“Less than desirable?” I offered.
“But your doctor still has you taking it?”
“I mean, it’s not like it’s worse than the others.”
“What else have you taken?”
“Ambien, Lunesta, Rozerem, Sonata…” I said, feeling a bit like a wizard rattling off magical words. “Valium—”
“Valium?” said the paramedic.
“I’ve had chronic insomnia since I was nine,” I said. “We’ve made the rounds.”
“And you say this is normal for you? Passing out like this?”
“It isn’t abnormal.”
“Was there anything about this particular instance that was abnormal?”
Wynonna seemed to overhear this question. She looked at me, and I looked at her. Our gazes interlocked for a staggering nanosecond before we hastily looked away, embarrassed.
“Nope,” I said. “Completely normal.”
• •
“It’s true what they say,” said Holden. “No good deed goes unpunished.”
“What part of breaking and entering is a ‘good deed’?” said Principal Allegra Durden. (Yes, like the antihistamine.) Aka Holden’s mom. She emphasized “good deed,” air-quoting with her index and middle fingers.
Like Holden, Principal Durden was small-framed—barely an inch taller than her son. Her size, however, had no effect on the sheer intimidation her presence inspired. Though she and Holden shared the same features—black hair, dark eyes, intense mouth—she wore them with a certain edge. A deadliness of sorts. Perhaps it came with the territory of employment in the public school system. It probably didn’t help that she was called in on a school holiday to assume the role of Dispenser of Disciplinary Action.
Frankly, we were lucky we didn’t get arrested. We were only so fortunate because Holden’s mom was the principal, and her fury eclipsed that of all our parents combined. The police seemed largely satisfied by her rage and handed us over without a fuss.
Our fate was relinquished to the Wrath of the Durden.
“Ezra and I didn’t break and enter!” Holden protested. “I mean, we didn’t break anything, at least.”
“Okay, I’ll give you that,” said Principal Durden. “You didn’t break anything.” She rotated her cannon-like gaze to Wynonna and Imogen sitting beside us. Together, the four of us sat in a straight line in front of her desk. Like targets in a shooting gallery. “At least you boys didn’t break the window of the girls’ bathroom to get in.”
“It was an accident!” said Wynonna. “The window was already unlocked. I’m sooooooo sorry if I happen to have a bigger ass than Imogen. I didn’t ask for this thing, you know.”
“Oh, hush,” said Imogen. “Your butt is fine.”
“Nobody is here to talk about your butt, Miss Jones,” said Principal Durden. “Having a big butt isn’t a criminal offense. Using your big butt to break the window of the girls’ bathroom, however, is. And unfortunately, Miss Klutz, you are an accomplice to Wynonna’s butt.”
Imogen’s long, gangly form seemed to be imploding on itself in utter shame. Wynonna, meanwhile, was slouching back in her chair, arms folded, blatantly manspreading into Holden’s leg room. In open defiance, Holden was attempting to manspread even farther—despite having the shortest legspan of the four of us.
“You, on the other hand,” said Principal Durden, returning her attention to Holden, “stole my master key, made two copies, and gave one of them to your best friend for his birthday. And, of course, I had to be told this by the police. Am I missing anything?”
“Um, yeah,” said Holden. “How about the part where we called nine-one-one and saved Ezra’s life? We’re basically heroes!”
Wynonna snorted. Principal Durden shook her head, probably wondering which part of her genetic code was responsible for Holden’s grasp on reality. Surely this was Mr. Durden’s fault.
“Right, Ezra?” said Holden. “Tell her!”
Oh boy. Okay. This was happening.
Imogen looked at me. Though I refused to make eye contact, I was well aware of her in my periphery. I felt her gaze. There was a soft but intense pressure to it—like Darth Vader slowly choking me with the Force.
Don’t say anything stupid, Ezra. Be cool. Think cool thoughts.
“I’ve never known a greater trio of heroes,” I said. “If it were up to me, I’d award each of them a Congressional Medal of Honor. Maybe a Nobel Peace Prize for them to share.”
There was a fine line between “cool sarcasm” and “sounding like a complete idiot.” I may have crossed that line.
Principal Durden dropped her head in her hands. Wynonna gave a sharp bark of laughter. Imogen imploded further. She looked like a dying daddy longlegs crumpling in on itself.
“See!” said Holden. “That’s what I’m sayin’! What kind of Orwellian world are we living in when the system punishes the heroes? If you punish us, Mom, then you’re just another cog in the totalitarian machine.”
Principal Durden pursed her lips. Leaned forward and interlocked her fingers. If Holden had just issued her a challenge, then she was accepting it.
“I was going to give the four of you detention for a month,” she said. “Now I realize that isn’t severe enough.”
Holden, Imogen, Wynonna, and I straightened in our seats, each of us in varying states of panic.
“How is detention not severe enough?” said Wynonna.
“Because you don’t have to do anything in detention,” said Principal Durden. “And because you’re all friends, and I would just be giving you a place to hang out. I’ve seen The Breakfast Club. I know how it works.”
“What’s a breakfast club?” said Holden.
Imogen looked appalled—by Holden’s breakfast club comment, not the punishment situation.
“Um, we are not friends with them,” said Wynonna. “I’d rather be friends with a dead opossum.”
“Oh yeah?” said Holden. “I’d rather be friends with my own wiener!”
“Oh, I’m sure you already are.”
“Oh snap! Good one, Wynonna. I am totally friends with my own wiener. We’ve shared the best of times, he and I.”
Wynonna’s face retched in response.
“Please, Holden, never talk about your wiener in my office again,” said Principal Durden. “No one is impressed by it.”
Wynonna chuckled. Holden’s face pinched into a scowl.
Principal Durden took turns looking at each of us individually. When her eyes rested on me, however, I noticed something weird—sympathy, maybe? Whatever it was, it passed like a glint of light on the highway. She blinked, leaned back in her chair, and it was gone. Miles away.
“There’s a saying,” said Principal Durden. “Hell is a state of mind. As there are varying degrees of guilt in this situation, I’ve decided on a hell that might not be so bad for some of you. And for others…well…” She glanced between Holden and Wynonna. “It’s gonna suck.”
She opened the thin middle drawer of her desk, reached inside, and pulled out a bundle of pamphlets—four, exactly—and laid them out on her desk for each of us.
The four of us leaned forward. Several pairs of eyes widened, for various reasons—Imogen out of excitement, Wynonna and Holden out of pure, unadulterated horror. The pamphlets were black-and-white, the cover art minimalist. A pair of silhouettes were standing back-to-back. Though they stood the exact same height, one was distinctly female, and the other, male. The top of the pamphlet read:
William Shakespeare’s
Twelfth Night
A Piles Fork High School Production
Two thoughts occurred immediately:
Holden told Principal Durden about my crush on Imogen. Specifically, how it all started with our fourth-grade production of Romeo and Juliet. Really, this came as no surprise because Holden had the biggest mouth on the planet Earth.
She probably thought she was helping me.
However, fourth grade was a long time ago. Not to mention, the most
traumatic event of my young, fragile life. And rather than nourish my talent as a budding actor, I had hidden it under a bushel, lit the bushel on fire, and scattered the ashes in the metaphorical Sea of Things I Will Not Do with My Life.
I had nothing against Shakespeare. At least, I thought the modern retellings were all right—10 Things I Hate About You (The Taming of the Shrew), or My Own Private Idaho (Henry IV Part 1, Henry IV Part 2, and Henry V), or Romeo + Juliet (Romeo and Juliet with Baz Luhrmann spilled all over it), et cetera, et cetera. What I did have a problem with was reading Shakespeare out loud (in front of Imogen). And performing Shakespeare (in front of Imogen). And being on a stage in costume (in front of Imogen). Really, Imogen was the root of the problem—through no fault of her own—and this smelled like all those things combined.
“What the hell is this?” said Holden.
“It’s a play,” said Principal Durden. “And as of now, the four of you are in it.”
“No,” said Wynonna, shaking her head. “No, no, no, no, no.”
“I’ll also be adding each of you to our eighth-period theater class.”
“Eighth period?” said Holden, appalled. “That’s a thing?”
“It’s an extracurricular period. They meet off campus from two-oh-five to two fifty-five at the Amityvale Theater downtown.”
“That’s disgusting,” said Holden. “I’m disgusted. Man, if Pink Floyd ever heard about this bureaucracy…”
In the midst of Holden’s conniption, and as Wynonna dissolved in a vat of denial, I couldn’t help but notice Imogen’s eyes.
They were balloons inflating with delight.
“But…isn’t that class full?” said Imogen. You could tell, she was exercising every bit of restraint not to get too excited.
The class was full. At least, it had been full. I knew this because it was the reason Imogen was rejected from the class for the third year in a row. And I knew that because Holden provided me with printed copies of Imogen’s schedule for the third year in a row, along with a note about the one class that didn’t make the cut.
I swear to god, I wasn’t a stalker. Holden merely facilitated my fantasy of becoming one.
I also knew the real reason Imogen didn’t make the cut. Why many interested students didn’t make the cut. Everyone knew. It was kind of an open secret.
Principal Durden gave an uneasy chuckle. The sort of laugh that meant the opposite of funny.
“That may have been the case,” she said, “but there’s been a few changes and several openings.”
“Eeep!” said Imogen. She raised her fists to her mouth in trembling balls of delight.
“And as of this moment, you four are enrolled.”
“No!” said Wynonna. “I refuse!”
“If you refuse,” said Principal Durden, “you will be officially banned from prom.”
My stomach was a cinder block, plunging to the bottom of the Challenger Deep.
“WHAT?” said Wynonna.
“Nuh-uh,” said Holden.
“Ooh, I hope I get Viola,” Imogen whispered to herself.
“Yuh-huh,” said Principal Durden. “I’ll talk to security and make sure you never set foot in prom. Unless you attend each and every day of class, as well as the final production—which is conveniently the day before prom.”
Holden’s face was solemn. He sent a subtle, contemplative glance my way. I responded with the obvious look of someone whose stomach was resting on the bottom of the ocean. He returned his gaze to his mom.
“Fine,” said Holden. “Ezra and I will do the Shakespeare thingy. Right, Ezra?”
Principal Durden looked at me expectantly. Meanwhile, I had temporarily forgotten how to breathe.
“Right, Ezra?” Holden repeated. There was nothing subtle about his look now. He was glaring at me.
He was doing this for me.
I pinched my mouth shut and nodded my head—because if I opened my mouth, I might start hyperventilating.
“Screw this,” said Wynonna. She pushed her chair back, stood up indignantly, and started for the door. “Screw this Shakespeare bullshit. Screw prom. I’m out.”
She opened the door, walked out, and slammed it behind her with a mighty THWACK!
The silence that filled Principal Durden’s office was tense and slightly asphyxiating.
“Let…me talk to her,” said Imogen. She stood up. “Oh, and I’m in. I mean…I accept the terms of my punishment. Um. Do I talk to you if I’m interested in the role of Viola?”
“You definitely don’t talk to me,” said Principal Durden. “I have no say in the matter whatsoever.”
“Right. Yes. Of course.”
Imogen hesitated awkwardly in the office for a moment, then rushed out the door after her friend. Miraculously, she managed to shut the door quietly behind her. There was a soft click, then a rapid clap of footsteps down the hall.
“So,” said Principal Durden, “I suppose you two will be wanting a ride home?”
“Yes, please,” I said.
“No thanks,” said Holden. “Heroes don’t accept favors from the totalitarian machine.”
“Not even for Taco Bell?” she asked. “I’ll buy, but it’s out of your college fund.”
Holden paused, mulling this over with grave consideration. Finally, he nodded. “Heroes can make an exception for Taco Bell.”
• •
Piles Fork High School was famous for one thing: its theater program. It specialized in musical theater and was, in a word, phenomenal. The best in the state. Arguably, the nation. This was multi–award-winning shit we’re talking about: the Dazzles, the Freddies, the Halos, the Teenies. It sounds like I’m using made-up words, but I swear to god, these were all real things! I knew this because Principal Durden gushed about them like they were her own greatest achievements. Every year, Principal Durden poured more and more of the school budget into the theater program. At this point, the theater budget outweighed all the core subjects combined.
If that sounds insane, that’s because it is.
Theater was taught exclusively by Ms. Cicily Chaucer—rumored to be the great (times seventeen) granddaughter of Geoffrey Chaucer. Which I was pretty sure was bullshit. But she had been a cast member of the Broadway revival of the musical Cats. She claimed to have left because of “creative differences.” No one really questioned her on that.
In fact, no one really questioned her on anything. When she claimed she needed a more “theatrical environment” for her classroom, Principal Durden allowed her to scout out off-campus locations. Ms. Chaucer finally settled on the Amityvale Theater, located in the very center of downtown. The Amityvale Theater was a historic venue for performing arts, though today was used more commonly for music, modern entertainment, community events, etc.
The school district rented out a time slot in a year-to-year contract.
As for Ms. Chaucer’s handpicked students, they were the most snobbish, despotic group of theater kids ever to roam the stage. Imagine Sharpay and Ryan Evans from High School Musical, and multiply them by nine, and that’s what we were dealing with here. They walked together, ate together, and, more often than not, made whoopee together. They were cliquish, bordering on cultish. Whenever graduation neared, they usually had their collective sights set on select individuals—a new generation of Sharpays and Ryans—whom they deemed worthy to enter their fold. All they needed was a proper blood initiation, maybe a pagan animal sacrifice for good measure, and they were no longer human. They were a superior species. They were the newest members of Ms. Chaucer’s theater class.
At least, that was the case until a couple weeks ago.
That’s when the drug bust happened.
You see, there was a reason why Piles Fork’s theater program was the best. Why they were able to memorize lines like machines and kill it like the fucking Terminator. Why they sang and danced and performed like genetically advanced superhumans.
They were all on prescription drugs—namely medication for ADH
D and narcolepsy.
In fact, Ms. Chaucer was selling them prescription drugs—Adderall, Ritalin, Moda, you name it. If that wasn’t batshit crazy enough, there were even a couple Ryans sharing an eight ball of cocaine! Although Ms. Chaucer swore to god, she didn’t sell them that.
Whatever the case, Ms. Chaucer was arrested. As for all the Sharpays and Ryans, they were pulled out of school and sent promptly to rehab.
It was all very low-key. No one actually saw it happen. However, when eighteen superhuman theater monsters suddenly fail to show up to school the next day—to say nothing of their supreme musical overlord—teenagers talk. And when necessary, they can even read the news.
Imogen didn’t know about it because she was a decent human being who rejected the idea of gossip. I, on the other hand, knew everything because Holden told me. And he knew about it because he liked to sneak onto his mom’s laptop and read her private school emails.
It later came out that Cicily Chaucer was kicked out of the Cats revival for attempting to sell cocaine to her costars. So, that didn’t bode well for the impending coke charge. As for that generous budget Principal Durden had been pouring into the theater department, Ms. Chaucer had apparently been embezzling funds for her prescription (and maybe not-so-prescription) drug-dealing campaign.
This put a heavy and uncomfortable spotlight on Principal Durden. If she was ever going to live this down, she needed to fix this. And the first thing that needed fixing was a nationally renowned theater class that was currently—and very literally—nonexistent. It didn’t need to be extraordinary. It only needed to exist. And hopefully be functioning to some degree. (And not as an upper-middle-class high school drug ring.)
Understandably, none of the existing faculty wanted to touch that position with a ten-foot stage prop.
There was, however, a young, aspiring staff member who had just barely earned his Bachelor of Arts at Southern Illinois University—a theater degree, if you can believe it—after nearly a decade of going to school part-time. Also, before his job at Piles Fork, he had a history of working in rehabs and said he could spot a teenager using from twenty yards away. He claimed he could tell what they were on just by looking at their pupils.
Where I End and You Begin Page 3
