The rest of the day passes by quickly and rather uneventfully, and before I know it, I'm curling into my bed, exhausted after my first week at Pulitzer's. I've decided I'm quite satisfied with myself, having come out of my shell a little and actually made some friends. Real friends. That's never happened to me before. I even quit skulking around in avoidance of my roommates, and developed the biggest infatuation in the history of mankind.

Though I'm not entirely sure that last part is exactly positive.

Tomorrow is Monday, and I'm thankful that I did the majority of my homework. It's the start of another week, a week that will undoubtedly be full of hard work. I know I have a couple of tests in my classes, including one in English. But according to the syllabus, it shouldn't be too hard, I know the material. It's on The Grapes of Wrath, and since I already read it, this test should be-- zzzzzzz.

I wake up a few minutes before my alarm is supposed to go off to Jack and David coming into the room, giggling and whispering. They throw their towels into the hamper and grin at one another mischievously, and I don't even want to know what went on. I'm just glad I took my shower last night.

I roll over and grab my glasses off of the nightstand, and take a minute to stretch. Turning off my alarm, I sit up.

"Mornin', Specs," Jack says, hurriedly detaching himself from David.

I mumble something in reply, not exactly capable of coherent speech yet, and head down the hall to the bathroom.

On my way out of the bathroom, my roommates, accompanied by Racetrack, Pie Eater, Bumlets, and their other roommate, Jake, walk by me. "Specs!" Someone calls out to me from the large group. I think it might be Dave. "We're going to breakfast, are you coming?"

I nod and follow obediently, desperate to get down to the cafeteria and find myself a cup of anything with caffeine.

After breakfast, we go back to our rooms to get ready for class. As I'm heading out, Racetrack comes out of his room. Throwing his arm around my shoulders, he grins.

"You excited, Specs?"

"Um... for what?" I adjust my backpack, which he's thrown off-balance.

"Today, Medda announces what the spring play is. We usually do a musical in the spring... it's pretty fun."

"Okay... so how does this affect me?"

Racetrack laughs. "Pal, you're in advanced drama. You're required to either audition or sign up for tech work." He grins. "If I were you, I'd audition. You get more credit for that. Besides, most of the 'serious' drama students are already working outside the school on plays, like Broadway an' shit. Pretentious assholes."

"Um, okay..." I am. So. Confused. "Can't I just do set design or something? I'm good at that."

"Good luck with that. Set design fills up fastest, and you're new, so you're at the bottom of the food chain."

"Shit."

Racetrack laughs and removes his arm from my shoulders when we get into the school building. "I'll catch you later, dude," he says, heading down the opposite hallway.

I trudge to math class, feeling nervous and unhappy. A play. Great.

I'm pretty sure I'm screwed.

In English, Dutchy and I are sitting and listening to Denton blab on about the social significance of John Steinbeck. He's making a few halfway decent points, but with this drama issue weighing down my shoulders, it's getting a little hard to care.

A piece of paper suddenly finds its way under my arm, folded in half. I unfold it, and Dutchy's handwriting greets me.

You're quiet today, you look a little freaked out. Everything okay?

I smile. It's sweet that he's worried about me. Just kind of panicking about this whole spring play thing. Race says I have to audition, I write, passing the paper back over to Dutchy.

A few moments later, the paper slides back to me. No worries. Medda will take pity on you. Besides, there's no guarantee you'll be cast. You might just end up with techie grunt work.

I write back quickly. What if I do get cast?

I'm auditioning, Dutchy writes back. I'll keep you sane. You got nothing to worry about.

Thanks. I have a feeling I'll need someone to tie me down when I try to kill myself. I slide the note back to him, and he reads it and laughs out loud. Mr. Denton shoots a cold glare in our direction, and Dutchy quickly shuts up, but continues snickering quietly.

The bell rings after a few pained minutes of sitting quietly and listening to a social commentary on Of Mice and Men, and we head out into the hallway in a burst of relief. I'm silent the whole way, as we meet up with Jack and everyone else and head to drama.

"Come in, come in, sit down," Medda ushers us into the classroom in a hurry, shutting the door when everyone is in the room. "Well, I'm very excited about this year's spring play. I have a feeling it's going to blow every other play we've down completely out of the water."

I sit back, stiffly, trying not to look like I'm about to go fling myself out the fourth-story window.

"Now, I'm sure you all know that as advanced drama students, you'll be required to either audition for the play, or sign up for technical work." She pulls her flaming red hair back into a ponytail, rubbing her hands together. "I want you to remember that there is no way out of this, unless, of course, you're Mr. Jacobs here," she nods to Dave, "who has so graciously volunteered to take care of all publicity by way of the school paper."

"Fucking loopholes," Spot grumbles, punching David in the arm.

"Ow!" David yelps, but Medda either doesn't hear or just ignores him.

"It took me a while to figure out a suitable play for this year. I wanted to do something fun, something we haven't done before that will really top off the year well." She sits down in her director's chair, smiling. "Do you know how hard it was to find something like that? I mean, there are so many wonderful plays out there, and I knew I wanted a musical... and I had to find something of the right caliber for you guys..."

"Medda," Jack interrupts, "would you just tell us what the damned play is?" People chuckle, nodding in agreement.

"Fine, fine. Well, I was having myself a movie night, and I came across Bye Bye Birdie at the video store, and I hadn't seen it, so I decided to watch it. I loved it – that Ann-Margret girl, she's really something, isn't she? – and anyway, I thought to myself, 'This would be a wonderful play for my students.' So that's this year's spring musical, Bye Bye Birdie. Have any of you seen it?" She looks around the classroom. "Does anyone know what it's about?"

A few scattered hands go up, and Medda nods, then goes on. "Well, it's a spoof on the hype of when Elvis Presley was drafted into the Army. The character based on Elvis, named Conrad Birdie, is pushed into a publicity stunt by his agent, Albert. He's going to perform a new hit written by Albert, called 'One Last Kiss,' on live television, and will give one lucky girl his very last kiss before going off to war. The girl chosen is named Kim MacAfee, president of the Conrad Birdie Fan Club in Sweet Apple, Ohio." She stops and takes a drink of water, then looks around the classroom to make sure everyone's still paying attention. I'm slumped in my seat, and I'm pretty sure I'm sweating.

"So anyway, Conrad, Albert, and Albert's secretary Rose, who, though Albert denies it, is also the love of his life, head out to Sweet Apple to stay with the MacAfees, much to the dismay of Kim's father. Kim, in the meantime, has a brand-new boyfriend, Hugo, who becomes horribly jealous and is understandably upset that all of this is going on. Throughout the course of the play, Conrad teaches the teenagers of Sweet Apple how to party, Kim's father goes a little bit crazy, and Albert's mother, Mae, comes along to add even more wackiness and sabotage the relationship between Rose and Albert." She leans back, eyes gleaming with anticipation for the play. Or maybe to watch me crumple up and die. "Eventually, Conrad grows tired of show business. This throws the whole balance of things off, and things get far worse before they get better. Anyway, this explanation is growing ridiculously long, so I'll let you find out everything between the lines as we work through the play."

I have a feeling that as we 'work through the play,' I will probably work through my head with a shotgun. But that's just me.

"Now, I've got the sign-up sheet for technical work here. Keep in mind that the classes below Advanced are assigned to do a lot of the lighter and simpler tech work and ushering, so all that's here is the really heavy-duty stuff. I know a lot of you have been doing this for a while, and so I ask that those of you who aren't so familiar with backstage work leave it to those who are more experienced." She sets the sheet down on the table in front of her. "Have at it."

Several people jump up and head to the front of the room. I start to get up and join them, but Racetrack puts his hand on my shoulder and pushes me back into my chair. "Trust me, you don't want that."

After everyone sits back down, she pulls out another sheet. "Alright. This one here is for the boys wishing to audition for a part."

This time, Racetrack practically drags me to the front.

"Mr. Weinberg! Or, rather, Specs," Medda says with a smile. "I would have thought an art student like yourself would be first on the list for set design."

"Well, that was my intention," I say, sliding an evil glare toward Racetrack, who's putting both his and my name down. "But Racetrack here wouldn't let me."

Medda laughs and shakes her head. "Well, Racetrack, I believe we've talked about you commanding my students... but I'm glad you find him suitable to audition as part of the cast." Racetrack grins, and Medda turns back to me. "Do you sing, Specs?"

"Um, I try not to," I say with a wince. "It's generally better for everyone involved."

Racetrack punches my shoulder lightly. "That ain't true. I heard him singin' in the shower a couple days ago. He's pretty damned good."

I blush. "I'm nothing special."

Medda smiles sweetly and brushes a hand along my cheek, a gesture I would find creepy and uncomfortable if it were any other teacher. "Specs, if you were really nothing special, you wouldn't be here."