OLIVIA’S MIND RACED WITH CHARACTER POSSIBILITIES AS Mr. Cunningham wheeled the television 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 arm. “Hard but fun. Don’t worry, I’ll help you with your lines.”
“Actually,” Amber said, leaning over Peanut possessively. “I’ll help 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 listened attentively 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 to 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. “Sorry!” 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 Father 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, “to find DGM.”
