Understudy

I grab an extra script and highlight Mary’s lines. After class, I dash into the hallways and scan the crowds of students hoping to find her before next period starts. The longer she has to read over her lines, the better. I’m about to give up on my search when a flock of bright red hair catches my eye. Ms. Barlow stands in the English hallway, just outside of a classroom door, smiling at students as they walk by.

I march up to her with a quizzical look. “Hey…”

Her eyes widen as if she hasn’t seen me in ages. “Wren, darling, how are you?”

I am so not in the mood to play her games. “Why weren’t you in class this morning?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about. I most definitely was in class this morning. I taught about Shakespeare.”

I glance into the classroom she’s standing next to, and sure enough, her director’s chair sits in the front near the whiteboard. “You’re teaching English now? What about theater?”

She laughs. “Why would I teach those ungrateful brats when I can teach English students instead? I don’t understand why you’re making that face at me, Wren. You’re the one who thinks English is much more important than theater.” The two minute warning bell rings and she swoops into her classroom door, waving a hand at me as if she were a beauty queen on a parade float. “Better get to class, dear. Who knows, maybe someone will ask me to write them a recommendation letter now that I’m a ‘real’ teacher.”

Fury and hatred swell up in my chest as I walk to second period. What kind of teacher quits in the middle of the school year and then comes back to teach something else? How did the principal even allow this? And why do I have such terrible freaking luck?

By lunchtime, I still haven’t found Maggie to ask her to be in the play, but we all have the same lunch period so I’m determined to find her even if it means walking around every single lunch table. Luckily, I don’t have to take an inventory of the whole room because I see her sitting with some guys from AP Calculus near the front of the cafeteria.

“Maggie,” I say, slapping the script down on the table. It’s a long shot, but I ask anyway. “Do you still want to be in the play?”

“Isn’t it this Friday?”

I hold up the script. “It’s only three pages of lines. We’re rehearsing right after school every day with a dress rehearsal on Thursday. I know it’s a lot to ask but I’m desperate.”

She smiles and grabs the script. “I’ll be there.”

Margot cuts in front of me in the pizza line. “Hey,” she says with a small smile. We haven’t exactly spoken much since that night at Fisherman’s Warf. The regret on her face says she missed me as much as I missed her. Lying and sneaking around behind each other’s backs aside, she’s still my oldest friend.

“Hey.” I grab a lunch tray and hand it to her as a peace offering instead of pointing out that she’s cut in front of me in the line.

“What have you been up to?” she asks as we step forward, getting one step closer to the cafeteria food.

I shake my head and rub the back of my neck. “Just dealing with this play. It’s a total fucking nightmare.”

“Sorry it’s been so difficult. I know I’ve been a total bitch about it too.”

I shake my head. “You haven’t been a bitch.”

“Yeah, I have. You can call it what it is.” She places her hand on my shoulder. “Forgive me?”

I nod. “You’ll be happy to know that I’m not dating Derek.”

“Oh, I know,” she says all matter-of-factly. “I keep up with what goes on in this school. Apparently you yelled at him in front of the entire cast.” She winks. “That’s my girl.”

We get our pizza and sit at our usual table. Margot rambles on about boys and other things, just like always. After a decade of friendship, Margot has hated me about twice a year but in the end, we always make up. She always apologizes and I always accept it. My brain keeps almost spilling things about Derek, like wondering what his stupid secret crime is, and I have to keep shutting myself up to avoid saying anything in front of Margot.

Derek’s words come back to me now as I lean my head on my hand and pretend to listen to her stories about Jordan and college dorm life. If she cared about you she would trust your judgment.

“How much do you love me?” I ask, interrupting whatever she was talking about.

She peels a pepperoni off her pizza and sets it to the side. “That answer depends on what you’re about to ask me to do.”

“I’m not asking anything,” I say with a sigh. “Look, we’re best friends. You’re supposed to trust me.”

“I do trust you.” She leans to the right and bumps me with her shoulder. “What’s going on?”

I choose my words carefully. “I know you’re going to disagree with me because you hate Derek…”

“I don’t hate him,” she interjects, although she doesn’t sound very convincing. “He’s just a criminal and you can do way better than that.”