Understudy

My last class is on the total opposite side of the school, across the parking lot in one of those portable buildings because our small school is growing rapidly and the district hasn’t yet received funding to build another wing onto the school.

The whole school is empty by the time I get to room 314 except for a handful of hopefuls who auditioned last Friday. Margot appears out of nowhere and grabs my elbow with her slender but shockingly strong fingers. “Your aunt is such a jerk,” she whispers into my ear. Her breath smells like the mojito gum she chews on a regular basis. I stop short of the list, not that I can see it right now anyway since so many students are in front of it, and turn to her.

“What do you mean?” Margot knows that I auditioned, but I didn’t exactly tell her for what part. And I may have also wished her luck for getting the role of Gretchen. So if she’s seen my name on the list instead of hers, she won’t think I tried to sabotage her. She’ll think my aunt did.

“You’ll see,” she says, nodding toward the list. “I got a minor role.” She says minor like the word is dirty. “I don’t even know if I want to be the damn play with a minor role.” She flattens her hands over her zip up hoodie, which is so tight it might as well be a wetsuit, and darts her eyes down the hallway before looking back at me. With big blue eyes and silky auburn hair, Margot is pretty much beautiful in every way, but that eye-darting thing is her biggest flaw. I call it boy-scoping.

Anytime we’re in public and there’s an opportune time for Margot to be sexy/cute/witty/basically anything that will draw the attention of a boy, she does it and tries to make it casual. But the one thing that gives her away is the how her eyes will dart left and right, ever-so-quickly hoping to find someone staring at her. Like just now, when she moved her hands over her hoodie, making sure to push out her boobs so they fit perfectly over the half-zipped opening on her chest. I’m sure any guy who saw her do that would get an instant boner. And that’s why she boy-scoped.

“Well if I actually got a role, then we’ll be minor characters together,” I say, giving her a sympathetic smile. Minor character my ass. I’m totally Gretchen. She scoffs and pushes my back, shoving me toward the list. “See for yourself.”

Some girls from the marching band move out of our way as I lean in to check the list. It’s three sheets of paper and they all have Ms. Barlow’s signature at the bottom with a note reminding everyone to remember that it’s not how big your part is, but how well you play it.

My eyes focus on the list and all the noise around me morphs into background static. At the top of the list is the character of Jeremy. He’s played by Ricky Silvas. I have no idea who that is, but I hope he’s hot since I’ll be kissing him on stage. Under that is Gretchen, followed by about a million dots, which my eyes follow to the right of the page for my name.

Only it’s not my name. It’s Gwen Summers.

Gwen Summers, the girl who was kicked off the cheerleading squad for smoking pot behind the bleachers her sophomore year. Gwen, who eats whatever she wants and still weighs less than a cell phone, despite being really tall. I groan in disgust. Five-foot-ten, one hundred and five pounds. Of course Ms. Barlow picked Gwen.

Margot wraps her arm around my shoulder as we stare at the same spot on the list. “I know, right?” she says when I groan. “I worked really hard memorizing my lines and I thought I did great but she said something about me being too short.” She points about halfway down the first page to her where her name is printed for the role of Mary, the shy but super smart friend of Gretchen. “This is so insulting,” she says.

The hallway is clear now, except for the two of us. I scan the list. I’m not on the first page. I’m not on the second page either. “Did I even get a role?” I ask.

Margot shrugs and examines her nail polish. “Oh I don’t know, I didn’t look.”

I try the third page. The “last, but not least” list. The “you suck, but thanks for trying” list. And I find my name. Twice.

Prop Construction Manager … Wren Barlow

Gretchen’s Understudy … Wren Barlow

“Understudy.” I sigh. “That’s a million times worse than not getting a role at all.”

“You never know,” Margot says. “A gust of wind could knock Gwen down the sewer or something. She’s fragile.”

I laugh at the image, but it quickly fades when I see my main role again. “Prop construction manager? What the crap is that?” I pound my fist against the concrete wall. Aunt Barlow steps out from her classroom, her arms folded across her chest. Oh, god, she heard me.

“Prop construction manager is the most important role in the entire play,” she says, her eyes narrowing straight through to my soul. Margot steps back. “You’ll be in charge of creating all the sets and delegating set work to the rest of the stagehands.”

“Stagehands?” I put my hands on my hips. She might as well have said janitor who specializes in cleaning animal poop.

Aunt Barlow nods. “You love wood shop, so you’re perfect for the part.” She turns to Margot. “Your audition was great, dear. I think you’ll make a fine Mary. I actually thought of you when I wrote the part.”

This makes Margot perk up. “Really?” She puts her hand to her chest. “Thank you, Ms. Barlow. When do we get our scripts? I want to start practicing right away.”

Ms. Barlow steps in her class and reaches inside a box with a Kinkos logo on it, grabbing two newly bound copies of her script. “Here you go, ladies.” Margot beams as she holds her copy close to her chest. “This is so exciting!” she squeals before she tells me bye, kissing me on each cheek like a true actress.

The air thickens as soon as I’m alone with my aunt in the hallway. Her six foot frame seems a foot taller as she stares at me. “Is something wrong?” I ask.

She peers at me over the top of her purple cat eye glasses. “I was in the teacher’s lounge earlier.”

I swallow. She’s going to make me press for information, so I might as well get it over with. “Okay?”

“You’re one of the ten finalists for the scholarship at the Art Institute.”

“Why are you saying that like I’m in trouble?” I ask. Ever since two years ago when I got mono over Christmas break and spent the entire three weeks watching HGTV home remodeling shows, I’ve wanted to go to college for interior decorating. And the Art Institute of Lawson is the best college around, but my parents can’t afford it without this scholarship.

Ms. Barlow gives a melodramatic sigh. She walks around her classroom, dragging her fingers over desktops ask she goes. She stops at a framed photo of her performing on Broadway. “I’m proud of you for following your d