Understudy

I dig my cell phone out of the side pocket in my backpack and flip it from silent to vibrate, since school is officially out so I can’t get in trouble for having it. I have six new text messages, all from Margot:

2:42 p.m. So Ricky let it slip that he thinks Gwen is hot! WTF DUDE.

2:42 p.m. I banned him from the auditorium.

2:43 p.m. She’s not even that hot, you know? Skinny, yes. Skanky? Yes. Hot? No.

2:45 p.m. WhereTF are u? WRENNNN

2:46 p.m. WRENNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN it’s orientation and ur going to be late

2:50 p.m. Hurry up, slut. This play won’t prop manage itself.

I take a left and start typing out a reply asking who the hell is Ricky. I’m aware of the squeaking hinges of a classroom door swinging open, but it doesn’t faze me until I walk straight into it. My face smashes into the hard wood and my cell phone tumbles to the floor.

“Shit, Wren are you okay?” someone asks. Sharp pain sears through my forehead and tears fill my eyes, but it’s nothing compared to how freaking mortified I am. I just walked into a door. Who does that?

With my eyes closed, I rub my forehead. My cheeks are warm to the touch and probably scarlet freaking red.

“I think your phone will be okay.” I recognize the soft spoken voice as Maggie from AP English… and every English class I’ve had since fifth grade. “Thanks,” I say, opening my eyes and taking my phone from her outstretched hand. The pink case popped off when it hit the floor but at least the screen didn’t shatter.

Maggie’s face is as red as mine must be and she’s wearing those thick red framed glasses that I’ve only seen in her Facebook photos. She posts tons of photos a day, and they’re all of just her face, usually taken from holding the camera up real high. Margot likes to make fun of her behind her back, saying that only fat girls post photos of just their heads. Margot can be a real bitch sometimes. She demanded that I take down this one photo of my own head that I thought was really cute. She said people would see it and assume I’m fat. Like I even care about someone’s instant judgment of me.

“I’m really sorry,” Maggie says, shifting on her feet. “I hope your case isn’t broken.”

“Not your fault.” I turn my phone over, checking for scratches but my Hello Kitty protective case has done a fine job. “I’m the idiot who wasn’t paying attention.”

She laughs nervously. “Are you trying out for mathletes?”

“What?”

“Guess not. Try outs are today. I mean why else would you still be here after school?”

“It’s the first day of play rehearsal,” I say, still wondering why she’d think I would be dorky enough to try out for a club of math-obsessed geeks. I’m not even that good at math.

“I auditioned for that,” she says. “I wanted to be the main character but

Ms. Barlow said I was too fat.” She gives a disdainful scowl toward her gut and shrugs. “Oh well.”

“If it helps, she also said I was too fat.”

She lifts an eyebrow, squishes her lips to the side and appraises me with a smile. “That does help. Cool phone cover, by the way.” She takes out her cell phone and shows me her Hello Kitty case that’s the same as mine. I would have never pegged her for a Hello Kitty girl, since she plays sports and loves math and all.

I leave her to her mathletes try out and head to the auditorium. Members of the cast and stage crew hang out on stage and in the front row seats. I can’t find Margot or my aunt in the crowd so I chill on the edge of the stage waiting for some kind of direction. I also don’t see Derek, but I don’t look for him.

I feel so stupid for being all flirty and smiling like an idiot around Derek the two times I had seen him. He’s a criminal. He spent half the school year in juvenile detention, which is basically prison for teens. He’s just a loser with an anger problem who will probably end up in real prison one day. How could I have been so stupid?

And why does he have to be so hot?

Margot’s voice filters in from backstage, and you don’t have to be her best friend to know she’s angry. A few students jump at her sudden shriek and one girl says, “Is Margot ever not bitching about something?” Laughter fills the auditorium. I get up and walk across the stage, pushing my hands through layers of thick velvety curtains to find my way backstage. It smells like old wood and an antique store back here.

Ms. Barlow stands next to a set of ropes and pulleys, clipboard in her hand and classic annoyed look on her face. Margot jumps when she hears my footsteps but then relaxes when she sees it’s just me. “He’s a loser,” she says to my aunt. “You can’t let him be in the play. It has to be against the law or something.”

“He’s served his detention away from school and how he has to get fifty hours of volunteer work at school.” Ms. Barlow shakes her head. “Take it up with the principal. It’s out of my hands.”

“I swear to god, if he touches me I’ll kill him.” Margot shoots me a look that could slice my script in half. “Wren, you better be careful. He’s a stagehand like you.”

I nod, not knowing what to say; still feeling like someone has punched me in gut.