Wynezra was shaking her head before he even finished. “Five. That’s how many seconds you have before I call nine-one-one.”
“Hey. There’s nothing to stop me from seeing my own daughter. I have a legal right—”
“Explain that to the police when we tell them you’ve been following her to school. I’m sure that’ll look real great next to your criminal record, douchebag.”
The man opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He was defeated.
“Four,” said Wynezra. “Three. Two—”
“I’m going, I’m going,” said the man, hands in the air.
He climbed into his Malibu.
Started the engine.
Drove off.
When Wynezra returned to the car, she was cold, flat, emotionless. She was the Great Wall of China of pent-up feelings. Her barriers were probably visible from outer space.
“Daughter?” I said.
“I don’t talk to Imogen about your videos,” said Wynezra. “You don’t talk to me about my dad. That’s the new deal. Deal?”
“But…I should know this, shouldn’t I? For appearances’ sake?”
Wynezra slammed both fists on the steering wheel, causing it to wail. “THIS IS NOT A FUCKING REQUEST.”
I bit my lip. Nodded.
I must have looked scared out of my tits because Wynezra immediately looked apologetic.
“Sorry,” she said. “I’m just…I’m not ready to talk about him. Not yet.”
We drove the rest of the way to school in silence.
• •
“Hey, Wynonna.”
I just closed my locker, and there was Imogen—coming straight toward me, like a careening vehicle, with no sign of stopping.
She wasn’t smiling.
Likewise, my reception was very deer-in-the-headlights.
Oh my god. Was she going to fight me?
Not that I would ever “fight back” against Imogen. However, I immediately found myself statistically analyzing who would win in a fight between Wynonna and Imogen. Wynonna was the safer bet—she had a sturdier build, like Lagertha on Vikings—but Imogen was taller, with a longer, more wiry armspan.
Imogen plowed into me, coiling herself around me in a fierce hug.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice muffled in my hair. “I’m sorry about everything.”
My arms floundered awkwardly at my side until—finally—they returned Imogen’s hug. And then I patted her on the back, like an idiot.
Imogen pulled away, smiling, and extended a gentlemanly elbow. “May I escort the lady to her next class?”
I blushed and took her arm. Just the touch of my palm against her small bicep kind of knocked the wind out of me.
“I only have one question,” said Imogen. “Do you like Ezra?”
Boy, what a question. I had to keep the end game in mind here: Wynonna/Holden and Imogen/me. I had to keep the Wynonna Directive clear. But I also had to make myself look good.
“Ezra’s great,” I said. “Maybe if I wasn’t totally into Holden? But no. It was a rebound. Or a psychological rebound, I guess.”
Imogen gave a relieved sigh, like the world suddenly made sense. “Okay. That’s what I figured.”
“But Ezra’s great.”
“I’m sure he is!”
“If I get a date with Holden to prom, you should…you know…for convenience’s sake…”
“Go to prom with Ezra?” said Imogen. She laughed, like that was the funniest thing she’d heard all week. Then, in a low, deliberately stupid voice, she said, “Oh, okay.”
I cringed internally. Time to change the subject.
“I’m going to talk to Ziggy,” I said. “Tell him I don’t want to be Viola.”
Imogen jerked away from me. “No! I want you to be Viola!”
“But—”
“No buts.” She shook her head furiously. “I hate myself for being upset that you got the role. I think it’s fantastic that you got it. You deserve it.”
“But I don’t want it.”
“Yeah, and I’m sure that has nothing to do with me being a selfish, lousy, no-good friend about it.”
“What? No. I didn’t even audition for the role.”
“Wynonna.” Imogen grabbed me by the shoulders and looked at me intensely. “I want you to be Viola.”
“You do know I’m dyslexic,” I said, “don’t you?”
It wasn’t exactly a rhetorical question. I was genuinely curious if she knew.
“Don’t be stupid, dummy,” said Imogen. “You’re a smart, capable, courageous girl who can do anything she sets her mind to. I mean, those Romeo lines, my god! You had those puppies memorized.”
“But, Imogen—”
“Please!” said Imogen. It was at that moment that her face flushed red. Her lips were mashed awkwardly together, quivering. “If you don’t do it for you, do it for me.”
Tears welled in the corners of her eyes.
Whoa, what the hell? That escalated quickly.
“Please be Viola,” she said. “I’ll never forgive myself if you don’t.”
“Fine.” I surrendered. “Okay. I’ll do it.”
What else could I say?
• •
Today’s lunch was a cheesy potato casserole dish, listed on the lunch schedule as “funeral potatoes.” They actually weren’t terrible—per Piles Fork tradition—but they were clearly an omen.
A decision had been reached by the Powers That Be (meaning Holden and Imogen) that the four of us would dine together. We sat at the same table like four characters in the remote setting of an Agatha Christie novel—forcing smiles, pretending we wanted to be here, not really trusting anyone.
“So,” said Imogen, forcing the biggest smile of all. “This is nice.”
Holden, Wynezra, and I all nodded—although it probably looked more like we were bobbing our heads at an experimental-jazz bar, pretending we were cool enough to appreciate the diddley bow or the vibraphone.
Wynezra’s gaze strayed to the vending machine. She gave me a look that said, “Would it be suspicious if I bought a bag of pork rinds?”
I gave Wynezra a look that said, “Yes. Get Funyuns instead.” But apparently, it didn’t translate.
“I’m gonna get me some pork rinds,” said Wynezra, and then she was off before anyone could object.
Imogen and Holden were in a race to see whose jaw could hit the floor first. They slowly looked at me like I was somehow responsible.
“What did you do to him?” said Holden.
Keep it cool, Ezra. Be funny. Tell a joke.
“Apparently liking pork rinds is a sexually transmitted disease,” I said.
Imogen’s eyes became so wide, they threatened to engulf her entire face. Holden raised a hand to his mouth, discreetly suppressing his actual gag reflex.
Wynezra was back with her pork rinds—bag open, already popping them in her mouth, faster than you could say, “AHHHHHHHHH.”
“Whad I mish,” said Wynezra through a full mouth.
Imogen pulled herself together quickly. Interlocked her fingers and directed a meaningful look at Wynezra. “So, you’re too cool for Shakespeare these days?”
Wynezra swallowed. “Not too cool for Shakespeare. I just…really like trees.”
• •
Because lunch was such a smashing success, the four of us decided to ride together to the Amityvale again. And once again, Ezra Slevin drove. Only this time, the role of Ezra Slevin was played by our budding young actress, Wynonna Jones. And she was gunning for the Oscar in the vein of Heath Ledger’s Joker.
“Speed limit,” said Imogen, gripping her armrest. “There is definitely a speed limit.”
“Speed limits are for speed dimwits,” said Wynezra.
Holden and I exchanged glances in the back seat. It was the sort of thing that would have been extremely normal for us to do in the presence of Wynonna doing her usual crazy shit. Except this time, I was Wynonna. I had to remind myself of this. Had
to remind myself that—because I was Wynonna—the look could mean something else entirely.
I couldn’t shake the feeling that, somehow, Holden could see through my disguise.
That, somehow, he could see I was actually me.
• •
Ziggy didn’t waste a moment with this Shakespeare business. At two-oh-five sharp, he set us on a crash-course performance of the five scenes that—in their entirety—composed all of Act 1 of Twelfth Night.
Script in hand, of course. He wasn’t insane.
Scene 1 began with Duke Orsino and his servants/best bros, Curio and Valentine. Curio suggested they go hunting for hart (male deer), and boy did that set Duke Orsino off.
“Why, so I do,” said Holden. Shockingly, he didn’t stumble over a single line. “The noblest that I have. Oh! when mine eyes did see Olivia first, methought she purged the air of pestilence. That instant was I turned into a hart, and my desires, like fell and cruel hounds, e’er since pursue me.”
Wynezra, sitting beside me, made a face like a little kid being force-fed cough syrup.
“It’s a play on words,” I whispered into her ear. “Hart—h-a-r-t—is a deer, but it sounds like heart, and Duke Orsino is saying his heart is the thing being hunted, metaphorically, by his desire for Olivia—”
“I know what it means, assclown,” said Wynezra. “I just didn’t realize I was signing up to watch Holden swoon over Imogen every day.”
We didn’t have to worry about Imogen eavesdropping. Olivia wasn’t in this scene. Imogen had relocated to the farthest corner of the warehouse to read her lines in some semblance of quiet. She wasn’t up until scene 5, and she was determined to have something memorized.
“Duke Orsino ends up with you, remember,” I said.
“Maybe,” said Wynezra. “Or maybe he ends up with you.”
“Does it matter?”
“It matters if there’s any kissing in this play.” She looked at me, expectantly. “Is there?”
Oh shit. Was there?
I frantically flipped to act 5 of my script, scouring for any sign of “romantic” stage directions.
“If Holden kisses you first,” said Wynezra, “I will be so pissed.”
• •
The scenes progressed. Rather haphazardly, but they progressed nonetheless.
A shipwreck left Viola stranded and believing that her twin brother, Sebastian, was drowned. Then, for reasons, she persuaded the ship captain to dress her as a man and present her as a servant to Orsino.
Then there was disorder in Olivia’s household. Olivia was mourning the recent deaths of her father and brother. Her uncle, Sir Toby Belch, was drunk and exercising his inebriated sense of humor. (Jayden made for a fine alcoholic uncle.) The maid, Maria (Daisy), scolded Sir Toby for upsetting the peace—but, like, in a friendly, sexually charged sort of way. Sir Andrew Aguecheek (Patrick) was a doofus knight whom Sir Toby had brought along to woo Olivia. But really, Sir Toby was just manipulating Sir Andrew for shits and giggles, and also spending all his money. Feste (Tucker)—Olivia’s melancholy, philosophical, and oddly hilarious jester—also stumbled in completely sloshed, and got shit from Maria as well, because apparently she was the only vaguely responsible person on the premises. Lastly, Malvolio (Willow), Olivia’s steward, entered and proceeded to shit on everyone’s party.
Everyone—even Maria—hated that motherfucker Malvolio.
Everyone’s acting was messy and kind of terrible, but today was our first real day of acting, and we were basically here by school mandate and/or coercion, so it was kind of forgivable.
In the next scene, Viola was dressed as a man—going by the name Cesario—and had become employed by Orsino. Her first job, given by the Duke himself, was to send a message of love from him to Olivia.
“Prosper well in this,” said Holden. “And thou shalt live as freely as thy lord, to call his fortunes thine.”
“I’ll do my best to woo your lady,” I said, and then, softly, through the fourth wall, “yet, a barful strife! Whoe’er I woo, myself would be his wife.”
Thus, we learned that Viola had a case of the hots for the Duke. But this was only a preface to the Moment We’d All Been Waiting For. (And by “we,” I mean “I.”)
In scene 5, Olivia was about to meet Viola (dressed as a dude, of course).
“The honorable lady of the house, which is she?” I said.
“Speak to me,” said Imogen. “I shall answer for her. Your will?”
Olivia knew better than to confess her identity. She was quite apt at handling the trolls Duke Orsino sent her way, professing his unrequited love. She’d been dodging his not-so-subtle advances for a while now, and he still hadn’t gotten the hint. Duke Orsino had a very if-at-first-you-don’t-succeed-try-again attitude. Applied to modern-day dating ethics, it was superbly creepy and annoying.
“Most radiant, exquisite and unmatchable beauty,” I said. “I pray you tell me if this be the lady of the house, for I never saw her.”
Unfortunately, Duke Orsino’s messenger monkey or not, Olivia was no match for Viola’s boyish charm. With young Cesario saying suave things like “good gentle one, give me modest assurance” and “by the very fangs of malice I swear,” who could blame her? Olivia crumbled and confessed her identity. She then inquired:
“What is your parentage?”
“Above my fortunes, yet my state is well,” I replied. “I am a gentleman.”
“Get you to your lord. I cannot love him. Let him send no more—unless perchance YOU come to me again…to tell me how he takes it. Fare you well.”
And then—after I exited the stage—Olivia confessed a bit more.
“I am a gentleman,” said Imogen, repeating the words with fervent adoration. “I’ll be sworn thou art: Thy tongue, thy face, thy limbs, actions, and spirit, do give thee fivefold blazon.”
She raised a tight fist to her chest.
“Not too fast!” she instructed her racing heart. “Soft, soft!”
Oh. My. God. Was there a thing in this world hotter than Imogen performing Shakespeare?
I wanted to feel like progress was happening. That I was making some real strides forward with Imogen. She and I had some serious chemistry onstage.
Problem was: I wasn’t me! I was Wynonna. And as far as Imogen was concerned, this was the BFF chemistry she and Wynonna had had since the dawn of time.
I let out a deep, sexually frustrated breath, pulled out my phone, and glanced at the time—five minutes till.
Thank god. I was falling way too hard for Imogen right now. I was falling like a meteor—like the one that killed the dinosaurs—trailing fire and stardust and annihilation behind me.
Nothing falling this hard could end well for anybody.
• •
The second Shakespeare practice ended, Willow made a straight line to Wynezra. No hesitation. There was almost a sense of urgency in every step.
“Hey, Ezra,” she said.
I probably reacted just a bit too much—considering that I wasn’t Ezra, and I was standing thirty feet away. And it took Wynezra just a little too long to realize that Willow was talking to her.
“Oh, hey,” said Wynezra, finally. “What do you want?”
Willow shifted uncomfortably. “Can I get a ride home?”
Wynezra glanced indiscreetly at me. I nodded my head furiously.
“Yeah, okay,” said Wynezra. She glanced over Willow’s Black Veil Brides–level emo hair. “Just don’t shed on the upholstery.”
Willow’s eyes were so wide, they were eclipsing her eyeliner. She was clearly offended. “Excuse me? Fuck you.”
“Hey, I’m kidding!” said Wynezra. “The hair’s badass.”
She clapped Willow on the shoulder—but probably just a little too hard. Willow hadn’t braced herself for the impact and nearly tipped over.
“Whoa, sorry, don’t know my own strength,” said Wynezra, which was probably true. “You’re a scrappy little runt, aren’t you?”
&n
bsp; Willow gaped at this stranger in her big brother’s body.
“Imogen has permanent dibs on shotgun,” said Wynezra, “so you’re stuck in the back seat with Holden and Wynonna. Wynonna’s cool, FYI. You two should be friends.”
Wynezra winked at me. Willow watched with confusion, then looked directly at me.
In a moment of panic, I dropped my gaze and scoured the vicinity for a convenient place to redirect my attention. The first thing I saw was Holden’s butt—he was turned the other way, talking to Imogen—so I did the unthinkable and smacked it.
I—as Wynonna Jones—smacked Holden’s ass.
There was so much adrenaline coursing through my body, however, that I smacked it just a little too hard. It probably hurt. Holden, meanwhile, yelped and whipped around.
Imogen’s jaw plunged.
Wynezra stared at me with unparalleled horror.
“RACE YOU TO THE CAR,” I screamed in a mentally deranged sort of way, and bolted to the car like I meant it.
Against all the odds in the universe, Holden actually chased after me.
• •
The drive home was quiet. This had everything to do with the ass-smacking. Holden and I grew awkward after racing to the car. (Holden won, by the way.) I was a little distracted by the aftermath. Like, what was the winner supposed to get anyway? Another smack on the ass? Meanwhile, Imogen was stunned silly by my brazenness, and Wynonna was flushing—practically slow-roasting—with embarrassment in the driver’s seat.
Willow sat between me and Holden, observing our silence like some sort of bizarre performance art piece.
Finally, she turned to me.
“I like your hair,” she said.
I couldn’t remember the last time Willow had complimented me. Maybe she had never complimented me. And I guess, if you wanted to get technical, she wasn’t complimenting me now either; she was complimenting Wynonna. Wynonna’s hair had nothing to do with me.
But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t flattered.
“Thanks,” I said. “I like yours, too.”
I glanced at the driver’s seat and the back of Wynezra’s head. She was casually observing us in the rearview mirror.
“Don’t listen to Ezra,” I said as an afterthought. “He has shit taste in hair.”
Where I End and You Begin Page 15