The Year Shakespeare Ruined My Life

by Dani Jansen

  Make a schedule. (The Red Binder included a lot of notes on past productions, but nothing so mundane as a straight-forward schedule. There was a Puppies of the World calendar from ten years ago in which Mrs. Abrams had written helpful notes like “dir. mtg” and “check pst.” Unless Mrs. Abrams stopped changing direction every time I saw her in the hallway, I didn’t think there was much chance that I’d be able to crack the code.)

  Have fun! (I resented the exclamation point at the end of this step. It felt like some sadistic coach who yells at you from the sidelines to get your act together while you’re limping with a sprained ankle and the opposing team is twenty points up. You can’t order someone to have fun, can you?)

  “You know how I said you were being paranoid about Mrs. Abrams?” Becca held a stringy object that might have been either a mop or a wig at one point, her nose wrinkling.

  “Yeah?”

  “I take it back. That old bat totally knows what she’s doing. She got out while the getting was good.” Becca tossed the mop/wig into the discard pile.

  “I think the drama department also knows what it’s doing. Free labor! That’s what we are,” Annie piped up. She was crouched in the corner opening unmarked garbage bags and emptying out what looked to be strings of Christmas lights. To protect against the dust and spiders, she had pulled the front of her hoodie over her mouth. With the hood up, she looked a bit like a Jawa from Star Wars.

  “There’s bound to be something we can use in here,” I said, trying to sound positive. That was when I found a box of moldering clown noses. I don’t know if mice had been eating them or if that weird spongy material naturally disintegrates over time, but the noses were pockmarked and discolored in a way that made me think this was what post-apocalyptic clowns would wear.

  “First spiders and now creepy-ass clown shit? I am done.” Annie pitched the string of lights she’d been untangling onto the floor, then wiped her hands on her jeans, leaving a smear of gray-brown dust down the length of her thighs.

  “I can’t believe you’re still afraid of spiders,” Becca said to Annie.

  “Oh yeah? So you don’t mind that there’s a spider in your hair?” Annie asked.

  Becca’s whole body shuddered, then she dumped her curly hair upside down, all the while screeching, “Is it gone yet? Is it gone yet?” Annie’s laughter must have clued Becca into the joke because she stopped shaking out her hair. She was about to say something else to Annie when she looked over at me.

  The thing about best friends is that they know how you’re feeling just by looking at your face, even if you think you’re doing a good job of hiding your emotions. So Becca must have known I felt like crying when she said, “Maybe it is time for a break, Al. Why don’t we go to the caf and get some of that gross tea you like so much?”

  “Green tea isn’t gross,” I mumbled as I followed her out the door and down the corridor to the caf. Annie followed behind, digging her phone out of her pocket and texting someone—probably about how her overbearing older sister was using her as slave labor. I should have been annoyed, but I was feeling too hopeless to care.

  We entered the cafetorium and I was grateful to notice that it was mostly empty—fewer people to avoid. Unfortunately, it still sounded like it was full to bursting. The space had been designed to act as both a cafeteria and an auditorium, so the dozen or so voices echoed and reverberated. The acoustics would be great for the play, but right now they were not helping calm my sense of dread.

  Becca steered me to a table at the edge of the caf. She dusted off her pants and shook out her hair. I took her cue and tried to do the same, though I didn’t put much effort into it.

  Annie flopped into a chair and used her phone camera to get a good look at her own hair. As she ran her fingers through her blue strands, she grumbled, “I cannot believe I touched spiderwebs for Willy Shakespeare. Isn’t it bad enough I have to read about those twitterpated idiots Romeo and Juliet this year?” I sat down beside her and rested my head in my hands.

  Becca sat down across from me. “Annie, maybe you could lay off right now?”

  Annie stared at her. “You’re telling me you like all this ‘thou’ and ‘doth’ crap?”

  Becca sighed. “I’m not saying that, I’m just saying…” She suddenly stopped talking and I lifted my head, following her gaze. Ah. Jack Park had just entered the caf. He was taller than most other people in the room and walked with a confidence that came from being well-liked. He wasn’t the cutest guy at school, but there was something about Jack that drew people to him. It might have been that he was always quick to smile or that his dark-brown eyes seemed to see the best in the world. When he spotted us, he walked over. Not good news for Becca.

  “Hey! What are the three of you still doing here?” Jack sat down beside Becca, facing me.

  I couldn’t bring myself to talk about the play, and Becca was now staring down at the table, so Annie answered for us. “We’re digging through boxes of useless crap in the drama department’s chamber of doom.”

  I tried to stop her. “Annie—”

  She cut me off. “What? That’s what we’re doing, isn’t it? Whatever. I’m going to get a drink.” Annie stalked off to a row of vending machines at the other end of the caf.

  Jack chuckled. “She doesn’t seem happy.”

  “Yeah, well, she’s kinda right. We are digging through a lot of useless crap.”

  Jack tilted his head. “Yeah? Why’s that?”

  I wished Becca would answer, but she stared at her fingernails. This was on me. “We’re helping out with the school play. Actually, I’m producing or stage managing the play. I don’t really know what the difference is, but it seems like I might be doing both things.”

  There was Jack’s trademark smile, genuine and warm and completely disarming. “That’s awesome!”

  I tried to smile back, but I couldn’t. “Is it?”

  “For sure! I heard Mrs. Abrams refused to produce the play this year, and Mr. Evans kept saying he wouldn’t put on a play without a producer, so I was afraid there’d be no show. It’s senior year—my last chance to maybe get a lead role.” Jack ducked his head, maybe a bit embarrassed to admit he was hoping to get a leading part. He deserved it. Jack had been in a school play every year, going all the way back to The Little Chicken That Made a Friend in Grade 2. He was always cast in an important supporting role, but he never got the lead. I suspected it might have had something to do with the fact that his parents were Korean and that Jack didn’t look like a “traditional lead,” but we’d never talked about that possibility.

  I was about to reassure Jack that I was certain this was his year when something he said sunk in. “Wait. Mrs. Abrams said she wasn’t going to produce the play?”

  Jack seemed confused. “Yeah. Why?”

  Suddenly I was furious. “She lied to me! I cannot believe she lied to me!”

  “Al, what are you talking about?”

  “She told me we’d be coproducing the play—together. She lied!”

  Jack chuckled. “Ever notice how often Mrs. Abrams has student teachers? She kinda has a rep for passing work on to others.”

  How could Jack laugh? “This isn’t funny!” I told him.

  Jack smiled gently. “It kinda is.”

  I pointed at him. “Maybe to you, but I’m the one stuck doing a job I don’t know how to do! It is going to be a Ye Olde Shakespearean Disaster!” I could hear the whine in my voice, but I couldn’t stop it.

  Jack ran a hand through his messy black hair. He looked nervous. “Did you say Shakespeare?”

  “Oh, I definitely did.” I was being petty. I was happy Jack felt nervous. Misery loves company, right?

  “Which play?” he asked.

  “A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

  I could see him relax just a little. “At least it’s a comedy, right? And lots of gre
at actors have played the role of Puck. So the language is a little—”

  “Inaccessible?”

  “I was going to say difficult. But difficult isn’t a bad thing. It’s a challenge, sure, but that’s how we grow, right?” Jack was smiling once again. Good old Jack. Forever an optimist. When we were in first grade, Miss Sefina told us that our class pet, an aged hamster who’d been traumatized by less-than-gentle caregivers for three years straight, had escaped his cage and was missing. I was convinced Miss Sefina just didn’t want to tell us the hamster was dead, but Jack looked for it every lunch hour for a week. The following Monday the hamster reappeared, and Jack declared he’d been right all along. Even back then I suspected Miss Sefina had replaced the beleaguered rodent, but if she had, it had been a convincing stand-in. Maybe Jack had been right to believe.

  “Yeah,” I said. I put a little more conviction in my voice. Fake it till you make it, right? “Yeah, you’re right. Thanks, Jack. I think we better go sort out some of the mess in the storage room before we leave.”

  Jack wished us luck, and Becca waved good-bye, though only after he’d turned his back. Oh, Becca.

  I’d gone to school with Jack since kindergarten, and I’d known him even longer. Our moms worked at the same law firm, and they liked getting us together for “play dates” whenever they wanted to complain about work. We’d played games of tag and fought over the last cookie on the plate for so many years that I found it easy to talk to Jack. Unfortunately, Becca did not. She was not someone who was used to her emotions getting the better of her. It was like she was mad at herself for having a crush and had chosen to remain silent in order to preserve her dignity. I often wondered if Jack had ever even noticed that Becca never spoke to him, and if he did notice, what he thought of it. After a disastrous foray into his love life two years earlier, when I (correctly, but unadvisedly) informed him that his girlfriend was a snob, I had vowed to keep my opinions about whom he should or shouldn’t date to myself. Actually, I hadn’t so much decided as had been told that I should keep such opinions to myself or risk losing the friendship. As a result, I could not advocate on behalf of my best friend, whom I most definitely thought Jack should date. What are you supposed to do when two of the best people you know would be perfect for each other, but you’ve been forbidden to interfere? I was starting to think Shakespeare had it right, “The course of true love never did run smooth.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Charlie Egan was stripping. Right now. Right in front of me. His shirt was already off, and his hand was on his belt buckle. His shoes were still on, so I wasn’t sure how he planned to take off his pants, but I didn’t want to find out. (Okay, a little part of me wanted to watch him hop around with his pants around his ankles, but that was a very small part.)

  “Charlie, that’s enough for today, okay?” I managed to stay professional. Becca, seated to my right, was trying to disguise her laughter as a coughing fit. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see her big, curly hair bouncing, as if it, too, was in on the joke.

  Charlie stopped, his belt open and his fingers poised oh so precariously on his zipper.

  “But I’m not finished with the monologue.”

  “You are finished with the monologue.”

  “But I have this whole vulnerability thing I’m—”

  “Charlie, we’ll let you know. We have other auditions.” Charlie shrugged and headed for the door. “Charlie, don’t you think you’re forgetting something?” I motioned at his shirt on the floor. He turned around, scooped up the shirt, draped it over his pale white shoulder, and sauntered out the door, as if he hadn’t just tried to win a role in the school play by stripping.

  “You know what’s crazy?” Becca asked as she wiped tears of laughter from her eyes. “That wasn’t the worst audition today.”

  “I’ll admit we’ve had a bit of a rocky start to things.” I pretended to consult the audition list so I wouldn’t crack. I couldn’t start laughing now or I might not stop.

  “Al, this is not just a rocky start. It’s a disaster. Charlie tried to strip for us. I’m straight, and even I didn’t want to see that shit. And Caroline actually spit on you.”

  “She didn’t mean to spit on me. She got a bit worked up and had a hard time with one of the lines.” I wiped at my face, remembering the wet feel of her saliva on my cheek. The worst part was smiling and pretending everything was just fine, even as I watched the slow arc of her saliva coming right at me.

  Becca shook her head at me. “Sure. Caroline was just a bit nervous. Tell yourself that. If Mr. Evans had bothered to show up, even he would admit we’ve got nada so far.”

  Two excruciating hours earlier, Mr. Evans had rushed out of the drama room just after last bell, shouting to us as we walked in, “Girls, I have to go. Mr. Wigglesworth needs me! Just take lots of notes on the auditions and we’ll talk tomorrow. The show must go on!” The framed photo of a cute lap dog on Mr. Evans’s desk suggested Mr. Wigglesworth was a pet, though neither Becca nor I was willing just yet to discount the possibility of an imaginary friend. Whatever or whoever Mr. Wigglesworth was, he was obviously very important to Mr. Evans because here we were, auditioning actors, even though we didn’t know what we were doing. The room reeked of institutional disinfectant and nervous sweat. Right now, I couldn’t think of anything more hellish. Well, I guess Charlie could have started with his pants instead of his shirt. So there was that.

  “I choose to be optimistic,” I said to Becca. So far, not one of the “actors” could have played Dead Person #5 in an episode of CSI. But I am a firm believer that your luck can always change.

  And then Ben Weber walked in.

  “Well, hello, ladies. I hope I didn’t just interrupt a make-out session.” Ben waggled his eyebrows at us, then ran his fingers over his gelled-back hair, making sure every strand was in place. He wore a blue polo shirt that might generously be described as fitted, but was more accurately just plain tight.

  In a school full of mostly decent human beings, Ben Weber had the distinction of being a bona fide jackass. He never missed an opportunity to be pervy, and he was well-known as a guy who still thought wedgies were funny. Back in elementary school, he’d called Becca “McChowder” for a few days. He’d seemed very proud of his “clever” play on Choukri-McArthur, taunting her at every opportunity until Becca punched him in the nose. Not many people in our school were ignorant enough to make fun of non-Anglo last names or suggest the only reason two girls would kiss is to turn on some straight dude. This was part of why I didn’t feel like I needed to join our Gay-Straight Alliance or make some big coming out announcement. I mean, the decent people were already decent, and I didn’t want to waste my time trying to educate the morons of the world, like Ben. Anyway, it’s not like I was in the closet or anything. It’s just that I didn’t want my sexuality to be everyone’s business. It’s not like straight people have to announce their sexual preference.

  “Hi, Ben. What part are you auditioning for?” The words were polite, but I’m sure he understood that my tone was contemptuous. Although that might have been giving him too much credit.

  “The king, obviously.”

  “Oberon?” I asked.

  “No, the human one. You know, the one who defeated the Amazons.” Ben flexed his bicep and winked at us. How he managed to keep up in all our Advanced Placement classes was beyond me.

  “You’re an idiot, Ben,” Becca said.

  “You don’t know what you’re missing out on, Becca.”

  “Oh, I do. So does the whole senior class. That’s why no one will go out with you,” Becca retorted.

  I thought this would be a good moment to get things back on track, before we ended up in some ridiculous argument that would end with Ben high-fiving himself. “Ben, Theseus is a duke, not a king. But whatever. Do you have your audition piece ready?”

  “I always come prepared.” Becca rolled her
eyes at me as Ben cleared his throat and ran through some tongue twisters. He stretched his neck, shook out his hands, then recited Theseus’s lines from Act 1 in a surprisingly warm tenor, looking down at the script only occasionally. He ended his audition with Theseus’s romantic declaration to his would-be wife, taking Becca’s hand gently in his own: “Hippolyta, I woo’d thee with my sword, and won thy love doing thee injuries; but I will wed thee in another key, with pomp, with triumph, and with reveling.”

  Becca and I were shocked into silence. Damn it all, Ben was good. He played the part of the duke with dignity and strength, but also with a certain sensitivity. I felt like maybe I had underestimated Ben all these years. And then he giggled as he repeated, “Woo you with my sword.” We didn’t need the hip thrust to understand what Ben found so funny, but he did it anyway.

  “Okay, Ben. We have to discuss the auditions with Mr. Evans. We’ll get back to you.” Ben strutted out the door. I looked at Becca and said, “I know I’m not a good judge of these things, but Ben almost seemed attractive for a few minutes, didn’t he?”

  “I feel so dirty.” Becca pretended to dry heave but stopped abruptly as Jack walked in the door. She started organizing some papers on the desk in front of us, and I hoped for her sake that Jack wouldn’t notice that the pages were blank.

  I’d deliberately put Jack’s name at the end of the audition list so that Becca’s inevitable awkwardness wouldn’t affect the rest of the auditions. I also thought that it might naturally lead to all of us walking out of school together. Maybe Becca would offer to give Jack a lift home. Maybe after they’d dropped me off, they’d have a deep conversation and start dating. Maybe they’d both thank me in their wedding vows. Of course, that would only happen if Becca spoke.