DRAMATIS PERSONAE

ARTHUR KIRKLAND.

FRANCIS BONNEFOY.

RODERICH EDELSTEIN, stage manager and student director of the play.

ANTONIO CARRIEDO, Francis' best friend.

ALFRED F. JONES, Arthur's previous crush.

CAST of students spanning all ages in high school.

"Be not afraid of greatness. Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and others have greatness thrust upon them." – Shakespeare, The Twelfth Night

ACT I, SCENE 1: Backstage.

Enter ARTHUR.

A dim light peeked through the door crack. A small flashlight, accenting floor's thin shaft of gold, lay useless on the floor. A boy shook his short pale tresses. Thick eyebrows furrowed. Spindly fingers gripping the book once more, the scrawny student shouted to the empty room:

"Jove knows I love:

But who?

Lips, do not move;

No man must know."

He paced back and forth, agitated at his unknown audience. "'No man must know?" he cried, throwing the book down. "What follows?" He wrung his hands in the air, re-examining the book before him. And then -

"Ah." He leant down towards an eager listener, and said excitedly, "The numbers altered!" He leant down even further. Smiled. Looked into everyone's eyes around him. Pressing a bony finger to his lips, he whispered: "Shhh. No man must know."

On the opposite side of the room, another student furtively snuck through the back door. He tiptoed over to the nearest chair, careful not to disturb loverboy standing before him; it would only spell out disaster if he did. He gingerly shifted his scarf over his shoulder. Lowered himself down to his seat with utmost care. Winced at the agonising creaaak that soon followed- and perked up in alarm. Held his breath. Then, seeing the actor too preoccupied with his own antics, let out a sigh of relief. Comfortable at last, he finally rested his head against his hand; locks of gold gently tumbled down his face. This was, by far, his favourite part of Drama: watching him work.

"I command where I adore;

But silence, like a Lucrece knife,

with bloodless stroke my heart doth gore-"

By now, the book shuffled around at the first boy's feet. Subconsciously kicking it out of the way, the manuscript forlornly joined its place alongside the unused flashlight.

"M, O, A, I, I doth sway my life," he swooned.

"Excellent wench, say I," the watcher muttered under his breath.

"Nay, but first, let me see, let me s-"

A clatter. The scrawny student spun around immediately, pupils dilating in the darkness. He fell to his knees and scrabbled for the flashlight. Confidence effectively vanished in the dark, he managed, "Wh-Who's there?"

Mon Dieu. The watcher carded back his hair, frustrated with himself. He had done it again - subconsciously recited the script. Couldn't simply sit and enjoy the show right before him. With a heavy sigh, he noisily scraped his chair against the floor and put his hands up.

"It is we. The ghosts of theatre past, present and future. We are here to tell you of the wrongs you have committed and-"

"Cut the crap, Francis." The scrawny boy gritted his teeth. "What the bloody hell are you doing here?"

Francis blinked. "What do you mean? I was watching you, of course."

The other's eyebrows knitted together in nervous agitation. "You're just here to tease me about my stage fright, aren't you? You promised you wouldn't bother me again!"

"You know all too well how I keep my promises, mon lapin," Francis chuckled. "Besides, that was a stunning interpretation of Malvolio."

Francis could almost see Arthur rolling his eyes in the dark, despite the faint pink blooming on his ears.

"Keep up with the compliments like this and you'll be able to woo the Devil himself," Arthur mumbled. His shoes scuffled against the floor as he gathered his things. "And to the devil I go - I'll never be able to practice here with this distraction around."

"Looks like I'll have to woo the Devil soon, then," he teased. He nudged Arthur's side and winked. "If I haven't already, that is."

"The devil with you!" Arthur snorted, conveniently swinging his own book bag in Francis' direction. Francis, in turn, expertly dodged.

"And a sweet devil you make, too," the Frenchman crooned, tousling Arthur's short locks.

The Brit scowled. "Don't touch me, you - you -"

"Me what?"

"You- you devil, you!"

Quickly coloring beet-red, he slammed the door in Francis' face for effect. Startled, Francis just managed to see Arthur marching haughtily around the corner after he regained enough sense to open the door again. What a devil of a kid; a real pain in the arse!

But still a good pain in the arse, I guess, Francis mused to himself. He gently closed the door behind him as he closed his own eyes to relish the moment. Arthur's acting was, in a word, brilliant. The young boy had always had an interest for theatre ever since he was little; Francis had caught him more times than one copying his own lips twitched into a smile. Even though, of course, Francis had always been considerably better than him.

At least Arthur never stopped trying. The Frenchman reached down for the bag leaning against his chair, when he came across the dogeared manuscript Arthur kicked away. As his hands flipped it open, his eyes widened. Furtive notes were scribbled all over the printed text; highlighted words, corrections, and even poetic analyses decorated themselves across the page.

Out of curiosity, Francis read aloud a rewritten passage to himself. He listened to the iambic pentameter beat against his voice; the flow of the words sounded even better than those of Shakespeare himself. He closed his eyes, reveling in the rhythm. There was only one word capable of describing this sensation:

Genius.

Tracing an elegant finger over the chickenscratch, Francis' smile grew even wider.

Perhaps... just perhaps, all this talent doesn't have to go to waste.

Exit FRANCIS.