Much Ado About a Boy

  Much Ado About a Boy

  Jeanette Lewis

  Contents

  What is Sweet Water High?

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  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

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  Books by Jeanette Lewis

  The Passionate One

  The Billionaire Bride Pact, Book 1

  Much Ado About a Boy

  Sweet Water High Romances

  by Jeanette Lewis

  JeanetteLewisBooks.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. Do not upload or distribute in any form, anywhere.

  Copyright © 2019 by Janet K. Halling.

  Cover design by Victorine Lieske

  Edited by Jenna Roundy

  Published in the United States of America

  What is Sweet Water High?

  Welcome to the town of Sweet Water! One town. One school. One year of sweet romance

  Misunderstanding the Billionaire’s Heir, by Anne-Marie Meyer

  Crushing on My Brother’s Best Friend, by Julia Keanini

  Kissing the Boy Next Door, by Judy Corry

  Flirting with the Bad Boy, by Michelle Pennington

  Chemistry of a Kiss, by Kimberly Krey

  Falling for My Nemesis, by Tia Souders

  Falling for My Best Friend, by Victorine E. Lieske

  It’s a Prank! (And Other Teenaged Mistakes), by Lucy McConnell

  Much Ado About a Boy, by Jeanette Lewis

  Road Trip with the Enemy, by Kelsie Stelting*

  The Kissing Tutor, by Sally Henson*

  *Coming Soon

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  Chapter One

  I stretched my trembling hands out before my face. “What need we fear who knows it, when none can call our power to account?” My words carried through the auditorium, loud and clear and unnaturally lower than my usual speaking voice. Ignoring the strain on my vocal cords, I kept my eyes glued to my palms as I pivoted slowly toward stage right. “Yet who would have thought the old man to have so much blood in him?” I demanded.

  The silence was my only answer, and I flicked a glance toward the seats. Only the first three rows were occupied, filled with students in my drama class. Mr. Meadows sat on a folding chair in the orchestra pit, watching me, occasionally ducking his head to scribble in a notebook.

  I drew the pause out a little longer, imagining the scene. Cold, gray stone instead of the black painted floor. Flickering torches instead of the fluorescent lights. Windswept moors instead of the emerald-colored velvet curtain that wafted behind me. Macbeth has been cleverly adapted to many different settings, but I’d always imagined it best in a crumbling Scottish castle.

  I’d practiced my monologue thinking the stage would be open, and the curtain was throwing me off a bit. I had planned to start at the back of the stage and move forward during my speech, but with the curtain closed, I had to move left to right and back again. Like a duck in a carnival shooting game.

  I forced the image from my mind. My big moment was coming up, and I had to focus. The long white skirt of my nightgown brushed against my bare toes as I stumbled unevenly to the center of the stage. The house lights were on and all the spotlights were dark; not exactly the mood I’d wanted for this scene. These classroom auditions might “only” be for the regional drama competition, but I thought they should have been treated as importantly as any performance.

  Focus, Bailey.

  “Here’s the smell of blood still,” I wailed. I could feel everyone’s eyes on me as I thrashed and clutched at my hair. “All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand!”

  I paused and drew a shaky breath, then screamed, loud and long. From the corner of my eye, I saw some of my classmates shift in their seats. Well, good. This sleepwalking part was supposed to make the audience uncomfortable.

  “Out! Come out, damned spot!” I threw myself to the floor and clutched my hands into my chest, bowing my head against the thundering waves of emotion resonating from my body. I’d taken a few liberties with the wording of the actual script, but I was still Lady Macbeth in her pivotal moment, where the true depths of her madness are revealed and she turns from a cold-blooded, ambitious character into a woman who is thoroughly broken and even a shade sympathetic.

  Panting, I waited. Only silence answered, broken slightly by the creaking of the hinges on the auditorium chairs.

  Well, that could be a good thing. They were probably so into my scene that they hadn’t realized it was over. The curtain smacked me in the small of my back as I took a deep breath and raised my head, smiling to let my classmates know I was done.

  There was a smattering of polite applause, echoing strangely through the auditorium. I stayed on my knees a moment longer, my eyes darting to Mr. Meadows.

  “Very good, Bailey, thank you.” His voice was subdued, and I could feel my cheeks getting hot. I hadn’t expected a standing ovation, but I’d been practicing hard and I’d nailed that scream. I’d probably lose my voice for a few days over it, but that was a small sacrifice to pay for the chance to compete in regionals and then the state monologue competitions. I would graduate from Sweet Water High in less than two months and I’d pretty much finalized my plans for college, but it wouldn’t hurt to pick up an extra scholarship offer or two.

  I brushed away my fears. So what if my classmates didn’t like my monologue? I didn’t care what a bunch of lame high schoolers thought anyway. They probably couldn’t understand Shakespeare even if it was dumbed down into the CliffsNotes version.

  My legs tangled in my nightgown as I got to my feet and I stumbled, fighting back another blush at the murmur of laughter coming from the audience. I was a veteran of many school and community theater productions. I’d had my share of mishaps in front of people, and I knew how to deal with them. But anger still throbbed through my veins as I made my way down the stairs and fell into my seat next to Krista Worthington with a huff.

  “Good job,” she said, reaching out to give my arm a squeeze.

  “You think so?” I leaned over and slipped into my sandals. “They didn’t clap very loud.”

  Normally I try to keep things to myself, but with Krista, I could voice my fears. She was a fellow theater geek and we’d become friends last fall when we’d been cast in the school musical, The Scarlet Pimpernel, together. I’d played Marguerite and she’d played Madame Tussaud. We’d spent hours working on our French accents, learning to say Monsieur with just the right amount of lilt.

  “They’re a bunch of teenagers,” Krista said, shrugging. “It doesn’t matter what they think.”

  “True.” I bit my lip
and threw an anxious glance toward Mr. Meadows, who had his head ducked over his notes. “But I don’t know if Meadows liked it either.”

  Krista brushed aside my worries with a flick of her wrist. “You were brilliant. You’re going to win the monologue competition for sure.”

  “Thanks.” My shoulders relaxed. Of course Mr. Meadows couldn’t play favorites, but I knew he thought I had a lot of talent. He’d cast me as Marguerite, the lead, hadn’t he? And he gave me straight A’s in my drama class every year.

  I’d left my red hair long and loose to better look like a crazy person, and now I pulled it back and fastened it with an elastic. The silence stretched out longer and I stared at the back of Mr. Meadows’s head. He’d taken a seat in the orchestra pit to purposefully put distance between him and us. He was too far away for me to read what he was writing, but he was taking longer to write up notes about my performance than he had anyone else’s. That had to be a good thing, right?

  Except … something felt off. It wasn’t just the lukewarm reaction from my classmates; it was a feeling spreading throughout the auditorium. I couldn’t quite tell what it was, but something wasn’t right.

  “That was a bit intense, don’t you think, Bailey?” A snide whisper came over my right shoulder.

  I didn’t need to turn around to know who was speaking. Cold prickles broke out over my skin like I’d sat on a cactus. Tasha Martell was popular, cute, rich, and constantly in everyone’s face. She was one of those people who always had to have the upper hand, and she couldn’t forgive me for beating her out of the lead roles in most of the school plays.

  “Oh, what’s wrong?” Tasha purred. “Can’t handle some constructive feedback?”

  I turned to look over my shoulder to see Tasha playing with her light brown hair, a smirk on her sticky red lips. “I can handle constructive feedback from people who know what they’re doing,” I said. “Let me know when you get to be more than my understudy.”

  Tasha glared. She was a year behind me, but we’d been competing for the lead roles at school productions since elementary school—everything from Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz when I was in third grade to the Christmas Angel in the sixth grade. Sometimes she won, but usually, it was me, because I worked hard and practiced and teachers knew I’d do my best. Tasha coasted on reputation and talent; I was the one willing to put in the work.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” Tasha’s green eyes widened as she twirled the strand of hair around her finger. “It’s great you’re willing to take a risk and end up looking like an idiot. One of the perks of having no shame.”

  Idiot? Shame? Her words seared into my brain, and I darted a look at Krista. She traced the design on the front of her notebook and wouldn’t meet my eyes.

  I forced away the doubts. Tasha was just being Tasha. She was like the hull in a handful of popcorn, that one that always wedges in your teeth.

  Except why did the room seem so quiet? And why hadn’t Mr. Meadows looked up from his notes yet? I liked to think I was pretty good at gauging an audience’s reaction, and this reaction was … awkwardness.

  “Okay, thank you, Bailey,” Mr. Meadows said, finally breaking the silence. “Abby, I believe you’re next?”

  Abby Granger stood from her seat on the second row and climbed the steps to the stage. She was wearing a bubble-gum-pink ballgown with plastic flowers glued around the hem. Normally, it would have grabbed my attention, but right now, I couldn’t focus. My brain jumped through my monologue, picking it apart. Some of the kids had applauded at the end, but they’d been whispering and fidgeting in their chairs during most of it. And I’d seen a few people wince during my Lady Macbeth scream.

  A dart of anxiety pierced my chest. Were they … could they have been embarrassed for me?

  “Was I bad?” I muttered to Krista.

  “Hmm?” She kept her eyes focused on the stage, but I had the distinct impression she wasn’t so much wrapped up in Abby’s acting as she was hoping I would leave her alone.

  But I couldn’t leave it alone; I had to know. “My monologue. Was it bad?” I whispered.

  She shook her head quickly. “Of course not. You know better than to listen to anything Tasha has to say.”

  That was true. Relief flooded through me, and I applauded loudly as Abby finished her scene. It wasn’t good enough for regionals, in my opinion, but she’d put a lot of energy into it.

  Finally, the monologues ended and Mr. Meadows stood to face us. “Thank you all for participating. I’ve enjoyed watching you perform. I’ll post the list of finalists on the board tomorrow morning.” His eyes traveled over the seats. Was it my imagination, or did his head tilt a bit when he came to me—a secret acknowledgment that I was a shoo-in?

  “You did a good job,” Krista reassured me as we left the auditorium. School had been out for almost two hours, and the hallways were mostly deserted.

  “Thanks.”I’d put a ton of time into my monologue, even filmed myself and watched it over and over to get the right rhythm, the right intonations, and the right movement. “It feels good to have it over with.”

  “For sure.” Krista’s short blond hair bounced as she nodded.

  I replayed my monologue in my head as I changed out of my costume in the girl’s dressing room and drove home through Sweet Water. The afternoon air was tinged with salt from the nearby Atlantic Ocean and I felt a rush of fondness for my hometown. It was the kind of place where people moved to raise their kids, where neighbors went clamming together after dark, and where kids met at the beach after school. I’d lived here all my life and my roots went deep into the sandy soil.

  The sunshine on my face helped me shake off my feeling of uneasiness. I pulled the elastic from my ponytail to let my long hair whip in the breeze from the open window. Maybe my monologue wasn’t perfect, but it was certainly better than anyone else’s. No one else had brought as much drama or as much feeling. And if a bunch of teenagers didn’t like Lady Macbeth, who cared? They didn’t understand Shakespeare, but Mr. Meadows did, and he knew how much work I’d put into my performance. Of course he’d want me to represent the school at regionals.

  Chapter Two

  The next morning, I scanned the paper stapled to the bulletin board outside the drama room and did not see my name. My heart pounded in my ears, and I looked frantically up and down the deserted hallway. The floors were shiny and still reeking of cleaner. Was this some kind of a prank?

  I’d come early to see the results, totally confident that my name would be on the top of the list under State Competition—Monologues.

  It wasn’t.

  I looked over the sheet again, this time even putting my finger on the paper to run down the list line by line. Krista had made it, and so had Abby and Tasha. Even Courtney was on there, and she’d done a monologue from Kill Bill. It’s camp, for crying out loud. Who lifts a dramatic monologue from a freaking campy movie?

  But my name was not there.

  There had to be some kind of a mistake. I blinked back the sudden tears and turned toward the drama room. I knew my monologue was good; I knew I’d earned a spot on the team.

  Mr. Meadows was in his office, focused on his computer. When I knocked on the open door, his eyes flickered to me; then he quickly shut the laptop. “Oh, hi, Bailey.” He tipped his head toward the empty chair on the other side of his desk. “I’ve been expecting you.”

  “That sounds vaguely like a Bond villain,” I said as I sat down. It was an attempt to lighten the sudden heaviness in the air, but judging by the faint smile he offered, it didn’t work.

  I’d taken four years of drama classes, competed in every drama competition to date, and been in every school play or musical since I was old enough to memorize lines. I’d always liked Mr. Meadows. Sometimes he joined in when we did improv in class, and last year he’d taken us on a five-day trip to New York City with the school choirs. Chaperoning a hundred or so sleep-deprived teenagers through the busiest city in the country could not have been easy. I
doubted the poor man slept more than a few hours tops, but Mr. Meadows remained positive, upbeat, and happy.

  “How can I help you?” he asked now, bringing my attention back from New York.

  I waved my hand toward the hallway, where the regionals list was stapled to the bulletin board. “I’m not on the list,” I said.

  He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “I know.”

  My heart dropped and I sat back in my chair in disbelief. “So it … it’s not a mistake?” I asked, hating how timid and sad my voice sounded.

  Mr. Meadows gave me a long look. “Bailey, I think you have a lot of talent,” he said in that gentle voice adults use when they’re trying not to hurt your feelings.

  “But?” I demanded.

  “But that monologue was not the right fit for you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Macb—” His lips twisted in a wry smile. Every theater person knows not to say the name of Shakespeare’s play near a stage. It’s supposed to bring extremely bad luck, and actors are as superstitious as sailors. “The Scottish Play,” Mr. Meadows continued, using the standard euphemism, “is a very intense drama and was written for much older actors. The monologue you selected is one of the most challenging of all of Shakespeare’s writings.”