“Okay. You?”
“Good, good.” She pops the tater tot into her mouth, steeples her fingers, and studies me. “What do you think about Shakespeare?”
“Shakespeare?”
She nods.
“Well, I know some people think he was fake, or didn’t write his own plays, but I think he did.”
Dr. Lochley laughs. “That’s a start. How many of his plays have you read?”
“JustRomeo and JulietandJulius Caesar,” I admit. “For ELA.”
“None of his comedies?”
I shake my head.
“Ah. Well, we were going to doCat on a Hot Tin Roof—we’ve got the perfect seniors for it—but we can’t anymore.”
“Why?”
Her nose wrinkles, and her lips curl a little bit. “Mrs. Bashir heard from the licensing company forJCS. Apparently someone complained about us taking too many ‘liberties’ with our production. The school got fined.”
The Toxic Andrew Lloyd Weber Fandom has gone too far this time. Though I suppose it could’ve been the Toxic Jesus Fandom.
Dr. Lochley finishes her last tater tot, then dramatically sweeps her empty ketchup packets into the trash.
“The fine ate up a good chunk of our spring budget. So we have to do something in the public domain. Something we can pull off with stock sets and costumes.” She shakes her head. “And Mrs. Bashir has emphasized that something more ‘traditional’ might help somethingsomething.”
“So what are we doing?”
“I’m narrowing it down. But don’t worry. You’ll know as soon as I do. I’ll need your help to get everything ready for auditions.”
“You can count on me.”
“I know I can.” She stands. “What would I do without you?”
As I round the corner of her office, I bump right into Cam. His phone clatters to the floor, facedown.
“Sorry! Is it okay?”
“It’s fine. Try paying attention, Jackthon.”
“Cam!” Dr. L calls, and I wonder if she heard what he said. If she’s going to tell him off. But she just says, “You have a couple minutes to talk about college?”
Cam gives me a quick sneer and shoulders me out of the way.
I shake my head. I can’t worry about him right now.
25
Without rehearsal, I’m stuck at school until Jasmine or Bowie can give me a ride home. Which means I don’t have a decent excuse when Bowie asks if I can help rearrange the choir room for the GSA meeting.
Granted, Bowie needs all the help they can get, since Cheyenne, the GSA president—a white senior demigirl—seems to haveabdicated their responsibilitiescome down with the flu over break.
“Jackson! Good to see you, bro. How was your Christmas?” Braden swoops in, grabs a bunch of chairs, and starts lining up another row, treating it like some sort of race.
Gettingbro’d my first day back isn’t exactly an auspicious beginning to the year.
