by Anna Davies
“I … see,” I said, even though I didn’t, not at all. This was even worse than being an understudy. That was the same as a kindergartener being told she was important because she got to help pick up the blocks after playtime. This was Mr. O’Dell thinking that I would actually be happy to do something like this, like he was doing me a favor. And the worst was that I was going to do it.
“I don’t Tweet,” Mr. O’Dell said, lost in thought. “I don’t like it. I think it’s for cowards. Anything worth saying needs to be said, not typed. But I also know that we’re in the spotlight with this play, full pun intended. I wasn’t pleased to have read that sophomoric Op-Ed in the student newspaper by someone who clearly doesn’t know anything about art. And as much as I loathe to admit it, we need to have a counterattack ready. And they will not batter our fourth wall with their iPhones and Facebooks and Instagrams. We will break it ourselves, one Tweet at a time. It’s revolutionary, in a way!” He turned back to his computer. It was clear I was dismissed.
“So …” I had a million questions. What does that mean? When do I start? Do I have to do it?
“Congratulations, Ms. Beland. You are the official social media director of Hamlet. Now get thee to a laptop!”
I hurried down the stairs, wanting to be able to get out of the auditorium as quickly as possible while seeing as few people as possible.
No such luck.
Skye stood sentry at the bottom of the stairs. I tried to brush past her, but she grabbed on to my elbow.
“What happened?” she asked, her eyes wide. “Did he yell at you? He yells a lot.”
“No. I’m the social media director of the play. It’s awesome!” The words tumbled out before I had time to consider my strategy.
Skye scrunched her nose. “What does that mean?”
“You’ll see. But Mr. O’Dell is very excited. We both think it’s going to make the play awesome.” I forced myself to smile, even though I was lying through my teeth. I saw a shadow of doubt cross Skye’s face, and that was all I needed. It wasn’t like she was jealous, but I had put her a little bit on edge. This could be fun.
And as I walked out of the auditorium, something even more awesome occurred to me: I’d just been given orders to keep a close eye on Eric. Maybe there were worse ways to spend Winterm.
Tristan Schuler
Calling @alleyesonbree to her room for an #itcouldbeworse gossip session. Crying encouraged, carbs included.
I saw the Tweet too late. My key was in the lock as I refreshed my phone. And before I could turn around and sneak away, Willow opened the door, escorting me into our bedroom.
Tristan sat on my bed. Chad was on the floor. Tad was lounging on Willow’s bed. “Pizza?” Tristan held up his half-eaten slice.
“Oh … I was going to … go to the gym. I was supposed to meet with Laura,” I lied.
“I saw Laura head out for a run half an hour ago. I guess you missed her,” Willow said.
“Too bad,” I said, my stomach sinking as I ran out of excuses.
“You don’t want to run, you want to eat carbs, right?” Tristan asked.
I ignored him. I didn’t want to speak to him. The earlier peace we’d forged was tentative, and I was too exhausted to plaster a fake smile on my face and pretend everything was fine around Tristan. It was too much acting.
“It’s tragic,” Tristan said dramatically as he grabbed a slice of pizza. He delicately pulled off the pepperoni slices, then blotted the grease with a napkin.
“What’s tragic? That you’re going to waste perfectly good pizza? Or that this pizza tastes like something you’d find in Tad’s sock pile? Why do we always order from Peace-a-Pizza?” Willow asked as she reached over and snatched the abandoned pepperoni from his plate.
“What’s tragic is that Tristan uses that word too much. Seriously,” I said crisply, finally succumbing to a slice. Tristan was right. The cheese was soggy and tasteless.
“Me-ow!” Tad said. “I didn’t know Bree had a mean-girl side.”
“Kidding!” I said brightly.
“No, I think it’s good. You should be meaner to Tristan. He’s always mean to me. Not to mention how badly he treats my sock pile, which I think might actually be coming to life. It moves on its own,” Tad said in an exaggerated whisper.
“I seriously have to get a single, stat. Not only for my mental health, but clearly, my safety is also being compromised by living with you,” Tristan whined. “But I don’t have time to focus on myself right now. I am turning my attention to Bree’s unfortunate medical issue.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked, the bite of pizza I’d just swallowed lodging in my throat and causing me to cough.
Tristan took in my over-the-top reaction and laughed. “Someone’s hiding something. Seriously, you got so suspicious! And I’m talking about your obvious lack of backbone. Unless you also have a secret cell-phone-eating habit.”
“Ugh, it’s too soon.” Willow grimaced. “And Bree has a backbone.”
“Recent behavior suggests otherwise. Why are you even working on the play? I thought you decided not to do it?”
I arched an eyebrow. Clearly, Tristan had sources everywhere. My social media director position hadn’t even been officially announced.
“Well, I needed to do some extracurricular. And I like theater. Besides, what good does not doing the play do? O’Dell won’t care. It’ll just make me miserable. And O’Dell wanted me to be the social media director. If I hadn’t said yes, I’d never get cast in anything ever again.”
“I disagree. And just giving in like that is making me miserable.” Tristan sighed.
I shot him a look.
“Well, that’s your problem. And I don’t think it’s giving in. It’s actually cool. I’m working with the design team and the production team to give a behind-the-scenes look into the play. But, like, in the voice of Hamlet. It’s creative. It’ll be fun.” I was lying through my teeth and I knew it, I just hoped Tristan didn’t. “I can write about costumes and stuff, so think about what you want me to say.”
“I have some initial costume ideas if you want to Tweet the pictures.” Willow hopped up and flipped through the sketchbook on her desk. “But this is not me approving of Twitter.”
I managed to force a smile. “Can we just not talk about the play anymore?” I pulled my laptop from my desk and to my knees.
“Look, I got five more followers,” I said to no one in particular. I recognized some of the avatars — Kennedy, Tad, the large guy named Rex from Forsyth who’d been cast as Polonius, and two other names I didn’t recognize.
“And I think that you can give up the ghost, Tristan. Give me the password. And then you’re off the hook for the cookies.”
“Bree, seriously? For the millionth time, I’m not the ghost. I’m actually offended that you think I was. What it Tweets is so boring.”
“Fine.” I didn’t want to drop the subject. Tristan was the ghost. He had to be.
As I tried to think of ways to get him to admit it, the door swung open and I found myself staring at Eric’s shorts-clad legs. I glanced up as Eric smiled sympathetically and held out a bag of gummy bears toward me.
“Thought you could use these,” he said, stepping into the room.
“Thanks.” I didn’t reach over to take the bag. Seeing him, holding the bag of plastic candy out as a consolation prize, only reminded me that he hadn’t been there for me right after the cast list came out. That was when I needed someone. Not now. “Congratulations on your part. It’s great. Really.”
“Thanks.” Eric grabbed a slice of pizza, then sat down on the floor. He opened the bag of candy and sprinkled the bears on top of the cheese as if he were doing something as normal as sprinkling garlic powder onto a slice.
Tristan lunged for my laptop.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“This is newsworthy!” He handed my laptop back to me.
Briana Beland @alleyesonbree
Seem
s the #machalehamlet may owe his cast list success to one sweet secret. Wouldn’t you like to know what it is?
“See?” Tristan raised an eyebrow. “That’s what people want to hear.”
“That is pretty good,” I admitted. “Hamlet’s Ghost couldn’t have done better,” I pushed.
“For the millionth time, I’m not Hamlet’s Ghost.” Tristan shook his head. “But if you want me to take over your account, let me know. I could gossip about people all day.”
“What are you saying about me?” Eric asked, his mouth full.
“I’m turning you into an Internet sensation, one Tweet at a time. And Bree’s enabling me.”
Eric shrugged. “Whatever.” He turned to me. “I’m sorry about the cast list. I wanted to talk to you earlier, especially after I read the article, but things just got …” He trailed off. “You know how it is.”
I nodded, even though I didn’t know how it was, not at all. I wasn’t the star of the school play. He was. I imagined his cell exploding with congratulatory texts. I imagined Skye calling him to rehearse. I imagined the Forsyth girl who’d gotten the part of Ophelia shyly introducing herself to him. It was too much.
“It’s fine. It’s just one play,” I said stiffly.
Eric nodded, clearly unconvinced. “You’ll get it next time.”
“Right.”
I sighed and Tristan smirked. I knew he was about to say something about how bad a job I was doing of hiding my disappointment, and I didn’t want to hear it.
“Anyway, look on the bright side, Bree. You have two weeks of freedom. You can do whatever; Ms. Robinette is barely around. Just think of it like vacation,” Willow said. “I mean, I’m around. I’m only doing costume stuff some of the time, and the rest of the time we can hang out. It’ll be fun, I promise.”
“And speaking of fun, what are we doing tonight?” Tristan asked expectantly.
“There’s a party in town. Better than hanging out on campus,” Eric suggested.
My stomach fell. This was the looped scene in my mind come to life: Eric and the rest of the cast were beginning to bond and leave me behind. I’d known it was going to happen. I just hadn’t expected it to happen so quickly. It had taken me a whole semester to actually get the courage to interact with MacHale kids outside of class. And the Forsyth kids were doing it within hours. Just another way they were clearly more talented than I was.
“A townie party?” Tristan shook his blue-streaked head. “No.”
Eric raised an eyebrow in annoyance. “Seriously, dude?”
I felt a flash of jealousy. Why was Eric bonding with Forsyth kids? Of course, that was something I liked about Eric in the first place, the fact that he didn’t seem to care about the division between the school and the town. But part of me felt miffed he didn’t see Tristan’s side of the story: That having Forsyth involved in the play had ruined my chances of being in the show.
“Yes, seriously,” Tristan said. “I chose to go to MacHale. I didn’t choose to live in Forsyth. And the idea of wandering through the woods in freezing-cold weather to hang out in some rec room sounds depressing.”
“So you just want to hang out in the dorm all day? All right, bro. Rock out.” Eric shrugged and rose to his feet. “Anyone else coming?”
Chad and Tad shook their heads. Willow shrugged. And I realized: This was my chance to be alone with Eric.
“I think it sounds fun,” I said boldly. I jumped to my feet.
“Awesome. Willow?” Eric asked.
Willow draped her arm over Tad’s shoulders. “Nah. We’re going to be boring.” Tad’s face lit up at the attention.
“Bree, I command you not to go. It will not be fun,” Tristan said sternly. “Who knows what goes on at townie parties? It’s like you’re heading out into the wilderness. You can’t even get good cell reception in Forsyth. Has anyone else noticed that?” He looked around.
Eric shook his head. “Anywhere more than five feet away from your laptop is outside your comfort zone,” he said before turning to me. “Bree, you ready?”
I looked down. I was wearing a pair of leggings and an ancient gray oversize MacHale sweatshirt that used to be my mother’s. Not exactly a party-worthy outfit, but at this point, I stood to gain more by pretending to be confident, carefree Bree than insecure Briana.
I nodded. “All set.”
“Bye, guys!” Tad said readily, clearly excited to have Willow to himself, once he got rid of Chad. Tristan stood up and slung his messenger bag over his shoulder.
“Well, I guess I’ll just go and make my own fun,” he said to no one in particular as he skulked out of the room.
“His badditude is out of control this year, don’t you think?” Willow asked once the door had closed behind him. “I swear he didn’t used to be such a snob.”
“Have you seen his coffee collection?” Tad asked. “Snob city.”
Eric shrugged. “Tristan will always be Tristan. He loves the spotlight. He just wants attention.”
“Right, and then he’ll complain about the temperature of the fountains, or the lack of hot yoga classes during gym.” Willow rolled her eyes. “I mean, whatever, Tristan is harmless, but why does he have to be so negative?”
Eric shrugged. “He can be miserable, for all I care. I’m doing drama, I don’t need a daily dose in my real life. Ready, Bree?” he asked again, making it clear the conversation was over. I quickly pulled on my parka and yanked a hat down over my still-orangish hair.
The temperature had dropped into the teens since the sun went down, and the wind stung my face. I had a momentary urge to turn around and head back into the warmth of our room. I didn’t want to explain to the other party attendees who I was, then follow it with an explanation of how psyched I was to be the social media director of the play. For that matter, I didn’t want to explain what the social media director position was in the first place. I wished Eric and I could just skip the party and hang out alone together.
“I really liked that restaurant we went to the other day. I keep thinking about it. The dining hall food has sucked this week. I had a jelly sandwich for dinner. They didn’t even have peanut butter,” I said, hoping he’d get the hint and suggest we grab something to eat in town.
“So is that why you’re shivering? Because you don’t have enough nutrients?”
“Ha-ha, no.” I tried to rein in my disappointment. “So, who’s having this party?”
“Kennedy. She lives right across the tracks, over on Duffy.”
“Cool.” My teeth chattered. I wished more than anything I could slip my hand in Eric’s. A few days ago, I’d been delusional enough to imagine that possibility. Eric himself had said he didn’t care if people were gossiping that we were a couple. But now, though he was friendly as ever, he was friendly in the way an RA or an admissions ambassador would be. There were no more knowing glances, or sly grins. Clearly, he liked his girlfriends to have star potential.
“So, are you excited?” I asked as we reached the edge of the woods.
“Yeah, I am.” Eric nodded. “I know I was kind of down on Hamlet, but that’s because I was sick of the whole ye olde Shakespeare thing. I love that O’Dell wants to make it a little more contemporary. Hamlet as a high school student, Hamlet’s father as some corporate CEO who makes bad business decisions …” He trailed off. “Look, I know you don’t think the social media director gig is that awesome. But I think it’s just because you haven’t heard his vision. He really wants Twitter to be an integral part. It’s like you’re the voice of the play. There’s a ton of opportunity there.”
“You don’t need to say that.” His false enthusiasm was enough to make me cringe.
“I’m not just saying it. O’Dell chose you to be the one to bring it to life. Meanwhile, I’ll be the one getting yelled at by O’Dell for forgetting all my lines,” Eric said ruefully.
“You’ll be amazing. Seriously, I can’t wait to see it.”
“Well, I can’t wait to see what you do wit
h the social media. O’Dell was talking all about how the play is still really contemporary because of all the lies and secrets and misunderstandings…. Like, he loves the idea of all the characters holding iPhones and iPads onstage. He wants us to imagine there’s this whole network of secrets that’s occurring simultaneously with the action.”
“Sounds like MacHale, doesn’t it?” I asked. We’d reached the split-rail fence that separated the cemetery from the rest of the property.
“Secrets?” Eric shook his head. “No way. Everyone knows everything that’s going on at MacHale. Sometimes even before it happens.”
“I feel like I’m out of the loop, then.”
Eric shook his head. “Not true. If you weren’t in it before, you’re in it now.”
“Is that a good thing?” I asked with a smile, hoping to lure some of our previous banter back into the conversation.
“That depends.” Eric shrugged. “Once you’re in The Bubble …” Eric trailed off as I swung one leg over the fence. Before I realized it, my foot was firmly planted on one of the flat grave markers.
“I’m surprised you did that,” Eric said, sliding onto the ground behind me.
“Did what?” I asked.
“Stepped on the grave. I thought you were Ms. Superstition.”
“That stopped about the same time I realized splinters aren’t good luck. Look, I still have a scar.” I held my index finger in Eric’s sightline.
If this were a play, he’d reach out, pull it to his lips, and kiss it to make it better. My mind drifted to the musical The Fantasticks. It was one of my favorites, about young love, and about how sometimes, adversity only makes you stronger as a couple. It was sweet and simple script, exactly the type of script I wished I had for … whatever Eric and I were doing.
