Followers

by Anna Davies

  “Do what?”

  “Make excuses for going after what you want. It’s like you stop yourself. If you want Eric, you should go after Eric. You shouldn’t worry about Skye. Or the play. I mean, what do they have to do with you and Eric? You’ve got to seize the day.”

  “Easier said than done,” I muttered. “So, what were your thoughts on the auditions, anyway?” I asked to change the subject.

  “What did I think about auditions before I got unceremoniously kicked out, do you mean? I hate to ask, but does he know who I am? I mean, I’m not just some random townie. And on that note, I think it’s pretty lame that they’re combining Forsyth and MacHale, for one. It just seems … messy,” he said, the emphasis on the word messy making it clear that it was one of the worst insults he could bestow on something.

  “Really?” I couldn’t figure out why everyone was so against the Forsyth kids being part of the play.

  Tristan nodded. “We’ve always done our own thing. And they should do theirs. I mean, I didn’t end break early to hang out with townies.”

  “I thought no one came to MacHale to hang out. I thought they came here to expand their horizons and pad their college applications,” I joked.

  Tristan rewarded me with a smile. “Well, that goes without saying, obviously. But we’re different than them. And MacHale people don’t play well with others. The longer you stay here, the more you’ll see it.”

  “Oh, I’ve already seen it.” I waited for Tristan to ask why, so I could probe into why people were treating Andi’s death like a joke. But Tristan didn’t take the bait. Instead, he just yawned theatrically.

  “It’s early. Talk to me at noon when I’m more coherent. I think a bunch of us are going to town. You coming?”

  “I guess so,” I said uncertainly. I’d never met anyone harder to read than Tristan. “If I’m invited.”

  “You are. As of now, you’re one of us. I’ve decided.”

  “Is there an initiation?” I grinned.

  Tristan wiggled his eyebrows. “I guess you’ll just have to wait and see, won’t you?” He then used his hip to nudge me off his chair. “And you have to go. There are eight hours worth of Tweets to read and tumblrs to catch up on. Gossip won’t be found on its own. And since you’re not giving me the goods, I need to find someone who will.”

  “Seems like Hamlet’s Ghost knows a lot. Can you find out who that is?”

  “Not yet. Rule number two of journalism: When you reveal a source too early, it’s harder to track down secrets. And I’d like some more … especially since I’m not getting any from you. And you obviously have some, Ms. I-Went-on-a-Date-with-Eric.”

  “I didn’t go on a date. We had dinner. But, seriously, if you find out who Hamlet’s Ghost is, can you tell me?”

  “We’ll see how useful Hamlet’s Ghost becomes to me. In fact, I’m following him now. Or her.”

  “Promise you’ll let me know?” There was a pleading note in my voice that I instantly regretted. It was clear that Tristan wasn’t someone who appreciated showing vulnerability.

  “Of course!” Tristan held his pinky high in the air. “Pinky promise.”

  I hooked my finger with his, hoping that his version and my version of a promise were the same, but realizing that I honestly had no idea.

  Skye Henderon

  Good luck with the cast list today, Eric … not like you’ll need it. Celebratory dinner 2night? #ihearthamlet

  Kennedy Clifford

  Hope that Zach gets the hint that this semester, I’m keeping the drama onstage only.

  Zach Mathis

  @alleyesonbree I assume the non-response to my coffee invite means you’re not interested. It’s cool.

  Oops. I read the last Tweet. I’d gotten the invite from the red-haired actor/waiter that O’Dell had kicked out of auditions hours after he’d sent it, when my phone finally turned on, and had completely forgotten about it.

  I felt a twinge of guilt. I hadn’t meant to ignore him, but that’s how it had come across. And while I wouldn’t have actually gone out with him — it would have been taken the wrong way by my classmates, especially when they seemed so against friendships with townies — I didn’t want him to think I was being mean.

  I slid my phone back in my purse and focused on Willow, sitting across the table from me at Hope’s Cookies in town.

  “What do you think about sheer?” Willow asked. Eric, Chad, and Tad were all playing old-school arcade games in Peace-a-Pizza, the attached pizza parlor next door, and Tristan was still poring over the old records in the thrift store. Usually, the one-mile stretch of Main Street that led from MacHale to the Forsyth Inn could be comfortably seen in an hour, but we’d managed to stretch it into an all-day event. We’d spent an hour at the coffee shop, had poked through the vintage store, and had had an impromptu snowball fight in the town square. We’d talked about the spring social studies trip to Washington, DC; whether Keara Scott had gotten a nose job over break; and whether Ms. Robinette was having an affair with Mr. Bart, the creepy janitor who lived in the Hafner basement. No one had brought up Andi. Or the auditions. And I wasn’t sure if it was my imagination or not, but it seemed like Tristan deliberately tried to steer the conversation away from the Hamlet’s Ghost account. Whenever I tried to push the conversation in that direction, Tristan would interject by turning the topic toward himself.

  “What are we talking about?” As if to prove my point, Tristan drifted toward the tiny café table in the corner Willow and I had commandeered. “Move over.” He hip-checked me, forcing me to shift so he could sit on the edge of the seat.

  “So, please tell me you’re going to make the costumes sexy this year. If everyone has to wear, like, shapeless tunics, I’m going to die,” Tristan said, as if he were simply picking up mid-conversation.

  Willow took a small bite of her M&M cookie, then delicately wiped her mouth. “Are you going to write about this?” Willow asked suspiciously.

  Tristan shook his head. “Nope. Scout’s honor.”

  “You were never a Scout,” Willow scoffed.

  “And you don’t know anything about me. Anyway, spill.”

  “Well, I guess it depends on who ends up getting cast.” Willow turned to me. “How sheer can you go? For costumes, I mean,” she clarified. “I saw this cool curtain-like material at the fabric store I’d love to use. I read some feminist analysis of the play, and I feel that could work well. Like, Ophelia is this window into the sickness of society, and she’s covered by curtain-like material. Which, eventually, of course, is her own undoing. She can’t shake society and society ends up killing her.”

  “How sheer?” I repeated. I imagined the bright lights hitting the fabric, showing off every single curve. I put the rest of my cookie down. “Not very.”

  “Why not?” Willow asked.

  “Yeah, why not?” Tristan pressed. Even though he didn’t have his iPad out on the table, I was sure he was taking mental notes, like everything I said was being committed to his memory. It was both flattering and unsettling.

  “Because …” I trailed off, once again caught in the push-pull desires of wanting to confide in my new friends and being afraid that they might use whatever I said against me. I didn’t want Willow to think I was the lame roomie who lived in the library. I didn’t want Tristan to think I was an overeager spotlight-grabber, ready to show off everything in front of the MacHale community. “I don’t even have the part yet.”

  “Right, not yet. But I mean, who else would? I heard you were really good.”

  I felt my stomach unclench a bit. I imagined Eric’s hands on my arms, feeling his fingers through the fabric, the audience noticing the chemistry between us just from his grip. “Maybe sheer would be good,” I said.

  Willow grinned. “Awesome. I think so, too.”

  “So, what are you thinking for Hamlet?” I asked, trying to imagine Eric onstage in one of Willow’s designs.

  “What was that look?” Willow laughed. “I think I
want to make Hamlet sort of this 1930s player. Think The Great Gatsby but with more of an edge. Like, tank tops and suspenders and as few jackets as possible. I want the audience to see his muscles. I mean, because, let’s get real, it’s Hamlet. Everyone’s read it, and no one is that excited to see it. So how do you make it interesting? You’ve got to make it hot. You’ve got to make him hot.” Willow blinked her heavily mascaraed eyes at me as my phone buzzed on the table. I glanced down, relieved that Eric’s rice trick had worked, and then felt uneasy when I saw the latest Tweet on my feed.

  Hamlet’s Ghost @hamletsghost

  Darkness cloaks many of Shakespeare’s tragedies, but one thing is crystal clear: the cast of #machalehamlet. Ready to play a part?

  “Oh no,” I murmured. It was only 1:30, I wasn’t ready to see the cast list yet.

  “Bree?” Willow asked. Wordlessly, I shoved the phone over to her. “Ugh, I can’t believe you’re making me look at Twitter!” Willow sighed good-naturedly, then wrinkled her nose. “Who’s Hamlet’s Ghost?”

  “That’s a good question.”

  “Wait, what did he say?” Tristan asked.

  “Don’t you know?” I raised my eyebrow at Tristan. I still wasn’t entirely sure it wasn’t him Tweeting.

  “Indulge me.” He sighed theatrically.

  “The cast list is up.” The cookie I’d just eaten sat like a rock in my stomach.

  “So, that’s great news! Do you wanna go now?” Willow asked.

  “I guess so.” I didn’t make any attempt to get out of my seat. Just then, my phone lit up and skittered across the table.

  It was a text from Skye.

  Sorry. I thought you were good. And there’s always next year.

  The smiley face told me everything I needed to know. She’d won.

  “I have to go,” I choked. I pushed my chair back, allowing the tears to flow as soon as I headed outside. I was both relieved and annoyed Willow hadn’t followed me.

  I sprinted down Scholar’s Walk, not even realizing until my foot landed on the grass that I’d walked the entire path without cutting out early. I barely cared. What worse luck could I have?

  The theater lobby was lit and crowded with Forsyth and MacHale students, clambering over one another to peer at the cast list tacked on the bulletin board opposite the Sarah Charonne memorial. I crossed my fingers out of habit and elbowed my way into the crush of students, jockeying for a prime spot to see the list.

  Even though, deep down, I knew.

  I didn’t want to look.

  I had to look.

  HAMLET CAST LIST

  HAMLET Eric Riley

  OPHELIA Kennedy Clifford

  OPHELIA (u/s, matinee) Skye Henderson

  GERTRUDE Vivy Brownslee

  CLAUDIUS Christian Kent

  POLONIUS Rex Andrews

  LAERTES Kris Owens

  ROSENCRANTZ Chad Connor

  GUILDENSTERN Tad Richman

  HORATIO Brian Vohden

  GHOST OF HAMLET’S FATHER Mr. O’Dell

  I ran my finger down the rest of the list as the names and characters swam together. For a second, my brain remained trained on the ghost of Hamlet’s father, unable to remove the part from the weird Twitter account.

  My name wasn’t anywhere. Nowhere. Not even a Third guard or Player number three, which was what Leah Banks had gotten. Even Leah Banks had gotten a part. I spotted her in the corner, celebrating with her freshman friends. I turned back to the list. Blinked. Blinked again. Nope. I still wasn’t anywhere on the list.

  “Sorry, can I see the list?” A blonde girl pushed me aside, not waiting for an answer. I nodded.

  She scrunched her face up when she saw my eyes swimming with tears. “Sorry.”

  “About what?” I snapped. I walked into the theater, relieved that it was dark and quiet and empty. Occasionally, I’d hear a muffled “Yes!” or “Seriously?” echoing from the lobby.

  I perched onstage and hugged my knees to my chest. There wouldn’t be any late-night rehearsals or sneaking off to split a pizza. No sheer costumes or stolen kisses or calling each other by our characters’ names just for fun. No highlighting a script or spending all day pretending to be someone I wasn’t. Just weeks of pretending I didn’t care about the play. And I wasn’t a good enough actress to do that.

  I brushed the tears away from my face with the back of my hand. How could I have been such an idiot to believe I had a chance?

  “Briana Beland, correct?” a deep voice said behind me.

  It was Mr. O’Dell.

  “Sorry. I’ll leave.” I said, hating the tremble in my voice that made it obvious I was crying.

  “Hold on a second. Can we talk?”

  Could we talk? I could barely even breathe right now. I sat rooted to my spot onstage. Mr. O’Dell stepped forward. “You aren’t happy.”

  I wiped the back of my eyes with my hand and stood up. “I guess I wonder … what happened?”

  “What happened?” Mr. O’Dell laughed, a short, echoing bark. “Auditions happened. I made my decisions. I posted the cast list. And you’re disappointed.”

  “I was good.” My voice was quiet, but definitely audible. I resisted the urge to backtrack, apologize, make it seem like I didn’t mean to say what I said. Because I’d meant to say it. I’d meant it.

  “You were good,” he repeated the sentence back to me.

  “So?” My voice echoed in the empty auditorium. The auditorium I wouldn’t perform in. Another tear leaked out of the corner of my eye and down my cheek. I didn’t bother to wipe it away.

  “So you know that. And you know sometimes very good actors don’t get parts.”

  I am not looking for a life lesson! I breathed in and out, hating how my tears dripped onto the stage at a furious clip. I’d wanted to work with him. I’d defended the whole MacHale-Forsyth alliance. And now, none of it mattered.

  “You …” I said in a small voice, trying to get the words out. “You called me Ophelia.”

  “I did?”

  I nodded. How did he not remember? I remembered the cold air, the bright light, the way my nerves seemed ready to snap at any second, especially after my run-in with Skye. Hearing Ophelia had given me hope that everything would be all right, that I wouldn’t be at the center of the rumor mill because people were trying to figure out where I fit in at MacHale. They’d know. I’d be Briana Beland, star of the school play, girlfriend of Eric Riley.

  At least Hamlet’s Ghost wouldn’t be talking about me anymore.

  The thought didn’t make me feel better.

  “I did call you Ophelia.” Overdramatic or not, each utterance of the name felt like a knife to my heart. “Sometimes I call actors by the parts I’ve seen them play in the past. And you were a good Ophelia. But you weren’t an honest one.”

  Tension crackled between us. We were standing facing each other onstage, and I realized that this was the type of scene that had energy, that people couldn’t help but watch. Deep down, even I wanted to know what would happen and who would make the next move.

  “I am honest.”

  “You misunderstood me. I’m not talking about you as a person. I don’t even know you. But I do know what I saw onstage, and I know you weren’t an honest Ophelia. When I saw you onstage, I saw a high school student who had something to prove. Your stakes weren’t high enough. Ophelia’s stakes are madness or sanity, life or death. Yours were Am I good enough? How do I prove I’m good enough? Can I show people how much they should like me? You were interesting to watch, but you weren’t Ophelia. And she was who I needed to see.”

  “So now I’m nobody. Thank you,” I said stiffly. I’d meant for it to sound angry, but it came out sounding plaintive and sad. And then, to make it even more pathetic, I wiped my face with the back of my sleeve. “I need to go.”

  “Hold up,” Mr. O’Dell said.

  I didn’t want to turn back around, but I did.

  “What?”

  “I want you to work on the show.
I think it’s actually essential you do.”

  “I don’t want to be Andi. I mean … I don’t want to be the assistant director,” I corrected. I wasn’t sure why Andi’s name had slipped out.

  “Andi. Yes. That was unfortunate.” Mr. O’Dell shook his head ruefully. “But I don’t just need an assistant. I need a creative force who can help me bring this show to the next level. Elevate it, if you will, beyond a simple high school show and into a theatrical performance that won’t be easily forgotten. We want to bring in some new dynamics for a new generation. After all, everyone knows Hamlet. I want to do something groundbreaking with this production. Something no one’s ever done before. And I want you to do it. I know you Tweet, and I think you’re funny. I also think you need to do some work on character motivation and separating it from your own. I want to make you the play’s social media director.”

  Social. Media. Director. Of course I’d heard the words before, but I couldn’t understand them together. It was made up, some imaginary position to try to make me feel better.

  Well, it wouldn’t.

  And I wouldn’t do it.

  I shook my head and left the theater. I may not have had a part, but at least I had my dignity.

  Leah Banks

  @alleyesonaree OMG, Are U OK? LMK if U Want to talk!!

  Briana Beland @alleyesonbree

  Thanks, but it’s all good! Seriously, I’m pretty psyched to have some space in my schedule

  Skye Henderson

  Can’t wait to get my matinee on with Eric. Want to rehearse later tonight?

  Skye Henderson

  Eric, are you not checking your Twitter feed again? Do I have to call you?

  Skye Henderson

  Eric?!

  I refreshed Skye’s Twitter feed, inwardly pleased that Eric seemed to be ignoring her.

  Of course, he hadn’t exactly been Tweeting a million times per hour at me, but it wasn’t like I was reaching out to him. At least I didn’t look desperate. But I was desperate. I was desperately bored and sadder than I’d ever been first semester. For two glorious days, I’d had a taste of what my MacHale life could have been like. And now, it had been yanked away.