Crushed. Heartbroken.
“Don’t worry. You’ll get in.” He gives me a wicked smile. “Maybe Cam didn’tpay his duesenough.”
I honk out a laugh, then cover my mouth, because I don’t want Dr. L to hear me.
Liam’s smile softens. He reaches behind me and tucks in my tag, fingers brushing the back of my neck. “These tags are out of control. If I get a role, you should let me cut them all off.”
“No way, then the little corners will itch.”
“Oh. Well, we can’t have that.” He bites his lip.
“Who says you get another reward for getting a role, anyway?”
His smile turns into a smirk. He’s still standing close to me, warming me with the body heat he always throws off like a furnace.
“You’re saying I don’t get one?”
Is he flirting with me?
He can’t be.
I’ve been down this road before. Thought he was flirting, thought there was something between us, only to find out I’d read him wrong. That day in the catwalk, when I felt something— and thought maybe he did too—he’d already agreed to go out with Jasmine.
I keep wishing for something that’s never going to happen. I must’ve smelled too many paint fumes in the scene shop while I was inventorying the flats. Or maybe the school has a carbon monoxide problem and I’m actually getting poisoned. The catwalk isn’t nearly as well ventilated as it should be.
“What am I going to do with you, Jacks?” he asks, shaking his head.
I roll my eyes. “I don’t know, but if you’re not careful I’ll start using some of Jasmine’s shmoodie recipes.”
He laughs, giving a theatrical little shudder. But then his smile fades.
I don’t know why I decided to bring up my sister. But the memory of her will always be hanging between us.
“Sorry.” I clear my throat. “I didn’t—”
“It’s fine.” He waves me off, but his mouth has gone all tight. “It is what it is.”
Still, I want to crawl back into the little hidey-hole in the catwalk, cover myself inasbestosdust and disappear. Live my life as the Phantom of the Little Theatre. Pine after Liam from the shadows. Make friends with the mice.
Actually, maybe that last one is more Disney than Andrew Lloyd Weber. Though it turns out both Toxic Fandoms are equally litigious.
“Hey. You need a ride home?”
I shouldn’t.
“Sure.”
I can’t help myself.
28
After a tense week of auditions and callbacks—all the seniors stressing about their last show ever—Dr. Lochley works her usual Friday afternoon magic. When the last bell rings, the cast list is up and she’s out of the building before anyone even realizes she’s gone. She printed it on regular paper this time, not a huge banner, so the actors crowd around the Theatre Board to see it.
It seems that Dr. L decided some malicious compliance was in order. Mrs. Bashir said to do something more traditional—and it was tradition, in Shakespeare’s time, for women’s roles to be played by men.
Because right at the top of the cast list:
Viola—Liam Coquyt.
