"Dude, I'm totally getting a C in math thanks to Rachel!" says Justin. "She can tutor me any day of the week."
While the rest of us sit around the courtyard picnic table right outside the Drama Lab window, Justin's ass gathers dirt at our feet. A long, black skateboard rests under his arm as he watches his fellow Tony Hawk enthusiasts slide down the handrails of the main stairway that leads up to the courtyard. He's wearing one of the Pisshead t-shirts Skip handed out at Blackwell last week, which is a pretty safe bet that someone sold Justin his own shirt when he was high.
"Hey!" I say, bending over at the waist to give Justin a playful shove in the shoulder. "Hands off, bitch."
"Burn," says Steph.
"Ouch," says Trevor. He's Justin's stockier, not-as-high counterpart. He wears heavy, baggy clothing all year round, no matter how hot it gets. "That's what I should tell my teachers. They keep riding my ass about what I want to do with my life. I wish they'd leave us alone and give us some space so we can figure stuff out."
One of the skaters loses his balance and takes the railing right between his legs. Trevor and Justin cover their own crotches in sympathy.
"So you can figure out what kind of padding to use when you go for a sack ride," I say.
"I have protection," Trevor says. "I have to with all these hot new girls coming in. Have you seen the head cheerleader?"
"Who, Dana?" I say. "She isn't exactly new, dude. You even going to be here with that report card of yours?"
"You should listen to her, man," says Justin. "She's an expert."
"Look who's talking," says Trevor. "What do your grades look like?"
"I'm getting all Cs," says Justin.
"How the hell are you getting all Cs?" I say. "You're blazed up into the stars every single time Rachel and I hang out with you. What does your schedule even look like?"
"I'm taking gym and math and…I don't know. History?"
"Welcome to Blackwell, where you can be so high that you don't remember the names of the classes you're taking and still pass them."
"Guess I should have asked Rachel out earlier," says Justin. He takes his glasses off and cleans them with his shirt. "I snooze, I lose the leading role."
"Speaking of which," I say, "are we going to be seeing people who can actually act in the plays around here, Miss Casting Director?"
"It's not as simple as that," Steph says. "There's a new 'patron' system in place that gives preference to those who show an aptitude for the arts. My job is to make sure that people are given appropriate roles according to their abilities."
And that's Justin's cue: I guess his role in this play is to light up a fucking blunt.
"Some of the plays at Blackwell have been pretty wack lately," says Trevor as he shakes his head. "You gotta wonder whether maybe old man Keaton is losing his marbles."
"He's going through an experimental phase," says Steph. She stands up.
"Like Nathan Prescott?" says Trevor. He's up off the picnic table bench. "That's one hell of an experiment, don't you think? Dude is totally nuts on stage—Officer Buzzkill at six o'clock."
"Isn't it like one o'clock?" says Justin. "Oh. Robocop."
A fire-haired girl on a bicycle with a bulging brown backpack sporting a sticker that says "CARS ARE COFFINS" cruises past the fountain in front of David. Justin throws his board down and tries to roll through the grass in the same direction as the redhead. David jogs up to him and brings him to a stop with a hand on his shoulder.
"Have you been smoking marijuana?" says David.
"Whatever. Skip never hassled us like this."
"Skip isn't here any more," says David. "I am. And I've got my eye on you."
David looks at me. There's a hand on my shoulder.
"Come on," Rachel whispers.
Steph decides to follow us.
"I was trying taking a break from all the drama," she says. "Looks like it followed me."
The boisterous warm-up rehearsal of a scene from Moby Dick falters when Rachel, Steph, and I stroll through the far side of the room, but quickly recovers when Mr. Keaton reminds the band of would-be booty hunters that they are now reformed and engaged in the much more morally upright business of harpooning groin-chomping whales.
"What are you looking at?" I ask Rachel. "And why are you letting them stare at you?"
Rachel tries to catch Steph's eye. Steph heads into the dressing room ahead of us.
"I'm not letting them do anything," says Rachel.
A chorus of voices sounds.
"It's over, Captain Blackrot," shouts Hayden as he climbs on top of Mr. Keaton's desk wearing a pirate's hat and eyepatch. "I have the high ground!"
I roll my eyes so hard they almost fall out of their sockets. Rachel shadows me into the dressing room, where Victoria Chase sits in a padded chair at the far end running a small, white circle over her face. Steph disappears behind the changing partition next to Victoria.
"They're getting quite into it, aren't they?" says Mr. Keaton. "I've always appreciated their unbridled enthusiasm and willingness to transcend the constraints of mundane, academic life for the sake of their passions. I'd rather have one over-the-top performer who gives it their all than ten mechanically gifted automatons programmatically parsing their way through the text of a script."
"Mr. Keaton," says Rachel.
"Rachel, my dear muse." He clasps his hands as he joins her at one of the vanity mirrors. "Alas, I'm afraid there is no part in this spring's performance that is commensurate with the brilliance of your shining, rising star."
"You're too modest."
"Ah, that modesty were chief among my flaws. I'm afraid your star is rising so high that I'm no longer able to see it."
"Is that your way of saying we don't need to go through the formalities of an audition?"
"Please indulge my forthrightness. The leading part has been awarded to Victoria Chase. Her audition was quite remarkable. I wouldn't dream of casting you in a secondary role."
"I guess it's her time to shine. Each star glows in turn, and when one fades, another takes its place."
"You'll always be a star in our hearts," says Mr. Keaton. "We're blessed to have a full cast of talented performers this year, but none so talented as you. I'm afraid we simply don't have any roles for which you aren't overqualified. You have, to be quite honest, outgrown our humble troupe. It's time for you to shine even brighter on a more elevated stage, one that rises to meet your blossoming ambitions."
"Of course," says Rachel. "I just didn't think this day would come so soon."
"I've reached out to the performance committee at Ashland and sent them a glowing recommendation. All you need do is put on your performer's mask and dazzle. Surely that must allay or at the very least assuage any uncertainty you may have had with regard to your dramatic future."
The guys in the next room have just launched their dramatic vessel into full ballyhoo mode.
"Sounds like someone's walking the plank," I say.
"Indeed," says Mr. Keaton. "I'll send you an e-mail with the contact information of my associates at the Shakespeare Festival organization committee. I'm positive they'll adore you as much as I have—we all have."
Outside, it sounds like Mr. Keaton is directing a new scene, one that has the crew cycling through inspirational monologues before lunging at the captain like Olympic fencers. Meanwhile, Rachel walks the plank over to Victoria who can't seem to get enough of her own face in the mirror. When she arrives, Rachel turns her head back in my direction. I trudge my ass over there.
"What's the matter, didn't get your fix today?" says Victoria.
"Fancy meeting you in the changing room," I say. "It's too bad you didn't change into a decent human being."
She's dressed to the nines in a shimmering red ball gown with sequins, red velvet shoes, and a glittering ruby hairpiece that makes her look like Jessica Rabbit if Jessica Rabbit had chopped off half her hair and dyed it blond. Come to think of it, that's probably insulting to Jessica Rabbit.
"I just heard the good news," says Rachel. "This is your big debut. May I?"
Rachel starts applying bright red lipstick to Victoria's lips.
"I plan on coming out in style." Victoria presses her lips together. "You're not worried that I'm going to overshadow your legacy, are you, dear?"
"I'd be happy for you if you did. We have no business putting ourselves up on that stage and demanding people's attention if we're not going to go all out."
"You get it." Victoria uses one fingertip to dab at an invisible blemish on her cheek. "So many people here just don't get it. Speaking of getting things, did you get my letter?"
"The bonny lines therein thou sent me, how to the nines they did content me," says Rachel.
"I'm sure those bonny lines contented your sinuses," I say. "Or is 'nine' the length of the stick holding Cinderella's tail bone up straight?"
Rachel meets my eyes in the middle of picking bits of glitter out of Victoria's hair. Victoria frowns at herself in the mirror.
"Are you talking to me?" she says. "I ask because you seem to have developed a reputation for launching unprovoked assaults on friend and foe alike. Nathan's father wasn't too happy with you when he found out about your repeated, persistent harassment."
"Bullshit. He's the one who came at me first."
"That's not how the big man sees it. Rachel, I do hope you've trained your pet well enough not to soil your patron's carpet."
"Patron?" I say. "Is that what this shit is about, Steph?"
Steph emerges from behind the changing partition.
"What?" she says.
"You look resplendent," Rachel says to Victoria. "Japanese?"
"You know it," says Victoria. "Speaking of which…"
Victoria takes a small glass out of her purse, followed by a small bottle. She pours herself a thimbleful, then sends it down the hatch.
"Magnificent," Rachel says.
She gets down on one knee, takes Victoria's fingers in her hand, raises them to her lips, and kisses them like she's giving a lollipop a blowjob. I'm about to be sick.
"Get off your goddamn knees," I say.
"I keep telling her that," says Victoria, "but she doesn't listen to me."
"You're worshiping her while she does shots at one in the afternoon?" I ask Rachel.
"It brings out the natural glow in my skin," says Victoria. "I wouldn't expect you to understand drinking for your health."
Rachel stands up and caps the lipstick.
"Your lips are done," she says.
"I really wish they were," I say. "They look magnificent when they're not moving."
"As do you," says Victoria, "especially when you're moving in the direction of the nearest exit."
"Chloe wants to be cool," says Rachel. She lifts her eyebrows and tilts her head down at me. "She really does."
"Oh, fine," says Victoria. She floats the back of her hand in front of her. "Chloe can play, too."
"Why would you even ask me to do something like that?" I say.
"Because I know who punched you in the face at the party," says Victoria.
I walk over and stand in front of her so she can't see herself in the mirror.
"Finally ready to confess?"
"It wasn't me, Chloe. But I know who it was. I'd like us to be…well, not friends, but…cool. Is that the right word?"
"You'd look good on ice."
Rachel gives me the Doe Eyes. Not this time, Barbie. I grab Victoria's wrist and pull her toward me with all my might. She's way fucking faster than I expected—her hands are on my chest almost immediately. She shoves herself back into her chair and crosses her arms, trying to murder me with her eyes.
"Who was it?" I say.
"Kurt Bruce," she says. "You told Sam to confess to Nathan. Kurt got pissed off because he actually wanted a date with Sam, so he waited until things got quiet and hired a guy from out of town to give you a black eye. You brought this on yourself. In any case, neither Kurt nor Officer Stroud are still at Blackwell, so you have nothing to complain about. Now, if you wouldn't mind, I'm going to need to freshen up my skin again while I prepare for rehearsal. In private."
Steph takes out a bottle, shakes it, and starts spraying Victoria's hair with more chemicals that anyone could ever possibly need. Rachel and I ignore whistles and cheers from boys whose testicles probably haven't even descended yet. I turn her around in the hallway.
"I don't believe her," I say.
"Well, good for you," says Rachel. "I was just trying to be nice to her, not make out with her."
"I figure if you're going to bow down to the devil in a red dress, you might as well go the whole 'bonny nine' yards."
"You made your point, but she's not going to be happy about it."
I wave away the overpowering smell of hair pomade wafting through the hallway. Rachel coughs.
"We're going to have to extra-nice from now on—"
Sure enough, it's David in his goon suit.
"You could learn a thing or two from Rachel," I say. "Extra-nice."
"The only thing I'm learning are the consequences of not doing your job the way you're supposed to," he says to Rachel.
Rachel's response is to kiss me right in front of him. I can't close my eyes or put my hands down. David grunts. Boots clomp around the corner. I push Rachel away.
"You need to stop kissing people who aren't me," she says.
"Deal, on the condition that you never do that in front of David again."
"Is that not your thing?"
"Paying lip service in the presence of assholes drunk on their own power is definitely not my thing."