High Drama

by Brandon Terrell

  Just then, a group of boys walked past Pizza Palace’s enormous window. I spied Coen Marsh, Luke Best, and a few others. They looked over at the singing. Coen saw me sitting there in the middle of the chorus of voices and smiled. And it wasn’t the smile that used to make my heart dance. The smile that used to make me wish I was a cheerleader, because why would a football player date me? A stupid thought, for sure, but one I couldn’t lodge free from my head the whole time we dated.

  No, this smile was more of an evil smirk. Like he’d caught me committing a crime.

  Coen said something to his friends, and the whole group looked in the window, like Pizza Palace was a zoo and the DC-ers were its main attraction. They laughed, slapping each other on the shoulder.

  I flipped them my patented one-finger salute. Both hands.

  •••

  Afterward, Maisie drove us back to the school. Kat’s busted-up car was one of the last in the lot. The ride had been her dad’s old company car, bought for Kat after much begging and pleading. I chucked my bag in the backseat, which was cluttered with clothes and boots. Metal coffee thermoses on the floor rolled around and clanked against each other with each turn.

  Kat handed me her phone. “Here,” she said as she drove away from the school. “Find us something to listen to.”

  “How about show tunes?” I joked.

  Kat laughed.

  I searched for a playlist, found one full of punk bands with female lead singers, and started it.

  “Perfect.” Kat cranked up the volume, rolled her window down to let the chilly evening breeze fill the car and make her hair swirl, and drove.

  We didn’t say a word to one another, just sang songs together until Kat pulled into my driveway and thumbed the volume down on the stereo.

  “So, uh ... thanks again for coming,” she said. “It’ll be fun.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Who knew painting a fake castle with a bunch of awkward drama nerds could be a good time.”

  “Oh, come on,” she said softly. “They’re not that bad.”

  “No, I guess they’re not.” And the image of Kat reacting to Arwen’s frank mention of her girlfriend popped into my head, followed by the image of Kat and Arwen in the car, pretending not to be close despite what I knew to be contrary.

  I opened my mouth to say more. Now was the perfect time to tell Kat what I’d seen. I didn’t care that she liked girls. I was happy that she found Arwen. Though I now wondered how they’d found each other. I wanted very much to ask Kat about it.

  The soft, tinkling chime of Kat’s phone stopped me. The phone, in its bloodred case, rested on the seat between us. It was closer to me than Kat, nearly touching my leg. Its screen glowed bright. Kat snatched the phone up before I could hand it to her. She looked at the message, then clicked it off. The blue glow illuminating her face winked out.

  “Ugh,” she said. “My mom’s texting me.” And just the way she said it, so off-handed and un-Kat-like, made me not believe her.

  I knew it was Arwen.

  She still doesn’t want me to know.

  I reached over the seat and grabbed my backpack. “See ya tomorrow,” I said as I opened the door.

  “Yeah,” Kat said, phone still clutched in her hand. “See ya.”

  Mom and Dad were in their usual spots in the downstairs family room. The two of them lounged on the couch, watching some silly reality dating show. The pained look on my dad’s face said it all: tonight’s viewing pleasure was Mom’s choice. Ike and Beck were already in bed.

  “So what were you and Kat up to tonight?” my dad asked. His voice pleaded with me, like he desperately wanted someone to talk to him about something other than what he’d been subjected to.

  “Drama club,” I answered. “Then pizza at the Palace.”

  Dad laughed.

  I didn’t crack a smile.

  “Wait,” he said, sitting up, “Seriously?”

  “Yeah, seriously,” I said. “Kat and I volunteered to help paint some sets. NBD.”

  “That’s wonderful,” Mom said.

  “Yeah, well, don’t get used to it.” I smiled, then retreated to my room to relax. There was homework in my bag—some Civics worksheets from Mrs. Voss—but I wasn’t planning on doing them.

  After scrolling through my phone, more bored than ever, I found myself walking down the hall to my dad’s office. It was dark and musty and cluttered with shelves of books. Both of my parents were avid readers, and their collection practically spilled out into the hall. I clicked on the light and rummaged around until I found a thick, dusty hardcover made of dark blue leather.

  The Annotated Plays of William Shakespeare.

  I took the hefty book back to my room, laid down on my bed, and cracked it open. Romeo & Juliet was somewhere in the middle. The book’s tiny font and numerous footnotes made it more than intimidating to read.

  But I tried anyway.

  I was slogging through Act One when my phone buzzed on the nightstand.

  Bzzzt-bzzzt. Bzzzt-bzzzt.

  I rolled over and checked.

  It was from Coen.

  HAVE FUN HANGING W UR NEW FRIENDS?

  “Great,” I muttered. I tossed the phone back down. I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of responding.

  And then another text came in.

  U SWITCHING TEAMS? INTO GIRLS NOW?

  This one made my cheeks burn red and my hands shake. Coen was an idiot, and I regretted ever agreeing to go on a date with him, let alone calling him my boyfriend for two months.

  I picked up my phone. Set it down. Picked it up again. Typed.

  LEAVE ME ALONE, JERK.

  I flung my phone toward my open closet door where my laundry basket sat overflowing like a cotton-spewing volcano. The phone struck with a quiet thunk, then slid down between the clothes. I wasn’t going to poke the stupid bear.

  After, I couldn’t quite seem to concentrate on Bill Shakespeare. It was giving me a headache. So I slammed the book closed, changed into some pajamas, and instead of completing my nightly routine of checking my phone to see if Kat had any final thoughts on the day, I rolled into bed.

  I already knew the only texts I’d see would be the ones from Coen.

  CHAPTER SIX

  My dad had a two-honk rule. If Ike, Beck, or I was running late for school and Dad was in the car, ready to leave for work, he’d honk. If we didn’t make it out before honk number two, we’d have to take the bus. Dad’s commute was already forty-five minutes in gridlock. If we ran late, so did he.

  So the next morning, when I heard the second honk, I panicked. I hated the bus, despised being trapped inside a giant metal deathtrap, surrounded by kids I didn’t like. I ran through the kitchen, wet hair and all, grabbed my backpack off the hook by the door, and barged out into the garage, leaving the brown bag lunch my mom so lovingly made before she left for her own early-morning commute sitting on the counter.

  And that’s why, when the lunch bell rang that afternoon, I was forced to eat the least vile cafeteria food I could find. I opted for a salad drowning in sunflower seeds and French dressing and a ham and Swiss sandwich wrapped in cellophane.

  On days when I didn’t bring lunch, Kat and I would typically duck out and drive down to the bagel shop. Lots of older kids did. But Kat had a doctor’s appointment that day and wasn’t going to be back until the afternoon.

  I searched the crowded cafeteria for a spot to sit. There was an empty table near the back, hidden from view by a brick pillar.

  Perfect.

  As I wove through the rows of tables, though, I spied Arwen sitting by herself at the end of a table. She had her head down, hair falling in front of her face, writing in a notebook. She didn’t see me. I could waltz right past her and she wouldn’t notice.

  I stopped. Fought with myself. Sighed.

  “What are you doing?” I asked myself as I changed course and abandoned the empty table and all its solitary glory.

  I dropped my tray on the table acro
ss from Arwen and sat. She jolted up, sweeping her hair away from her face with one hand while closing the notebook with the other. Its red cover was filled with doodles, arrows and cubes and stuff.

  “Oh,” she said when she saw who’d broken her concentration. “Hi, Dessa.”

  “Hey.” I began to unwrap my sandwich, knowing already that I wasn’t going to eat much of it. “Where’s the rest of the DC-ers?”

  “Late lunch bell,” she said. Then, after a long pause, “Um ... where’s Kat?”

  “Doctor.”

  “Oh.”

  I felt completely out of place sitting with Arwen. We had nothing in common. Well, one thing, and I suppose that was why I was there. I wanted to find out what made this girl so special. What made her tick. What attracted a girl like Kat to her.

  I nodded at the closed notebook. “Whatcha writing?”

  Arwen chewed on her bottom lip, like she was trying to decide whether or not to trust me. “It’s ... a short story for English class,” she said. I still couldn’t tell if it was the truth or not. She had her guard up, and I couldn’t blame her. This was the most we’d ever spoken.

  “Cool.” I broke off a piece of cold and slightly soggy bread and popped it into my mouth. I immediately regretted it. “You write a lot?”

  Arwen shrugged. “Yeah, I guess.”

  I felt like I was in one of those interrogation scenes on a cop show, like I was trying to pry valuable information out of a suspect. I decided to go right to the heart of the matter.

  “So during the chatter at the Palace, I heard you have a girlfriend,” I said. “That’s cool.”

  That did it. Arwen sat back in her chair. Crossed her arms at her chest. Protective. “Yeah,” she said, hesitant.

  “Look, I’m not judging,” I said, throwing my hands up, palms out. “Nobody has the right to judge anyone else. Not unless they’ve walked a mile ... or whatever.” Arwen looked around, probably wishing the second lunch bell would ring and her real friends would show up and save her. “How’d you meet?” I asked.

  She bit her bottom lip again. If I was playing poker against her, I’d know her tell right away. “Oh ... ” she started, “Mrs. Updahl grouped us together for a creative writing assignment. We met one day after school, and the other two kids flaked on us.”

  I remembered this part of Updahl’s class. I was in a different period, so I had been grouped with Luke Best, Ramona, and Erika Wenk, a violin-playing orchestra girl. It had happened near the start of the school year, almost two months ago.

  Is that how long Kat’s been keeping this from me? I wondered, that stab of hurt finding my heart again.

  Arwen was still talking. “ ... and then we just got to talking and ... well ... ”

  “So she goes to Brookstone?” Like I didn’t know the answer.

  Arwen’s cheeks flushed red, as though she’d revealed too much already. “Yeah. But, like ... don’t tell anyone, okay? Not yet. She’s not out or anything.”

  I pressed my index finger and thumb together, then mimed zipping my lips closed. “And I’m tossing out the key,” I said.

  And then the table shifted. It felt like an earthquake jolted us back. My tray skidded off the table, into my lap. Wilted lettuce, sunflower seeds, and the gamma-radiated bright orange of French dressing coated my jeans.

  A group of boys had been walking past, Coen and Luke Best and the same jerks we’d seen at the mall the night before. Coen had pushed Luke into our table. He bent over laughing, his elbows on the tabletop.

  “Oh,” Luke said sarcastically. “So sorry, ladies.”

  “Did we interrupt your date?” Coen asked. He helped Luke back up. As he did, his meaty hand pressed down on Arwen’s red notebook. She opened her mouth to say something, then didn’t. I picked the tray from my lap. I wanted nothing more than to shove it back into his chest, smear whatever food was left on it into his ugly shirt.

  Coen swiped his hand across the table, sending Arwen’s notebook skittering onto the linoleum floor. It disappeared under another table.

  “Oops,” he said. I saw the look in Arwen’s eyes as she stood up, swallowing back tears.

  Say something, I urged her. Do something. Anything.

  Instead, she walked over past Coen and his cohorts, over to the table. “Excuse me,” I heard her say meekly as she crouched down on hands and knees to retrieve her notebook.

  “You’re a real class act,” I said to Coen as he, Luke, and the others started to walk away.

  “Hey, McKenzie,” Coen said, ignoring me, “Let me know if you need any kissing tips. I know just what Kingston likes.” He smacked his lips together as the others laughed again.

  I walked over, found some stray napkins on a table, and wiped the salad bits off my jeans. I balled them up and threw them in the direction of Coen, but he was well out of reach by then.

  “You okay?” I asked Arwen, even though all I could see of her was her backside and legs as she crawled under the table.

  “Fine,” she answered.

  A few people sat at the other end of the table, and they were doing nothing to help. In fact, they acted like Arwen was invisible.

  “Come on,” I said, nudging a vapid senior girl named Harper. “Out of her way. Can’t you see there’s someone physically crawling around on the floor?”

  Harper said nothing, but her face scrunched up in annoyance before she scooted aside.

  Arwen backed out from under the table. She had the notebook, but I could see smudges of ink on the cover now. She wiped it off with one sleeve of her sweater and stood.

  A tone sounded in the cafeteria, indicating that the late lunch folks would soon be joining us. That meant reinforcements: Arwen’s real friends.

  I looked her up and down and once more asked, “Are you all right?”

  She looked like she could cry, like the dam could burst at any moment. “I said I’m fine,” she repeated. “It’s not like this is the first time Coen Marsh has targeted me.”

  “Well that’s just stupid,” I said. “You gotta stand up for yourself, Arwen. I mean, more often than not. It’s not like anyone else is going to do it.”

  “Yeah,” she said, walking back over and sitting down. I shoved aside the goop-filled chair I’d been sitting in and grabbed a new one, wondering why I hadn’t heeded my own advice.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The remainder of the day was uneventful. I wish I could say the rest of the week went the same way.

  It didn’t.

  On Wednesday, Quan came into the auditorium looking distraught. In his hand was a stack of pink flyers. “Somebody’s been tearing our signs off the walls,” he said. He held up the flyers and shook them. “These are just the ones I picked up off the floor. I found a whole bunch of them in the boys’ bathroom next to the gym. They were in the ... well ... ”

  He didn’t have to finish his sentence. And even though we didn’t know the culprit, it was pretty obvious to me who’d done it.

  Then, as William walked into the auditorium on Friday, I could tell something was wrong. He wasn’t his usual, jovial self. But then Maisie gasped when she hugged him, and said, “Oh, my God. William, what happened?”

  The DC-ers all ditched what they were doing and crowded around William and Maisie near the orchestra pit.

  Under William’s left eye was a purplish bruise.

  “Gym class Neanderthals,” William said off-handedly. “The risks of playing handball.”

  “Someone hit you?” Quan asked.

  “Our good friend Coen Marsh, actually. We were both going for the ball, and his elbow ‘accidentally’ found its way into my eye. Yay, me!”

  I shook my head in disgust.

  “Now,” William said, “Let’s get to work, shall we?”

  And so we did.

  When Kat and I had finished painting the castle, we went to work building a set for the tomb where the two lovebirds croak. (Spoiler alert.) That was actually a bunch of fun, making the wood look like stone, building a s
arcophagus for them, and draping the set in fake cobwebs.

  The following week left just a few days until opening night. At practice, the actors all came on set in costume and makeup. Mr. Baker had them run through the entire show from start to finish. Kat and I stood backstage. “Cool,” I said. “If they don’t need us, we can probably jet.”

  Kat shook her head. “Can we stay?” she asked. “Mr. Baker said anyone who wants to can sit in the auditorium. I want to watch the show.”

  “Okay,” I said, surprised at how easy it was to convince me. “We can stay.”

  But as Mr. Baker prepped some freshmen for the fight scene that opened the play, Arwen found me and Kat sitting in the second row and jumped down off the stage to join us. “Hey, guys,” she whispered.

  Kat sat up in her seat a bit, eager to answer. “Yeah?”

  “We’re gonna need a few hands moving sets around. Do you want to help?”

  “Sure,” I said, not looking at Kat, knowing what she’d say anyway.

  So we stayed and watched but did it from backstage. I never realized what went on behind the scenes. So much work. It was like a dance. Actors moved back and forth across the darkened backstage area, lit by small blue lights. Arwen was in her element. She called lighting cues on the microphone, positioned actors, and directed us where to be for each set change.

  It was then that I saw a glimmer of her confidence, saw why Kat would be attracted to her. She looked so very different than the meek girl I saw in the cafeteria.

  The morning before the show opened, Mr. Baker held his traditional screening for the rest of the school. Much like Fiddler last year, he wanted to show a fast-paced scene filled with action. So he chose the first fight between the Capulets and the Montagues.

  Since the preview screening didn’t include a set change, Kat and I weren’t needed backstage. So we sat in the crowd of tired kids, down near the front but a bit off stage right. I noticed Coen Marsh and Luke Best a few rows behind us.