Margot plotted a roundabout route back to her locker after cloning Ronny’s phone. Overly paranoid? Perhaps. But it was better to be safe than sorry.
Not that she’d ever been hauled into Father Uberti’s office for questioning. She was too anonymous at school, too quiet and unimportant to elicit suspicion. And yet, as she wove through the hallways, she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching her, following her. She glanced over her shoulder several times and even doubled back through the arts building to make sure no one was trailing her.
Still, as she hurried to locker, she could have sworn she heard the squeaks of shoes on the tiled floor, as if someone was—
“Margot!” Ed the Head cried as she rounded the corner.
Margot jumped.
“You okay?” he asked, pushing himself off the row of lockers.
“Fine,” Margot said breathlessly.
Ed the Head followed Margot to her locker.
“How’s my favorite smartest girl in school?”
Margot dialed in her combination. “Smartest person in school.”
“That’s what I said.”
“No, you said smartest girl. But I’m the smartest person at DuMaine, not restricted by gender, or by age.”
Ed the Head laughed. “And so modest.”
Margot opened her locker and pulled out her calculus textbook. “What do you want?”
Ed the Head scanned the hall, then crammed his hand into his pocket and pulled out a wad of cash. “That tip you gave me about the assembly paid off huge. I thought you were entitled to a cut.”
“Keep it.”
Ed the Head dangled the money in front of her face. “There’s like three hundred bucks here. You could buy yourself a shiny new protractor.” He smirked. “Or some friends.”
“Friends are overrated,” Margot snapped. “You should know.”
“And yet,” Ed the Head continued. “Despite your lack of social standing, you’re the one who always seems to have the most dirt to share. Game spreads, Oscars predictions, who’s gonna make the homecoming court. Half my bookmaking business comes from your tips. How?”
“Educated hypotheses based on empirical data.”
Ed blinked. “Was that English?”
Margot wrinkled her mouth. “I read minds.”
“Fine, Uri Geller. Don’t tell me. Just give me one good reason why you won’t take this money.”
Margot sighed. There was only one thing she wanted from Ed the Head. “We have a deal, Edward. Remember? I help your business and in return you find me some traffic-stopping dirt on Amber Stevens. Any news on that front?”
Ed dropped his eyes to the floor. “I’m working on it.”
Margot needed something big on Amber, something that would put an end to her queen bee status for good and inflict the same level of pain and suffering that Amber had doled out to Margot for so many years. Nothing she’d been able to discover on her own had been damaging enough: a tip on Amber’s liposuction last summer, a rumor about her mom and a massage therapist in Santa Barbara, possible proof that her dad bribed her Kindergarten teacher not to retain her. Hell, Amber would probably brag about the last one. So she’d struck a bargain with the only person at school as skilled at ferreting out information as she was: Ed the Head.
“Keep your money,” she said, turning to leave. “And work harder.”
“Hey!” Ed trotted after her. “Look, as turned on as I am at the idea of pocketing all this cash for services rendered, I’m worried it’s going to fuck up my karma, so . . .” He tried to shove the cash into Margot’s backpack.
“Cut it out!” Margot whirled and knocked the money out of his hand.
Ed the Head stared in disbelief as the bills fluttered to the ground. “That is the unsexiest thing I have ever seen.” He dropped to his knees and snatched at the discarded cash.
“I doubt that,” Margot said, under her breath.
“Hey, is the green up for grabs?” Logan McDonough bounded out of the men’s room and halted in his tracks.
“No.” Ed the Head didn’t look up as he palmed the last of the twenty-dollar bills. “No, it is not.”
Logan clicked his tongue. “Too bad. I need to get my board waxed and . . .” His voice trailed off as he noticed Margot standing behind Ed. “Margot, right? From AP Government?”
Margot felt her throat constrict. He remembered her? “Yeah,” she managed to choke out.
“Logan, my man,” Ed the Head held his hand up for a high five, realized he was double-fisting wads of cash, and quickly shoved the loot into his pockets.
Logan looked confused. “Have we met?”
“Nope.” Ed the Head hiked up his backpack on his shoulder. “Well, kids, it’s been awesome. Catching up, sharing memories. A real special moment for all of us, but I am considerably out of here.”
Logan stared at Ed the Head as he disappeared around the corner. “Weird dude.”
Margot nodded. Weird but useful.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
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ELEVEN
OLIVIA WAS STILL FRAZZLED FROM HER ENCOUNTER WITH Ronny when she walked into drama.
“Liv!” Peanut called from the front row the moment Olivia started down the aisle. “Where have you been?”
“Secret meeting with your new boyfriend Ed the Head?” Amber said. She was all smiles, but there was an edge to her voice.
Olivia dropped into the empty seat next to Peanut and attempted to compose herself. “I wasn’t feeling well.”
“Miss Hayes,” Mr. Cunningham said from the stage, his lilting British accent at once casual and commanding. He ticked her name off the roll sheet. “Lovely to have you back this semester.”
As if his only scholarship student would miss it.
Olivia felt the row of seats bounce as a blond guy in cargo shorts and Timberlands plopped down next to her. Mr. Cunningham used his clipboard to shield his eyes from the heavy stage lights and stared at the front row. “And you are?”
“Logan McDonough,” he said.
Mr. Cunningham checked Logan off the list. “Do you have any theatrical experience, Mr. McDonough?”
“Sure do.” Logan flashed a boyish smile but didn’t elaborate.
“O-kay,” Mr. Cunningham said slowly. The late bell rang, and he took one last scan of the roll sheet while he waited for the echo to fade. “Looks like we have everyone but—”
The back door to the theater flew open, banging against the wall with a violence that made Olivia jump. She turned her head and her fingers dug into the cushy armrest as Donté jogged down the aisle.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said.
Mr. Cunningham consulted his clipboard. “Mr. Greene?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I understand that Advanced Drama is considered an easy elective for some of you athletic types.” He paused, pursing his lips. “Which is why Father Uberti forces me to take you. So understand this: being on time for my class is a prerequisite for a passing grade.”
Donté joined drama? Excitement rippled through her. She’d have an entire semester with him. It was too good to be true.
“Sorry,” Donté repeated, holding his head high. “Won’t happen again.”
Mr. Cunningham nodded, seemingly satisfied. “Apology accepted, Mr. Greene. And I’d like to thank all of you for your patience while I was out of town last week. As you will soon learn, the delay was well worth it.”
Olivia leaned forward. It sounded as if Mr. Cunningham had a surprise for them. Celebrity coach? Field trip to Broadway?
“We have a few new people this semester.” Mr. Cunningham nodded to Donté and Logan. “Mr. Greene, Mr. McDonough, and Mr. . . .” He pointed toward the house left seats. “What was your name again?”
“Shane White.”
“Yes, Mr. White. If I’d known we’d have so many males in the class, I’d have picke
d one of the Henry the Sixths to do.” He chuckled at his own joke. “Regardless, we’ll be moving very quickly into advanced scene study, focusing on Shakespeare, and I expect the newcomers to keep up.”
Amber let out a strangled sound, somewhere between a squeak and a growl.
“Speaking of the Bard . . .” Mr. Cunningham walked to the edge of the stage and sat down with his legs dangling into the orchestra pit. “Due to the generosity of Mr. and Mrs. Stevens”—he gestured to Amber—“we are mounting a brand new production of Twelfth Night this semester.”
“What?” Olivia turned to Amber, who stared fixedly at Mr. Cunningham, refusing to meet her eyes. Amber’s parents were funding the fall play? That didn’t make any sense. Not only was Amber ambivalent about theater, but she wasn’t very good at it, possessing a remarkable inability to remember her lines. Why this sudden interest?
Olivia’s hands went cold as another realization dawned upon her. If Amber’s parents were paying for this production, then she’d known for a while that the fall play would be Twelfth Night, even though she’d steadfastly told Olivia all summer that she thought it would be Mamet. Why had she lied?
“So brush off your monologues,” Mr. Cunningham continued. “Because auditions will be Wednesday after school.”
“Wednesday?” Peanut gasped. “But that’s in only three days!”
“Two, Miss Dumbrowski,” Mr. Cunningham said. He sounded almost sad. “Two days to prepare a soliloquy from the Shakespearean catalog. I know that seems impossible, but there is method to my madness. I want your auditions to be spontaneous. Uniquely individual. And so, for this audition only, I’ll be allowing you to read from the script.”
Was it Olivia’s imagination or had Mr. Cunningham’s eyes rested on Amber for a brief moment as he dropped that bomb?
“I’ve saved the best for last. The reason for my absence at the beginning of the semester. I was in Bath, attending a performance of As You Like It, directed by the great Fitzgerald Conroy.”
Olivia sat straight up in her seat, the shock of Amber’s involvement in the production forgotten. The Fitzgerald Conroy? Former director in residence at the Royal Shakespeare Company and current artistic director of the Oregon Shakespeare Festival, Fitzgerald Conroy was the godfather of modern Shakespearean productions, a world-class director who had literally worked with every leading stage actress of the last two decades.
“Fitzgerald is an old friend and colleague,” Mr. Cunningham continued. “And I am pleased to announce that he will be attending our opening-night performance and will be evaluating members of our cast for a scholarship position in this summer’s Oregon Shakespeare Festival.”
Olivia’s jaw dropped. A scholarship to Ashland? Working with Fitzgerald Conroy? This was the chance Olivia had been waiting for.
Amber squealed and grabbed Peanut’s hand. “Can you imagine? Me performing at Ashland?”
“You?” Olivia said. She couldn’t help herself.
Amber turned on her. “Why not? You’re not the star of the show around here anymore.”
Anymore?
Mr. Cunningham clapped his hands again, and the class quieted down. “There is one catch, so listen up. Due to Fitzgerald’s calendar, we need to open this production in three weeks.”
Olivia gasped again, this time simultaneously with almost everyone in the theater. Three weeks to mount an entire Shakespearean play? That was the most insane production schedule she’d ever heard.
“I realize that three weeks is a compressed rehearsal period, which means I must have a full commitment from everyone involved. For those of you not cast in the play, there will be important roles to fill: stage crew, costumes, lighting. This is a brand-new production with a great many moving parts, and it’s going to take all of us to pull it off. We’ll also need more behind-the-scenes crew than usual, so recruit your friends. Sound good?”
He didn’t wait for a response.
“So let’s start with some warm-ups. Everyone onstage.” He pointed at Amber. “Miss Stevens, would you like to lead? We can see how those private lessons over the summer paid off.”
Amber pranced up the stairs onto the stage, preening like a peacock. “I’d love to.”
Mr. Cunningham asked Amber to run the warm-ups? That was Olivia’s job, had been for four semesters. She was practically Mr. Cunningham’s TA, a de facto position based on her status as the only student at Bishop DuMaine on a drama scholarship.
Olivia slowly followed the rest of the class onto the stage, moving to the far corner as the class loosely formed rows behind Amber. Her mind reeled. Amber had taken acting lessons during the summer. Amber had lied to her about what the fall play would be. Amber had conned her parents into donating the funds to mount the new production. Amber had known about the scholarship to the Oregon Shakespeare Festival all along and decided she wanted it for herself. Why?
“We’ll start with some stretches,” Amber instructed.
“Olivia,” a voice whispered.
Olivia turned her head sharply. Mr. Cunningham stood in the wings, beckoning her over. As Amber began a windmill drill, Olivia ducked behind the leg curtain.
“Twelfth Night,” Mr. Cunningham said quickly. “I’m sure you want to play Olivia. It was your mother’s greatest role, and your namesake.”
Olivia was confused. “No, I don’t. I want—”
Mr. Cunningham held up his hand, cutting her off. “I need you to audition for Viola.”
“Okay.”
“And don’t tell anyone that’s what you’re doing.”
“Uh, okay.”
He placed a hand on her shoulder. “Things are going to be a little different this semester. I . . .” His eyes faltered from her face. “I need this production. Fitzgerald’s looking for original stagings to fill next summer’s lineup. It would be my own production, a huge directorial role for me. Do you understand?”
Olivia had no idea what he was talking about but nodded anyway.
“I’ll do everything I can for you.” He squeezed her shoulder.
“Mr. Cunningham?” Amber called out. “We’re ready!”
Mr. Cunningham whipped his hand away. He straightened his shoulders and stepped past Olivia onto the stage.
“Excellent. Shall we start with some Hamlet?”
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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TWELVE
OLIVIA MADE SURE SHE WAS AT THE COFFEE CLASH EARLY for her date with Ronny. She picked a small table in the corner, obscured by the dessert counter, where she ran minimal risk of being seen by . . . anyone, and opened her copy of Twelfth Night to study one of Viola’s monologues. Mission or no mission, she needed to be prepared for the audition.
One hour, that was all she needed to give Bree. One hour spent dodging Ronny’s octopus hands and avoiding anyone she knew.
Thankfully, she had an exit strategy this time. Kitty would be showing up precisely at five o’clock. It made her feel better, somehow, knowing she had Kitty there looking out for her.
“Babe!” Ronny yelled from the front door of the café.
Ugh. It took all of Olivia’s acting ability to plaster a demure, flirtatious smile on her face as Ronny sat down opposite her.
“Hi,” Olivia said in return. “I’m so glad you could make it.”
She glanced at her cell phone. One hour started now.
Bree crouched behind a large green wastebin and stared at Ronny’s house. She’d been huddled in the backyard for half an hour; her knees dug into the gravel, her back ached, and the stench of rotting leaves and manure was starting to make her nauseous.
She tapped the Bluetooth device in her ear. “You still with me?”
“Don’t do that,” Margot grumbled. “You’re going to make me deaf.”
“Sorry.” She could hear the clack of Margot’s keyboard on the other end as she worked to disable the DeStefanos’ securi
ty system. “Almost done?”
“I’ll tell you when I’m done.”
Bree shifted her weight to her heels and arched her back. “Easy for you to say,” she muttered. “You’re not the one hanging out with the garbage.”
“You know I can hear you, right?”
Another few seconds of manic typing, and then Margot let out a long breath. “Okay,” she said. “Try it now.”
Bree crept out from behind the bin and ran swiftly to the back door. The crunch of the gravel beneath her boots sounded cartoonishly loud in the silence of the afternoon, and she paused at the door, listening for any signs of life.
Why was she so paranoid? Ronny was safely engaged at the Coffee Clash and she knew from her own spying that Ronny’s dad and stepmom wouldn’t be home from work before six o’clock. She had plenty of time to break in, download the contents of Ronny’s hard drive and email using the passwords cloned from his phone, delete the video, and hustle out of there before Kitty rescued Olivia from her date.
Easy.
“Are you inside yet?” Margot asked.
“Patience is a virtue.” With a deep breath, Bree inserted her skeleton key gingerly into the lock and gave it a jiggle. The back door swung open. “In!” she said. “Heading to Ronny’s room now.”
Blackout shades were drawn over the windows, but the screen saver on Ronny’s computer was bright enough to light Bree’s way into the darkened room. Which was a happy accident because his bedroom was a freaking pigsty.
Clothes were strewn about the bed, desk, and floor like they’d been churned up by a tornado and were left where they fell. Several food-stained plates were piled up on the nightstand, and at least a dozen glasses of half-consumed mystery liquids christened every available surface.
“Must be the cleaning crew’s day off,” Bree said, wrinkling her nose.
“They come Wednesday and Friday,” Margot said.
“Damn, he did all this since Friday?”
“Bree, the computer,” Margot prodded.
“Yeah, yeah.” She had an hour, after all. It would only take about twenty minutes to download Ronny’s hard drive.
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