by Melissa Jane
My small hands ball into fists.
Son. Of. A. Bitch.
~
“‘I see a woman may be made a fool, if she had not a spirit to resist.’” I recite the lines from Shakespeare’s Taming of the Shrew on stage to Ms. Zagwich, who sits on her stool outside the glow of the spotlight which illuminates me. I lower the script and search for her face. “Ms. Zagwich, this seems incredibly chauvinistic. And I know it’s Shakespeare, but even his narratives can become outdated.”
“Ms. Reign…” she starts, and I can picture the exact face she’s wearing. Wide-eyed like a startled deer, lipliner bleeding beyond their intended surface. “I can assure you the Taming of the Shrew is not outdated.”
“I’m pretty certain even the title speaks in my defense.”
“Have you read through it?”
“Of course.”
“And? You don’t think it simply suggests a successful man and woman can work in tandem together?”
“I’m not disregarding the objective. It’s how he goes about achieving his objective by humiliating Kate.”
“Rosie, I do understand what you’re saying. Believe me, I do,” she states so weakly I don’t think she understands at all. “But the American Youth Drama Association has decided Taming of the Shrew is this year’s play for those seeking a scholarship.”
“Is it a board of all men?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Nothing,” I sigh, realizing it’s a losing battle. “Have you found a Petruchio yet?” It seems, in a football-cultured school, the idea of playing a Shakespeare lead doesn’t take the fancy of many… or any… senior males. Figures.
“Ah… well, I have actually. In a weird turn of events—”
“‘To be, or not to be,’” a familiar voice booms quoting Hamlet from the blackened audience. I squint but can’t make anything out. “For ‘tis nobler in the mind to… suffer, um… The slings and’… shit… the um…” There’s a pause and then he continues, “‘arrows of outrageous fortune—’”
“What in the actual hell…”
Footsteps thud on the stairs, and Jacob Lynch strides across the stage until his face meets the spotlight. I sigh heavily, and he boyishly grins at my obvious annoyance.
“Nice attempt but wrong play,” I mutter.
“It’s all the same.”
“No. Actually, it’s not.”
He turns to my drama teacher. “You look beautiful, Ms. Zagwich. As always.”
From the shadows, I hear, ‘Oh, stop!’ and I roll my eyes at how he purposefully gets others on his side, so I look like the crazy person.
“Why are you here?”
His eyes widen in mock surprise. “Oh, you weren’t told?”
My heart skips a beat. “Told what?”
Arms out, he takes a slow bow. “I’m your prosciutto.”
I snort out a laugh. “Nice to meet you, ham.”
Jacob seems rightfully puzzled when he draws his eyebrows together. “What?”
“Prosciutto is a ham. I think you mean…”
Oh shit! My own realization dawns on me as I search for Ms. Zagwich. “Him!” I demand. “Jacob’s playing Petruchio?” My blood starts to boil. I’d be more than happy to have him cast in the role if it meant I didn’t have to put up with his constant stream of personal jeers.
My teacher steps into view, looking a little rattled. I suppose she is non-the-wiser about the type of relationship Jacob and I share. “Well, we didn’t have much in the way of options. In fact, options were non-existent. Jacob needs to do an extra-curricular for losing a subject line due to football, and this is it.”
“Ms. Zagwich, Jacob’s here simply to meet subject point expectations, I’m here because I need a chance at a scholarship. In other words, I’m taking this very seriously, and he will not.”
“What’s the play called?” Jacob asks seemingly unbothered by the conversation happening in front of him.
“Taming of the Shrew.” I sigh, feeling defeated.
“And what’s it’s about?”
My teeth grind. “A man who takes it upon himself to tame a woman with a bad attitude for his own narcissistic purposes.”
Jacob raises a brow and smirks. “Seems fitting then, don’t you think, Posie?”
Of course, he would say that. I consider pushing him off the stage. Oh, how I’d love to.
“Are you saying I’m a shrew?”
“You’re not exactly the friendliest.”
Is he for real? Has he conveniently forgotten everything he’s put me through? Or is he simply feigning innocence?
“Funny how I only seem to turn into a jerk when you’re around. It’s the effect you have on me,” I retort, dryly.
This seems to inflate his ego. “And why is that, Posie? What do I do that makes you so…” he eyes me up and down, and I shiver under his gaze, “… heated? Nervous? Uptight?”
I can list over a dozen reasons, but that would be taking the bait which he’s so eagerly fishing for. That, and the most irritating reason at this point in time, is his smug smile which I could slap right off.
“No reason,” I lie sweetly.
“You know, you should harness that anger,” he starts as if he’s a well-rehearsed thespian, instead of a moron giving unsolicited advice. “And put it into your character, you know, if you want it to be believable. You could use a little more believability.”
“Fuck me, you’re a dick.”
“Rosie!” Ms. Zagwich reprimands while Jacob bites his lip to stop his smile.
“Sorry, I didn’t realize I said that out loud,” I reply, wryly. “Lucky I didn’t say the rest.”
“Jacob’s right,” she says, trying to placate the situation, but I still hate her for saying it. “Whatever has happened between you two could be harnessed into good energy on the stage, especially given the relationship between the main characters. You both need this class for your own reasons, so I simply ask you both to give it a hundred percent for each other’s sake.”
I have no choice in the matter. It’s not that I need the scholarship per se. It’s just that I was hoping to alleviate the financial stress from my parents. And now, it all hangs in the balance.
“Fine,” I agree.
Jacob wears a wide grin. “I’m all in.”
“Great!” Ms. Zagwich claps her hands together in an excitement I don’t share. “Every Wednesday and Thursday we’ll meet here after school. But you must also promise to do private rehearsals outside of school hours.”
This has to be some form of punishment. What have I done to this world to make it so vindictive? During school hours, I make it a personal mission to stay as far away from Jacob Lynch as humanly possible, for the simple reason that he takes it upon himself to humiliate me in front of others. And we have quite the history of it. It all started in Art class in freshman year.
Mrs. Phillipo had ordered a seating plan, and I was the quiet, studious girl stuck between the two most popular boys of my year. It couldn’t have been any worse for me. Not only were they the most popular, but they were also both mega assholes. After tolerating their immature commentary for too long, and having dodged their jostling with me sandwiched in between for over half the class, I finally begged my teacher to be moved. I didn’t care where, just away from Jacob Lynch.
How could I possibly paint when my elbow would purposefully be knocked every minute.
When I returned to my table, the boys had fallen strangely quiet. I eyed them suspiciously wishing I had taken corrective action sooner. Climbing back onto my black art stool, the boys burst out laughing, doing their best to cover their mockery but failing miserably. I turned my head, left to right, right to left, waiting for one of them to admit what they’ve done. Neither did and for the rest of the lesson, they remained unusually quiet.
It wasn’t until the class ended and I made my way back to my locker to change over for next period I had an inkling something was off.
Students who passed me in the corri
dor giggled to each other, whispering gossip I figured I was the main topic of since they’d glance back and continue their sniggering.
I was standing at my locker, when my best friend, Nessie, approached with eyes wide in horror.
“What?” I’d asked. “What happened to you?”
She shook her head. “Nothing to m-me,” she stammered. “Did you sit in something?”
I push my paint kit to the back of the locker and twist around to look at my skirt. “What the hell,” I exclaimed, tears brimming. My pale pink skirt was covered in black paint, right where I sit. “What does it say?”
Nessie turned me around for a closer inspection. “I think it’s supposed to say ‘Snitch’ but it’s a mirror image, so it’s backward.”
“He called me a snitch?” My blood was boiling as I searched the corridor.
“Yes. Why? And who is he?”
I find his smug face as a horde of students move on to next period. He carefully watches my reaction to his cruel prank, and then he smiles and winks before disappearing into the crowd.
“Because he’s a complete and utter asshole, and Jacob Lynch has just started a war.”
And from then on, he and I have been warring with each other. His pranks have become more sophisticated, and his reasoning behind it? Well, Jacob Lynch doesn’t need a reason. When Rosie Reign is near, he takes his cue. He knows my ticks—he knows how to light the fuse and watch it burn. And then, when the bomb finally explodes, he walks away smiling with a promise that there’s more to come.
“That’s fine by me,” Jacob replies all too willingly pulling me back into the now.
“Rosie?” Ms. Zagwich prompts.
“Yes?”
“Jacob is willing to show commitment, are you willing to do the same?”
Meeting his humored eyes, I barely manage my answer without shin-kicking him. “I can’t think of anything better.”
Jacob again bites his bottom lip to stop his spreading smile. He thinks he’s so fucking clever.
“Well, this is just wonderful. I’m looking forward to next week when we can work on stage blocking.” Ms. Zagwich walks off the stage, leaving me alone with my arch-nemesis.
“Jacob,” I start, hoping I can appeal to his better side, if he actually possesses one. “All our warring aside, this is really important to me. This counts toward my college entry, so I can’t have it mucked up by someone who simply wants to play a prank on me.”
“This isn’t a prank, Posie.”
I grab my bag from the stage and stuff the script inside. I’d normally take more care in doing so. However, my current mood’s giving zero fucks.
Snatching my phone from my hand, he unlocks what I thought would be a complicated pattern password and proceeds to type.
“What the hell are you doing?
“You’re going to need my number, so we can organize rehearsal dates.”
“Why are you doing this to me?” I ask with a genuine curiosity. “You know Coach Carter will pull any strings for you.”
With his trademark charming-yet-cocky smile, Jacob lifts my chin with a finger underneath, the unexpected contact causing my stomach to twist and turn. “Because I’m having fun deciding whether you love or hate me. But I won’t tell you where I’ve placed my bet.”
2
THEN
“Take the garlic bread to the table, Rosie.”
I throw the dishtowel on the counter and grunt in frustration. Staring at the ceiling, I realize I’m throwing a tantrum, but I can’t help it. It’s what he does to me. But it feels so much more than that. This last week hasn’t just been Jacob copping the brunt of it, it’s anyone who crosses my path. I rub my lower back because I suddenly feel achy. “I just don’t understand why the Lynch’s have to come over all the time. And why do they always bring Jacob?”
Pulling more wine from the fridge, my mother throws me a confused side-eye. “Because your father and I are actually rather fond of the Lynchs, and in case you’ve forgotten, Jacob’s their son. He’s part of the package just like you are.”
“I get that much. It’s just—”
“Just what? You and Jacob are old enough now to get over yourselves and be friends. Whatever animosity you two have for each other should have evaporated by now.” I stare at my mother and wonder if in twenty years I will look as beautiful as her. We both have the thick, dark hair and milky skin, and green almond-shaped eyes.
“It’s not me who needs to get over myself, Mom. You have no idea how arrogant he is.” I tear angrily at a piece of garlic bread and pop it into my mouth. I take a moment to savor the flavor before continuing, hushing my voice so our guests outside can’t hear, “He takes great joy in watching me suffer.”
“Suffer from what?”
“Him simply gracing the same corridor I’m in. Him and his snide remarks. Him and his cruel pranks on me. Him being so damn popular and pointing out that I will never be in the same category.”
She stops mixing the potato salad and eyeballs me. I can’t tell if she’s taking the situation seriously. “Does he say that?”
I feel nervous under her scrutiny. “No, not in those words—”
“Rosie, what’s gotten into you lately? Where’s my fun-loving girl I know I raised?”
“I don’t know,” I grumble belligerently, having gone from wanting to ravage the garlic bread to being completely unenthused with the idea of eating. Damn, what the hell is wrong with me? I’m only ever a jerk around Jacob because he brings that side out in me, but my mother is used to seeing a very different side of her daughter. It doesn’t help that the Lynch’s close proximity is enough to irk me.
“Well, I want that girl back. So, when she decides to resurface, tell me if you still feel the way you do. But until then…” her gaze moves to the group outside, Mrs. Lynch laughing hysterically at my father’s jokes, “… learn to get along with him. I’m sure he doesn’t have a problem with you like you do him.”
I snatch the garlic bread basket and make for the door. “That’s because I’m not an asshole to him.” That’s a lie. But I’m only an asshole in retaliation.
“Rosie!” Mom reprimands but I already regret it as soon as the cuss leaves my mouth. Particularly because Jacob’s obnoxious smirk tells me he’s heard every word. He leans back on the deck chair, an ankle hooked over a knee, fingers loosely interlaced. Jacob’s gaze moves over my body, taking in the thigh split of my long skirt as I walk, to the skin revealed by my lace off-the-shoulder crop top. His linger tells me he appreciates what he sees, and he takes no action to hide it. The asshole doesn’t look so bad himself.
Doing the dishes earlier, I’d watched from the kitchen window as the boy I once despised had somehow morphed into a man with sculptured muscles and ridiculously good looks. And he had no qualms in showing off his body while he lounged around the pool.
When our eyes meet, I screw up my face at him and place the breadbasket down next to the steak and sausages my father’s just finished barbecuing.
“Rosie,” Mr. Lynch exclaims with the same arrogance as his son. “Jacob was telling me about the points decider at the beginning of the week.”
Well, this will be interesting.
“Did he also tell you how close he came to losing?”
Beside me, Jacob chuckles, his father holding my attention, something dark working through his brain. “Well… it wouldn’t be so great if the team with the football captain lost, now would it? Wouldn’t be worth him showing his face around town.”
What a stupid, ignorant thing to say.
I glance at Jacob who’s grown immediately tense and wonder if this is the sort of ridiculous pressure his father always has him under when it comes to football.
“So, he’s expected to always win? Simply because he’s football captain?” Mr. Lynch doesn’t expect a reply, and it takes him a moment to gather his thoughts. He’s the type of man who talks over anyone in his presence. His family included. But I’m on a roll tonight, experiencing al
l-new emotions—very raw, unsettling emotions and to hell if I know why.
“Don’t take it personally, sweetie.” He smirks, his rough, calloused fingers pinching my waist. I take a not so subtle step away, both Jacob and me bristling at his father’s touch. “You’re great at those painting things you do, but you’re no athlete.”
“Yes, because heaven forbid an artist win at anything remotely physical.”
He leans forward, readying for combat. “All I’m saying is a football captain of a victorious team has a reputation to uphold, and that doesn’t involve losing to you and your group of…” he pauses while he searches for the words, “… whatever it is you call yourselves. You’re just lucky you had your Swedish Sven—”
“Hans. His name is Hans, and he’s from Germany.”
“Hans then… you’re lucky you had him on your side. Not so lucky for my son had he of lost.”
While Mr. Lynch belly laughs at his pathetic comment, I glance again at Jacob. I’m unfortunately right. His tense jaw reveals probably years’ worth of having to live up to his father’s unrealistic expectations and cruel taunts.
“It was just a game, Dad,” Jacob says, and I hear the unease in his tone. “It was nothing serious.”
The tension falls like a wet blanket. “The fuck do you mean it’s just a game, son?”
“Jim, stop!” Mrs. Lynch timidly places a hand on her husband’s forearm trying to placate the situation, but he quickly shrugs her off.
My father shifts uncomfortably in his seat, and I’m disturbed at seeing this side of Jacob’s father.
“Do you know how many young men want to be in your position? How many would kill to be captain of one of the top five teams nationwide? And yet, here’s my waste-of-oxygen son passing it off as just a game.”
“It was a mini-sports day, Dad. Not football!”
“Waste of oxygen and fucking thick. When you’re captain of the football team, son, you’re captain of everything in life. You live and breathe victory.”