Wawanakwa Academy

by xGoldenSpiritx

As the summer comes to an end, students from all over Ontario start to prepare themselves for the next anticipated school year. This is especially true for the students of Wawanakwa Academy. But with their new principal: the infamous Chris McLean in charge, drama is bound to ensue. (SYOC Closed)

6. Stage Left, House Right

Chapter 6: Stage Left, House Right

---

Date: Tuesday, September 21

Place: South Wing; Little Theatre Rm 1134

Time: 2:30 p.m.

---

"Alright, alright everyone, please settle down!" The commotion of the compact classroom was arrogantly domineering. Students collected around the brim of the miniature propped up stage, leaning against its stripped wood. Others conversed in the desk chairs lined up on the naturally sloped platform of the room. On stage, an anxious sixteen year old girl paced restlessly. Her hands wrung together in an attempt to calm her nerves, and as she walked her gaze glued to the mundane patterns of the floor. Time was ticking away, that was for certain. She knew she had to take control. The girl stopped walking in her tracks. Instead of freezing up as she normally would, she demanded attention.

"Excuse me everyone!" she called into the space. The noisy chatter died down slowly, but eventually. Everyone began to claim a seat, watching the girl attentively.

She fidgeted nervously before beginning, darting up a nervous wave to the group.

"Hi everyone. Welcome to the first Drama club meeting of the year." Her voice was noticeably indecisive as this had been her first year in power: understandable for an amateur chieftain. She continued, clearly her throat.

"My name is Taylor, and I will be your president this year. I have to say, I'm so excited to lead you all. We're going to have so much fun in here, I can already tell. Now I know, we're not the largest or the most popular club in school but I also know we can make the most impact!" Taylor's smile widens naturally as if she expects an outburst of applause and acclamation, but the only thing she gets is an evading silence along with a few desks scratching against the ground. She fixes her stance professionally, smoothing out her black pencil skirt.

"Moving on, I regret to inform you that our advisor from last year, Ms. VanDyke, had to retire over the summer due to a very tragic accident. She completely fractured her hip and is in the process of imperative recovery."

There was a cluster of murmurs coming from some Drama club upperclassmen who had not been informed of what had happened until now. Taylor easily put up a hand to suppress the chatter.

"Don't worry, we have a new advisor now. He's running a little late, but he should be arriving very soon. So please be patient." The students looked at her in anticipation.

"Ooh, is it Mr. Moss? I know he would be willing to do it," a student burst from the front row of desks.

Taylor scrunched her shoulders together, looking at the student in question. "Well, I..."

"Oh Mr. Hayden," another student interjected, "you know, he majored in the fine arts when he was in college." A mumble of appreciation shortly followed afterwards.

"I- I'm not sure who it is going to be," Taylor started. "All Ms. O'Halloran told me is that he is a male. I'm sorry." The group looked around to view one another's reactions but didn't see much betraying neutrality. Taylor smiled contently, clasping her hands together.

"On to something exciting. Our first drama event of the year!" Taylor goes to the back of the miniature stage where there was a storage closet. She pulls out a heavy white board on wheels, and slants it accordingly so that the blank canvas can face the others. She exhales happily, pulling a blue expo marker from the package on the easel and gestures dramatically with her hands.

"The Fall play! Not to be confused with the Spring musical." A few claps mixed with a few snaps in the audience and Taylor was suddenly reminded of a Wawanakwa Drama Club tradition that they had established her sophomore year two years ago.

"Right! When we want to appreciate what someone says in the Drama club, we snap, not clap. It gives off a more theatrical response and isn't as distracting or difficult to conceal so that the speaker may go on. So I see we have some new and old faces this year. Why don't we go around and introduce ourselves. You already know me. I'm Taylor Chandler."

In their seats, Dove and Claira exchanged looks with one another. The two had promised to go to the first meeting of Drama club together this year after realizing that they had been in the same club all of last year and have never noticed each other. At least, that was when the club had a significant amount of more people in it. Now that the group of drama enthusiasts has become more close-knit, there was no mistaking who's who. Taylor smiled, pointing over to the two girls.

"Claira, Dove, good to see you two back this year. Why don't you ladies start?"

Claira smiled reassuringly at Dove before standing before the class, smoothing out her 'Wawanakwa Academy' sweatshirt.

"Hello everyone, my name is Claira Wilson. I am a sophomore this year. This will be my second year in the Drama Club." A series of snaps followed her brief speech. Claira smiled, settling back down into her seat just as Dove stood up to make her own presence known.

"Hello everyone. My name is Jayda Jonas, but please call me Dove. I am a sophomore. This is my second year in the Drama Club. " The same routine, snaps.

Everyone else went down the row from there, each person giving their own synopsis, some more drawn out and extensive than others.

A dark haired girl presented herself before the class, curtseying with her floral yellow skirt.

"Forsythia Ainsworth, nice to meet your acquaintance. I am a junior. This is my first year with the Drama Club."

Kara stood from her seat shortly after her, smoothing out the wrinkles in her skirt when it was her turn to present herself.

"Hi. I'm Kara Sanders. I'm a junior. This is my second year with the Drama club."

Taylor smiled, nodding as she spoke and interjecting. "Kara is also our stage manager for this production."

"Shann Tone, hi everybody! I'm a senior this year. This is my first year with the Drama Club." The overly enthusiastic girl took her seat, smiling brightly to Taylor.

Taylor nodded nervously, her eyes landing on the last person to go, Adagio, who had naturally slunk down in his seat. The teenager stood, tightening his ponytail and turning to the others in the room.

"I'm Adagio DiVagleo; junior this year. This is my third year with the Drama club."

Taylor grinned brightly, adding on, "Adagio is our fine arts liaison this year. Okay, now that we have introductions out of the way, let's get on to-"

"Sorry I am late guys. I hope you didn't wait up for me," a voice seeped through to the club. Taylor gasped, turning around and placing down her expo marker. Her brown, short locks fell into her face, her hands clawed open.

"M-Mr. McClean, what are you doing here? I was expecting our new advisor."

Chris smiled cheekily, placing his hands behind him and shutting his eyes. Of course the students' new principal would adduce himself in such a way that reeked of hormonal-like arrogance.

He paused dramatically for a brief moment before gesturing to himself with his hands.

"You're looking at him." It took Taylor too long to process the information. She looked up to him as if he was speaking gibberish, her tone confused but blunt.

"You Mr. McClean? Don't you need a degree for that?" Taylor shot to cover her mouth dishonorably, refusing to meet gazes with the older man.

"Oh no, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean for it to come out like that."

Chris shrugged nonchalantly, stepping further into the room.

"This is a nice little setup you guys got going on here." Many scoffs and whispers of disapproval easily surfaced amongst the students in no time whatsoever. From just the first week as principal, Chris already managed to carry about a negative stigma.

"Okay, okay. Calm down with the commotion. I'll explain." He stalked over to where Taylor previously stood, setting himself down on the brim of the stage, his legs dangling due to his unimpressive height.

Taylor crossed her arms across her torso, looking down to the scratched wood of the stage. Ms. O'Halloran could have at least provided the students with a decent warning before she threw a barely experienced man to handle such a prestigious institution of drama history, built up over decades and decades of actors. This was the best that they could give her? This was the man she had to work with to direct the upcoming productions? She thought she deserved a bit more respect.

"Kids, I know this is very shocking for you. You just recently lost Ms. VanDyke in a- um, very unfortunate accident. It's tough dealing with those kinds of things. I know she was a teacher you kids held dearly in your hearts. So, when Ms. O'Halloran told me that you guys were in need of a new advisor, I just had to jump at the chance!" He jumped down slyly from his position on the stage, barely landing on his own too feet.

"Trust me," He jutted a finger in his direction. "There is no one in this school who knows drama better than me." He didn't wait for a reaction from the dazed set of children. He had made himself clear. This was the way things were going to be whether they liked it or not. "So what are we talking about?"

Taylor cleared her throat, trying desperately to regain her composure. She sets her fingers back upon the blue expo marker, and begins to write. The finished product on the white board reads brazenly, 'The Lost Boy'.

"The Lost Boy is the name of our Fall production. Is there anyone here who doesn't know what this is about?"

The majority of hands rose, outstretched profoundly to the sky. Taylor's eyebrows furrowed together in a state of timidity. She attempted a crooked smile at the crowd, hoping for a more advantageous response.

"I suppose I will provide an overall synopsis. The Lost Boy is a play about a famous and successful writer named James M. Barrie, who is dissatisfied with his work and life. He returns to his hometown in Scotland to revisit his mother who still blames him for the death of his older brother in a skating pond. H-"

"Oh, very angsty," Chris interrupted. The way the older man sat was fantastical-like. His chiseled jawline rested between the palms of his hands, and his feet resided in the air, kicking around ever so distractingly. His behavior could rival a small child's.

Taylor cringed, pinching the bridge of her freckled nose.

"Yes, continuing on. Haunted by the tragic accident and his mother's grating words, James slowly begins to confront his family's tragic past with the help of an unexpected visitor. It's a fictionalized account of the birth of Peter Pan."

A collection of murmurs surfaced amongst the group, most approving.

"Auditions-" Taylor started.

"Auditions will be in one week. And, they will be mandatory for everyone in the club." Chris interrupted.

Taylor clasped a piece of her hair, turning to the man in shock. Why did he assist on asserting absolute power? Ms. VanDyke was pretty rough, but at least she wasn't a control freak.

"Mr. McLean, what do you mean auditions are mandatory? You can't just- just force people to audition. We're not all actors in here."

Chris nodded hastily, shutting his eyes forward to the students. He had only caught a glimpse of what Taylor had been rambling on about.

"Well Suzy-" he began.

"It's Taylor,"

"Tyler, I believe that as a director, I should be able to choose my actors from a large pool of people. I should be the one to say who is an actor or not. Besides, there's only a handful of you. If a portion of this club auditions, I have no choice but to cast whoever shows up. Do you know how pathetic that is? I-"

Taylor held up an impatient hand.

"I understand Mr. McLean. But, as co-director I feel that-"

"Co-director? Oh, I didn't talk to you about that yet?" Taylor gave him a suspicious look, raising a dark eyebrow at him. Her brown eyes lit up.

"I'm sorry Tamara-"

"It's Taylor,"

"But I'm going to have to suspend your status as co-director this year."

Taylor blushed deeply, embarrassed that he was announcing this news amongst the whole club. She started, baffled at the principal's words.

"B-but Mr. McLean, why would you do that? President of the Drama club is always co-director to the advisor. You can't just do that!"

Chris nodded almost comically, having to suppress a snort. His raven bangs fell criminally over his soulless eyes.

"The thing is, I come with my own team. The Chris McLean experience is a package deal, yeah? I already have an assistant director."

Taylor crossed her arms infuriated over her chest, her innocent demeanor quickly fading to squabbles.

"And who exactly is that?"

"Chef Hatchet." Taylor felt herself begin to lose control. She started to chuckle mockingly. Chef. Hatchet? Was he really about to replace her with Chef Hatchet?

"You mean the gym teacher? Wh-What does he possibly know about theatre?"

Chris put his hands up defensively.

"Hey, Chef Hatchet was a star back in college. You know, he was the donkey in that one popular play. Ah, what'cha ma call it... A PreWinter Morning's Nightmare!"

Taylor rolled her eyes mock-fully. She couldn't believe the faith of her beloved club rested in the hands of this man.

"You mean A MidSummer Night's Dream?"

Chris turned his head away unfazed. "Exactly."

"You know what? Fine, go ahead. Take over the club! See if I care. It seems that you'll have no problem running it by yourself!" With that, the young adult stormed out of the miniature theatre, slamming the door aggressively behind her.

"Hm, well it looks like we'll be holding elections for a new president, then." Chris laughed.

He made his way towards center stage, bathing in the gazes of the different children.

"So, about auditions. Prepare your own monologue. I'm not too picky. Just keep it fresh, and impress me. This meeting is now adjourned." He offered the children his signature smile before walking off with a phone pressed tightly to his left ear.

Claira looked over at Dove unimpressed and full with uncertainty.

"So, what are you going to audition with?" she started. She placed her tan hands on her lap neatly and sweetly, turning to her friend.

Dove shrugged, her eyes tracing over to the door. The last thing currently on her mind, was what monologue she would choose for auditions. She would have to deal with that later. But judging by Claira's tone, the least she could do was show some stimulation.

"Um, I really don't know. Hey, do you want to come to the library with me and brainstorm some ideas? I don't think they close until 3:30 today."

Claira nodded, a blue colored extension falling into her face.

"Of course Dove! Although we'd have to wait for Smith until the Art Club meeting is over."

"Of shoot! Is art club today too? I was hoping to join this year," Dove explained.

Claira went to touch her friend's shoulder, rubbing it reassuringly.

"I'm sure they haven't started yet. You can still make it."

Dove nodded, picking up her purple book-bag and walking up the short stairs of the stage to the door. She gestured to Claira, waiting for her in place before the two girls parted ways.

Adagio collected his things quickly from the small metal seat. His pink tongue played with the gleaming piercing on his bottom lip, flicking it insecurely. He had been just about done with this day. First, he gets his phone taken away in Chemistry. Then, Mr. Phils decides it was a dandy day to give a pop quiz on limits in Calculus. And now Chris McLean is the advisor of Drama club. The twist and turns of high-school truly are beautiful things.

"Adagio, you're heading to art club right?" Kara's voice resonated from behind him.

He whipped his head around, the dyed tips of his bangs falling into his eyes. Adagio blinked, running a copper complexioned hand over his hair, and pushing his hair aside so that he could get a good look of the blonde.

"Yes, why'd you ask?"

Kara scribbled something down in her notepad before looking back up at him.

"If you don't mind, could you get the word out about joining stage crew this year? We could use a lot of talent to paint and construct the set and we're a pretty small unit this year."

Adagio thought for a moment, nodding haltingly to her.

"Yeah, sure."

Kara's lips curled into a smile.

"Cool, thanks a bunch."

And then she was off.

Adagio sighed, puffing out a tired breath from his system before throwing his arms through the straps of his back-pack. He paced up the stairs to the stage and through the door, out into the slanted slope of a hallway.

---

Time: 2:34 p.m.

Place: West Wing; Art Room

---

The room was a nice little capacity of everything that could have possibly pronounced art. Colored splatter walls, with exceptional student work lined up adjacent to one another. To the side, a teacher's desk and classic Dell computer next to it. Each set of student seats resembled the set up in the cooking rooms. Worn down lab tables seating two people per stretch. Against one side of the wall, an assortment of acrylic, oil and watercolor paintings strewn into their own subsections. On the opposite side of the room, an organization of sketches took residence. The room wreaked of a mixture of drying paint and clay.

Forsythia hurried over into the room as soon as she alleviated herself from the Drama club meeting. Her pace was swift but cautious as to not collide with any unsuspecting passerbys.

Her lips curled graciously into a smile, finding the room with ease. For her first week at a new school, she was doing very well with utilizing her sense of direction.

"Forsythia!" she heard a voice call out from inside. In no time, a red-headed girl approached her, dried up sky blue colored paint on the tips of her fingers.

Forsythia lit up, placing two firm clothed gloves on her hips and smiling.

"Smith, what a pleasant surprise. I wasn't excepting to see you here."

Smith smiled.

"Me? How about you? I would have never struck you as the artist type of girl."

Forsythia's smile dropped slightly. She furrowed her dark eyebrows at the girl, slightly offended. "And why is that?"

Smith began to chuckle, but upon seeing that Forsythia was not laughing with her, ceased her enjoyment.

"Oh no! I didn't mean it that way. Just, you know with those artist stereotypes, the messy, rebellious misunderstood kind of teenagers... don't worry about it! I can totally see you as an artist!"

Forsythia quickly smiled with ease. "I understand what you meant." Her smile was almost uncharacteristically contagious. Smith beamed in return.

"Well, why are you so happy today?"

Forsythia concentrated her colored orbs on the girl, grabbing Smith's hands in hers, and grasping them excitingly.

"Oh Smith! I'm going to audition for the school play!"

Smith nodded excitingly. "Wowzers! What play are you guys doing?"

"The Lost Boy." Forsythia gestured grandly with her hands in front of Smith, her eyes shut tightly.

"The Lost Boy? You mean that adaptation of Peter Pan? That's hella cool! Who do you hope to play?"

Forsythia pried her eyes wide open, looking to Smith in question. She straightened out her white blouse, and rubbed her gloved hands together.

"Well, I've never really read it. It's a little too modern for my taste, but of course there must be a leading lady. Now, my question to you, why are your hands covered in paint?"

Smith shrugged nonchalantly. "I had art last period, so I just stayed here and decided to work on my project for good old Ms. Kizzek."

Smith chuckled, setting her head down as Forsythia looked at her. She took no note to her comment about her art class, but instead shifted the conversation's subject back to herself.

"Ooh, want to help me run over monologues after the meeting?"

Smith gave her a crooked smile, "Sure 'Syth! Maybe I'll sign up for stage crew. You want to take a seat with me?"

Forsythia said nothing but followed her to a lab table in the front.

"Grace, you didn't have to go through all this trouble," a voice entered the room.

Grace laughed, her dark blue eyes cheerful.

"I told you, it's no problem Sophia. I knew you would be hesitant if you were to come alone. It's hard being the new kid."

Sophia nodded, a light blush growing on her cheeks. She nodded slowly.

"Thanks for looking out." Her voice grew shy. "Are you interested in art by any chance?"

Grace shook her head, looking down to the floor. "Art really isn't my forte, but it's something I appreciate." She paused, speaking up again when Sophia didn't deliver her an answer. "Anyway, I would love to stay and support you but I have to head off home. Will you be okay?"

Sophia smiled cheekily. "I will." She spreads out her arms, engulfing Grace into a large hug. She isn't sure if she has out stepped her boundaries, after only knowing the girl for a week, but decided it was the appropriate thing to do.

Grace blushed, hugging the girl back. Soon enough she retracted from Sophia's embrace and smiled. "I'll see you later Soph. Have fun!"

Sophia waved back. Her breath became choppy when she entered the room, the strong scent of paint overtaking her senses. She straightened her spine, placing a nervous smile on her face and took a seat just as Dove rushed in to the room. She took a seat next to Sophia, frantically patting down her unruly curly hair. Dove offered a small wave to Sophia, who returned it happily.

Scar entered the art room with Samantha, his headphones draped around his neck rather than over his ears.

"So, what I was saying. I think that if you mix those two tracks together, you can get that dynamic mashup you've been looking for."

Samantha's lips curled into a smirk, taking Scar's headphones off of his neck and bringing them closer too her ear. She bumped her head slightly to the music, a satisfied smile on her face.

"I think it's pretty solid. If you bring it to the next Glee club meeting, we can-"

Samantha felt a light tap on her shoulder. She whips around, her long black hair taking a loop with her.

"Oh, hey DiVagleo, how's it been going?" Her smile was sarcastic but energetic .

"Terrafino," he nodded in acknowledgement. "Don't you think it's about time we start the meeting?"

Samantha's blue eyes widened. "What happened to Ms. Kizzek?"

"She had to leave early. She had a family commitment."

Samantha nodded, clasping her hands together and cracking her knuckles loudly in Adagio's ears.

"Well, let's not keep the people waiting then. We'll talk more about this later, Scar." She didn't wait for Adagio's response. The girl took two neatly sharpened pencils off of Ms. Kizzek's desk. She didn't waste time clanking them together loudly, catching the attention of the inhabitants in the room.

"Okay," she said, throwing the pencils down carelessly. "Welcome to the first Art Club meeting of the school year!" There was a series of applause that followed her short introduction.

"Now presenting our esteemed president, Mr. Adagio DiVagleo!" Samantha cheered dramatically. She outstretched her arms to him as if he was some kind of grand prize that someone had just won off of a game show.

Adagio mentally face palmed, taking center stage in front of the classroom. He was tired of introductions.

"Thanks for that completely necessary introduction Sam. So as just announced, my name is Adagio. I have a quick announcement before we go over our syllabus. The Drama club is once again asking the Art club to assist in the production of the set. We could use a lot of artistic hands on deck to help out. There's a sign up sheet outside of the drama room if anyone is interested. Now, because it is the first meeting, we won't overwhelm you guys with work. Our Vice President, Sam, will like to talk about some of our planned events for this year."

Adagio stepped down, handing the attention back over to Samantha as she started her portion of the meeting.

---

Time: 2:50 p.m.

Place: South Wing; Little Theatre Rm 1134

---

Sophia stared down the blank spaces of the sign up sheet. On the top of the flimsy piece of paper, in black sharpie marker, 'Stage Crew'. She breathed, running her fingers through her brown curly hair. There were only three names scribbled down, the first being 'Scar Xaren', the second, 'Smith Albert ' and the third, 'Assy McGee'. Okay scratch that, only two names that were real, scribbled down. Sophia scavenged into her backpack for a black ink pen. She was going to do it. She was going to sign up for a new club, in a new school, and meet new people, and- oh boy. The thought was overwhelming. She was never one to easily accept change.

"Hi, are you considering signing up for stage crew?"

Sophia jumped, startled by the feminine voice. She almost dropped her pen.

"Oh, hi." She was met face to face with an enthusiastic blonde, her lengthy hair tied up into a high ponytail. Sophia shrugged sheepishly at the presumably upper classman.

"Um, yeah. I was considering it."

The blonde nodded back, her green eyes lighting up.

"Well, I think you should do it. We could use the extra help. As you can see," she gestured to the sign up board, "We're not doing too well. I'm sorry if I startled you." She extended her hand out to her.

"I'm Kara by the way."

"Sophia." She took the other girl's hand into her own.

Kara smiled, nodding slowly to her.

"I hope you decide to sign up Sophia. It's tons of fun." Kara gave her a friendly smile before walking off and up into the hall.

Sophia grinned, gracing her fluid ballpoint pen over the sheet, her name scrawled neatly in cursive. Grace would be so proud. She gave her signature an approving nod before strapping her backpack over her shoulders and walking off into the same direction that of Kara's. Maybe change wouldn't be so bad after-all.

---

Date: Wednesday, September 29

Time: 2:30 p.m.

Place: South Wing; Little Theatre Rm 1134

---

Chris adjusted a red beret atop of his head, as well as a pair of dark shades. This was it. The most grueling process of theatre. Auditions. Chris was soaking up every blood-pumping moment. He turned to his co-worker, smiling brightly to him.

"Alright Chef, start sending them in." Chris gestured to the door, his compliance getting up to unwilling signal the student with control of the list . The blonde student took a minute to scan the names, squinting at the first one scribbled in slot number one.

"Ah- well this can't be right... whatever, Forsythia Ainsworth, you're up!" he screeched into the hall.

Forsythia who was with Smith who had come for moral support, grinned uncontrollably, grabbing on to Smith's hands.

"Ooh, I'm up Smith. Wish me luck!"

Smith smiled. "You're going to be fine 'Syth. Plus, if you don't make it, you can always sign up for stage-crew with me. At least you don't have to audition for that."

Forsythia nodded, not really taking in Smith's words but still being conscious of them.

The girl rushed off to the door that Chef held open for her. She took a minute to compose herself, clearing her throat in the process and stepping in on stage with grace and confidence.

Chris smiled at the girl. Well this was certainly an odd piece. She definitely was dramatic with her sense of fashion, that's for sure.

Forsythia curtseyed, her left leg crossing in front of the right.

"Good evening Mr. McLean, my name is Forsythia Ainsworth."

Chris grinned awkwardly, shuffling his papers together as a distraction.

"Welcome, Forsythia. What are you going to be performing for us today?"

She stood at full height, her sunhat giving off a taller appearance than her actuality.

"I will be performing one of my favorite monologues from Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream."

"Oh, the play that Chef was in! Very nice."

Chef gave Chris an awful glare, transforming his eyes into slits.

Chris cleared his throat, turning back to Forsythia. "I'm ready when you are."

Forsythia grinned, turning her back to him, standing up straight and facing the wall. She was in this position for at least fifteen seconds.

"Uh- Are you alright? We kind of need to get this g-"

The girl turned to face him dramatically as the words rolled out of her mouth with ease, an arm draped perilously over her forehead. Her stance was almost ballerina like.

"How happy some o'er other some can be! Through Athens I am thought as fair as she. But what of that? Demetrius thinks not so; he will not know what all but he do know. And as he errs, doting on Hermia's eyes, so I, admiring of his qualities. Things base and vile, folding no quantity. Live can transpose to form and dignity. Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind. And therefore is wing'd Cupid painted blind, nor hath love's mind of any judgement taste."

Forsythia paused, walking to the left of the stage. Her eyes concentrated on the floor, droopy and regretful.

"Wings and no eyes figure unheedy haste. And therefore is love said to be a child, because in choice he is so oft beguiled."

Her voice became more coarse.

"As waggish boys in game themselves forswear, so the boy love is perjured every where. For ere Demetrius look'd on Hermia's eyne, he hail'd down oaths that he was only mine. And when this hail some heat from Hermia felt, so he dissolved, and showers of oaths did melt. I will go tell him of fair Hermia's flight."

Her hand outstretched boldly to the imaginary audience, instead of focusing on the ground, she held her head up high.

"Then to the wood will he to-morrow night pursue her, and for this intelligence if I have thanks it is a dear expense. But herein mean I to enrich my pain, to have his sight thither and back again. And scene."

As Forsythia finished up, she looked eagerly to Chris.

"Well, what do you think?"

Chris grinned nervously.

"Forsythia I-"

"It was beautiful!" Chef outbursts from his seat. He buried his head in the crook of Chris' neck, sobbing generously.

Chris, disgusted, pushed Chef off of him, the other man landing on the table, head down and sobbing.

"Come on Chef. Keep it together, jeez." His tone was harsh and unsympathetic.

"Anyway, Forsythia is it? Even though I couldn't understand a single word you said, it sure as hell sounded good."

"Why thank you Mr. McLean." She didn't take the slightest bit of offense to the comment. Shakespeare was definitely a tough nut to crack.

"Although you do know, this is not a Shakespearean play. This play uses modern dialect."

Forsythia's cheeks lit up, suddenly becoming embarrassed at his words.

"Yes, I am aware. I just thought that a classic Shakespearean monologue would fit me best for this audition. If you'd like, I can try something else. Perhaps something from the eighteenth century would more fit your taste."

"That won't be necessary. Thank you for auditioning. Next!"

Forsythia looked taken aback.

"B-but-"

"That's all we need to see Ms.-" Chris paused to examine the sign in sheet.

"Ms. Ainsworth."

Forsythia frowned, leaving in a huff. "This isn't the last you've heard of me," she warned before slamming the door behind her.

"Chef, tell the student outside to call whoever is next on the list."

Chef who had regained his composure sighed, walking out into the hallway to tap the shoulder of the blonde boy who was in possession of the master list.

"Stoner Charlie, you're up!"

Chris had to contain himself from laughing at the name.

As the boy walked in, Chris could see why he had the name he had. The boy walked with a permanent slouch. His clothes reeked of burnt cigarette stench. He wore a knotty purple beanie to cover his light brown bowl haircut. He grimaced at his hygiene, or lack thereof.

"Hey dudes, my name is Stoner Charlie."

Chef interjected.

"So you mean to tell me that your first name is Stoner?"

The boy snorted, crossing his arms vainly over himself and speaking back with the same tone.

"So you mean to tell me that your first name is Chef?"

Chef paused for a moment. He nodded his head before sinking back into his seat.

"Touché," he mumbled.

Chris pinched the bridge of his nose, careful not to obstruct the position of his tacky sunglasses.

"Alright, so what are you going to perform for us today, Stoner?"

"Yeah, I prefer Charlie. So this is from... a play called Glengarry Glen Ross. Yeah, it's, it's good." He spoke slowly as if he was in a daze. Chris couldn't help but feel extremely awkward speaking to him.

He started off immediately, pointing a lazy finger at Chris to 'enhance his performance'.

"You stupid fucking cunt." Maybe not the best words to start off with. Chris and Chef exchanged a shock glance.

"You, Wiliamson. I'm talking to you, shithead. You just cost me... cost me six thousand dollars. Six thousand dollars and one, one Cadillac. That's right." He struggled to find balance in his words.

"What are you gonna do about it? What are you gonna do about it, asshole? You're fucking shit. Where did you learn your trade, ya stupid fucking cunt? You idiot. Who ever told you that you could work with men? Oh- oh I- I'm gonna have your job, shithead. I'm going downtown, I'm gonna talk to Mitch and Murray. Yeah that's right..."

He paused, trying to remember the rest.

"Um, are you d-" Chris started.

He continued right on ahead.

"I'm going to Lempkin! I don't care who's nephew you are, who you know, whose dick you're sucking on. You're going out. I swear to you, you're going out!"

Chris put his hand up brashly.

"Okay, that's enough."

Stoner Charlie looked appalled.

"What? I didn't even get to the good part," he whined. Chris shook his head frantically.

"No! That's all I needed to hear. Wow, that sure was something... something special."

Stoner Charlie smiled obliviously, taking pride in his work.

"So you digged it huh?"

Chris tore a piece of paper off from what was resting on his clip board.

"Well, you see what I'm going to do right now..." he spoke as he scribbled. "...is write you this referral note to the school's guidance counselor. I think you two need to have a good one on one chat, yeah? Well, you go do that while I bring in the next person."

Stoner Charlie gave him a sour look before storming out. Chris turned to Chef immediately, letting out a nervous laugh.

"Wow, what a nut. Am I right? We can cross that one off of our list. Alright, bring in the next victim Chef."

Chef grumbled, going to give the boy outside a thumbs up of approval, signaling that the two were ready for the next candidate.

"Dove Jonas, you're up."

Dove steadied herself before stepping into the room. She waved shyly at the two-person panel before beginning.

"Hey, how are you? I'm Dove Jonas." She straightened out her long, floral skirt.

"Dove." Chris repeated. "What are you going to recite for us today?"

"A monologue from "Bargaining". I hope you enjoy."

She readies herself, planting her two feet firmly on the ground. Her approach was similar to Stoner Charlie's. She looked straight at Chris, establishing an actor-audience connection.

"Ryan, there's something I have to tell you." There was a long, dramatic pause. "I was born in 1931. I never lied to you, I am 23. But I've been 23 since the year 1954. I know, I know. It's impossible, right? No one lives forever? But, sometimes they do. In 1953, I got married. A few weeks after the wedding, I suddenly fell ill. My husband took me to a hospital. I was there for almost a week. I was in so much pain. And no one could say for sure what was wrong. One night, in the hospital, a stranger came to see me. He told me, "Jamie, you're going to die tomorrow." That was my name then, the name I was born with." She walks further down the stage.

"This man, the stranger, he offered me a chance to live forever. He said, "You can die tomorrow, or you can live forever. Stay young forever." Well of course, I don't believe in the devil anymore. There are powerful beings on this earth, but man created Satan. And God, for that matter. My point is, this man offered me a chance to live. And I took it." Dove transformed her body language to be more strong.

"I will live forever. I will never age. I cannot be harmed, not physically. I can't be hurt by bullets, or knives, or fire, or even explosions. I can't be hurt by diseases - in fact, I can't even catch a cold. When my husband was forty-five, he died in a car accident. At his funeral, the stranger came to see me again. He asked me if I wanted to... give up my gift, and... die. I thought about it. But I said, no. I wasn't ready. I knew there was more for me. I have centuries and centuries ahead of me. These first hundred years... are like a drop in the ocean..."

Dove sits herself on the edge of the stage, looking out into nothingness in a reminiscent way.

"My husband never knew about me, and he didn't have a choice. I don't want to go through that again. I don't want to fall in love again for twenty years. Twenty years is... gone in the blink of an eye. I'm looking for someone to love forever. Most people, when they say forever, they mean... well, they don't really mean forever. But I do. I'm in love with you, Ryan. And I'm asking you to share forever with me."

When her monologue ended, Chef was quick to clap.

"That was great! And I don't say that much."

Dove smiled excited, clasping her hands together.

"Wow, really? Thanks! I worked on it all week. You really liked it?"

Chris nodded slowly, trying his best to look professional.

"It was certainly riveting. You have a lot of flare to you Dove. It's refreshing. Thank you for coming in today."

Dove grinned cooly.

"No, thank you for having me McLean."

With that she exited the room, regrouping with Claira, who was next up.

Claira rushed over to Dove who was anxiously awaiting her arrival. Her dark blue eyes lit up with curiosity.

"Dove, how did it go? Were you nervous? Did they yell?"

Dove chuckled, trying to shake off Claira's insecurities.

"No, Claira. You might get some butterflies when you first get up there, but it'll be fine. Just find confidence in yourself, and they'll find confidence in you. I promise."

Claira nodded, a bead of sweat growing on her forehead. "Are you sure? I think my piece might be a little too dark."

"For this play? Definitely not. Trust me Claira, you're going to nail it."

"Claira Wilson," the blonde boy called into the hallway.

"Oh, here I go. Wish me luck Dove!"

She bounced into the room with energy. Chris stared at her immediately as soon as she made her presence known. He raised an eyebrow at her, and suddenly Claira began to feel embarrassed. She tried to stabilize herself.

"Uh, hi my name is Claira Wilson. And, uh, my piece-" Her binder dropped to the floor, making an obnoxious echo as the plastic made contact with the wood. She clasped her hands to her chest as a response to the dilema

"Oh gosh. I am so sorry! Please, allow me to start over. I'm usually not this nervous."

Chris said nothing, but wrote notes on his clipboard.

Claira tried to steady herself again.

"My monologue is a piece taken from a play entitled, "And Turning, Stay." Claira took a deep breath. Just as Dove said, she just needed to be confident in herself.

She separated her words, taking a long pause before starting.

"Don't you dare walk away from me!"

Her harsh but broken tone caught Chris' attention. He seized to doodle on his board, and instead trained his eyes on her.

"And don't tell me you're sorry! And don't tell me to forget it, and don't you dare tell me to "let it go." God knows, I'd like to. I wish I could, but I can't! I can't forget that we had something, and you're running away. You're running away! Don't you see Mark? You're running from what I've searched for all my life! Why?"

She didn't look at Chris, but instead looked ahead of her at a poster that read, "Drama is life with the dull bits cut out. - Alfred Hitchcock"

Claira continued.

"Because you're scared? Well, I'm scared too, but you and I - we have something worth fighting for. We could make it work, I'm not saying it would be easy, but I care about you."

Claira paused, tears beginning to prick her eyes. She subconsciously grasped for the locket on her neck, squeezing it tightly. Her head hung to the ground. They couldn't see her cry. She needed to get it together.

"And I know deep down, under this bravado, you care about me. And that's what it's all about, Mark, don't you get it? It's the human experience. You can pretend all you want, but you're only lying to yourself. You're denying the simple and wonderful fact that you are emotional, and vulnerable, and alive."

Claira spread her arms wide open. She wasn't at the audition anymore. She saw herself. She saw herself standing in front of the jail cell, pleading to her broken embodiment. Claira knows she did it for her, that's what hurts the most.

"Can you honestly stand there and tell me that I mean nothing to you? That everything that happened that night was a lie? That you feel nothing? I feel sorry for you, Mark. I'll move on. I'll find someone else. I'll be all right, because I will know that I tried. That I did everything I could. But someday you will look back, and you will realize what you threw away. And you will regret it always."

Hot tears rolled down Claira's cheeks, and stained the wood floor.

Chris started. "Ms. Wilson, you-"

It was too late. Claira had already ran out of there, and into the drama hallway, throwing herself into the corner of the hallway.

"Claira!" Dove screeched. "Are you okay? Did they yell at you? What-"

"I- I need to go Dove. I- I'm sorry. I shouldn't have auditioned for this. I just don't want to disappoint you." She rushed off as fast as her small legs could carry her, leaving Dove to see her off.

Adagio watched the girl run off past him. She almost knocked him over, despite how petite she was, running into his shoulder. He quickly regained his balance, continuing his trek down the Drama hallway.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, shutting his eyes tight. He had gotten a massive headache in Chemistry class, and it hadn't gone away since then. If anything, his condition had worsened since then. Adagio approached the boy standing outside of the audition door. A clipboard rested contently in his hand. He seemed to have been doodling on the next page.

Adagio stuffed his hands inside of his pockets. He leaned over into his personal space, eyeing the list skeptically. He saw his name in slot number sixteen.

"Brady, what number are we on?"

The blonde boy looked at him, his eyebrows raised as he popped his blueberry gum in his face. Adagio winced, his headache only increasing.

"We just finished number four," he mumbled.

Adagio groaned. He couldn't wait that long. The pain was driving him off the edge. All he wanted was to get his audition over with and for once, head home so he could pass out in the sheets of his bed.

"What do I have to do to get myself higher on that list?" he mumbled harshly.

Brady smirked, a laugh playing on his lips.

"No can do. You'll just have to wait your turn like everyone-"

Adagio quickly bulled a fresh twenty dollar bill from his wallet, waving it tauntingly in the boy's face.

Brady snatched the dollar from his grasp, eyeing its authenticity by holding it up to the bright light. He grinned, satisfied with the terms of agreement.

"Looks like you're next DiVagleo," he said smugly.

Adagio nodded, leaning his physique against the door next to Brady. When an upset scrawny boy rushed out from the room, Adagio headed in. He took presence on stage, looking to Chris as if he expected him to say something.

"And you are?" Chris didn't bother to look up. He was too busy fixing his beret upon his head.

"Adagio DiVagleo."

Chris nodded slowly, his elbows resting on top of the table.

"Hm, and what are you going to be performing for us today?"

"This is a selection from the Fall play last year. It was a tragedy called 'The Casual Descent'."

Chris looked on, trying to sound interested.

"Oh, who wrote it?"

Adagio shrugged nonchalantly. "I did."

Chris' interest was peaked suddenly. He folded his arms over the table.

"You don't say... Well let's see what you've got." He leaned back into his chair, propping two feet up on the table and two hands intertwined behind his head.

Adagio nodded, preparing himself for his presentation.

"Stop saying that you forgive me!" His voice was immediately strong and convincing right off the bat. Both Chris and Chef looked up to him, in the similar way that they stared at Claira.

"I... I don't understand anymore. From the minute I was born you told me that I was something special, that there wasn't anything I could ever do that would make you stop loving me. Every time I was sad that I couldn't be like you, you told me that you didn't make mistakes. Well here I am, clawing at the recesses of the heart that you gave me looking for what's right, and you act like I'm evil for listening!" His eyes are full of hurt.

"You say you can see everything, so look at what your so-called children will do to each other. They never had a chance, did they? They'll leave that gilded prison you have them and they'll rob, maim, and kill each other and somehow, someway, it'll be my fault! I'll be their scapegoat because you told them I'm something to be afraid of, and I don't know why. I don't know what I did wrong, what I did to deserve this. I listened to the heart that you gave me, obeyed the every impulse you put in me. I did everything right, only to find out that the only reason you, my entire world, my father, only wanted me is so I could scare a bunch of souls to you when you're the one who views them as disposable." He pauses to clench his first, his knuckles turning white.

"Well I'm not play anymore. So you can rip off my wings, fling me as far away from you as you can, as far as the east is from the west, but I'll never be what you want me to be. Because no matter what you do to me, or do to them and then tack the fault to my name, I will never stop loving you. And you will always, always, be my father."

Chris looked appalled, genuinely impressed at the teenager's performance.

"Adagio, you actually wrote this. This is..." he trails for a moment, placing a chin on his finger. "This is very impressive. And your acting isn't half bad either." For once, Chris sounded to be the most palpable he's been all day.

"What was last year's play even about?" Chef pitched in.

Adagio looked to him, the silver buttons on his vest producing a glare.

"It's a play from Satan's point of view on his fall from grace and the Fall of Man. Satan is the hero, desperately in love with Adam, who wished to free him, Eve, and substantially all of humanity from an eternity of blissful ignorance, knowing full well that once they know the difference between good and evil, they'll hate him. What you just heard, is Satan's monologue from the finale."

Chris nodded his head slowly as Adagio spoke.

"Very edgy for a high-school play. I love it. You know, you can really make a name out there for yourself kid," he expressed.

His words were so slow. Adagio may have been convinced that they were true, if they weren't coming from Chris McLean. The sole man in history to star in three consecutive movies to get a landslide 0% rating on Rotten Tomatos. Adagio quickly averted his eyes to the door. His headache was pounding against his skull even harder as if it was begging to crawl into his brain. He needed to rest.

"Thank you for your time," he mumbled as he walked out into the hallway. The door unintentionally slammed behind him. His legs were weak as he came to face the other jittery candidates. Some paced around the hallway, wringing their hands together in a pursuit to remember the lines. Some ran their eyes over the words of their printed out versions, feet tapping to an imaginary beat on the unkempt floor.

Adagio groaned, throwing his back against the wall. He slunk down to the floor, his knees hugging his chest. His breath became choppy.

"Hey, you alright DiVagleo?" Brady muttered softly to him from his stance. Brady popped his blueberry flavored gum once again.

Adagio ran his fingers through a tousle of charcoal hair. He didn't bother to look up at the blue eyed boy, but instead focused his catty eyes on the pale plaster of the wall.

"Yeah, I'm fine," he mumbled.

---

Date: Thursday, September 30

Time: 11:45 a.m.

Place: Wawanakwa Academy; School Library

---

The two stared at each other, nothing but two pairs of identical eyes looking back at each other. It was like looking into a mirror, a reflection copying her every move. When she blinked, the other blinked too. Even the slightest tilt of the head was undistinguishable to perfection. The orange on her jumpsuit mixed together monstrously with the worn out blonde. Her silence was torturous. The foul scent of the vastness. The rough jingle of loose medal.

The hurt in her eyes.

"Claira, Claira, the list is up!"

The sound of police sirens flooded the scenery. Bright blue and red lights encircling periodically against a dusky sky.

"Claira!"

"Huh?" Her blue orbs shot open, her vision clouding into focus.

"Dove?" Her hand shot onto her head to pat down her hair. The room seemed to be spinning.

"Claira, you fell asleep in the library. Are you okay?" Her voice laced with sincere concern.

Claira nodded, sitting up from the keyboard where she rested her head. Her unfinished English essay was up on the screen where she stopped typing consciously, "In conclusion, the motif of totalitarianism highlighted inrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr".

The series of r's must have come from the key that she laid on. Claira blushed embarrassedly, deleting the r's in her essay, and saving her progress from there. She looked up to Dove after shutting down the computer, smiling shyly.

"The cast list is up? Did you go check?" An army of moths chewed at her stomach lining.

Dove shook her head.

"No, I heard from Samuel, who heard from Andrei, who heard from Brady that Mr. McLean posted the list this morning. I didn't want to check it without you," Dove explained.

Claira smiled, standing up from her seat and grasping her books inside of her hands.

"What are we waiting for? Let's go."

As the two headed down the stairs and to the Drama room, Claira could feel her heart beat faster and faster. She had run out of the room at the end of her audition. She didn't even get to hear her feedback. She hoped that her actions didn't affect the casting decision.

"Okay, here we are. Ooh! I can't even look! Claira, you have to look for me!" Dove squealed.

Claira smiled weakly, approaching the list. This was it. Just do it.

Claira scanned the list, looking desperately for her and Dove's name.

She stiffened when she saw hers. Her fingers touched the texture of the paper, scanning across the page to see her role. There in bold letters, it read, 'MAUREEN/WENDY DARLING'. Claira smiled brightly, running to Dove.

"Dove, Dove! I got a part!"

Dove turned from the wall, looking to Claira with excited eyes.

"Yes! Claira, I told you, you would do great!"

Claira grasped her golden locket on her neck and beamed tenderly.

"Yeah, I guess you did. Thank you Dove."

"No problem what so ever. So, um..." she wringed her hands together. "Did you see what part I got?"

Claira gasped, covering her mouth and blushing.

"No, I'm sorry Dove. I was just too excited!"

Dove grinned shyly.

"No, it's okay Clair. I'll check myself."

Dove let out a shaky breath before going to look at the list.

Her name stood out immediately to her as a large smile overwhelmed her.

"Claira! I got in! I did it! I'm Marie Ansel Barrie, whoever that is... ooh, and I'm also Tinkerbell!"

Dove went over to embrace Claira into a hug.

"I'm so happy for you. I'm happy for us."

The two girls laughed together, a new attitude overcoming Claira.

"Oh, Smith, I'm so nervous. I hope I get cast!" A voice entered the scene, the spunky red-head following her.

"C'mon 'Syth. You have to get in! You've been practicing that monologue every day for a week. They'd be insane not to cast you!" Smith's smile was wide and optimistic.

Forsythia didn't answer, but instead clasped her hands together in front of her, approaching the list with urgency. She smiled when she found her name second on the list as the role of 'MARGARET OGILVY BARRIE'.

Smith came up behind her. "Ooh, what a cool name. Who is she?"

Forsythia adjusted herself smugly.

"She's the mother of J.M. Barrie who is the main protagonist. This is so exciting!"

"I told ya you could do it 'Syth!" Smith cheered. "Who's the lead?"

Forsythia shrugged, turning back around to face the fine print.

"Someone named Adagio DiVagleo. Oh, isn't he that broody boy who's president of the Art Club?"

Smith chuckled, crossing her arms over herself. "That's one way to put it. Come on let's go celebrate! We'll get something to eat over at the Loft."

Forsythia looked at the other girl with approval, following after her merrily.

---

Time: 3:14 p.m.

Place: the DiVagleo Residence

---

Adagio simpered into his parent's manor. The penthouse is empty. The clouds cover the skyline as he plops himself down on the sofa next to the liquor cabinet, his head coming to rest on a fluffed pillow. His muscles relaxed into the couch. Adagio felt a vibrate coming from the charge of his cell phone. He grasped to pull the device out of his pocket, and quickly tapped its screen to see a text from Eli.

'Hey man, I heard the news. Congrats!'

The fact that Adagio had gotten the part still hadn't completely sinked in. It would be the first production that he would do without him. They were better as a team, no doubt. And although Adagio was skilled in acting, the other was the one to take the stage in last year's production. Now, he was on his own. He wondered how he would do. If he would rise above, or sink under the pressure. He eyed a fresh new bottle of anti-depressants that no doubt, his mother had left ready on the counter for him. Adagio grasped the bottle, ripping the plastic covering off with ease. He twisted the cap to the left, taking out his daily dose while walking over to the liquor cabinet. He took out a half empty bottle, pouring himself a glass to wash down the pills. The bottle clanks against the marble bar counter and Adagio sighs satisfyingly. He presses his fist to his forehead and finishes the bottle in his glass. His stomach churns his inwards, but not enough to affectively faze him. He guides himself to his bedroom, taking another bottle with him and locking the door tight.

The front door to his home opens and he knows he's no longer alone. Clunky, heavy footsteps that he knows all too well makes their way farther into the home. He throws his jacket over the bannister of the bar and he knows Adagio has been there when he searches through the liquor cabinet. He expected this of his son. The older man moans, dragging his feet upstairs. He knocks harshly on his door.

"Adagio, I know you're in there. What happened in school today? Open up."

Adagio shook his head into his pillow.

"I'm okay. Nothing happened." he said bluntly.

Marco gave off a sarcastic laugh.

"It doesn't sound like nothing. I received a call from your principal today to congratulate me on my son's lead roll in the school play. I didn't even know you were auditioning Adagio. I sounded like a babbling fool when Mr. McLean contacted me."

No response.

"You could of at least given me a heads up. I searched the synopsis of the play online. And, I-"

There was a long pause between the two. All Adagio could hear was the shuffling of large feet. He rose his head from the pillow, resting his elbows behind him and starts to stare at the door, waiting for him to speak again. But the words got caught up in his throat.

"You what? Spit it out," he demanded.

"I think. I think it might be a little too tender for you. You're not ready for this."

Adagio clutched the fabric of his pillow. He hated when he did this. He hated when he made assumptions about situations that he knew nothing about. He was too prideful, that was for certain. And Adagio was old enough to make decisions on his own.

"This is really none of your business, Marco. You can't tell me what I can and cannot do."

Marco hugged his body. He felt his nerves convulse in discomfort. He didn't have a good feeling about this. Not in the slightest.

"Is there anything I can say to talk you out of this? You. You're trying to push yourself to do this when you know it will hurt. You're smarter than that Adagio. I know you are."

Adagio puts his hands to his stomach. He feels his insides retch in disgust. He feels defenseless. Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe it was the sound of his father's voice that made him sick. But still, he spoke with dogma.

"I can and I will do this. You don't need to worry about me." He groans in pain, clutching the neck of the wine bottle. He takes a hard swig, the alcohol burning his throat on its way down into his system. He's already numb when he hears his father's footsteps get farther and farther away. He can barely hear his mumble when he reaches the end of the hall.

"You're going to regret this."

---

Date: Monday, October 18

Time: 2:30 p.m.

Place: Auditorium

---

"Remember people, lines for Scene one are due today. We have the set painted, now all we need to do with tech is finalize the audio and affects. Got it stage crew?"

The auditorium was a hustling, bustling construction site. Teams of people traveled together, some sporting gloves, and others covered in sawdust. The sound of a drill pierced easily through the space.

A mumble of understanding from Chris' orders surfaced from the booth, just as Adagio stalked in. Problem is, he was forty-five minutes late. The weekend didn't treat him well. He stayed at home for both days, which was very unusual for him to begin with. If that already wasn't enough torture, his father constantly insisted on harassing him about the play. He dug for more details on his character, and how Mr. McLean planned on directing it. The group had only had three rehearsals previous to this one. But he must admit, they were moving fast. Adagio strategically avoided giving his father too much information. He pushed him to quit, even persuaded his mom to be on his side. But this was something he wanted to do. He sure as hell wasn't going to let the pride of some pretentious man get in the way.

"Ah, Adagio. Nice of you to finally join us." Chris seethed.

"I had something I needed to take care of." The teen mumbled in response. His eyes plastered onto the carpeted floor below.

"I'm sure we all have somewhere we wish we could be."

Adagio stayed silent, not bothering to look him in the eyes.

"We're running over the first scene. I hope you have your lines memorized."

He nodded, making his way up on stage where a small set of nothingness lied. The first scene was reflected so the stage crew made the creative decision to blank everything that wasn't in real present time. Adagio looked to the left of the stage where an assortment of props were waiting for him. The student acting with him in the first scene prepared himself, adjusting his posture, the prop for the Peter Pan hat rested upon his head. He was some kind of method actor, Adagio assumed. One who would use techniques to create in themselves the thoughts and feelings of their character. The hat, was a way to enlist youth into his words and actions. Besides, he was only supposed to be a tiny bit older than six. He was an adolescent freshman, an energized one at that. If there was anyone who could portray this role, it would be him. Adagio stalked over to him, his hands stuffed deep inside of the pockets of his jeans.

"You ready for this Dill?"

Dill beamed, jumping up to full height. "Of course Adagio!"

Adagio attempted a grin, but couldn't muster out one that was nearly convincing. Instead, he pushed past him, taking his starting position off stage. The lights dimmed dramatically to a light hue. The ensemble dressed modernly and professionally took their places on the stage behind the curtain, all striking a pose to start the scene.

"Okay, everyone ready? You better be," Chris' voice amplified. "We're a go in 3...2...1... action!"

The ensemble began. It was 1903. London. A sound of a locomotive. People began to scream.

"Mr. Barrie! Mr. Barrie!" one male yelled out.

"May I have your autograph?" A female voice.

"I saw your last play three times!" Another one.

A student playing the conductor starts to speak. "All aboard!" Adagio steps out. The crowd turns on him.

"Hey where are you going? We're your public!" Adagio who's character could only be described as a small, unattractive, well-dressed, though somewhat disheveled James M. Barrie, the famous Scottish author nervously entered the First Class Department. Adagio checked his prop watch and breathes a sigh of relief that he is on time. The engine whistles, wheels are heard starting up. He takes center stage where a notebook sat atop a desk prop and began to read his newest work aloud to the audience.

"We were alone. I heard the ice crack. It wasn't very loud at first. Then I saw the white lines etch jagged across the pond and my heart flew up into my throat. "Davey!"" Adagio's hands flew up in the air as his voice heightened, before taking a dramatic drop. The pit orchestra followed with a sforzando in their music score.

He continued.

"He heard nothing; only the sound of his skate blades hitting the ice, and the wind blowing through his uncapped hair."

Dill's voice started through a microphone backstage. His tone was childish and carefree.

"Watch my next trick, Jamie, ye'll love this!"

Adagio continued to narrate, startled by the voice.

"On the bank, my panic turned to hysteria. I jumped up and down, over and over, trying to get his attention. My body had taken over my mind and I couldn't think. Hot, salty water came squirting out of my eyes and into my cold blue-lipped mouth and I was shaking like a leaf."

The lights came up on a new set that stage crew had moved into place. This set resembled a skating area. Adagio got up from his seat, exiting stage left to signal his leave from the train and his transformation into his six year old self when everyone used to call him by his nickname, Jamie, instead of his last, Barrie.

Adagio spoke in a childish voice as Dill entered the stage with him.

"Davey! The ice!" Adagio yelled out.

Dill looked back to him, quirkiness and all. "What?"

"It's crackin'! The ice is crackin'!"

Dill shook his head, laughing to Adagio.

"Watch this next jump! Are ye watching?"

Adagio took a step forward, hurt in his eyes.

"Davey! Stop!"

"Look, Jamie, I can fly!"

Adagio turned to the audience, as Sophia focused a spotlight on him from above. He slipped out of the flashback momentarily and back to narration.

"He landed rather awkwardly, but on his feet, and bowed to his audience of one; six year old me. It was then, that the ice gave way. And into the freezing waters my brother plunged. The cold must have hit him like thousands of tiny needles sticking all over his body. He threw himself on a triangular piece of ice, but his weight, and the weight of his soaking clothes were too heavy, and the jagged shard broke and Davey slid once more into the bone-chilling water."

---

The manor was a tight, ice box of numbness. Everyone felt numb. The blinds were shut securely so that no speck of light could enter. Mr. DiVagleo shuffled an old stack of photos from when he was in college. An action shot of a well kept, strong, and confident man darting across the field at record speed; his helmet shined to excellence, not a single degrading grass stain on his uniform. A gentle hand graced the skin on his shoulder. The man winced, thinking that he was back for round 2.

A pair of lips moved towards his ear.

"You know, I don't think he's doing too well."

The man darted his eyes to the side, focusing on an old framed family portrait. His eyes lit up with his son's arms flung over his neck, the brightest smile that he could possibly muster.

He doesn't bother to look at his wife when he answers, "Melissa, he'll be fine. He just needs to toughen up and he'll be fine."

She put both hands softly on his shoulders, turning him around to face her.

"Marco, I feel like I'm losing him."

"No one is losing anyone. The boy will be fine. End of conversation."

Marco retracted from his wife's embrace, making his way over to the large, beautiful window pane, the glass shimmering from when the family's housemaid had last polished. He looked out into the view, watching the cars whizz by on the street below him.

"He'll be fine," he whispered to himself.

---

Adagio was back in the flashback, feeling a chill run down the back of his spine.

Dill's voice again. "Jamie!"

Adagio snapped out of it, running over to where the prop sheet of ice was, which was really just a convincing looking blanket.

"He's alive! He's alive!" Adagio yelled. There was a certain rawness of happiness to his voice. He summons up the strength of mind to inch his way out onto the ice to save his brother. He carries one ice skate with him. He looks down and helplessly screams in fright.

"Davey! I can see ye!" Adagio projected. He takes a skate and beats on the 'ice' with the point of the blade. Suddenly, he's back in narration. Sophia centered a second spotlight on him, this one brighter than the previous light, that stung Adagio's eyes. He had to shut them for a moment before he began to speak. He stands up from the lake, looking out to the audience.

"But, I'm too small and my arms too weak and the ice too thick and my body's tired to aching; but I won't stop! I have to save him! I scream and chip the ice. I cry and chip the ice. I pray and chip the ice. Davey is trying to find the hole he fell through, but he's lost all sense of direction and the hole isn't where he thought it was. I look again and see his face grow dimmer and smaller as the pond's inky depths engulf him." Adagio's voice cracks before he walks back over to the edge of the lake. Sophia clicks the spotlight off.

"Davey!"

Blackout. A scene change. Lights up on the Barrie kitchen. Stage crew sets the table for breakfast. And Forsythia, dressed in an old-fashioned garb waltzes out with a rag in hand and starts scrubbing the floor. Margaret Ogilvy Barrie is in her late thirties, but looks much older from years of hard labor and bitter disappointment. She moves with efficiency and haste. Adagio enters trying to hold back his tears.

"James! I didn't see ye lurkin' there. Ye nearly scared me half to death. Wiper yer wet shoes on that towel there, I just scrubbed this floor." Forsythia scolds. She puts on a posh accent, over emphasizing every line with harsh facial expression.

She continued, pushing her dark sausage curls behind her shoulder.

"Well, wash up. It's almost time for breakfast. Where've ye two been at this time of the mornin'? And where's yer brother? I hope you two didn't go skatin' this early. I told Davey I don't want either of ye on that ice when no one is around."

Forsythia smiles in a fantastical way. "That brother of yers thinks he can do anything he likes. Well he can't! Being popular and smart is no protection from danger. Just like your father, God rest him."

Adagio is hesitant to embrace Forsythia, but embraces her into his arms as if she is the most fragile thing on Earth. He cries out, his pitch piercing her eardrums. "Mama!"

Forsythia is quick to swat him away with her handkerchief.

"James! Stop that. A man doesn't cry. How many times have I told ye?"

---

"Dad, it's getting worse! We can't just sit here and do nothing. The doctor said-"

"The doctor said, it wouldn't be that bad." His father's voice was soft and tamed as he sipped on a tall glass of water. He didn't dare look at his son.

Adagio cringed, his catty eyes drooping into disappointment.

"If, he said... if he got the proper treatment. Dad, this-"

"Adagio!" The man grasped the glass violently. It almost shattered under it's grip.

"You want to know what else the doctor said? He also said that nothing would get worse. You're being paranoid. He needs to fight through."

Adagio cringed under his father's words. They were unmerciful and cold, like a hard slap to the face. Tears began to prick in his eyes, the boy looking to the side and shutting them tight, shielding them from being seen. Marco turned to face him, sensing the tense silence between him and his son.

"Oh come on, Adagio. Are you really going to cry?" He approached his son, looking down on him. His thumbs graced over his soft copper complexion, wiping the hot tears from his eyes. His voice was low.

"How many times do I have to tell you this? A man doesn't cry."

---

And then he's back, looking up into Forsythia's face. She grins, removing him from her and stroking the top of his head making Adagio flinch.

"Now, what is it?" she spoke. "Tell me. James. Stop that crying now. Ye'll make yerself a breath."

He exhaled shakily.

"Take a breath, James."

This one more steady.

"That's a good boy. Take another. Good. Now, do ye want some water?"

Adagio nodded his head as Forsythia headed to the back prop table where a pitcher of water waited for her. Just as her hand came into contact with the plastic material, a knock effect resonated in the theatre and an overweight, dark skinned boy stepped in, a rugged mop of hair on his head. It is the Deacon of the Kirk.

"Deacon!" Forsythia squeals. She wipes her hands with a towel. "This is an early surprise."

The young boy by the name of Ronald nodded sullenly.

"Margaret. Is Jamie about? He left my house in such a state."

Adagio emerged, making himself know to Ronald.

"Ah there ye are, laddie. Come here to me." Adagio complies.

"Have ye told yer mother about Davey?" Adagio shakes his head.

"I thought as much."

Seeing something was wrong, Forsythia begins to babble a bit.

"Davey? What did he do now? Granted, he's a little scrapper, but he has a good heart. You know how he-"

Ronald cut in. "Margaret-"

Then it was Adagio's turn. Tears burned up in his eyes, as he screeched a little too expressively to Forsythia.

"Mama! I tried to help him!"

The poor girl was so taken aback, she almost forgot her lines.

"I, um... J- James! What are you about? Stop yer crying. What will the Deacon think?"

"Margaret."

Forsythia paced over the stage, traveling more downward. Adagio still had a grip on her garment.

"What is it, for the love of God? Has he damaged himself?" She goes for her shawl. "Take me to him! James, will ye let go of me!"

"Margaret." Ronald paused. "Perhaps ye might want to sit down."

Pride and fear are taking over in more than one case. "I'll stand in my own house!" she snapped.

Ronald nodded calmly. "As you will then." He paused once again. "Margaret, I'm afraid Davey isn't coming home."

Adagio watched the two exchange lines, his eyes lighting up in horror. One had to wonder if he was okay. From backstage, the crew prepared to change the setting, staring at him in wonder as to why he looked so child-like and afraid.

"What are ye sayin' to me? My Davey can take care of himself. My Davey is a man!" Forsythia quoted.

Be a man. A man doesn't cry.

"Aye. He was. He was a man. Young as he was-"

She stiffened, setting a dangerous glare on Ronald.

"Was? Now ye're talkin' foolish. Ye're makin' no sense, man! Any moment now he'll- Will ye look at this floor? James, I told ye to clean yer boots. I just scrubbed it and look what ye did!" She gets down on her hands and knees and starts scrubbing the floor. Ronald kneels next to her.

"Margaret-"

She scrubs harder. Adagio is losing himself.

"Margaret!"

"Dont'. you. say. it!" The separation of her words are so powerful, the whole theatre stops to stare at her, awaiting her next move. Surely, it was something huge.

"Don't ye dare to speak the word! Don't you dare! He's my son! He's my son!" She lets out a long primal shriek of grief and faints into Ronald's arms.

---

"I'm sorry, there was nothing we could do, 'mam."

Melissa clutches herself on the floor of the waiting room, as she has to resist the urge to vomit. Her shrieks challenge those of a banshee.

"I- I knew it! I knew it! He wasn't going to be fine! And now he's gone!"

Adagio chuckles violently to her. He had sat in the corner of the room where a potted plant once sat. Now the glass remains, as well as the soil scattered all over the floor. His eyes bloodshot and dangerous.

"You're just as bad!" He screeched. "You weren't even there when he died! You. took. his. side!" His voice is so full of venom he wants to spit on her if he could ever reach.

"No." she stiffens. "No! No!" The lady is hysterically rolling on the floor, covering her ears and shutting them tight as the doctor tries to bring her up off of the ground.

"Don't!" A series of shouts, and screeches and sobs follow shortly after.

"He's my son!"

More hot tears begin to roll down Adagio's cheeks, but he doesn't dare turn away from the wall to look at her. If he does, he doesn't know what he would do.

Her words are being choked down by the tears that constrained her.

"He's my son." she repeated.

All he could do was hug his knees to his chest and rock back and forth. He hoped this was a dream. He hoped this was a disgusting nightmare. That when he opened his eyes, he'd be in bed, sweat showering down his face. But, he never woke up.

---

Blackout. Funeral Gatherers file around Davey's gravesite. A bead of sweat formed against Adagio's forehead, his breathing short and chopped. He was reaching his break. The boy breathed and clutched his head before speaking again. The scenery changed behind him.

"A new snow had fallen the night before-" his voice was weak and soft.

"Speak louder! C'mon Adagio, project!" Chris yelled from his chair.

Adagio nodded softly to himself. He could do this. He could keep his control.

"A new snow had fallen the night before Davey's funeral." He tried again with much more conviction, but still kept a mournful tone.

"It was like a big blanket that covered the roofs, and shutters, and cobbled streets of our village with what seemed like - a new beginning. But it wasn't. The snow was so white compared to the citizens of our town of Kirriemuir who were all dressed in black as they trudged to Davey's burial site."

Ronald began to speak over the cheap wooden coffin prop before him. The scene was back in real time.

"This sad world will be the poorer for the tragic loss of David Barrie. A boy - nae, not a boy, a young man. A perfect young man of such promise; a promise which must now remain unfilled."

He had promise too. He had more promise than Adagio could have ever wished for himself.

Ronald nods to the pallbearers to lower the casket into the hole.

"In sure and certain belief of Life Everlasting."

At the sight of the burial, Adagio feels an active pain in his stomach.

"Nooooo!"

Forsythia can bear no more. She pulls Adagio away from the grave and wallops him across the face. Sound of the crowd appalled. Everyone else exits. There is a pause. Finally, son and mother speak.

"Mama-" Adagio started. His voice is feeble.

"Don't." Hers is strong-willed.

"I- I tried to warn him."

"Don't."

"I- I tried to help him."

"He would have saved YOU!" Then with calmness, more deadly than her silence, "Ye're small and ye're puny and ye let him die. He was a man. That Deacon was right. Young as he was, he was a man. He would have had a future."

Adagio had to fight back tears. He knows he would've. He should have.

"Mama, what are you saying?"

Forsythia went to hug him with all her might. She whispers.

"I'm saying - I'm saying, the wrong son died." She forces tears down her face.

"D'ye understand me now, James? The wrong son died!" She staggers to Davey's monument.

"Oh my Davey. Laying there in that cold, cold water. Oh God, why? Why take the perfect one?"

A crack.

Adagio goes to her.

"James! Will ye stay away? Ye wee, small fraction of a person! I don't want ye now. Just stay there where ye are. I don't want ye now!"

Forsythia stared at Adagio, awaiting the delivery of his next line so that she could exit the stage. He was looking out into the audience. Stage left, house right at the very extreme end of the row. Just staring at the empty seat.

Chris raised an eyebrow. He tapped the microphone from his seat.

"Adagio? We're continuing on with the scene. What are you looking at?"

He didn't answer. He just continued to stare out into the audience, his eyes trained on that one seat.

"Adagio?" Forsythia sang off key.

"It's your line. Remember? You're supposed to say... I understand, Mama. And then step into the spotlight."

He doesn't answer.

"Adagio?"

He's only looking at him. He sees him. His bright smile, crooked but perfect all at the same time. His shoulders broad and drawn up strong. His stance is arrogant and grand, just as he remembered him to be. A thick, tousle of hair, shorter than Adagio's sat perfectly ruffled upon his head.

Adagio parts his slightly chapped lips.

"I couldn't do enough," he mumbled to him. He saw him tilt his head to the side.

"What do you mean Adagio?" His words laced in a strong and youthful laugh. Despite the two being so similar, his voice is higher and more alive.

Adagio lets out a shaky breath. He had yearned to hear his voice for so long he had almost forgotten what it sounded like.

"You and I both know you did what you could," he spoke again. Adagio's fist clenched as his body shook. That was the problem. He did what he could. And...

"And it wasn't good enough! I couldn't stop it from happening!"

"Adagio, who in the heavens are you talking to?" Forsythia yelled, throwing her hands up to the sky.

"You were dying, and I wasn't strong enough to save your life!" He's powerless but he doesn't dare shed a tear. To everyone else, it looks like he's going mad, yelling to the empty chair to his left.

"I've missed you."

"Adagio, what are you-" Forsythia started. Adagio clutched his head, a drum pounded rhythmically against his skull.

"J-Just shut up, okay?" he yelled back at her, turning away from him. He fears that if he loses his concentration, he'll go away. Just taking his eyes off of him, when Forsythia shies back, he's no longer there. Instead, the stage left, house right seat is empty.

"Michael!"

Adagio scans the whole auditorium, his gaze landing on every chair. Where did he go? He can't just leave. He was right there. Forsythia sighs, placing a hand on Adagio's shoulder. She shakes her head, letting the large hat on her head slant out of place and to the side.

"You're acting irrationally. You can't just-" Forsythia whispered.

"Look what you did!" He pointed an accusing finger in Forsythia's face. His voice was cold. No, more than cold. Cold didn't even begin to describe it. His voice was an ice box, and unsparing. Forsythia stepped back, seeing the rage in his eyes. Her back collided with the fake coffin prop.

"Wh-What did I do?"

"You scared him away! He was just here!"

"Adagio, I-"

"Do you know what you just did? Fuck!"

Forsythia shakes her head, unable to swat off the feeling that overcomes her.

"Adagio, I didn't. What did I do?" Her voice heightens to a yell, and Chris doesn't bother to stop the scene before him.

"I don't know if I'll ever get to see him again because of you!"

Forsythia cringed, shutting her eyes tight and turning her head to the side exposing her pearly dusted cheek.

"B-but Adagio, there was no one there!" Her voice cracks. Forsythia clutches her hands together. Her breathing is heavy and her chest his heaving. By the time she raises an arm, another voice interrupts just as the back of hand collides harshly with the side of her cheek.

"That's enough!" a voice erupted from the back of the room. The voice was booming and masculine, a voice that Adagio had already been too familiar with. He shook his head, heavy footsteps booming louder down the aisle as he got closer.

"Adagio, I told you not to do this. You can't handle it!"

Adagio felt a churning in his stomach, an uneasy feeling resting with him.

"I told you this was is of your business, Marco. What are you doing here?" He's wincing in pain, and clutching his cheek.

Marco growled, looking up daringly at Adagio.

"It just became my business when it affected the well-being of my son! I came here because I wanted to see what you were getting into. Is this what you want? You're hurting the people around you Adagio!" He grasps his shoulders.

"This is driving you mad."

"Oh so now, you care about the well-being of your son? Well, it's a little too late for that now!" he barked back.

The scene was like two pit-bulls going at each other, constrained to their own posts by a single chain. They could snap off in any minute.

"He was here! I know what I saw!"

Marco grasped his head in a similar fashion to that of his son's, running his fingers violently through his scalp.

"Jesus..." he mumbled, shutting his eyes tight. He didn't understand why Adagio insisted on being so stubborn.

"Did you take your anti-depressants today? Why are you doing this to yourself? Doesn't it hurt?" The questions come flowing one after the other.

"I know what I saw." he said again. He feels as if he's being tested. Michael was there. He spoke. He looked at him. He was there. But who was he trying to convince? His father, or himself?

Marco groaned, pounding his first violently on the surface of the stage, startling everyone in the auditorium.

"Michael is dead. How could you have possibly seen him?" He lets out a sarcastic, chuckle.

"This is my punishment, isn't it? How many times do I have to say I'm sorry until you think rationally and not just to spite me?"

Adagio stared at him for a moment, hurt by his words. Michael always resembled him the most down to his muscular configuration. Adagio was more like his mother, even more so now that his musculature has lessened over the past few months due to inactivity and not eating at regular intervals.

But instead of saying anything, he produced a grotesque sound, vomiting the small bit of his stomach contents all over the stage. The upchuck was a bright slimly yellow complexion, with chunks of brown and dark green.

"Ew!" Chris squirmed. He brought his hands up to the collarbone of his neck, standing up from his seat in the auditorium.

"Stage crew! Clean up on aisle everywhere!" He screeched into the microphone.

Adagio felt his stomach twist and turn, as he bent down for round two. Marco had already dragged him off of the stage and into the hallway before the heaving began.

He stood next to him, back pressed up against the wall and hands against his knees. His breathing was heavy and uneven.

"Adagio, I want you out of that play." he said sternly. Adagio breathed, his words caught in his throat. His heaving calmed, but only slightly.

"No-" A staggered breath. "This isn't your decision. I'm doing this."

Marco rolled his heavy eyes, turning away from his son.

"I'm talking to your principal first thing tomorrow morning and I'm taking you home. Come on, let's go."

"There's no way I'm going to-"

Marco looked at him with hurt in his eyes.

"Adagio, please," he begged.

"Just stop fighting me for today. I'm taking you home because you just spilled your lunch all over stage."

He said nothing.

"I'll be in the car." he grumbled.

Adagio slid his body down on to the floor, letting his whole stature collapse against the hard marble, his muscles relaxing into numbness. That was enough for the day. That was enough.

---

Time: 6:47 p.m.

Place: the Dent Residence

---

Sophia chewed silently on a piece of meat, taking slow swallows. The dinner was unusually silent between the small group. Her brother, Joey, sat directly across from her, playing with his salad. He tried to stab at a bright red tomato between the teeth of his metal fork, but was unsuccessful. The second born of her brothers, William, sat two seats dow to his right. The eldest brother of the group, Robert, sat two seats down on Sophia's side to her right, and her father, in the direct seat to her left. All that could be heard amongst the six was the clanking of silverware against the fragile material of their plates.

"So," Mr. Dent started. "How was your day at school Sophia?"

Sophia bit down on her pink lips, giving her father a fleeting look. The drama involving Adagio at rehearsal had put her into a shock. She couldn't help but wonder if he was okay. Or if he would be returning to rehearsal the next day. For the remainder of the time, Kara had to read through Adagio's lines as they came through a microphone backstage so that they wouldn't waste any valuable rehearsal time. But the tension from the encounter was still prevalent amongst them. No one felt anything to laugh or to make a joke. The play was in jeopardy. If they had no lead, there was no play. And if there was no play, that meant no funds for the Drama club. Sophia clutched her fork, sighing down to her food.

"It was okay. You know, I think I'm not too hungry anymore." She pushes her plate away.

"What?" Joey outbursts from the comfort of his seat. He spoke with a full mouth, his words translating as muffled to the table. Boys.

"You love meatloaf night, Soph! What do you mean you're not hungry?"

Sophia mustered a small laugh, shaking her head lightly at him.

"I know, I know. It's just-" she paused trying to think of a plausible excuse. "I had a big lunch today."

Mr. Dent rolled his eyes to the side, swallowing whatever was inside of his mouth.

"Joey, you know it's rude to talk with your mouth full."

Joey sunk back into his dinner chair, grumbling to himself and shutting his mouth close.

"May I be excused?" she asks in a soft voice.

Mr. Dent gives his daughter a skeptical look.

"Of course. Are you sure, you're okay Soph?"

Sophia nods frantically, getting up from her seat and pushing her chair in before scurrying up the stairs.

She passes the picture of her father and mother from their wedding day at the end of the hall.

It's weird. It really is. For Sophia, it was like looking into an aging mirror. She was beautiful, and compassionate. And Sophia is her spitting image. There was no question about it. She wondered what it would have been like to know her. She wonders how it would have been like to remember the way she held her. For her brothers, she's quite a sore subject. They remember when she was alive. They grew up motherless from once having a mother. The closest maternal figure they had being their grandmother, Odette.

They always told her how much like her she was. Her father even says that when he sees Sophia, it's like her mother had never left. Sophia leaves her gaze on the photo for longer before turning around and going into her room. She decides her existence is not something to dwell on, at least not for today. Sophia rolls over into bed, and quickly drifts off into a deep sleep.

---

Hey gang! Thank you for reading. Wow, this chapter took forever. I had to do a lot of research so I really hope you enjoyed. Reviews are very much appreciated! Until next time!