Understudy

He takes the book and flips through all one hundred pages with his thumb. “That’s a lot of work.”

“It’s easy work.”

“Still a lot.”

I almost expect him to slam the door in my face, but to his credit, he doesn’t. “I can’t do this, Wren. It’s too much work.”

“If you can play video games all night you can do this damn work.”

He shrugs.

I resist the urge to dropkick him. “I can’t believe you. Look, I’ll do the work for you and you turn it in, okay?”

“Your handwriting is too neat. She’ll know I didn’t do it.”

“I’ll write with my left hand.”

He considers this a moment and then shakes his head. “Don’t bother. I don’t want to be in the play anymore.”

“Are you kidding me? You love the play!” He had his lines memorized before anyone else. What the hell is wrong with him?

He scratches his elbow. “Look. I can’t. I thought she liked me but she doesn’t. She’s not gonna get rid of that stupid boyfriend of hers. I can’t be around her anymore.”

Sudden realization hits me, followed by blind rage. He doesn’t want to be in the play because he can’t date Gwen? What the hell is wrong with everyone in this damn school? I grip the doorframe to steady myself.

“It’s just a play and it’s almost opening day. You can’t quit on me.”

“I—I don’t know,” Ricky says, his face softening when he sees my reaction. I seize the moment and force some tears to start in the corner of my eyes. With my state of mind lately, it doesn’t take much. He groans. “Okay. No. Well, I don’t know. I’ll think about it, okay?”

“I’m counting on you,” I say, staring him in the eyes. The more guilt I can lay on him, the better. “I’ll do all this math work for you and you will turn it in, okay? Even if you ruin my life by quitting the play, you should at least use this to get a passing grade. You don’t need to ruin your chances of graduation, too.”

His lips press into a thin line. “I’ll do the stupid play,” he says under his breath. “But I swear to god I hope her boyfriend drops dead. He treats her like shit, you know.”

I nod as relief falls over me. With any luck, Ricky will be back with us by the end of the week and I can go back to hating Derek without watching him make out with another girl every day. I jog to my car before he can change his mind, or worse—tell me more things about his pathetic crush on Gwen.

There’s only a few days to go until opening day. Next Friday night will be the biggest day of my high school career. The day after is prom. Funny, how I always imagined I’d be going to prom as a senior, and I never imagined I’d be a school play, yet my real life ended up being exactly the opposite.

My phone lights up as soon as I get home. It’s a text from Ricky.

Thanks for doing the math work. I don’t want to let you down, boss.

Mom sits up in bed watching an ancient Cary Grant movie in black and white. The oldness of the film contrasts with the newness of her LCD widescreen. Dad bought it for her as a peace offering when she complained of sleeping all alone since he started working the night shift. She smiles at me when I knock on the doorframe, so I take it as a sign to come in and plop next to her in bed.

My back rests against the headboard—plywood with beige paisley fabric covering six inches of thick foam I bought at the craft store with a fifty percent off coupon. Mom’s headboard is my prototype. It has curved corners that aren’t quite symmetrical thanks to my freshman rotary saw skills, and the fabric bunches at the sides where I grabbed and stapled it to the back of the plywood. It’s totally unprofessional but Mom likes it anyway. The foam headboard in my room is a thousand times better, built by yours truly with two years of woodshop under her belt.

Mom’s hand brushes through my hair. “What’s on your mind?”

“Nothing,” I say, just as the words Derek kissed Gwen, and Ricky is a moron float through my mind.

“Doesn’t seem like nothing.” The look on her face tells me she knows more than she lets on and I’m overcome with embarrassment at the idea that she could have heard me crying into my pi

llow earlier.

“I understand why Aunt Barlow had that nervous breakdown,” I say, leaning to the right so Mom will keep playing with my hair. “Directing the play is the hardest, most unrewarding thing I’ve ever done. I don’t blame her for quitting.”

“I wouldn’t call getting your recommendation letter unrewarding.”

“Whatever you say, Mom.” She’s right, but I refuse to acknowledge that because I still think that if we were in a big city I could find a lawyer to sue for my mistreatment by Principal Walsh. Students shouldn’t be coerced into extracurricular activities. But no one around here cares about that.