‘So, are you glad you didn’t embarrass yourself by auditioning?’
I try not to flinch. Like I hadn’t spent half the night lying awake and imagining how the afternoon would have turned out if I’d just found the guts to get up on the stage. I might not have got Juliet, but I would have had a chance at the Nurse at least, or Lady Capulet. But, no, now I’m nothing at all, except frustrated and fucked off with Eleanor and Sinclair. And myself. And – if I’m honest – maybe a bit with Val too. If it had been me, I’m pretty sure I’d have encouraged him to do what he wanted to, not convinced him that he wasn’t good enough anyway.
‘Don’t you seriously think I’d have had a chance?’ I ask.
Val looks at me. ‘Well, you’ve got no acting experience, have you?’
I shrug. ‘Neither has Sinclair.’
‘Exactly. He’s going to make such a tit of himself. No way you could want the same thing.’
I gulp. What makes him think he knows what I want and don’t want?
‘You’ll thank me one day,’ he declares, giving me a friendly slap on the shoulder as he turns away. ‘At least by the summer holidays, by the time the whole school’s laughing at that play.’
SINCLAIR
There actually are a few people at this school who are less happy than I am that I’ve got this stupid leading role. Hard to imagine, but it’s true. Next time the scriptwriting club meets, the air is so thick you could cut it with one of the blunt butter knives from the dining room. Florence looks jittery, while Amara, Quentin and Ho-wing are more despairing.
‘Romeo, for fuck’s sake . . . I don’t know how you think this is going to work,’ Ho-wing repeats. ‘By the end there’ll be a rehearsal every day.’
‘Yeah, by the end,’ I say. ‘But the script will be finished by then and we won’t have as much to do.’
‘Sinclair, I think you’re underestimating this,’ Florence suggests. ‘There are only five of us and we’re so late with the script. Any other year, the whole thing would have been finished for ages by now.’
‘We can write in parallel to the rehearsals,’ I suggest. ‘That could actually work out really well – if I’m one of the actors while we’re working on the text, it’ll make everything way more natural.’
‘It’ll be total chaos,’ says Amara.
‘I’ve been thinking and I reckon we have to split the roles.’ Florence looks at me.
‘Split them?’ I echo. ‘What do you mean?’
‘There’s a reason for having the drama club and the scriptwriting team separate. I don’t think it’s a good idea to mix the two.’
‘Meaning?’
‘I think you have to decide which you want to do.’
She’s serious. I open my mouth but I can’t speak.
‘Unless you disagree?’ Florence turns to Amara, Quentin and Ho-wing who, obviously, stab me in the back. They shake their heads.
‘That’s not fair,’ I blurt. ‘You said it wouldn’t be a problem if I—’
‘If you got abit part, yeah,’ Quentin interrupts. ‘But we had no idea that Mr Acevedo would go and make you Romeo.’
I drop both elbows to my knees, shut my eyes and massage the bridge of my nose. I’d love to say something likeYou’ll never manage this without me, but sadly I’m not that self-deluded. I know that Florence is probably right. That there are presumably reasons why the main cast don’t work on the script and vice versa.
‘Anyway, you’re in the lower sixth.’ Florence is sounding a bit more conciliatory now. ‘You can be involved in scriptwriting again next year.’
Or I could have a part next year instead. Maybe that would be more sensible anyway. Eleanor, Louis and the others in the upper sixth didn’t make me feel like I was robbing them of anything, but I still feel guilty. Besides, it would probably be less problematic because then I wouldn’t be playing opposite Eleanor. It would be Tori – because if there’s one thing I’m certain of, it’s that I’m not going to stand by and watch her putherself down like that and not audition. Even I managed to do it, and I was totally unprepared.
So, objectively, it would be better for all concerned if I went to Mr Acevedo and gave up the role. But part of me is already addicted to the kick I got on the stage on Wednesday afternoon. I’d never experienced anything like it. It was madness, and I want to feel it again. I want to forget everything around me and I want to feel that light. I’m desperate for it.
The closest comparison I can find to it is when I ride out on Jubilee or another of the school horses and gallop along that straight section of the path through the little clearing in the woods. Reins loose, slightly out of the saddle to reduce the weight. Speed, tunnel vision, going with the flow, and then the adrenaline. We’re flying. I had no idea you could feel anything like that on a ratty old school theatre stage.
‘Sinclair, it’s OK.’ I jump and look up. Right into Florence’s face. ‘You have to do what feels best to you.’
