Understudy

This subject again? I roll my eyes. “Yeah well so is losing your virginity and I didn’t check that one off either.”

“Aww,” he says, like he feels sorry for me, but in a sarcastic way. He drops his hand from behind the couch and puts around my shoulders and squeezes me to him in a quick hug. And for a moment, my face is pressed into his shoulder and I inhale his scent and close my eyes. It only lasts a second, but it is everything I had imagined.

When the hug is over, he leaves his arm around my

shoulders and goes back to watching TV. I become astutely aware of every muscle in my body and it’s hard to breathe. His fingertips rest gently on my arm, like he’s putting an effort into not just resting his arm on me, but holding me. I concentrate on my breathing, trying to slow my racing heartbeat. His arm is around me. His ARM is AROUND me.

A shudder of excitement ripples through my body. Derek clears his throat. Panic consumes me as I start to freak out and wonder if he can read minds and is about to tell me that I’m a psycho loser. “I’m sorry,” he says, shaking his head. “But I can’t stop thinking about the fact that you’re a virgin.”

My face flushes red. “Shut up.”

He sits up straighter but keeps his arm around me. “I tell you what. Let’s go to prom and dance to some lame songs, and then we’ll come back here and lose that virginity.” He taps his finger on his chin like he’s some kind of genius. “We’ll knock out two birds with one stone. Because I’m such a good friend like that.”

“Oh my God.” I bury my face in my hands. “We are so not talking about this.”

He laughs and leans his head over to rest on mine. “I guess it was worth a try,” he whispers. I close my eyes and do everything I can to stop myself from dropping dead from this lethal combination of mortification and hot boy.

So the first rehearsal directed by yours truly was a fluke. It’s now day three of the younger Barlow directing LOVE & SUICIDE and no one is rehearsing a damn thing. Plus I think Gwen and Ricky have mutual crushes on each other, so much so that she’s quit dressing like a model every day and now wears baggy sweatshirts and leggings with hardly any make up. I wouldn’t care that the two lead actors are falling for each other if my best friend wasn’t secretly in love with him and Gwen’s boyfriend wasn’t the only football player in the school whose beat up more people than he can count.

I sit in the front row watching everyone screw around on stage for twenty minutes. Last night they ordered pizza and we all sat around discussing Lawson’s teaching faculty and who we think is banging the new band teacher, the sexy-for-his-young-age Mr. Frances. Last night was fun. Margot and I flipped through prop catalogs and searched for things we could order for the play. Well, things we would order if we had any money. Principal Walsh has us on a thrift store budget—not a catalog budget, that’s for sure.

Tonight, I have this nagging feeling in my gut that we probably shouldn’t slack off. The play opens in two months and we don’t have all the props or costumes yet, and half the actors can’t remember their lines. And no one—actors and stagehands alike—can figure out how to work the stupid light board. Derek thought he had it figured out until last night when he accidently made all the spotlights green and Gwen and Ricky had to pretend they didn’t look like zombies while making out.

I find Margot texting backstage and tell her about my concerns. At least, I try to, but she won’t take her eyes off her phone long enough to hear me out. “Who the hell are you talking to?”

“This guy named Jordan. He’s twenty-one.”

“How do you meet so many older guys?” I ask, followed quickly with, “Wait, I thought you were crushing on Ricky?”

She makes a gagging sound and nods toward the stage, where Ricky and Gwen make goo-goo eyes at each other as they recite their lines. “Looks like he’s a little preoccupied with someone else.”

I nod in understanding, but don’t bother saying anything because she’s clearly moved on. Her phone beeps again and I slap my hand over it before she can read the message. “Listen, I need your help. Everyone is slacking off and we need to be practicing instead.”

“So make us practice,” she says as she pulls her hand away from mine, her thumb swiping quickly across her phone screen. “You’re the boss.”

Thinking that Margot has actually doled out some good advice for once, I walk out onto center stage and clear my throat. “Hey everyone,” I say, and unsurprisingly, no one looks at me. Probably because my voice was barely louder than conversational volume. I thought the stage and auditorium acoustics was supposed to make voices travel? “HELLO!” I call out, catching a few people’s attention. “CAN EVERYONE JOIN ME ON THE STAGE PLEASE?”

“Is it important?” Greg yells back from above my head. I throw my head back and see him crouched on one of the railings fifteen feet above the stage, ropes and pulleys in his arms. “Yes,” I say. “But you can stay and listen.”

Slower than freaking tortoises, and with more than a few groans, everyone gathers around me on the stage. Margot sits at my feet, prompting everyone else to sit and even though it’s totally weird like I’m some kind of children’s teacher or toddler TV show host, I appreciate that they are paying attention.

Ricky sits on a piece of set equipment, his cell phone balanced on his knee. It doesn’t escape my notice when Gwen yawns all casually, stretches, and sits on his lap.

“What’s this about, boss?” Derek’s voice hits the back of my ears, making me jump. With the knowledge that he’s right behind me, I can feel his presence in little tingles all over my back and shoulders.

I turn toward him and whisper, “It’s about how we need to work on this play and stop slacking off.”

He raises one eyebrow in that oh-so-ridiculously-cute way and if I didn’t know that Margot was giving me an icy glare right now, I’d probably melt into a warm goo right here on center stage.

I turn back to the crowd, my face flat and devoid of all mushy romantic feelings for when my eyes enviably meet Margot’s, and open my mouth to speak. I’m not sure exactly what to say to everyone, something that will inspire and motivate them would be best, but no quotes from heroic dead people come to mind.

Luckily, the door at the far end of the auditorium swings open with a loud bang that echoes throughout the rows of empty chairs and saves me from having to make my speech. It’s probably Principal Walsh coming to check on our progress, which means he will scare everyone into working today. My heart leaps for joy, and the butterflies in my stomach from the thought of giving a speech settle back into their houses.

Do butterflies sleep in houses? Doubt it. But that’s irrelevant.

“What the fuck are you doing?” someone—a guy—yells from the back of the auditorium. The anger in his words echoes off every surface, making its way on stage and sending a chill down my spine. The newcomer is definitely not Principal Walsh.

Gwen jumps off Ricky’s lap like he’s suddenly infected with the plague, crawls off stage and runs toward the guy. As he gets closer, I can tell by the muscles bulging from his grey tank top that it’s Gwen’s boyfriend.