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“Oh, for God’s sake,” I groaned. “Fine, I will talk to him. But before I do, just… remind me why we put up with him?” I muttered.
“Because he’s tall and not completely talentless and he reads straight, which, in the world of public high school theater, makes him practically a unicorn,” Charlie replied evenly.
“I refuse to believe we’re that desperate,” I grumbled.
“Well, it doesn’t matter now. The performance final is tonight and we’re stuck with him,” Charlie said resignedly. “Just… do what you can before I lose it completely and make him wear the bear costume.”
Charlie was always threatening to make people wear the bear costume, even though no one had even touched the thing since probably the 1970s. It hung, dusty and drooping, in the rafters of the costume shop like a moth-eaten trophy a hunter had shot and then forgotten to stuff properly. I will never forget being sent up to the shop to fetch something during a stormy evening rehearsal freshman year and having the living daylights scared out of me when a flash of lightning illuminated the thing like a monster from a horror movie.
By now most people had scribbled down their notes and settled into the red-upholstered seats in little clustered groups. The chatter was louder than usual, as this rehearsal—and the night’s performance—were the only things standing between us and the freedom of vacation. I squinted into the dark beyond the stage lights and picked out Roman’s tall, lanky form toward the back of the house. I descended the steps and marched up the aisle. I could already feel my palms sweating, because I hated confrontation almost as much as I hated acting.
“Roman, can I talk to you for a second?” I said, coming to a stop beside him.
“I guess so,” Roman said, digging noisily into a bag of chips.
“You aren’t supposed to eat those in here,” I said.
“I’m hungry. Finals are hard work.”
I rolled my eyes but decided to pick my battle. “Whatever, just don’t let Mr. Pisani see you, and try not to get crumbs everywhere. I need to talk to you about your costume.”
“Good, so you think it’s hideous, too?” Roman asked through a mouthful of chips.
“No, I came to say that you have to wear it. Everyone has to wear the costumes they are assigned. They fit the time period and Charlie worked very hard to design them.”
“This is such bullshit. First, Mr. Pisani cuts the fight scene, and now I have to go onstage looking like a—”
“Like awhat?” I asked, and there was a warning in my voice.Go ahead and say it, so I have a reason to kick your ass right out of this production, I thought to myself.
Unfortunately, even Roman knew where that line was, and he swallowed the rest of his sentence with an ugly grimace. “Whatever. Never mind. You know, I could just drop out of the show.”
I wish, I said silently. Aloud, I said, “Well, sure, you could. But then you’d fail your final and you wouldn’t have enough credits to graduate. Seems like a waste of a perfectly good swimming scholarship just because you don’t like the shirt you have to wear for all of five minutes, but obviously, the choice is yours.”
Roman glared at me, chewing loudly.
“Fine. I’ll wear the costume. It’s bad enough we have to perform Shakespeare and a bunch of dead Greek dudes…”
“Roman, it’s aclassicaltheater showcase,” I ground out. “Did you read the description before signing up for the class, or did you just close your eyes and point randomly at the course catalog?”
“Couldn’t we at least do it like that movie we watched in English class of Romeo and Juliet? The one with the car chases and the guns and the Hawaiian shirts? That wassick.”
I pretended to write on my clipboard. “Car… chases… are… sick. Helpful feedback, thanks, Roman. I’ll pass it along.” Then I stalked back up the aisle and joined Poe, who had returned to studying her script. “One day. Just one last day and then school will be over and I won’t have to deal with Roman Peterson in my theater ever again.”
“Oh, so it’s your theater now?” she asked, smirking.
“You know what I mean,” I grumbled. “I’m the one who has to deal with his little diva fits.”
“It could be worse,” Poe said, looking up from her script to glare at me. “You could be the one who has to kiss him.”
“Ew. Okay, you win,” I said.
“Oh, I think we both know I lose.”
At that moment the door at the back of the theater opened and Mr. Pisani, our director, swept down the aisle looking, as usual, like a slightly frantic former matinee idol—his thick salt-and-pepper hair swept back from his forehead and a harried expression on his face, like he’d only just escaped the clutches of the paparazzi outside the door; when in reality, all he’d escaped was a brief faculty meeting. He snatched the glasses hanging precariously from his black turtleneck and perched them on the end of his nose. Charlie and I hurried down to the edge of the stage and sat on the lip, waiting.
“I need everyone’s attention please,” Mr. Pisani called, his voice instantly filling the space with the kind of booming projection he could only rarely coax from his students. “We have a lot to get through if this show is going to be ready for an audience tonight. Wren, do you have the—”
But I was already holding the production clipboard out to him, and he took it with a nod of thanks before looking over the cover page. “Stage notes?” he asked.
