We do have an actual classroom with desks and proper chairs, but Mrs. Henning believes that Shakespeare belongs in the theater and it must be performed instead of read. In her words, “it is a sin to do otherwise.” So each class we take turns playing a role. She encourages us to use the space around us, to become the characters.
I find a spot and sit cross-legged, placing my ruined blazer next to me. I pull my well-used copy of Romeo and Juliet from my messenger bag and turn to the page where we last left off. The one perk of my being late is that I have avoided being assigned a role. This is my least favorite part of drama.
The only reason I even took this class was because of Mrs. Henning. She fought to have a script-writing course included in the curriculum, which is why she has always been my favorite teacher, that and because her tales of fame and fortune are hilarious. Mrs. Henning was “the leading lady of daytime television.” She played the dual roles of identical twin sisters who were the hero and the villain in the daytime soap My Face, Your Life. I spent an afternoon on YouTube watching clips from the show. It had everything—rich people being terrible and murders and affairs and even alien invasions. Totally addictive.
I listen to the readings and find the right scene. It’s the brawl scene: Mercutio has just died and we’re leading up to the death of Tybalt. Isaac has been cast as Romeo, and I once more curse both Louise and Bryson for making me late. I almost missed out on having a legitimate excuse to stare at him.
Too soon, we reach the end of the act and Mrs. Henning holds up her hand to pause us. “Good work. I think we should stop for the day. Why don’t you all break into your pairs and discuss the assignment?”
I study Isaac and his partner, wishing that I were lucky enough to work with him. At school I’ve never really spoken to Isaac aside from a few hellos here and there. It’s the same with the rest of the soccer team. We don’t run in the same circles. The soccer players are the kings of Fairvale Academy, and I am nothing but a lowly peasant, which has always been fine with me. I don’t need popularity, because being anonymous is safest for me. I can exist with my secrets intact.
The doors open and we all turn as the man of the hour saunters into the auditorium. Bryson looks perfectly tousled—effortless and smooth. The sight irks me more than it should.
“Sorry I’m late, Mrs. Henning.” Bryson stops at the front row.
“Welcome, Mr. Keller. Glad you could fit us into your busy schedule. I hope you’re aware that you have a date with me at lunch. You too, Kai.” Mrs. Henning looks between Bryson and me. I wish I were the type of person who could voice an argument about the unfairness of being punished twice for the same crime. Seriously, where’s the justice in the world?
“Kai, please explain the assignment to Bryson,” Mrs. Henning continues.
Not at all happy with these turns of events, I nod and stand. Grabbing my belongings, I head down the steps and off the stage. I sit on one of the fold-down seats and place my things next to me. Bryson’s stealing glances at his phone.
Annoyed, I say, “Here.” I hold out a copy of the assignment. “We need to choose a scene from a Shakespeare movie adaptation and perform it on Friday.”
Bryson accepts the paper from my hand. “You okay?”
“Great. Just great.”
Bryson picks up on my sarcasm, because he looks up. His blue eyes have a habit of looking through you. “Is something wrong?”
“No,” I lie. “Let’s just get this over with. We should make some time to get together. Let me know when works for you?” The sooner we make plans, the sooner I can try to convince Mrs. Henning to let me out of detention. I need to finish my script. This is my last shot. And I think an extension is out of the question.
“I have soccer practice tomorrow and Thursday, and I have a game Wednesday night.” Before he can say anything else, his phone rings. I recognize the ringtone. It’s a lesser-known song from my favorite indie band—the Graces. I’m surprised that Bryson Keller of all people knows such a deep cut. Bryson stares at the screen and I see the caller ID—Dad. He swipes his thumb across the severely cracked screen and ignores the call.