Get Even (11 page)

TWENTY-TWO

BREE STOOD IN THE BACK OF THE HOUSE, TRYING TO ACCLIMATE
her eyes to the low lighting. She wasn’t sure what to do. Introduce herself to the foppish British guy who appeared to be running the show? Eh, she wasn’t there to kiss ass. He’d figure out who she was eventually. Besides, it wasn’t as if she could hide from John all semester. Better to take the bull by the horns.

She scanned the auditorium and saw John sitting between Shane and some redheaded senior chick Bree had never met.
Here goes nothing.

“Hey,” she said, slipping into the row in front of them.

John started as if he’d seen a ghost. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Same thing you are.”

John planted a boot-clad foot against the back of her seat. “I seriously doubt that.”

Bree didn’t like the clouded look she saw on his face. What right did he have to be pissed off?

The redhead leaned on John’s arm. “Who’s your friend?”

Bree eyed the girl. She wore heavy purple lipstick and more black eyeliner than the lead singer of KISS, and the way she touched John’s arm—so familiar and comfortable—rubbed Bree the wrong way. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

“It’s Bree, right?” Shane extended his hand.

Holy shit, he knew her name? “Yeah.” She shook his hand, praying her palms weren’t gross and sweaty.

“Are you joining drama?” he asked.

The redhead rolled her eyes and nodded toward Amber and Jezebel, posing on the stage like they were auditioning for a Madonna video. “I don’t know why anyone would want to join this freak show.”

“When you gaze long into the abyss, the abyss also gazes into you,” Bree said, carefully quoting Nietzsche. She’d memorized a dozen or so of the philosopher’s best, just in case she got the chance to drop one in front of Shane.

But instead of smiling in recognition, Shane tilted his head to the side. “Huh?”

John snorted. “I believe she’s quoting Nietzsche.”

“Oh!” Shane’s eyes grew wide. “I had to do a report on him last spring. Didn’t understand most of it.”

John grinned from ear to ear. “Yeah, Bree’s a huge Nietzsche fan.”

Bree wanted to slap the smugness off his face.

Shane smiled. “I’m Shane, and this is Cordy,” he said, thumbing at the redhead. Bree noticed that her knee was touching John’s leg. What the hell was that about? “Cordy does the promo and shit for Bangers and Mosh. She’s sitting in on class today to get the DL on the gig.”

Bree had no idea what gig he was talking about, but clearly Shane thought John had filled her in, so she flashed Cordy a shit-eating grin and played along. “So you’re a groupie.”

Cordy wrinkled her nose. “Look who’s talking.”

“Dude,” Shane said, slapping John on the shoulder. “Glad you could transfer in. This gig is going to be epic for us.” He stepped into the aisle. “I’ll go tell Mr. C. that you’re here.”

Cordy climbed over John and followed Shane, assiduously avoiding Bree’s eyes as she went. Bree waited until they were halfway to the stage before she turned to John, eyebrows raised. “Cordy seemed really friendly,” Bree said. “Why haven’t I heard about her?”

“Why haven’t I heard about your sudden interest in the theater?” John countered.

“You weren’t exactly sharing that little nugget either,” she said, suddenly embarrassed. “And what the hell is this about a gig?”

Instead of answering, John linked his fingers behind his head and crossed one combat-boot-clad foot over his knee.

Bree narrowed her eyes. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on or am I going to have to rip that boot off your foot and beat you senseless with it?”

“Pay attention, Miss Charming,” he said with a nod toward the stage. “Class is starting.”

With a series of cringe-inducing squeaks, Shane helped Mr. Cunningham wheel a massive television across the stage. “All right, everyone. We have a lot to cover today, so let’s start with a few announcements. Thank you, Mr. White.”

Shane saluted, then jumped off the stage in one bound and took a seat in the front row next to Cordy.

“Um, right,” Mr. Cunningham said, eyeing Shane suspiciously. “First off, congratulations to everyone who was cast in our fall play. I was impressed with your auditions, and I believe we’re going to have a fabulous production. Now, I want to share with you the concept for this semester’s production of
Twelfth Night.
” He plugged his phone into an auxiliary jack and connected it to the screen. His browser appeared, showing a photo gallery marked “Twelfth Precinct.”

“Thanks to the generosity of our donors, we are building this production from scratch, based on my own original concept.” He tapped on the gallery and opened a slide show. The first image was a watercolor mockup of the stage, portraying a run-down urban landscape: New York–style brownstones pockmarked with boarded-up windows, a burned-out hulk of an old sedan peeking out from the wings, and graffiti plastering every available surface.

“This is our main set. It’s a near-future dystopian landscape, based on New York City as depicted in the 1979 cult classic”—he paused and swiped to the next photo—“
The Warriors.
”

Mr. Cunningham waited, clearly expecting some sort of reaction to the production still of several shirtless dudes in brown leather vests, open to show their glistening torsos, hairless like Ken dolls. It was a seventies explosion—afros and feathered headbands, beaded necklaces, and ridiculously low-slung jeans.

“What the hell is that?” Bree said, out of the corner of her mouth.

“Oh, come on, guys,” Mr. Cunningham said, practically pleading. “
The Warriors
? ‘Can you dig it?’”

Giggles erupted from somewhere near the front of the theater. Mr. Cunningham ran a hand through his thinning hair and sighed. “No matter. We’ll be watching it in class tomorrow.” He cut off the groans with a wave of his hand. “Be thankful I’m not assigning it for homework. The point is that we are recreating a gritty, dangerous gangland. Think
West Side Story
on steroids. And we’ll be going all out—original sets, costumes, even an original score.” Mr. Cunningham waved Shane to his feet. “This is Mr. White, who performs in a local rock band.”

Bree glanced at John. “You’re kidding me.”

“Mr. White will be performing the role of Feste, the fool, and will be composing and performing original music for our production.”

“Hold up,” Shane said. “I play guitar and sing, but I’m crap at writing songs.” He pointed at John. “My bassist Bagsie is the epic songwriter.”

Every head in the theater turned around to face Bree and John, a backlit amalgam of shock and awe.

“Yes. Right.” Mr. Cunningham fussed with his phone and flipped to another screen. “Moving on.”

The rest of his presentation was lost on Bree. John had kept yet another secret from her? She turned fully around to face him. “You’re composing songs for the school play? And you were going to tell me this when?”

“You’re not my mother, Bree,” he said without looking at her. “I can go to the men’s room without you there to wipe my ass.”

His jaw was clenched; the tendons below his cheek rippled back and forth as he ground his teeth together. John rarely got angry—either at Bree or anyone else—but when he did, it was not something to be taken lightly.

Why was
he
pissed at
her
? Shouldn’t it be the other way around? Twice in one week she’d found out he’d been keeping major life decisions secret from her. What kind of friend did that?

John leaned forward and whispered in Bree’s ear. “What do you see in him?”

“Mr. Cunningham?” Bree asked.

“Shane.”

“Oh.” It wasn’t a question Bree had an answer to, even if she’d been inclined to give it. “I don’t know. He’s cool, I guess.”

“Cool?”

“Who can resist a rock star?” she half-joked.

The class began to stand up and move toward the stage, the presentation apparently over. John slowly rose to his feet. He looked down at her, his hair hanging in front of one eye. “We’ll see about that.”

TWENTY-THREE

OLIVIA’S MIND RACED WITH CHARACTER POSSIBILITIES AS
Mr. Cunningham wheeled the television off the stage. She’d be playing Viola in a futuristic 1970s New York gangland. She needed to get the movement and the feel of the character just right, without sacrificing the language and tradition of the Bard. It was a unique opportunity to reimagine a classic character, exactly the kind of off-the-wall setting that had made the Oregon Shakespeare Festival famous.

“These are your rehearsal schedules.” Mr. Cunningham plopped a stack of papers on the edge of the stage. “I want them in your smartphones before the end of the day, understood? We’ve got three weeks of regular drama class plus evening and weekend rehearsals to bring this entire production together.”

“That sounds hard,” Peanut said, wringing her hands in her lap.

Olivia patted her arm. “Hard but fun. Don’t worry, I’ll help you with your lines.”

“Actually,” Amber said, leaning over Peanut possessively. “
I’ll
help you, Peanut.”

Mr. Cunningham picked up his clipboard and stood center stage. “Today, we’ll be working on backstory for your characters. Those of you without a role, we’ll need your input as we brainstorm who and what these people were before the beginning of the play. Backstory will be remarkably important to this production, since we are colliding two universes: Shakespeare and
The Warriors.
”

Olivia listened attentively as Mr. Cunningham continued.

“We all know who Viola and Sebastian are. We know Olivia and Count Orsino, Feste the fool and Maria the maid. But this is
Twelfth Precinct
, not
Twelfth Night
. The twins are no longer Viola and Sebastian, but Violent and Stab, leaders of the Warriors gang, stranded in enemy territory miles away from their Coney Island home. Feste becomes Fist, the biker wing nut from the Rogues. Olivia is transformed into Live Wire, female warlord of the fedora-wearing Hurricanes. And then we have the Count, an enigmatic figure, attempting to unite the gangs under one banner, who mistakenly thinks that the Warriors tried to assassinate him.”

Mr. Cunningham paused dramatically. “I’d like the entire cast onstage.”

Amber sprinted up the stairs like an Olympic hurdler. She preened and posed, clearly excited to be the star of the show.

“Okay,” Mr. Cunningham said, once everyone was onstage. “Let’s pair up into our backstory components: Live Wire and the Count. Belcher, Antman, and Holy Mary. Fist and his band. Violent and Stab. The rest of you, separate by the gang affiliations you were assigned on the cast list.”

The cast milled around the stage, forming small groups. Amber grabbed Logan by the hand and spun him around like a disco dancer, while Shane White and John Baggott stood awkwardly in the back, clearly confused by the direction.

Olivia forced herself to stay calm as Donté approached. This was just the beginning of hours and hours of time they’d be spending together over the next three weeks. He’d have to have known that when he auditioned for the production. Maybe spending time with her was his intention all along? Maybe he’d been having the same second thoughts about their breakup?

“Hey, Livvie.”

Olivia took a deep breath. “Hey.”

“You, as actors, need to know who your characters are,” Mr. Cunningham lectured. “What drives them? What scares them? What are they trying to hide from others? From themselves? I want you to discuss your motivations with your group. Ten minutes, starting now!”

“So,” Olivia began, testing the waters for normal conversation. “How have you been?”

“Good. Really good. You?”

“Same, for the most part.”

Donté smiled and Olivia fought the urge to throw herself into his arms. There was something so comfortable and warm about Donté’s smile, and Olivia missed basking in it.

Donté dropped his voice. “I know we haven’t really talked much since . . .” He swallowed. “Well, you know.”

“Since you broke up with me.” It was the first time Olivia had said it out loud.

“Er, right.” Donté grinned sheepishly. “I’m sorry about that. I didn’t know you’d take it so hard.”

Olivia winced. Nothing worse than your ex-boyfriend feeling sorry for you. “I didn’t take it that hard.”

Donté glanced up, smiling wryly. “Is that why you made out with Rex Cavanaugh right in front of me at the bonfire?”

Olivia’s face burned. “I . . .”

Of all the things she wanted to forget, making out with Rex Cavanaugh at the spring sing bonfire was second on Olivia’s amnesia list. It had only been a few days since Donté had dumped her, and when they both turned up at the bonfire, Olivia saw an opportunity to try to make him jealous. It had seemed like a good idea, especially with half a bottle of wine clouding her judgment, but at the time she thought Donté hadn’t noticed.

Wrong again, Liv.

The only upside of the evening was that Rex was too drunk and too high to remember any of their spit swapping, and no one else—especially not Amber—had witnessed the pathetic display.

“It was a long time ago,” Olivia said at last.

“Livvie.” Donté leaned in and dropped his voice. “Don’t settle for someone like Rex. There’s a special guy out there for you.”

Like the one standing across from me?
“I guess so.”

“I know so. Your one and only.”

He remembered their song! Was he trying to tell her that he was the only one for her? Because she already knew that.

Mr. Cunningham clapped his hands. “All right, class. Everyone grab a seat in the house and we’ll start with the Riffs gang—”

The PA system popped to life; then an electronic shriek tore through the theater. Everyone onstage groaned, and Olivia’s hands flew to her ears, attempting to block out the horrible sound.

The shriek stopped abruptly, and the shy voice of Mrs. Baggott came through the speakers. “Sorry!” she squeaked. “I’m so sorry.”

The sound of shuffling papers filled the theater and Olivia lowered her hands.

“Right,” Mrs. Baggott said, clearly locating the correct page. “Attention, faculty. Father Uberti requests that all members of student leadership be excused from class for the remainder of fourth period. They are to report to the office immediately. Thank you.”

Mika and Donté, along with most of the leadership class, were already gathered in the office by the time Kitty arrived. They stood together near Mrs. Baggott’s desk, and Kitty quickly made her way over to them.

“What’s going on?” she whispered.

“No idea,” Donté said. Obscured by the large desk, his hand found hers.

“Father Uberti’s been on the phone in his office the entire time,” Mika said. “I can’t hear anything, but he sounds pissed off.”

As if to punctuate her point, the door to Father Uberti’s office flew open and the diminutive priest swept into the lobby.

“I’m sure you’ve all heard the rumor,” he began unceremoniously. “That Theo Baranski confessed to the murder of Ronny DeStefano.”

“Hell yeah!” Rex said. He turned to Tyler and gave him a high five.

Father Uberti’s eyes were steely. “Premature celebration, Mr. Cavanaugh. I’ve just had confirmation from Sergeant Callahan that Mr. Baranski has an alibi for the night of Ronny’s murder. He has been released from custody.”

Kitty felt as if she’d been kicked in the stomach. All the air was sucked out of her lungs. Theo was innocent? Somehow she’d known all along that he wasn’t the killer. The look on Theo’s face when the police had hauled him into the office that morning had been one of defiance, not fear.

“In light of this news,” Father Uberti continued, “I’m releasing you all from fourth period today. You are to report to the leadership classroom, where you will work with Coach Creed on a solution to this problem.”

“You want our help to find a killer?” Mika said incredulously.

“I want your help,” Father Uberti said coldly, “to find DGM.”