Much Ado About a Boy Page 3

  A fresh wave of anger surged through me, and I grabbed the phone again and took an identical picture of my sneakers, then typed: This is Bailey, BTW.

  I set the phone back down and stared at the shadow boxes that hung on the wall above my bookshelf. My mom made a new one for every show I did and included the program, a couple of pictures, and other memorabilia like dried flowers from the bouquets my grandparents sent me on opening night, or the heel of my shoe that had broken in the middle of the show when I’d played Gertrude McFuzz in the eighth grade’s production of Seussical Jr.

  I could look at that wall and watch myself grow up, from a skinny six-year-old playing a generic orphan in the elementary production of Annie, all the way to last year when I was Marguerite in Pimpernel, decked out in a tall wig and a huge red ball gown with panniers so wide I had to turn sideways to get through the doors.

  My phone beeped with the alert for the picture app and I yanked my attention away from the wall. My heart flew to my throat as I swiped to open the screen. There was a picture of an adorable white cat with bright blue eyes staring straight into my soul. The text beneath the picture read: Why would you think I don’t want to do the scene with you? And I know it’s Bailey, you goofball.

  My breath caught in my throat, and before I could stop it, a smile broke across my face. Bentley had called me a goofball.

  No, I didn’t care. This wasn’t about anything but the drama competition.

  I aimed my phone at my feet and took another picture of my shoes, then applied a filter to make them black and white and sent it back. Did Meadows talk to you?

  A moment later, Bentley’s reply popped up. This time the cat was curled on its side, waving its fluffy tail. What’s with the shoes?

  I took another picture of the carpet. What’s with the cat?

  A close-up of a blue eye. Meet Coconut.

  Another zoom-in on the purple sequins. Meet my shoes. And coconuts are brown, not white.

  White fur. Tell her that.

  Shoelaces. What about Meadows?

  A tiny pink paw. What about him?

  The white stripe of rubber around the sole of my shoe. He wants us to do a scene from Much Ado for regionals.

  Whiskers. I know.

  I put the phone down and sighed. Why was he doing this to me? It felt like he was deliberately making things difficult. Fine, I’d be the one to take the high road. I pressed my phone to my jeans and took a picture of the blackness, then sent back a text with white lettering. Just tell him you don’t want to do it.

  Bentley’s next picture popped up a few moments later, and my heart did a skip. It was obviously a selfie, but he’d blurred it using a filter, so I could barely make out the fuzzy outline of his curly hair. The blurring made it hard to tell, but it looked like he was crossing his eyes and sticking his tongue out at me. The text over the top of the photo said, But I do want to do it. I was coming over to talk to you about it when you almost died from a rogue fruit snack attack.

  I giggled and my heart flipped.

  No, I wasn’t going to do this. I wasn’t going to let myself fall for Bentley Nielsen again. I had been so excited to go to homecoming with him, and then he’d turned out to be a jerk who’d left me hanging.

  I sent another black background with more white-lettered text. How do I know you won’t stand me up this time?

  I sat on the floor waiting for his reply for a long time, but it never came.

  “I hate Bentley Nielsen,” I announced on Monday morning when I reached my locker.

  “Uh-oh, sounds like something happened.” Summer’s eyebrows shot upward.

  I spun the dial on my locker, trying to concentrate on the tiny white numbers. “No, nothing happened. That’s the problem.” Quickly, I brought them up to date on our picture convo with Bentley’s cat, Coconut. “And he met my shoes,” I said.

  Harper grinned. “Sounds like a productive conversation.”

  “Yeah, until he bailed,” I grumbled. “Just like homecoming.”

  “Bailed?”

  My locker opened with a clang and I tossed my backpack inside. “Just stopped texting mid-conversation. Who does that?”

  “Not you,” Harper teased. “You always have to have the last word.”

  “No, I don’t,” I grumbled.

  “See?” She poked me in the shoulder. “But seriously, you need to talk to him about it.”

  I crouched to unzip the bag and pull my books out. “That’s exactly what I was trying to do,” I said over my shoulder.

  “Face-to-face, silly.”

  My cheeks got hot. “I’m not good with that kind of thing,” I mumbled.

  “Says the girl who wants to be on Broadway,” Summer said.

  I pulled my notebook from my bag and straightened up. “That’s totally different. Onstage, I’m …” I shrugged. It was hard to explain. Onstage, when I was prepared, I felt invincible, like the sun was shining just for me. Not that I minded sharing the spotlight with my costars … okay, maybe a little bit. But I knew it wasn’t just me up there. I knew exactly how many people had to work hard to make any performance successful.

  Whenever I was up there and it was going well, it felt like I was connecting with each and every person in the audience. Some might say that was ego, but to me, it was a privilege to make myself into a different person and entertain people. It was like nothing else in the world.

  One-on-one stuff with a boy I liked though, that was different.

  Scratch that, I definitely don’t like Bentley.

  “I think you need to talk to him and get this cleared up,” Harper said. “You still don’t even know why he stood you up on homecoming.”

  “Yes, I do—because he’s a jerk,” I insisted. My heart pinged. Bentley hadn’t seemed like a jerk last night texting me. Until he’d abruptly quit chatting, that is.

  The bell rang, and I slammed my locker shut. “I’m going to talk to Mr. Meadows after class today,” I vowed. “Maybe I can be the understudy monologue or something. Maybe Tasha will get food poisoning and they’ll have to go with me instead.”

  But when I talked to Mr. Meadows after class later that morning, he was firm. I could not take my Lady Macbeth monologue to regionals, where he felt I’d have no chance. It was a duo with Bentley, or I could sit this one out. And we had no time to waste; our first rehearsal was scheduled for that afternoon.

  Chapter Five

  I arrived at the drama room after school to find Bentley already waiting. He sat on a folding chair next to the piano, wearing skinny jeans, a T-shirt, and white kicks. My gaze darted over his curly hair, and my heart pounded at the memory of the blurry photo he’d sent during our chat. If merely the suggestion of Bentley was enough to give me goosebumps, what would the real thing do?

  “How’s Coconut?” I blurted before I could stop myself.

  Bentley’s chocolatey eyes gleamed as he grinned. “Ornery, as usual.”

  “That is fake news,” I said. “There’s no way something that fluffy and cute could be ornery.”

  He shrugged. “You don’t know Coconut. Try telling her she’s had enough food and see what happens.”

  A laugh burst from me before I could stop it. Our eyes met across the drama room, his full of hope and … was that an apology?

  I gritted my teeth against the hammering of my heart. Stop it, Bailey! Stop making this easier for him. I remembered the pain I’d felt that night, sitting around in my beautiful blue dress waiting for the doorbell to ring. As I thought of the humiliation, any good feelings evaporated.

  “Have a seat?” Bentley tipped his head toward the folding chair at his side. How could he look so cute and so innocent and yet be the kind of guy who would leave me hanging?

  I grabbed the back of the chair and pulled it across the industrial carpet, putting some serious distance between us. Bentley’s eyebrows scrunched down in confusion, but before he could say anything, Mr. Meadows burst out of his office with a stack of papers in his hands. He always moved
like he was one second from catching on fire.

  “Oh, good, you’re both here,” he said, throwing us a smile. “Thanks for staying after.”

  I gave him a small nod and shot a look at Bentley. He was still staring at me, an expression of … something in his eyes. Didn’t matter. He was a jerk, and the only thing I cared about was making this duo work. I looked away.

  “All right. Much Ado about Nothing,” Mr. Meadows said in a breezy voice. Either he hadn’t picked up on the tension between us, or he was determined to ignore it. He pulled the piano bench out and took a seat, then leaned forward to pass a stack of papers to each of us. “I’m sure you’ve already figured this out, but Bailey, you’ll be Beatrice, and Bentley, you’re Benedict.” He paused and gave a small chuckle. “I didn’t plan on the names being so similar, but let’s take that as a sign of good-luck.”

  I glared at Bentley across the room. “We’re going to need all the luck we can get.”

  Bentley stared back at me, his face expressionless. His hair was longer on the top than on the sides, and he had very defined, sharp sideburns. He met my eyes and quirked one eyebrow in a challenge. I stared back, refusing to drop eye contact.

  “Okay,” Mr. Meadows said quickly into the silence. “Let’s do a read-through and see how it feels.”

  I flipped through my pages and realized the scene was really a compilation of Beatrice and Benedick’s best lines, from when they meet in front of the villa to the end when they’re declaring their love for each other. “This is going to be pretty long,” I pointed out.

  Mr. Meadows shrugged. “I’m sure you’ll be surprised how quickly it goes once you get into the rhythm of Shakespeare.”

  He was right. The words have their own kind of melody, an ebb and flow that takes practice to say correctly. But when it’s right, they’re some of the best lines in the world.

  “Do you both know the basic story?” Mr. Meadows continued without waiting for us to answer. “Beatrice is the niece of the Duke of Messina, who owns the villa where the play takes place. Benedick is traveling with Pedro, the Prince of Aragon. They have recently won a war and are eager for a little R&R at the villa. Bentley, you’re first.”

  I turned to the front page as Bentley began Benedick’s first line. “If Signor Leonato be her father, she would not have his head on her shoulders for all Messina, as like him as she is.” His eyebrows came together as he stumbled over the tricky words.

  “I wonder that you will still be talking, Signor Benedick. Nobody marks you,” I said. The words were Beatrice’s, but the venom in my tone was all mine.

  Bentley scowled at me, then dropped his eyes to his lines. “What? My dear Lady Disdain,” he read. “Are you yet living?”

  The words dropped like bowling balls between us, heavy and black.

  “Is it possible disdain should die while she has such meet food to feed it as Signor Benedick?” I snapped.

  “Okay, stop,” Mr. Meadows broke in.

  Bentley glared at me across the space that separated us, and I glared back. Good. I was making my point.

  “Benedick and Beatrice are engaged in what the character Leonato calls ‘a merry war,’” Mr. Meadows said patiently. “They don’t hate each other. In fact, you could say they’re attracted to each other and they use banter as a way to hide their feelings.”

  I knew this already. I’d read the script, watched several movie adaptations, and seen the play performed at the university in Chapel Hill. Beatrice and Benedick were the original rom-com couple, exchanging lighthearted barbs until they could no longer deny their love for each other.

  “We don’t have to be totally in character,” I said quietly.

  “Sorry, what?” Bentley narrowed his eyes at me.

  “I said we don’t have to be totally in character,” I said louder. “I mean, neither of us is as old as they are supposed to be. And I’m not planning on being single forever like Beatrice. And I’ll bet Benedick has honor and would never stand anyone up on a date.”

  Bentley held up one hand. “Okay, wait a second—”

  “Let’s call it a day,” Mr. Meadows said quickly. “Why don’t you take this week to learn your parts, and we’ll meet again on Friday?” He jumped to his feet and beelined into his office, shutting the door firmly behind him.

  There was a long moment of silence, and then Bentley looked at me. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t you the one who needs me to do this?”

  I felt the heat overtaking my face. “If you don’t want to do it, just say so.”

  He rolled his eyes. “I think we’ve already been over this. Remember texting me the other night? I said I’d do it.”

  “I don’t need your pity, or your participation,” I said.

  He shrugged easily. “You’re a talented actress, but even you couldn’t pull off this scene alone.”

  I hated that his words warmed me, made butterflies stir in my stomach. I didn’t care if he thought I was a good actress or not. I didn’t care anything about what he thought. I gathered up my bag and hurried out the door as fast as I could.

  “Bailey!” Bentley had followed me. His voice echoed down the hall, which was cluttered with handmade posters advertising the cheerleaders’ upcoming bake sale.

  I spun around. “What?”

  He paused and jammed one hand in the pocket of his jeans. “Look, I know we had a bad start, so let’s just get this out in the open. I’m really sorry about homecoming.”

  “Oh, really?” I couldn’t keep the acid from my voice, the fresh hurt bubbling to the surface. “Now you’re coming clean?”

  “It was … something beyond my control,” Bentley said. His cheeks darkened and he wouldn’t meet my eyes.

  “I’m not interested in excuses.”

  His brown eyes glinted with anger. “Fine. Because I’m not making excuses. I’m just trying to apologize.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said, waving my hand airily. “I certainly don’t.” A lie, but he didn’t need to know that.

  “What’s your problem?” he demanded.

  “Right now? You.”

  He blew out a big breath. “We don’t have to like each other. But we do have to work out this scene. So when can you practice?”

  “I’ll practice in my way and you practice in yours,” I said.

  He rolled his eyes. “Okay, yeah. Because that’s going to work. Why don’t you stop acting like such a theater snob for once? Or did you forget how?”

  “Yeah, like you forgot to text me the night of homecoming to tell me you weren’t coming?”

  We stood in the silent hallway, glaring at each other for a long moment.

  “Look,” he finally sighed. “Let’s take a few days to memorize our parts, and then we can get together and rehearse. How does that sound?”

  Wonderful and awful at the same time. Bentley Nielsen was a jerk. So why did I want to step closer to him? Why did I wonder what it would be like to be in his arms? His lips were full, framed by the barest trace of a five-o’clock shadow that was definitely a bit on the patchy side. His eyelashes were like brooms. Why did guys always get the best eyelashes? It wasn’t fair.

  “So, is that a yes?” Bentley asked, and I yanked my eyes away from the small curls that fell across his forehead.

  “Fine,” I grumbled. “Text me when you’re ready.”

  Without waiting for an answer, I hurried off, my backpack bouncing against my back. I was in trouble. I had to remember I hated him. I couldn’t let myself fall for that smile again, or for those curls.

  Stop it, Bailey! I reminded myself. You have a perfectly good fancy dress at home that’s never been danced in, all thanks to that idiot.

  It seemed to help a little bit. My resolve hardened as I reached the parking lot. I threw my backpack into the trunk of my car and hurried home as fast as I could.

  Benedick and Beatrice have always been one of my favorite couples as far as Shakespeare’s comedies go. No one can touch the tragic sweetness o
f Romeo and Juliet or Hamlet and Ophelia, but Benedick and Beatrice had some good moments.

  After dinner, I sat on the floor in the living room, thumbing through my script. I’d memorized longer parts, but Shakespeare’s words always take some untangling.

  “What’s that?” Carley wrapped her arms around my neck and tried to climb onto my lap. She was eight and afflicted with the youngest child syndrome in a big way. To tell the truth, all of us babied her a little bit too much, but with her copper-colored hair and china-blue eyes, it was hard not to.

  “My script,” I said, placing the stapled pages aside and wrapping my arms around Carley.

  “Are you doing another show?” Max frowned and looked up from his Legos. He’s twelve and a bit on the skinny side. “I didn’t like the last one.”

  The Scarlet Pimpernel had been a bit too much for both my siblings. The night they’d come to see me, Mom had taken them out during the guillotine sequences, but even without those, they’d been a little overwhelmed by the heaviness of the musical.

  “But you liked my costumes, right?” I reminded Carley. Marguerite’s wedding gown had been her favorite—white brocade covered in gold embroidery.

  “Yes.” Carley wrinkled her nose. “But your butt was too big!”

  I laughed and tickled her stomach. “That was the style then, silly girl. But I agree, my butt was too big.” The dresses had been gorgeous and I’d felt every bit like a French princess, but the costumes were not easy to move around in, especially during the fights. We’d had to practice for ages to make it look effortless.

  “This is Shakespeare.” I held up the pages in my hand. “And it’s not even a play, just a couple of scenes for the drama competition.”

  “Are you going to be the nightgown lady again?” Max wrinkled his nose.

  “I didn’t like that one too much either,” Carley added. She’d seen me practicing my Lady Macbeth a few times.

  I shook my head. “This one is supposed to be funny. Listen.” I grabbed the pages and searched for one of Beatrice’s best comebacks when she and Benedict are bantering. “So he says, ‘Keep your Ladyship still in that mind or some gentleman shall ’scape a predestinate scratched face.’ Then my character comes back with, ‘Scratching could not make it worse an ’twere such a face as yours.’ That’s pretty funny, right?”