“Thank you.” Mr. Butrow cuts off the girl on stage.
She looks down at her red heels.
“I said, thank you,” the teacher says.
She scurries off of the stage, covering her face. Yup. That’s why we call him, Mr. Butt Row. He is a great teacher but is also a premier-class asshole.
He looks over his shoulder and pushes his glasses back up. “Next.”
A short girl in tight jeans and a tighter blouse hurries to the stage. “Hi, I’m number five on the list, and I’m auditioning for Hamlet’s Ophelia.” She clears her throat and starts her performance.
The teacher also stops this girl mid-dialog, which makes my heart throb because it means I’ll audition soon. I concentrate on my phone, but all the words in the script spell: failure. No. I am panicking again. I take a breath, then exhale it slowly.
I read Marcellus’s first lines. “And liegemen to the Dane,” I say in the tiniest of voices, just to myself.
“Shh.” The limby guy next to me brings a finger to his lips.
I glare at him, and he glowers back.
Looking at him, I recite my character’s next line, “O, farewell, honest soldier: Who hath relieved you?”
He rolls his eyes, stands, and moves toward the empty seat at the end of the row, brushing his butt against a girl’s nose.
“Gross.” She shoves him with both hands.
He tumbles over the seats in front and lands over other people.
“Watch out, dude!” Supermuscle says from his seat—he owns this name for a good reason.
“It’s not my fault,” the limby guy protests in a high-pitched voice, scrambling to his feet. “She pushed me.”
“That’s lame, dude.” Supermuscle thrusts his six-five, two-hundred-and-fifty-pound body from his seat. “You should never blame a lady.”
The skinny guy blinks and blinks, almost on the verge of crying. “But she did push me!” he shouts, interrupting Ophelia number six on stage.
“Silence!” the teacher shouts from the front row.
The limby guy waves at the girl next to me. “But she pushed me, Mr. Butrow.”
The director stands and points at him. “You are excused.”
“But—”
Mr. Butrow raises a hand. “Leave.” He points in our direction. “You too.”
Supermuscle nods. “As you wish, Mr. Butrow.”
“Not you,” the teacher says. “Her.”
The girl next to me stands. “He splattered his butt on my face.” She shivers. “That is so gross.”
The director runs a hand through his mess of gray hair. “Just leave—no excuses.”
“So unfair.” The girl snatches her script and storms out of the theater, while Limb Guy walks out with his head glued to the carpet.
The teacher turns to the girl on the stage. “Continue.”
What follows is a blushing girl babbling a mess of words.
“Next,” Mr. Butrow shouts without even saying thanks to her. After she leaves, and no one climbs onto the stage, he asks, “Any other Ophelias?”
Silence.
“Next character to audition is…” He grabs a notepad and inspects it.
My brains goes, “Not Marcellus, not Marcellus, not Marcellus!”
He stabs a fat finger on it. “Bernardo.”
Phew. I drop my extremely tense shoulders and read my new lines again, but after a minute, I sense something’s wrong, like when entering an empty house and possibly finding a ghost. I lift my chin and find an empty stage.
The teacher cranes his neck in our direction. “Anyone auditioning for Bernardo?”
No one replies.
“Marcellus,” he shouts.
A guy, a girl, and I raise a hand in the air.
Mr. Butrow walks toward us with hands clasped behind his back, inspecting row after row. He addresses the girl. “Why do you want to audition for Marcellus?”
She stands and salutes. “I’m joining the Army after high school, sir. And Marcellus seems like a tough guard.” She motions both hands at her unathletic, not-Army-material body. “It suits me, sir.”
“Good answer.” He points at the guy. “And you? Why do you want to play Marcellus?”
“Marcellus is like this cool-kickass dude.” The guy inspects the ceiling for a long moment, then adds, “Yeah.”
“O-kay.” The teacher faces a dude in the row behind. “And you?”
My stomach drops—that dude happens to be me.
“Mr. Jimenez?” the teacher asks after a moment so pregnant, I think it just gave birth to a panicked baby moment.
“Wh-what was the question again?” I ask.
He steps forward, leveling with my seating row. “Why are you auditioning for Marcellus?”
“Because Horatio was already taken,” I blurt, my mouth acting up.
Mr. Butrow frowns. “Come again?”
Sweat trickles down my back. I sigh. “I only studied Horatio’s lines.”
“Come here.” He waves me over.
I walk sideways to avoid butt-hitting girls’ noses, and join the teacher.
He studies my face for a long moment. “Excellent.” He says no more.
“Excuse me?” My words echo throughout the auditorium.
“Congratulations.” He clasps my shoulder.
“Thanks?” I lift a brow. “For what?”
He gives my shoulder a squeeze. “You’re playing Bernardo.”
“Me, Bernardo?” I ask, mostly to myself because this was unexpected. “I am?”
He gestures around. “Unless you want to compete with all the Marcelluses.”
“Bernardo’s fine,” I say.
“Good.” He waves me off. “You can leave now.”
I open my eyes wide. “I’m not auditioning?”
“Consider this your audition,” he replies. “Now go.”
I rush out of the auditorium before he changes his mind. Everything inside me relaxes, including my stomach that lets out a growl, reminding me I skipped lunch. I pull out my phone and text Cole.
Me: Where are you?
Cole: Backstage.
Me: Doing what.
Cole: Helping Monica.
He adds a banana emoji, a reference to his favorite body part.
Me: Dude.
Cole: Let’s exchange information after school. Kumi okay?
Me: Don’t you work today?
Cole: No. Your memory fails you.
Me: Your messy working schedule confuses me.
Cole: You sound like my mother.
Me: Whatever. See you at Kumi’s.
Kumi Taco is our favorite Korean Tex-Mex hole-in-the-wall joint.
Later, much later, after hours of classes I fail to register, I drive my Jetta through the scorching sun to Kumi’s. I park on the century-old shopping strip and head to the one-story shady building. A sign announces the restaurant: Kum Tac , home of a e some aco. As far as I remember, it’s missing letters.
When I open the door, mouth-watering smells confirm why we love this place. I find Cole sitting at a rusty table, studying a menu. I slide onto the chair in front of him. “Dude.”
He lowers the menu. “If it isn’t Mr. Kiev Jimenez.”
I show him my palms. “Guilty as charged. How did it go with Monica?”
He raises the menu. “Your humble server cannot provide information without food.”
“All you think about is food.”
“And females.” He pokes his head over the menu. “In the opposite order.”
I raise a brow and cock my head.
“Females and food. In that order.” He looks back down at the menu.
A bored-looking waitress with white hair approaches us. “The usual?”
Cole peers at her. “What’s my usual?”
She chews on the pen in her hand. “Takito plate number four and a kimchi chimichanga.”
“And a diet coke,” he says.
“Got it.” She faces me. “For you, Korean BBQ enchiladas
and a glass of water.” It’s not a question.
“Yup.”
Our food arrives in a few minutes, and we inhale our meals.
Cole peers down and pats his stomach. “Are you happy?” He looks back up. “He’s happy.”
“Are you now gonna tell me about Monica and you?”
He raises a finger. “First, let me confirm that you got a part. Who?” The last word sounds like an owl with a serious case of sore throat.
I wiggle my brows. “Guess.”
“I have no idea.” He motions a hand. “Do tell.”
I puff out my chest. “Bernardo.”
He winces. “That’s a shit part.”
“Better than nothing.” I scoff. “Horatio was taken, remember?”
“About that.” His eyes lock on mine.
“What.”
“Horatio is related to the information I want to give you.” He leans forward. “I know who’s playing Horatio.”
I inch forward and motion for him to elaborate.
Cole places a hand against his heart. “I’m in love.”
“With all the girls in school.” I lean back. “I know that, dude. Answer me.”
He shakes his head. “I’m in love with Horatio.”
“C’mon.” I reach across the table and shove him. “You changed your sexual preferences in the last couple of hours?”
“No.” He shoves me back. “She’s super-duper-jumbo hot.”
“Horatio’s a she? Bullshit.”
He rubs his chin. “Mr. Butrow doesn’t mind if a girl auditions for a guy’s role and vice versa.”
The girl wanting to audition for Marcellus comes to mind. “Yeah, but he’s never picked a girl to play a guy’s important part and—” I cut myself short as realization falls like an anvil from the sky. “No.”
Cole goes serious. “Yes.”
I rub my forehead. “No, no, no.”
“Yes, yes, yes, Mr. Kiev Jimenez.”
“For real?” I have to ask.
He nods. “The future mother of my offspring got the part.”
“For real-real?” I know it’s stupid to ask again, but I have to confirm it.
He narrows his eyes. “Monica Serrano is Horatio.”
Chapter Four
Lia + Hat
“Seriously, Barnabas, can you safety pin my eyelids open? I mean, did we really have to leave for school so early this morning?” I whine in Barnabas’s ear as we walk away from his car toward the school building. It’s still a little dark outside, so the hotter-than-Hades sun hasn’t made its way out yet to burn away my flesh.
Barnabas’s body gives a false shiver. “That’s disturbing, even for me.” He pauses to think about it. “But I could always try wooden clothes pins.”
“Now that would be revolting.” I’m still completely exhausted from last night. We stayed at my dads’ place for a long while, and Barnabas’s cookies were the most delectable food product I have ever tasted. They were red-to-the-freaken-velvet perfection.
Then I left Dad and Dom’s a little after nine to head back to my mom’s apartment. Mom had to keep talking while all I wanted to do was finish Mario part two. But I did get my game time in eventually—maybe a little too much, since I’m paying for it now.
“You know you didn’t have to leave early with me this morning. You do have a car, remember?” Barnabas elbows me in the upper arm, and I slap his fingertips hard.
“I know, but that would require me having to focus while driving to and from school. My brain is too fried for that.” I swear I’m not a lazy person—most of the time. I’m actually the one who usually drives us to school, so Barnabas can save on gas because his mom requires him to work for everything. Even though she still gives him the money.
“So, why are you putting in more harp time than usual?” I ask while adjusting my backpack.
I know his parents want Barnabas to be number one at everything, especially his mom. I can hear her now. “Barnabas Kemrin Lao, you need to get an A, A, A! Only As in this house.” She shakes her finger in his face. “You fail in life if you make eighty-nine on paper. Why you wear black all the time? You want to be loser?”
“All-State auditions are coming up soon,” he says, looking at me now, “and Ma says if I don’t finish number one, I’ll fail at life.” Laughing, he shakes his head, easily brushing off the stuff his mom says. She only wants the best for Barnabas, but she needs to relax on him a little.
We reach the school building, and Barnabas pulls the glass door open for me. He shuffles inside wearing another pair of his black goth pants that should be forbidden from any place. But I keep my mouth shut this time. “You’re already the best harpist in the school.” I shake my fist in front of his face. “So, you can do it.”
Sucking in his lower lip, Barnabas bites on it, and holds back his grin. “I’m the only harpist in the whole school, Lia.”
“Exactly.”
We turn down the orchestra hallway, and there are only a couple kids scattered down it. Barnabas stops in front of the door to the classroom. “Well, this is my stop. You want to come in or go be a loner?”
I would go in there to finish my homework, but then I would get too distracted by Barnabas’s playing, and would need to sit back and watch.
“I’m going to go and be a loner. Plus, I have to finish my math homework before fourth period.”
“Do we need to find you a gamer’s anonymous class?” Barnabas raises a black eyebrow.
“Hey, I may play video games some.” I dart my eyes back and forth. “Okay a lot. But. I maintain decent grades. A steady straight-B report card, to be exact.”
“You tell my mom that.”
“I actually have, and she congratulated me.” She even gave me two fortune cookies from the restaurant they own.
“Of course, she would say that.” He laughs and strolls into the classroom with a weird peace sign hand movement. I roll my eyes at him, straighten my hat, and head down the hallway.
Twisting my backpack around, I unzip the pocket and pull out my cellphone. Perfect, thirty minutes until class starts.
I take a right when I hit the end of the hallway and head straight for the cafeteria. There are some kids already there socializing, fiddling around with their phones, or who knows what.
An empty table pulls into my vision first, and I take it, flopping my backpack on top. I yank out my math homework, which only has five problems left, so not as bad as I thought.
The numbers in my head cease their calculations as I reach the last problem, when a shadow hovers over me. Ignoring the person, I finish my last math problem then look up.
Sophie Mattox. Her curly, blonde hair practically bouncing even though she’s standing perfectly still, creepily.
“Yes?” I close my notebook and stuff it back inside my backpack.
Her big blue doll eyes are all glammed up with too much liquid black eyeliner. Almost every girl in the school thinks they have to wear it that way, along with the weird eyebrow makeup she has going on. It’s also cliché, but she does have on a cheerleader uniform as well. I’m nice enough to not roll my eyes on the outside, but on the inside, I roll them twice.
She smiles widely with beaming white teeth poking out. “Hey, Lia, what’s going on?”
I want to say, What’s going on back in third grade because that’s when we last talked. But I’m semi-nice enough to keep it reeled in. Sophie wasn’t ever mean per se—she just stopped talking to me when the cooler kids came around. But instead I say, “Oh, not much, just living the dream, being at school and all.”
Her smile grows full-blown. “I know, right? I love school. Speaking of love? Are you ready for Piggy Palooza? I am so excited.” She slaps her hands down on the cafeteria table. I stare at them with my lips puckered, since she did just vibrate the whole table.
“I’m going to pass on that,” I say. I’m not sure what we’re doing here, or if we’re in a time warp I don’t ever want to revisit. Can I have my solitude back?<
br />
“So … anyway,” she drags out, “your friend Barnabas.”
And, there’s my answer, folks.
“I was wondering if he’s single?”
You’ve got to be freaking kidding me. “He is.” I purse my lips tightly.
Sophie chews on the edge of her lip and smiles excitedly. “Would you ask him if he wants to go to the Piggy Palooza kickoff party with me Friday night?” she asks shyly, rubbing her toe against the tile.
Tilting my head in the direction of the orchestra hallway, I say, “Why don’t you go ask him yourself? He’s in the practice room in the orchestra classroom.”
“Oh, I couldn’t do that. Can you ask him? Please? I’ll owe you one,” Sophie begs.
I’d do anything right now to get this girl away from me. “Fine.”
“Okay, I’ll wait right here.” With her index finger, she taps the table twice for emphasis.
I didn’t mean right this second. But at least she won’t be following my ass down the hall, all breathing down my neck—because she seems like that type. She shouldn’t be scared to talk to Barnabas, anyway—it’s not like he would say no. I mean, who’s going to shoot Sophie down?
When I reach the door to the classroom, I head inside to the practice rooms and find Barnabas. I press my head against the glass and peer inside. He’s strumming the strings with his eyes shut, looking like an avenging angel with a harp. Swinging open the door, I smile to myself.
His eyes stay closed as I approach him, and black nail-polished fingers continue to strum.
Climbing the three steps, I reach Barnabas and tap his shoulder. “Hey, Barnabas.”
His eyes flicker open, and his arms fall to his sides. “Back already?” He grins.
“Shut up, Barnabas.” I laugh. “Anyway, so Sophie Mattox is too scared to come ask you herself this question. Do you want me to go ahead and tell her you’ll go with her to the shitty Piggy party Friday night?”
Barnabas’s head whips to mine so fast, giving me a cringe like I just told him he would have to eat dog vomit for lunch. “Um … no.”
“What? You don’t want to be the prince to take the princess to the ball?”
“Have you seen those eyebrows? Those drawn-on caterpillar brows would haunt my dreams, possibly forever.” He shudders.
“Are you gay, Barnabas? Give it to me straight. You know I wouldn’t care—I do have two awesome dads.” I don’t think anyone has ever shot Sophie down.
Bacon Pie Page 3
