Scene Two

[The theater]

I climb the stairs to the stage, my whole body threatening to mutiny, stomach feeling weak, and legs like overcooked noodles. The stage is dimly lit, Max’s beautiful traditional sets pushed to the sides. The house lights are also dim, so that when I stand at the edge of the stage and look out, I’m not blinded by the event horizon, but by faces. Mrs. Jonah sits grading essays in the back of the theater. Everyone else is in the front, center section, but there is an unspoken boundary between the techies and the drammies. Max is in the booth. Esperanza brought him just for this announcement.

Mr. Owens was wrong about one thing. The school administration most certainly did care that he was leaving. Especially since they found out about it from us. Darby and I met before school and marched into Mrs. Jonah’s room to propose our plan. None of us thought Owens wouldn’t have already resigned. Actually, maybe Darby did.

Mrs. Jonah went to the administration to confirm everything, and that’s when the clichéd shit hit the fan. Once it was all cleaned and disinfected, we had a new advisor, an extra two weeks until production, and permission to create the performance our way.

Now we just have to get everyone else to join us.

“The stage is yours, Bec,” Max says, his voice like a warm river flowing through my earpiece, smoothing all the jagged edges of my thoughts that are threatening to tear me apart.

I let go of the lock of hair I’ve wound up to my third knuckle and clasp my hands behind my back until my fingertips tingle. I glance to my right and left; I’m flanked by Darby and Victor, but they both nod at me to start things off.

“Right,” I say before I exhale what feels like hurricane-force winds. “We’re going to do the play without Owens, and it’s going to be brilliant, but only if we work together.” In a rush, hoping to get all the words out before they start throwing rotten tomatoes or stones or calculus books, I outline the plan, telling them about the new vision for the play. Everything will be set in a theater. Romeo and Juliet are from warring acting troupes.

Thomas stands, and I stutter in my explanation. Suddenly the only word in my vocabulary is “uh.” Those sitting close to Thomas volley between watching him and turning their attentions back to me. I stop talking altogether, trying not to gnaw off the inside of my lip in a flurry of nerves.

“What if this plan of yours doesn’t work?” There are murmurs all around the theater. “You’ve never done this before, Becca. Why should we listen to you?”

“Because I’m the only one with a foot in both camps.” I take a step closer to the edge of the stage. “And it’s going to take all of you, techies and drammies, to make this play happen. Owens played you against one another, encouraged the tension. But this way you’ll get your chance to prove how amazing you are to that School of the Arts scout—together.”

There’s silence in the theater. The only sound on the stage is that of my own excited breathing.

Darby steps forward to stand beside me again. Victor joins us. “Sounds good to me,” she says.

The queen has spoken.

“Max,” Darby shouts, turning to face the booth. “Get your ass down here and tell us what to do.”

Max’s chuckle over the speakers sounds like the distant rolling of thunder, the kind that lingers as a storm moves farther away. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Screw that,” Darby says. She pantomimes taking an invisible crown from her head and tossing it up toward the booth. “This thing always gave me a headache.”

I catch Max’s shocked expression as he leans close to the window in the booth, and it makes me smile. But it’s a short-lived smile that slips away when I notice Thomas. He’s standing with his shoulders set crookedly, like half of him is ready to join and the other half is holding him back. When everyone else moves to meet Max at the back of the theater, I jog down the stairs from the stage and grab Thomas by the elbow.

“What’re you thinking?”

“Does it matter?” he asks, his voice as flat as the polished floors of the stage. “I’m just a pawn, remember?”

“You matter, Thomas.” My fingers are still perched at his elbow. His blue eyes gaze down at them, and I itch to remove them, but I don’t. “Owens is an idiot, but he was smart to cast you as Romeo. Don’t walk out on us now. The play needs you.”

“What about you?”

“I can’t do this without you.”

Thomas puts his hand over my fingers, his callused fingertips tapping a rhythm I can’t understand. “Yes, you can.”

I sigh. “You’re right. I can”—I grin up at him—“but I don’t want to. And that’s not all you’re right about. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

He chuckles and rolls his eyes (almost as impressively as Darby herself). “Don’t worry, Becca. I’m not going anywhere. I need this play. I need this chance. At least I still get to make out with you onstage.”

I smack him in the chest with my free hand, and he squeezes my fingers at his elbow before we take a step apart.

“Actually, about that.” I glance at Darby.

He raises an amber brow. “She took your role?”

I shake my head. “It was never really mine. I was just playing a part. In the end, I think I look better in black.”

“You were good out there.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Maybe, but I’ll be happier back there.” I point up at the booth.