ACT NORMAL, OLIVIA REPEATED TO HERSELF AS SHE SLOWLY walked across the quad. Peanut jabbered at her side as she’d done almost incessantly since they’d left her house. She’d asked Olivia at least a half-dozen times if she’d known Ronny. Each time Olivia had told her that she’d seen him around, and then Peanut had launched into a nervous, meandering stream of consciousness about how she had first-period English with Ronny and how she’d known the moment Father Uberti came on the PA that something had happened to him.
Olivia had listened patiently, letting Peanut ramble on, even though the mere mention of Ronny’s name was enough to make Olivia’s stomach clench up with a confusing mix of sorrow, guilt, and fear.
Meanwhile, all Olivia wanted to do was to run home, climb into bed with a king-size pack of Ho Hos, and pull the covers over her head until the horror of the day disappeared.
But Kitty’s words ran through her head on an endless loop: We need to go about our lives like nothing’s happened.
In the face of Ronny’s death, the fall play suddenly seemed trivial, but if she bombed her audition, it might look suspicious. And that would be disastrous.
She had to keep it together.
The theater was buzzing with excitement by the time she and Peanut arrived. It was an odd feeling, as if events outside the theater door hadn’t happened at all. Inside, it was all business.
“Everyone needs to sign up,” Mr. Cunningham directed from the stage. He pointed to a clipboard at his feet. “Then take a seat so we can get started.”
“Olivia!” Amber waved from the foot of the stage. Her light brown curls were radiant in the glow of the overhead lights, her face smiling. “I signed you up right after me.”
“What about me?” Peanut asked.
Amber pointed to the sign-up sheet, then grabbed Olivia’s hand. “Won’t it be fun to go back-to-back? Both reading for Olivia?”
Why was Amber so adamant that they both audition for Olivia? She remembered Mr. Cunningham’s cryptic warning and forced a smile. “How do you know I’m not auditioning for Viola?”
Amber laughed. “Why would you do that? She spends the whole play dressed like a boy.”
So that was it. Amber wanted to play the pretty role, the girl who got all the attention, and assumed Olivia did too.
Olivia nodded sagely. “Right.”
As everyone settled into their seats, Mr. Cunningham sat on the edge of the stage for a little tête-à-tête. “It’s been an emotional day here at Bishop DuMaine,” he began, his face sympathetic. “We’ve lost one of our own, a star whose light will never have the opportunity to shine.”
Olivia had to force the images of Ronny’s smarmy face and octopus arms from her mind.
“And though Ronald wasn’t a member of the drama program,” Mr. Cunningham continued, “we will be dedicating our opening-night performance to his memory.”
Amber placed her hand over her heart. “For Ronny,” she whispered dramatically.
Ew?
After a suitable pause, Mr. Cunningham picked up his clipboard and got back to business. “We’ll start with the gentlemen, since there are significantly fewer of you. When I call your name, please take the stage, announce yourself and the role for which you are auditioning, then you may begin.” He cleared his throat and consulted his sign-up sheet. “I’ll be posting the cast list at lunch tomorrow and we’ll be jumping into rehearsals immediately. So let’s get started. Mr. Greene, if you please?”
Olivia inched to the edge of her seat while Donté walked down the aisle. She was more nervous for his audition than she was for her own.
Needlessly nervous, it turned out. Donté wasn’t half-bad. He read from the script, but there was finesse to his performance, a spark that elevated him above the average high school student reading Shakespeare out loud in English class, as if he’d absorbed some of Olivia’s skills from watching her perform.
Olivia sighed as he exited the stage, her heart warm. Clearly she’d given Donté something during their relationship, ignited the acting bug in him. She’d gained so much from their time together: confidence, security, and a sense that she deserved to be treated well. But after he dumped her, she’d always wondered if she’d given him anything in return. Donté’s audition was proof that she had.
Shane White was next, auditioning for the clown, Feste. Then a steady flow of Sir Toby Belch monologues, probably due more to the character’s name than anything else, and several nervous auditions where Olivia swore she could see the script pages shaking in the actors’ hands. She was beginning to worry there would be no decent Orsinos, until Logan.
“I’m Logan Blaine,” he said, then paused and gazed around the stage, eyes wide with wonder. “Awesome acoustics, dude. This theater is tight.”
Laughter rippled through the house. Mr. Cunningham cleared his throat pointedly and everyone fell silent.
“I’m glad it meets your approbation, Mr. Blaine,” he said, sarcasm dripping from every syllable. “Will you be gracing us with an audition today?”
“Oh yeah! Sorry.” Logan ran his fingers through his long blond hair. “I’m auditioning for Orsino.”
He had no script in his hand.
“I cannot wait,” Mr. Cunningham mumbled.
Logan’s voice was strong and passionate as he gave Orsino’s desperate final speech to Olivia. Anger and spite radiated from every word, every crisp consonant and phonated vowel. He filled the stage with his presence, the house with his voice. As the monologue ended, it took all of Olivia’s self-control not to applaud.
“Wow,” Amber breathed next to her.
Wow was an understatement. The only people who commanded such an unwavering commitment to character were highly trained thespians and sociopaths, and Logan didn’t seem to be either.
“Mr. Blaine,” Mr. Cunningham said, rising to his feet. “That was astounding.”
“Thanks!” Logan said. “I watched the movie last night. The one with Gandhi and the chick that’s married to Tim Burton. It was awesome.”
“I see.” Mr. Cunningham sounded utterly confused.
The girls were next, and it took about a dozen or so auditions before Olivia realized that something weird was going on.
Every single girl was reading for Viola.
Granted there were only three actual female roles in the play, and even though Mr. Cunningham was planning some creative casting with several of the supporting male parts, there should have been at least a fair distribution of auditions for Olivia, Viola, and Maria the maid.
Nope. One after another, girls announced that they’d be auditioning for Viola, and one after another they all gave one of Viola’s main speeches.
Even Peanut and Jezebel both read the “I am the man” soliloquy, with about as much enthusiasm as if they’d been reciting Spanish verb conjugations. As Peanut sat down after her audition, she steadfastly refused to look at Olivia.
“Miss Stevens.”
Amber sprang to her feet, barely able to contain her excitement. “Here I go!” she said as she shimmied past Olivia and Peanut into the aisle.
As soon as she’d left the row, Peanut gripped Olivia’s hand. “Sorry,” she mouthed.
“What?” Olivia whispered. “Why are you sorry?”
Peanut shook her head and looked away.
Why was everyone acting so weird about this production? She remembered Mr. Cunningham’s warning, Amber’s insistence that they’d be vying for Olivia, an endless parade of Viola auditions . . .
Olivia’s hands shook so violently she had to sit on them to keep from vibrating the entire row of chairs. Suddenly it all made sense. Amber’s parents had bought her a role in this production, but they hadn’t been able to guarantee that she’d win the internship. And what was the best way to do that? Eliminate the competition.
Olivia’s stomach flip-flopped with a mix of betrayal and anger.
Amber didn’t just want the lead in the school play; she wanted to make sure that Olivia wasn’t cast at all.
“My name is Amber Stevens and I’ll be auditioning for the part of Olivia.”
Amber was cocky. Olivia could hear it in her voice, see it in the way she held her body. Olivia knew that attitude. It was the same posture Amber had copped when she waltzed into the winter formal last year wearing a thousand-dollar Badgley Mischka, or when she got “elected” prom queen in eighth grade after her dad rented out the Corinthian Ballroom for the dance. It was a cockiness that came with knowing the outcome in advance.
Amber read from the script, though her audition had been heavily coached. It wasn’t bad, per se. She used the stage, following obvious choreography with stock hand gestures. But it was lacking in any real depth, any sense of what the stakes were for the character. Still, it was better than any performance Olivia had ever seen her give. Mr. Cunningham’s private lessons were paying off.
Amber finished her short audition, curtsied, and literally bounced off the stage as Mr. Cunningham called the last audition of the day. “Miss Hayes.”
Olivia slowly rose out of her chair, her eyes fixed on Amber, seeing her for the first time in a new light.
“That was amazing,” Amber said, breezing past her. “I wasn’t nervous at all!”
Olivia didn’t respond. She needed to focus. The walk down the aisle took forever, as if the distance was elongating before her. Her ballet flats were noiseless on the thick wooden stage, and as the audience disappeared into anonymity behind the ferocious lights, Olivia suddenly felt very small and very alone.
You can’t let her win. This is your chance. Take it.
“My name is Olivia Hayes,” she said. Her bell-like voice rang out through the theater. “And I’m auditioning for Viola.”
Olivia was still on an audition high when Peanut dropped her off at home. Gone were the panic and anxiety that had oppressed her from the moment Father Uberti had broken the news of Ronny’s death. The audition had driven everything else from her mind, and as she sauntered up the stairs and into the dark apartment, she was practically drunk from the adrenaline.
She switched on the light in the hallway and leaned back against the door. One day she’d be a famous actress. Her mom would be able to quit her crappy job, and Olivia could get them a real home instead of a cluttered one-bedroom apartment bordering a sketchy neighborhood. Today’s audition was the first step toward that goal.
But now, she needed to decompress. With a heavy groan, Olivia swung the Burberry tote that doubled as her school bag onto the sofa, spilling the contents across the plush cushions.
On top of the pile of monologue anthologies and textbooks sat a plain manila envelope with Olivia’s name on it.
It must be from Mr. Cunningham. He often sent her home with Xeroxed scenes, acting worksheets, and character exercises. In the confusion of the auditions, he’d probably left the envelope near her bag and forgotten to tell her.
Eager to see if it had something to do with Twelfth Night, Olivia tore it open.
Inside was a newspaper article.
It was from the San Jose Mercury News, dated almost two years ago and detailing the Bishop DuMaine grade-fixing scandal that had rocked the school during Olivia’s freshman year.
She hadn’t paid much attention at the time. The suspensions and expulsions had only affected a handful of student athletes, no one from Olivia’s circle. All she remembered was that several coaches had bribed teachers to give members of their teams inflated grades, keeping them off academic probation. As she read through the article, Olivia learned that the authorities had been informed by an anonymous tip, and when the details of the conspiracy came to light, several students were expelled for recruiting others into the grade fixing, and a handful of faculty members—including Coach Creed’s predecessor—were fired outright.
She glanced through the list of students who had been expelled, trying to see if it had any bearing on the drama program. She recognized a few names, but the rest were unfamiliar. So why did Mr. Cunningham want her to read the article?
Research maybe? Mr. Cunningham did say that this would be an original production of Twelfth Night. If he was gunning to sell it to the Oregon Shakespeare Festival, it would have to be an off-the-wall setting, maybe the background of a high school scandal?
Olivia smiled to herself. No one knew more about high school scandals than a member of DGM.
With a yawn, Olivia stuffed the newspaper clipping into her drama notebook and grabbed the remote from the table. She’d deal with it later.
