“You’re auditioning?”
He nods, blushing a little. “I thought it would be fun.”
I glance at Bowie, whose eyebrows are arched in surprise, then back at Liam.
“Oh. Okay then.”
Liam gives me another smile; his smooth arm brushes mine as he heads down the hall, so warm it makes me shiver. I stare at his back for a moment—it’s wide and strong from all the swimming, straining the shoulder seams of his shirt—then turn back to Bowie and switch to sign.
“What is he doing?”
“Auditioning, I guess.”
“But that’s—” A terrible idea.
“What’s the worst that could happen? He doesn’t get a part?”
It’s the fall musical—Jesus Christ Superstar—so everyone who auditions is pretty much guaranteed a role in the chorus if they want one. Especially if they’re a senior. But Bowie’s in the GSA; they don’t understand the cutthroat politics of senior actors.
As a techie (and a junior) I’ve beenexcludedable to avoid most of it.
“Whatever,” I finally mutter.
“You need a ride today?”
“Jasmine’s got me. Thanks.”
Bowie glances toward the ceiling. “Warning bell. See you at lunch?”
“Yeah.”
***
After sixth hour, I power-elbow my way to Dr. Lochley’s office. The door is open, but I still knock on it before I head in.
Dr. L’s got her phone nestled between her shoulder and ear, and she’s staring at her computer with her lips pursed. She looks up at me, smiles, then focuses back on her screen.
“Well, how am I somethingsomething done if I have to remember a million passwords?” she asks. She takes off herpurple cat-eye glasses and pinches the bridge of her nose. “This isn’t the Pentagon, you know.”
She mutters something I don’t catch, hangs up, and shakes her head, which sends the ends of her graying bob dancing around her jawline. Dr. Lochley is willowy and white, but she’s got a year-round tan. She’s barely lighter than me.
“Jackson. Good. Mind giving me a hand?”
Dr. Lochley nods to a cardboard box filled with random props: a small sword, a plunger, a beach ball, a picnic blanket—and that’s just what I can see on the top.
“Sure.”
Seventh hour, Dr. Lochley teaches Theatre IV, which is only for seniors. But because I didn’t have any better classes to take, I signed up as her teacher’s assistant, which means I get to sit in on Theatre IV a year early, and then take it for real next year. I grab the box as Dr. L straightens out her desk and grabs her tote bag.
“Improv today?”
“Yeah. You want to join in?”
I suppress a shudder. Improv means lots of people, all talking over each other, and maybe I can follow and get in a joke, or maybe I’ll be lost and confused and people will get annoyed with me for not keeping up.
Most people seem to think that, just because I wear hearing aids, I hearnormally100 percent of what they say, but I don’t.
“I’m good,” I say. “I was thinking I could go set up for auditions?”
