Bree glanced at John. “You’re kidding me.”
“Mr. White will be performing the role of Feste, the fool, and will be composing and performing original music for our production.”
“Hold up,” Shane said. “I play guitar and sing, but I’m crap at writing songs.” He pointed at John. “My bassist Bagsie is the epic songwriter.”
Every head in the theater turned around to face Bree and John, a backlit amalgam of shock and awe.
“Yes. Right.” Mr. Cunningham fussed with his phone and flipped to another screen. “Moving on.”
The rest of his presentation was lost on Bree. John had kept yet another secret from her? She turned fully around to face him. “You’re composing songs for the school play? And you were going to tell me this when?”
“You’re not my mother, Bree,” he said without looking at her. “I can go to the men’s room without you there to wipe my ass.”
His jaw was clenched; the tendons below his cheek rippled back and forth as he ground his teeth together. John rarely got angry—either at Bree or anyone else—but when he did, it was not something to be taken lightly.
Why was he pissed at her? Shouldn’t it be the other way around? Twice in one week she’d found out he’d been keeping major life decisions secret from her. What kind of friend did that?
John leaned forward and whispered in Bree’s ear. “What do you see in him?”
“Mr. Cunningham?” Bree asked.
“Shane.”
“Oh.” It wasn’t a question Bree had an answer to, even if she’d been inclined to give it. “I don’t know. He’s cool, I guess.”
“Cool?”
“Who can resist a rock star?” she half-joked.
The class began to stand up and move toward the stage, the presentation apparently over. John slowly rose to his feet. He looked down at her, his hair hanging in front of one eye. “We’ll see about that.”
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TWENTY-THREE
OLIVIA’S MIND RACED WITH CHARACTER POSSIBILITIES AS Mr. Cunningham wheeled the video screen off the stage. She’d be playing Viola in a futuristic 1970s New York gangland. She needed to get the movement and the feel of the character just right, without sacrificing the language and tradition of the Bard. It was a unique opportunity to reimagine a classic character, exactly the kind of off-the-wall setting that had made the Oregon Shakespeare Festival famous.
“These are your rehearsal schedules.” Mr. Cunningham plopped a stack of papers on the edge of the stage. “I want them in your smartphones before the end of the day, understood? We’ve got three weeks of regular drama class plus evening and weekend rehearsals to bring this entire production together.”
“That sounds hard,” Peanut said, wringing her hands in her lap.
Olivia patted her knee. “Hard but fun. Don’t worry, I’ll work with you on your lines.”
“Actually,” Amber said, leaning over Peanut possessively. “I’ll work with you, Peanut.”
Mr. Cunningham picked up his clipboard and stood center stage. “Today, we’ll be working on backstory for your characters. Those of you without a role, we’ll need your input as we brainstorm who and what these people were before the beginning of the play. Backstory will be remarkably important to this production, since we are colliding two universes: Shakespeare and The Warriors.”
Olivia sat forward in her chair as Mr. Cunningham continued.
“We all know who Viola and Sebastian are. We know Olivia and Count Orsino, Feste the fool and Maria the maid. But this is Twelfth Precinct, not Twelfth Night. The twins are no longer Viola and Sebastian, but Violent and Stab, leaders of the Warriors gang, stranded in enemy territory miles away from their Coney Island home. Feste becomes Fist, the biker wing nut from the Rogues. Olivia is transformed into Live Wire, female warlord of the fedora-wearing Hurricanes. And then we have the Count, an enigmatic figure, attempting to unite the gangs under one banner, who mistakenly thinks that the Warriors tried to assassinate him.”
Mr. Cunningham paused dramatically. “I’d like the entire cast onstage.”
Amber sprinted up the stairs like an Olympic hurdler. She preened and posed, clearly excited to be the star of the show.
“Okay,” Mr. Cunningham said, once everyone was onstage. “Let’s pair up into our backstory components: Live Wire and the Count. Belcher, Antman, and Holy Mary. Fist and his band. Violent and Stab. The rest of you, separate by the gang affiliations you were assigned on the cast list.”
The cast milled around the stage, forming small groups. Amber grabbed Logan by the hand and spun him around like a disco dancer, while Shane White and John Baggott stood awkwardly in the back, clearly confused by the direction.
Olivia forced herself to stay calm as Donté approached. This was just the beginning of hours and hours of time they’d be spending together over the next three weeks. He’d have to have known that when he auditioned for the production. Maybe spending time with her was his intention all along? Maybe he’d been having the same second thoughts about their breakup?
“Hey, Livvie.”
Olivia took a deep breath. “Hey.”
“You, as actors, need to know who your characters are,” Mr. Cunningham lectured. “What drives them? What scares them? What are they trying to hide from others? From themselves? I want you to discuss your motivations with your group. Ten minutes, starting now!”
“So,” Olivia began, testing the waters for normal conversation. “How have you been?”
“Good. Really good. You?”
“Same, for the most part.”
Donté smiled and Olivia fought the urge to throw herself into his arms. There was something so comfortable and warm about Donté’s smile, and Olivia missed basking in it.
Donté dropped his voice. “I know we haven’t really talked much since . . .” He swallowed. “Well, you know.”
“Since you broke up with me.” It was the first time Olivia had said it out loud.
“Er, right.” Donté grinned sheepishly. “I’m sorry about that. I didn’t know you’d take it so hard.”
Olivia winced. Nothing worse than your ex-boyfriend feeling sorry for you. “I didn’t take it that hard.”
Donté glanced up, smiling wryly. “Is that why you made out with Rex Cavanaugh right in front of me at the bonfire?”
Olivia’s face burned. “I . . .”
Of all the things she wanted to forget, making out with Rex Cavanaugh at the spring sing bonfire was second on Olivia’s amnesia list. It had only been a few days since Donté had dumped her, and when they both turned up at the bonfire, Olivia saw an opportunity to try and make him jealous. It had seemed like a good idea, especially with half a bottle of wine clouding her judgment, but at the time she thought Donté hadn’t noticed.
Wrong again, Liv.
The only upside of the evening was that Rex was too drunk and too high to remember any of their spit swapping, and no one else—especially not Amber—had witnessed the pathetic display.
“It was a long time ago,” Olivia said at last.
“Livvie,” Donté leaned in and dropped his voice. “Don’t settle for someone like Rex. There’s a special guy out there for you.”
Like the one standing across from me? “I guess so.”
“I know so. Your one and only.”
He remembered their song! Was he trying to tell her that he was the only one for her? Because she already knew that.
Mr. Cunningham clapped his hands. “All right, class. Everyone grab a seat in the house and we’ll start with the Riffs gang—”
The PA system popped to life; then an electronic shriek tore through the theater. Everyone onstage groaned, and Olivia’s hands flew to her ears, attempting to block out the horrible sound.
The shriek stopped abruptly, and the shy voice of Mrs. Baggott came through the speakers. “So
rry!” she squeaked. “I’m so sorry.”
The sound of shuffling papers filled the theater and Olivia lowered her hands.
“Right,” Mrs. Baggott said, clearly locating the correct page. “Attention, faculty. Father Uberti requests that all members of student leadership be excused from class for the remainder of fourth period. They are to report to the office immediately. Thank you.”
Mika and Donté, along with most of the leadership class, were already gathered in the office by the time Kitty arrived. They stood together near Mrs. Baggott’s desk, and Kitty quickly made her way over to them.
“What’s going on?” she whispered.
“No idea,” Donté said. Obscured by the large desk, his hand found hers.
“Father Uberti’s been on the phone in his office the entire time,” Mika said. “I can’t hear anything, but he sounds pissed off.”
As if to punctuate her point, the door to Uberti’s office flew open and the diminutive priest swept into the lobby.
“I’m sure you’ve all heard the rumor,” he began unceremoniously. “That Theo Baranski confessed to the murder of Ronny DeStefano.”
“Hell yeah!” Rex said. He turned to Tyler and gave him a high five.
Father Uberti’s eyes were steely. “Premature celebration, Mr. Cavanaugh. I’ve just had confirmation from Sergeant Callahan that Mr. Baranski has an alibi for the night of Ronny’s murder. He has been released from custody.”
Kitty felt as if she’d been kicked in the stomach. All the air was sucked out of her lungs. Theo was innocent? Somehow she’d known all along that he wasn’t the killer. The look on Theo’s face when the police had hauled him into the office that morning had been one of defiance, not fear.
“In light of this news,” Father Uberti continued, “I’m releasing you all from fourth period today. You are to report to the leadership classroom, where you will work with Coach Creed on a solution to this problem.”
“You want our help to find a killer?” Mika said, incredulously.
“I want your help,” Father Uberti said coldly, “in finding DGM.”
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TWENTY-FOUR
COACH CREED STOOD AT THE FRONT OF THE LEADERSHIP classroom, arms folded across his ’Maine Men shirt as Kitty and the rest of the class filed into the room and took their regular seats.
“So it turns out,” he started, as if they’d just walked into a conversation already in progress. “That little twerp Baranski was trying to protect those DGM criminals, which should be a crime itself,” he muttered. “But the police have let him go.”
Mika leaned forward. “I’m going to talk to Coach Miles today,” she whispered. “See if we can get Theo in as manager before Creed tries to kill him with hill charges.”
“Good idea,” Kitty said out of the corner of her mouth.
Coach Creed began pacing the room. “The authorities have no leads at this time. They’ve failed, which means it’s up to us to find Ronny’s killer.”
Mika raised her hand. “I thought we were here to find DGM?” she said without waiting to be called upon.
“Same thing, Jones,” Coach Creed snapped. “Where there’s pirates, there’s booty.”
Kitty didn’t like the sound of this. At. All.
“So listen up!” Coach Creed continued. “’Maine Men, we’ll be upping your patrols. I want you around campus during class, before class, after class. All the time, got it?”
“Got it!” Rex said.
“And I want lists of students who have been exhibiting any kind of suspicious behavior,” Coach Creed continued. “Nervous tics, unexcused absences, isolationist tendencies. Work in groups. I want a comprehensive suspect list by the end of the period.”
Kitty turned around to face Mika. “Want to work togeth . . .” Her voice trailed off and her eye drifted toward the back of the room, where Donté was waving at her.
Mika turned to see what Kitty was looking at, and smiled wickedly. “I see you already have a partner.” She winked at Kitty. “You can fill me in later.”
Donté swung a desk around for Kitty as she wove her way to the back of the classroom, and the two of them huddled up, pretending to work on their suspect lists.
“This school is getting weird,” Donté said under his breath.
Kitty nodded, keeping an eye on Coach Creed. “Big Brother is watching you.”
“Creed’s totally off the rails,” Donté said, glancing at the coach. “He didn’t used to be like this, I swear.”
That’s right. Creed coached the men’s JV basketball team. He would have been Donté’s coach last year. Kitty recalled the conversation she’d overheard that morning between Creed and Uberti. Maybe it was time to do a little fishing?
“Oh yeah?” Kitty asked.
Donté shook his head. “Dude was always strict. Kind of old-fashioned. He was at a military school before he got the job here and I think he sort of preferred the discipline at his old job.”
“What school was it?” Kitty asked.
“Don’t remember. Somewhere in Arizona, I think.”
Kitty stared at Donté, her suspicions confirmed. Arizona. Could there be more than one military academy in the state? Possibly. But the link between Coach Creed and Ronny was feeling more tangible every moment, and all roads seemed to lead to Archway Military Academy.
“Got anything for me?”
Coach Creed loomed above them. Instead of creating his list, she’d been staring at the notebook page on her desk, pen in hand, while her brain grappled with anonymous clues and military academies in Arizona. Without even realizing it, Kitty had written a single word: Archway.
“Not yet,” Kitty said, trying to cover the page with her arm. “I haven’t noticed anything—”
“Let me see.” Coach Creed whisked the notebook out from beneath Kitty’s arm and held it up to his nose. “What the hell is this?” he roared.
Shit. “Nothing,” Kitty said, trying to laugh it off.
Coach Creed shoved the notebook in Kitty’s face. “What the hell did you hear, huh? What are people saying?”
Kitty flinched away from the page. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“None of it is true, do you hear me?” He stepped closer. “None of it.”
“Coach!” Donté said. He was on his feet, his massive frame towering over his former coach. “Leave her alone.”
“Greene, focus on your own list.” Creed glanced down at Donté’s page. “I see you haven’t done any better than our vice president here.”
Donté didn’t back down. “I don’t think this is an appropriate use of class time.”
“Appropriate use of class time?” Coach Creed said incredulously. “I thought you understood the severity of the threat to our school, Greene.”
“Maybe I don’t see it that way.”
Coach Creed looked as if Donté had slapped him across the face. His pointed at the ’Maine Men emblem on Donté’s shirt. “Greene, you’re a ’Maine Man. You swore an oath to protect the reputation of Bishop DuMaine Preparatory School. Are you telling me that means nothing to you?”
Donté stared at Coach Creed for a moment, the muscles around his jaw rippling. Finally, he nodded his head. “You know what, Coach? That oath does mean something to me.” Then he reached over his head, grabbed the collar of his ’Maine Man shirt, and pulled it off. “And this is the best way I can think of to protect our school.” Without another word, a shirtless Donté left the classroom.
Coach Creed stormed after Donté. “Greene! Come back here. I’ll fail you. I swear to God!”
As his voice faded, Kitty battled the urge to cry. She’d tipped Creed off about Archway, plus Donté had gotten into trouble on her account. Not exactly a stellar start to her detective career.
“You okay?” Mika asked, taking the seat Donté had vacated.
/> “Yeah.”
“Kitty Cat,” Mika said, smiling wickedly. “What have you done to poor Donté?”
Kitty slumped forward on her desk. “He’s going to fail leadership and it’ll be all my fault. He’ll hate me.”
“Are you kidding me?” Mika laughed. “You’ve got that boy whipped. What did you do, put out on the first date or something?”
Kitty’s head snapped up. “No, I just—”
The bell rang without Coach Creed or Donté having returned to the classroom. Mika slowly rose to her feet. “Well, whatever you did, share it with me when I meet Mr. Right, will you?”
Kitty absently packed up her bag and slung it over her shoulder. She’d been so panicked by Creed’s reaction to Archway, she’d kind of missed the fact that Donté had come to her defense and dropped out of the ’Maine Men.
“You forgot this,” Mika said, handing Kitty an envelope.
Kitty was about to say it didn’t belong to her, when she caught sight of the familiar label with her name on it.
“Oh, thanks,” she said. She hoped Mika couldn’t see her hand shaking as she grasped the envelope to her chest.
Kitty waited until Mika had headed off for her chemistry class before she dared to peek inside. She walked slowly, scarcely aware of the throng of bodies bustling through the hallway around her. She paused at the top of the stairs and slid the contents of the envelope into her hand.
It was a photo.
There were two people. One of them—a boy, by the outfit—was missing a head. It had been cut clean out of the photo. The other definitely had a head, and she looked familiar. Her hair wasn’t styled like a twenties flapper, cropped short in the back with a heavy fringe of bangs, and the clothes weren’t thrift-store chic, but there was no doubt in Kitty’s mind that the smiling girl in the photo was Bree Deringer.
She turned the photo over and saw a caption scrawled across the back.
Best friends and Fighting Jesuits: Bree Deringer and Christopher Beeman.
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