Episode 9 here. I think this is going to be quite fun (if quite challenging) to write. I'm going to note (in attempting not to infringe any rules)the format of this episode is the result of its content; it is written how it is because of its plot - i.e. its theatricality is happening within the story itself. Though this note might not actually make much sense in this part. it will do in the next.

Anyway, I hope you like it! And review!


Acting Up


All the world's a stage,

And all the men and women merely players;


Prologue


PROLOGUE: Fair Whitechapel is where we lay our stage;

Where anger, fear, and sheer confusion rule;

Where life, all-smiling, is reversed to naught

And what is not becomes the scene a-seen.

Within the compass of our narrow walls

See a little world contained but by the

Limits of some sundry words, and set in

Fatal motion by an accidental wish.

In time, these wooden boards shall be of earth,

And air, and stone, and will, again, wood be,

While works of evil shall be plotted, done,

Undone, and tried anew. None shall know how

They come to act in such a wise they will,

Nor will they have means to fight this ill.

For broken tongues will all our players have;

In deeds, constrained, (indeed confined as well).

No thought will private be, nor action left

Without direction. Incarcerated

Within a unity of plot, of time,

And place: to stay locked up if one whole day

Be passed with this weird problem unresolved.

For then shall cardboard wings upon them drop,

And they act forever in an empty

Playhouse with curtain always closed. Life will

Not advance for all who live there: doomed to

Re-enact that failed day on and on.

But first, the cause of all this fairy rout:

An argument in prose, starting with a shout –


"Hey!"

Benny closed his locker and looked to see who it was. "Hey…?"

A girl (short, hair dyed blonde) he only vaguely recognised was leaning against the locker next to his – the one, actually, that had been –

No! Not here. Not now.

He silently gathered himself together, giving no outward sign (he was getting good at that) and continued looking semi-curiously at the girl who had approached him. She was only in a couple of his classes; for most things she was in another set. A (and he felt a secret pride) lower one, in most cases. She had one of those names that Benny was sure she'd not been given at birth, but was rather the first thing she'd thought of. Crystal, or Rainbow, or Orange, or something. Maybe it was even 'Something'. These days, who knew…

He raised an eyebrow. What could she want? Everyone knew that he was gay, so that proposition (unlikely to start with, as he was sure one of his friends would have obligingly chipped in) wasn't going anywhere. Did she want help with her homework? His eyes drifted to the clipboard that she was hugging. Oh dear…

"Hi, Ben," she said, not noticing his wince. "I'm looking to write an article for the school newspaper, and I wondered if you wanted to be interviewed."

"Why me?" he asked, though he knew the answer. And she knew he knew.

"Well, you know…" She blushed. "About being the first guy at school to be, uh…"

"No," said Benny, his voice level. It wasn't like he wasn't well-practiced by now. This girl was the – fourth – fifth? – to ask him. They all wanted to show how much they cared. Which, he supposed, was nice, but he really didn't care about them caring. And he certainly didn't want to be an object simply to be 'understood'.

He sighed inwardly. That was yet another thing to blame Rory for. It had been a while earlier, and Rory had been in his excessively curious phase. Like he was ever out of that. But, at that time, his curiosity had been directed at Benny and his sexuality. Benny hadn't much minded; in a way, it had been quite nice to talk about it with someone. Until, once, at lunch, Rory had fixed him with a quizzical look and asked 'What was it like, kissing Ethan? I mean, is kissing a boy different to kissing a girl?' (or some similar question). That had shut the lunch-hall up.

"No," he repeated, smiling pleasantly, but his voice sounding firmly. "Thanks, uh –"

"Door."

"Uh, Door, but I don't want to. Sorry."

"Oh, but you would be so interesting!" she bubbled. "You could –"

He held up a hand. "I don't want to be interesting. I'm not interesting. This doesn't make me interesting. And I'm not your project for the newspaper. I'm Benny. Nice to meet you."

He shook her hand and then, with a brief, slightly sarcastic, wave, he turned away and walked towards his next class. He immediately felt a little bit guilty. Had that been too stern? Too defensive? He wondered where they all got it from, this need to get involved. His grandma blamed 'the movies' for everything. She probably was right. All these people probably thought that they were doing something nice for him, but he couldn't help feeling that it was more about them doing something, than it being for him. He could be wrong, though. He hoped she'd find something else to write about. He hoped they all would.

It wasn't as if Whitechapel didn't provide enough of interest, if only you looked for it. Not that he really wanted to anymore.

With a glum look at the forgotten Hallowe'en decorations from a few weeks earlier still hanging over the lab door, he sighed and opened the door. Not quite late. Rory waved cheerily from the back of the class, and Benny slumped down next to him. He wondered if Rory was aware of the whisperings of their classmates. It turned out that nobody knew about him and Erica.


Door (she hated her name) watched him go. She scowled. That was not at all what she had been expecting, And, to make it worse, she'd already written what he was going to say. And it had been fantastic: moving, passionate, and tinged with a sense of personal tragedy. But she couldn't print it now. Not if he got that uppity about a simple question. Why couldn't he have been like that kid in the film, the one that had –

She stopped that thought, frowning. There was something glittering on the floor. She wondered idly what it was. Where it had come from. Was she thinking of the right film? The one where – no, that wasn't it. She chewed her pencil absently. Hmm. She couldn't remember. Oh, well.

Nothing interesting happened in Whitechapel. There was nothing to write about. If she was honest, even that Ben kid, as he'd said, wasn't very interesting. She dearly wanted to write about scandal, and danger, and adventure. The best story that there had ever been, had been, she recalled, about something weird in the coffee. That had even got on the local news. She wanted to be on the local news. But with what?

Of course – there had been one time when Whitechapel had made it onto the national news, with all those unsolved murders – but that would have been tasteless to put into the school newspaper. Considering that Hannah had nearly died, and had totally lost her memory from the shock of it all. Even if it was news. So, really, she wanted something manageable. Something that would get her noticed, be interesting, relevant to the school, but not too major, or harrowing. Light and fluffy – but not frivolous, no. A serious set-piece drama, with a message. From which people could learn and change. In a small, essentially superficial, yet noticeable way.

"I just wish things were a bit more dramatic," she muttered to herself, shoving her clipboard into her own locker, checking her timetable, and stamping away towards the gym. PE. Great. "Just a little drama," she wheedled, to no-one in particular. "That's all I want. Something to write about."

Then she was gone, glancing, worried, at her watch. She was going to be late. Not that she minded much. It was only PE, after all, and the school newspaper was a pretty good excuse. Of course, if she was going to use it as many times as she had recently, then she really needed to get something written in it.


Out of the shadow of the rank of lockers stepped a small shape. It glittered from head (if that's what it was) to foot (if that's what one of those was); so much so that it was hard to look at it, and, if you did, it was hard to tell where anything began and ended in that shimmering mass. No-one, however, was there to look at it: all were obediently shut up in classes. There had been a distinct tightening in moral discipline lately.

"A little drama? That can be arranged…" it whispered, before shaking once, clicking its heels against the floor, which sent a flash of light across the hallway, and then completely vanishing, leaving nothing behind it but a few glittering shards, which one of the thriftier girls would later gather up.

School happened; home happened; dinner happened.

Bed happened.

For a while, nothing changed at all.