Much Ado About a Boy Page 4

  Max wrinkled his nose. “Why is it so weird? It’s like talking in cursive.”

  I laughed. “That’s a pretty good description. It’ll be better when I’ve had time to practice.” I hadn’t memorized the script yet, let alone discovered the rhythm and cadence that would breathe life into the poetry of Shakespeare’s words.

  “Can’t you do Frozen or something like that?” Carley asked. “You’d be a beautiful Princess Elsa.”

  “I’m a redhead. I’d have to be Anna,” I said.

  “I get to be Anna.” Carley shook her head fervently. “You’re the big sister; you have to be Elsa.”

  “Guess I’ll need a wig,” I agreed. Then I wiggled my fingertips in her face. “Should I make you into a snowman?”

  Carley giggled. “No, you build me a snowman, not build me into a snowman.”

  “Oh, right.” I grinned. “Well, not right now, kiddo. I have to learn these lines.”

  She slid off my lap and did a pirouette in the middle of the room, reminding me of all the times I’d done the same thing. With gymnastics, dance classes, and voice lessons, my parents had poured a lot of time and money into my passions.

  Max returned to his Legos and Carley waltzed away to her room. I turned my attention back to my script. Beatrice had never been a top character choice for me. I preferred dramatic, meaty roles—Lady Macbeth, obviously, but also Éponine in Les Mis, Aldonza in The Man of La Mancha, Holly in Wait Until Dark, and Nora in A Doll’s House. Something I could really sink my teeth into, so I could learn from it, grow, and deliver a knockout performance.

  Beatrice was okay, though, and she had some good lines. After I had the part memorized, I could start working on the character development.

  Everyone has their own method for memorizing, and mine was to record myself saying each line and memorize them in order. Then I’d do another recording of only Bentley’s lines where I’d say mine out loud to fill in the pauses.

  Maybe Bentley would record his lines for me. The thought of having a recording of his voice tumbling smoothly over Shakespeare’s lines sent a wave of longing through me.

  No, that wasn’t going to happen. Whatever chance Bentley had with me, or I had with him, was over.

  Chapter Six

  Wednesday after school, I drove to Harper’s house for a spa day. My friends and I tried to do pampering days at least once a month, and it was always fun to spend time together painting each other’s nails, deep conditioning our hair, and doing facials. It’d been harder and harder to find the time as we’d all grown up and our schedules were full of school, work, and boys.

  Well, boys … for them. To be honest, I was happy for my besties, but it was hard not to feel a little jealous when I was around them. They were clearly so in love with their boyfriends, and Jett and Gabe were great guys who were definitely in love with them. I’d been on dates before, but sometimes I thought Harper and Summer lucked out and snagged the two best guys at Sweet Water High.

  We set up in Harper’s bedroom and got to work, applying a deep oil treatment to our hair and then turning to our nails.

  “How’s the scene going with Bentley?” Summer asked. She had a white towel wrapped around her blonde hair and was scrubbing old polish off her fingernails with a cotton ball.

  I pushed away the sudden flutter of nerves I felt at hearing Bentley’s name. I’d been down this road before. I’d let myself get all girly and daydreamy over our homecoming date, and I’d paid the price. Fool me once …

  “It’s fine,” I said, trying to stay casual. “Still memorizing lines.”

  “Are you guys friends again?” Harper asked.

  “No.” I hunched my shoulders and scrubbed at the periwinkle polish on my left hand. It wasn’t coming off without a fight.

  There was silence, and I knew without looking that Harper and Summer were trying to communicate with each other using only their eyes. We had all perfected the technique in school and could tell at a glance what each other was thinking.

  “Just because you two found great guys doesn’t mean we all will,” I muttered.

  “It’s not that,” Summer said. “It’s … you’re really on edge about Bentley, and I don’t think it’s healthy.”

  I scrubbed harder at the blue polish, trying to remember how many layers I’d put on. Too many, obviously. “You weren’t on edge about Gabe?” I asked, and then my cheeks warmed. Summer was on edge over Gabe because she cared about him.

  “That’s different,” Summer said. “We weren’t fighting like you guys are.”

  “We’re not fighting,” I struggled to explain. “It’s more like active indifference. I don’t care about Bentley at all.”

  “Sure.” Harper giggled. “Could you tell your face? Because you’re blushing like a fire engine.”

  I glanced at myself in her full-length mirror, and it wasn’t a pretty picture. My hair was hidden under a blue towel, and my face was practically glowing with heat. Gingers blush weird even under the best of circumstances, and this was definitely not a best circumstance.

  “I don’t like him. He’s a jerk, end of story,” I said.

  “I believe the lady doth protest too much,” Summer murmured.

  “First of all, it’s ‘the lady doth protest too much, methinks,’” I said, then paused. “I can’t believe I just said that. He told me I was a theater snob. Is he right?”

  “Bentley told you that?” Harper demanded.

  I nodded, a fresh surge of anger washing over me. “Like he has any room to criticize. He’s a …” I tried to think of something I could use to insult Bentley, but then realized I didn’t know him too well. He played sports, he did drama, and he was on the student council. Handsome, popular, and gifted—that was Bentley. “Why would someone like him be interested in someone like me, anyway?”

  Harper soaked a fresh cotton ball in polish remover and picked up my right hand. “You’re making a huge mess of this. Why don’t you let me do it?” she suggested.

  I sat still and let her remove the rest of the polish. When she grabbed a nail file and started shaping my nails, I didn’t protest. Harper had a talent for this kind of stuff.

  “What do you mean, why would someone like him be interested in you?” Summer asked.

  “We’re so different,” I said.

  “Opposites attract, right? Besides, I don’t think you’re that different. You’re both outgoing and popular.”

  I hesitated. Popular? Me? I’d never been one of the popular girls; that title belonged to Tasha and her group of friends. They’d been the “it” girls since we were in kindergarten, and no one was surprised when they grew up to be the head cheerleaders. Not that I cared. I never wanted to be a cheerleader anyway.

  “I don’t like Bentley,” I said firmly. “End of story.”

  Summer picked through our combined collection of nail polish, a wry smile hovering on her lips. “Okay, sure.”

  “Seriously,” I said. “I’m doing this duo with him because I have to, not because I want to.”

  She picked up a bottle of Lucky Lavender and held it next to my hand. “Every other word out of your mouth is Bentley this and Bentley that. Face it, you’re still crushing on him.”

  “I am not!” Okay, maybe I was protesting too much. But my friends didn’t have to know the way just looking at Bentley gave me butterflies, a nervous spin to my stomach that made me feel like I was permanently on the teacup ride at Disneyland.

  Not a bad place to be, actually.

  “So what do I do about it?” I asked, pressing one hand to my stomach where the butterflies lived.

  “Why don’t you just go with it?” Harper asked. She picked up another bottle of polish, this one bright orange, and started shaking it. “How about Apricot Dream?”

  I nodded. “Perfect. But how do I just go with it? This thing with Bentley is driving me crazy.”

  Harper shot me a grin. “You can handle it. Think of how great it will feel to win the state drama. You need him.”
She applied a smooth swath of apricot polish to my thumbnail.

  “No, I don’t.” I scowled. Never mind that the thought of needing him, or him needing me, sent warm fuzzies tingling over my skin.

  “You need to keep an open mind and a settled spirit,” Summer said firmly.

  I sat quietly and let Harper finish my manicure, but my brain was racing. If just thinking about Bentley made me this loopy, how would I actually perform a flirty, tension-filled scene with him?

  Chapter Seven

  I tried to take Summer’s advice and keep an open mind and a settled spirit the next afternoon when we met for our second rehearsal. It helped that Mr. Meadows was already sitting on the piano bench chatting with Bentley when I walked in, so we didn’t have to make conversation on our own.

  “Sorry I’m late,” I said, dropping my backpack on the floor. “I had to come from the other side of the building.” Sweet Water High wasn’t huge, but it did sprawl enough that it was quite a walk from the science room to the drama department.

  “Don’t worry about it.” Mr. Meadows waved away my excuse.

  Bentley shrugged in his easygoing way as if to second Mr. Meadows’s words. I threw myself into the empty chair and swiped my hair to one side.

  “Have you both memorized your lines?” Mr. Meadows asked.

  “Yup.” I’d been going over my lines every spare minute and was reasonably confident I had them memorized.

  Above his navy T-shirt, Bentley’s neck flushed. “Not quite,” he said. He pulled a sheaf of dog-eared pages from his back pocket. “This Shakespeare stuff is harder than I thought.”

  So much for a settled spirit. “But we’re supposed to be blocking today,” I said, not quite hiding the irritation in my voice. You can block when someone is still on book, but it’s harder because they have to keep looking at their lines and can’t focus on the action.

  “It’s okay, Bailey,” Mr. Meadows said with a quick smile. “We’ll work around it.”

  We spent the next hour blocking the script. Because it wasn’t one continuous scene, we had to make some adjustment to indicate the passage of time. We got hung up on that for a while.

  “What about turning your backs to the audience for the scene change?” Mr. Meadows suggested. “A very brief pause would help them jump forward in the timeline.”

  I frowned. It was okay, but it felt … easy. This was supposed to be a standout performance.

  “What if we spin?” Bentley said into the silence.

  “Spin?” Mr. Meadows asked.

  “You know, like a dance move.” Bentley tossed his script onto his chair and moved toward me. “So at the end of one scene, we hold hands and do some kind of slide and spin thing to portray the move in time.”

  “Like a tango,” I said, a smile springing to my face. I could totally see it.

  “Great idea.” Mr. Meadows grinned. “I don’t know much about Latin dancing, though.”

  “I’m taking ballroom dancing this semester,” Bentley said. “We just finished learning the tango.” He took two more steps and ended up in front of me.

  The scent of his cologne filled my nose, and I had to tip my chin to look up into his face. I wondered who his partner is ballroom dance was. Which girls had he danced like this with? My throat went suddenly dry and I wiped my hands on my jeans, praying they weren’t clammy.

  “So a tango is filled with tension,” Bentley said. “The most important thing to remember slow, slow, quick, quick, slow.” His breath smelled like cinnamon gum. He reached out and took my hands, and my heart notched up to what felt like a thousand miles a minute.

  “Okay,” I said. The words came out a little breathlessly, and I could feel myself blushing.

  Bentley held our joined hands in front of his chest. “Slow step.” He pushed gently on my left hand, and I took a step back. He followed me, his brown eyes shining as he nodded. “Slow step,” he said again, this time pushing on my right hand.

  “I like it,” Mr. Meadows said from the sidelines. “See if you can come up with a small sequence of tango steps to tie the scenes together.” His phone rang in his pocket, and he grabbed it. “I need to take this,” he said, glancing at the screen. “You two keep practicing.” He pressed the phone to his ear and left the room.

  Bentley was still holding my hands. He turned back to me. “What if we have the movement escalate with each change? So in the beginning it’s kind of a basic tango, then it gets more complex as the story progresses? I can ask Mrs. Ackerman to help me with the choreography.”

  I could already see it: the building tension of the tango would mimic the building tension of the scenes. “It’s killing me to admit this is a really good idea,” I grumbled.

  A grin flashed across his face. “Oh really? Maybe I’m full of good ideas. You just haven’t realized it yet.”

  “You’re full of something,” I blurted.

  He threw back his head and laughed. The sound sent my heart skipping into an entirely new dimension, a time warp to when we were still flirting in drama class and Bentley hadn’t broken my heart yet.

  He was still holding my hands, and the smile slid from his lips as our eyes met. “Slow, slow, quick, quick, slow,” Bentley murmured.

  He guided me through the basic steps a few more times, his eyes never leaving my face. Our bodies were mere inches apart. I tried to think if I’d ever touched him before and couldn’t remember.

  “I like dancing with you,” Bentley said softly.

  “You mean like at homecoming?” The words were out before I could stop them, and I crashed back to earth with a thud.

  Bentley dropped my hands and huffed a sigh. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?”

  For a minute, I thought I could let it go. But … “It would be easier if I knew why,” I said.

  “I know, but I can’t tell you. It’s personal. I’m sorry.”

  My mind whirled through a whole list of personal excuses, but I couldn’t think of a single one that would make him unable to at least text me. “So you’ve said,” I finally replied.

  “I should have contacted you right after it happened,” he admitted. “And I’m sorry I didn’t.”

  “Yes, you should have. Why didn’t you?”

  A hint of color stained his cheeks. Was he blushing? And why was it suddenly the most adorable thing I’d ever seen?

  “I was embarrassed,” he said. “And the longer I let it go without talking to you, the worse it got until …” He shrugged. “I figured there was no excuse I could give that would be good enough.”

  My brain churned over all the emotions tied up in that homecoming night. At first, I’d feared he’d been in some kind of accident, especially when he didn’t return my texts. But that fear had quickly turned to anger when I saw him at school on Monday without a scratch. He’d come by my locker that morning, tried to talk to me, but I’d brushed by him and had tried to totally ignore him since.

  “Is there any way I can make it up to you?” Bentley asked now. He shifted his weight like he was about to reach for my hands again, and a fresh wave of butterflies lit my stomach.

  We both jumped back as the door crashed open and Mr. Meadows reappeared. “Sorry about that, you two,” he said. “What’d you decide on the tango?”

  “It’s good,” I said quickly.

  “Yeah,” Bentley added. “We’ll work on it.”

  Mr. Meadows paused, and a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Okay, I guess I’ll leave it up to you, then.” He stuffed his phone back in his pocket. “I’m sorry, but I need to wrap this up today; I’ve got to go pick up my daughter.”

  We made plans for our next rehearsal, and I walked to my car in a haze of confusion. The Shakespeare I could handle. But what I couldn’t handle was suddenly liking Bentley again. Because boy howdy! Now that I wasn’t mad at him any longer, I was able to remember how cute he was. His crooked smile could turn me from ice to fire in a split second, and my heart stuttered when he held my hands. Who ca
red if it was for a scene? I got to hold hands with Bentley Nielsen.

  I was finishing my homework that night in my room when my picture app chimed. My heart seemed to ring right along with it. Somehow, I knew it was him. I grabbed my phone off the bedspread.

  Bentley had sent a picture of a shelf stocked with food, obviously a pantry. I’m in charge of dinner. What should I make?

  I giggled and took a picture of my math book. Uh … order pizza?

  The next picture was a close-up of a box of mac and cheese. Ha! Too easy. This will be a masterpiece.

  I didn’t even try to keep the smile from my lips as my gaze bounced around my room, seeking other things to photograph. I needed something that wasn’t too personal, but was still interesting. Finally, I decided on a picture of my shadow boxes. I took a snap and sent my reply. You’d take mac and cheese over pizza? Who even are you?

  The next picture was of the mac and cheese in a saucepan, still in the box. Am I doing this right?

  Close-up of some dried flowers. Wow. You seriously need home ec.

  Raw noodles dumped in the pan. Ye of little faith. Just wait.

  A ticket stub from my New York trip with the drama class. There’s no way to save this.

  A jar of mayo open on the counter. Don’t knock it till you try it.

  The rhinestone necklace I’d worn in Pimpernel. Please no. Who hurt you?

  A bowl of green apples on a white countertop. Can I see you tomorrow?

  I dropped my phone as if it had suddenly caught fire. Tomorrow was Saturday. Seeing Bentley at school to rehearse and seeing Bentley on a weekend were two entirely different things.

  I must have waited too long to reply because he sent another picture. This one showed the stovetop with the macaroni bubbling in the saucepan. Burger Bar. Noon. Rehearse lines?