Four of a Kind Part 3

"We were waiting until after our birthday," she says. "Because of the age difference thing. But then Mom told us about the move and everything got messed up and we never got the chance."

We turn fifteen in four days, something we all always a.s.sumed we'd be doing in Richmond.

I pick at my food as Rhiannon continues to tell me about Derrick, though the details all stay weirdly vague. She doesn't tell me where their first date was, how far they've gone, anything like that, but the tone in her voice tells me he's seriously important to her. Even now, two weeks since they've seen each other, he's there at the forefront of her mind-a place usually reserved for boring stuff like cla.s.ses and extracurricular activities that will benefit her college applications. I've never seen this side of my sister before, and I'm not sure what to make of it.

I wish I could talk to Reilly or even Reece about what has been going on with her. I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do for her to make this better, to make it hurt less that she has to be apart from this guy I've never met.

Or to make her see that Mom isn't the enemy here. Because now I can finally understand why she's been so incredibly, relentlessly angry, but I can't see a way to fix any of it.

But I keep my mouth shut, both with Rhiannon during dinner and when I b.u.mp into Reece in the bathroom that night. I desperately want to say something, but it's not my secret to share.

Chapter 5.

When third period rolls around the next day, there's no question I will not be going back to the cafeteria. The mature, socially responsible choice would be to face Erik and his friends and apologize for being an a.s.s, but I'd end up stuttering out something that makes zero sense before running at full speed to escape whatever was coming for me next.

Maybe we all could have been friends, but that's not going to happen anymore. Whatever, I've still got Nadine and Elise back home, and people I've known for years online. Meeting new people is highly overrated anyway.

For now, the only logical plan is to hide out at my locker until I finish my sandwich and can disappear to the library, wherever that is. I take five minutes to eat, during which I don't turn around once. I've somehow managed to get through the first half of the day without making eye contact with anyone who isn't a teacher or directly related to me and there's no need to stop now. The whole thing has been mostly painless, and I'm starting to think the people in my first two cla.s.ses have no idea which sister I am, let alone if I'm the moron who had her note read out loud in cla.s.s yesterday.

Thankfully, the library at lunchtime fills with other students just like me-people with zero interest in interacting with anyone else. I grab a book at random off the fantasy shelf and head for a desk in the back. Looks like everything is status quo in Fairview after all. Things will be fine. Kind of boring, but fine. I can do boring.

It's when the clock ticks down the last ten minutes of my lunch period that I start to sweat. I may have avoided going back to Mr. Floren's cla.s.s, but now I've created a whole new thing I need to get through.

Drama. I'm pretty sure h.e.l.l has frozen over and there are pigs flying around Fairview because Reagan Lee Donovan is now enrolled in the dramatic arts. The only thing worse that I can imagine is having to walk back into room 341A.

So, drama it is.

From what I can tell, most of the art rooms are on the opposite side of the building from the science cla.s.srooms. I'm not sure what they're trying to say with that particular arrangement, but it means I don't run into anyone from yesterday's nightmare cla.s.s on my way to the drama room.

It's all too easy to find the drama room. I'd have loved an excuse to put this off for just a little longer. Beside the heavy, black door is a bulletin board covered in pictures from past performances and a sign-up sheet for the drama showcase that is being put on at the end of the year, something I have zero interest in. Still, since there are still a few minutes before cla.s.s starts, I take some time to pretend like I'm seriously considering putting my name down.

Never going to happen.

The warning bell rings and my time is up. It's now or, well... now. I there's no choice but to walk into that cla.s.sroom-which is probably full of extroverted, obnoxious, hipster kids-and pray I don't end up having to run out of this fourth-period cla.s.s like I did the last one.

I walk into a cla.s.sroom without desks or chairs. It's unlike anything I've ever seen before. The floor is a cheap, gray carpeting and there's a thick, black curtain running along a track down the middle of the ceiling that I a.s.sume can be pulled into place to divide the room into a stage and an audience section. Which again begs the question of what the h.e.l.l I'm doing here. I don't even like talking to people, let alone performing for them.

Along the back wall are a variety of wooden boxes painted as black as all the concrete walls, which is to say mostly black but obviously worn down by time. The other side is covered in a large chalkboard, in front of which stands a man who I a.s.sume must be the teacher, Mr. Sullen.

"Excuse me," I say.

He turns toward me, revealing a face covered in a short, silver beard. His straight hair, also silver, probably reaches down to his chin, but he has it tied back into a short ponytail. Not an original vibe for a drama teacher, but it suits him, showing off a kind smile and an intelligent glint in his eyes.

"I transferred into your cla.s.s, so I missed the first day." I hand him my transfer slip, which he takes with a smile.

"Well, we're thrilled you've decided to join us"-he glances down at the sheet in his hand-"Reagan. Welcome."

"I've never taken an acting cla.s.s before," I admit out of nowhere. "I'm not going to be any good at this."

Mr. Sullen looks at me with studious eyes. "Well, technically, in this cla.s.s, we study great works of the past as much as we do performance, but I suspect you might do better than you think on the acting side of things. Give yourself a little room to experiment and you might surprise yourself."

I want to a.s.sure him that, no, I really will be very, terrible at this, but before I can, the final bell rings.

"Now, if you don't mind taking a seat with the others, I suppose we'd better get to work." Mr. Sullen turns away from me to face everyone else, people I haven't had a chance to look at yet.

Even though this is the only cla.s.s where I'm guaranteed not to run into anyone from biology, odds are every single person in this room has heard about what happened by now. But when I move away from the chalkboard, no one is watching me. All eyes are on Mr. Sullen, who is already animatedly talking about some guy named G.o.dot. I sit down beside a girl with s.h.i.+ny, black hair that reaches to the floor, and she even offers me a quick smile before returning her attention to the lecture.

Five minutes into cla.s.s, Mr. Sullen is pa.s.sionately discussing something I can only a.s.sume is a follow-up to whatever they talked about yesterday-I'm completely lost. Then the door creaks back open, letting a small sliver of light into the otherwise dim room. At first, I can't make out who has come in, but by the time the person reaches the blackboard and is handing a stack of papers to Mr. Sullen, I recognize the lanky form and the green hair.

I look at the floor, at the girl sitting beside me, then back at the front of the room. I don't know what to do with my hands. Even when I'm not looking at him, I'm aware of his presence in the room.

I'm freaking out, but I'm sure Kent hasn't so much as looked at me since he walked in the room. Maybe he's just dropping something off because he has Mr. Sullen for a different period. It's possible he won't stay.

How did I never consider that it was possible he'd be here?

Kent sits down in the front row beside a short Asian guy and a brown-haired girl with blunt bangs without once looking back.

Kent is right here, right now, and I had no idea this was coming. I spent the entire day trying to avoid looking at anyone and ignore all the people I'm sure were talking about me. There has been a non-stop replay of yesterday's disaster going through my head today, which probably took away from all the other obsessing I'd usually be doing. I never even considered that Kent might be in this cla.s.s.

In theory, this is great. In practice... I have no idea what to do or where to look or what to say. Really, I shouldn't be thinking about this at all. I've spoken to the guy once.

My next goal is to attempt to pretend Kent isn't in the room.

For that whole day so far, I had been the ideal student, always perfectly focused on my teachers and what is going on in the lesson-just in case the universe wants to test me again. Of course, no one has called on me for a single thing today, but when they do, I'll be ready. I will not be writing notes to Nadine or to anyone else. I try to adopt that same att.i.tude and give my full attention to the drama less, especially since I'm not sure if I will have to get up and act in front of this whole cla.s.s at a moment's notice.

G.o.d, my brain doesn't even know what to freak out about anymore. There are too many options.

At least once a minute, my eyes dart to Kent's back. He's wearing a blue and white, plaid T-s.h.i.+rt. I didn't catch what was on the front, but there's no question that the pale color looks great against his skin.

Pay attention, Reagan.

And I do. Or I try to. But Mr. Sullen has gone off on a tangent about Syria and liberal arts, which I somehow don't think is going to be on any of the tests. When he does get back on topic, it's to give the cla.s.s its first a.s.signment. Good. Something I can focus on besides willing Kent to turn around and notice me.

The remaining hour of the cla.s.s is dedicated to flipping through various plays from the bookcase beside Mr. Sullen's desk. Besides smaller a.s.signments and pieces throughout the next few months, the cla.s.s will split into two groups to put on a performance at the end of the semester, so we can all make our case for what we think the cla.s.s should do.

I join the huddle of students, careful to avoid brus.h.i.+ng into anyone, and grab the first book that my fingers brush against-a script adaptation of Alice in Wonderland. Then I retreat with it to a corner. For a first drama cla.s.s, this really isn't so bad. Sitting in a corner and reading is my strong suit. And reading a version of Alice in Wonderland I've never seen before? Even better.

But after a few minutes go by filled with only a few whispers and the sound of pages flipping, a sharp whistle interrupts my feigned concentration.

"I changed my mind. This is boring!" Mr. Sullen says, throwing his hands up in a dramatic display of dismay. "Everybody, stand up, grab whatever book is closest to you, figure out what it's about, and hold it up in the air."

At once, the whole cla.s.sroom springs to life around me as though something like this were totally expected. I scramble up and do the same, silently dreading whatever's coming next. At least I already know what Alice in Wonderland is about. I could go over the plot, point by point, in my sleep.

"Every year, we do this same exercise with the soph.o.m.ores," Mr. Sullen says. "And every year, it goes exactly the same way. You teenagers are an awfully predictable bunch. Tomorrow, most of you would have come to cla.s.s with either something written by the Bard, something involving a great deal of kissing scenes, or something totally obscure-and I a.s.sure you, many obscure plays are obscure for a reason."

While we're all standing around holding books above our heads, our teacher is pacing around the front of the room, seemingly having forgotten what he asked us to do to begin with.

"Tomorrow, I'd ask you all to tell the rest of the cla.s.s why you feel like the play you've brought is the best selection," he continues, "and you'd make your case while hemming and hawing, half of you only having remembered the a.s.signment during your lunch period. In the end, we'd choose Shakespeare, but one that also works in a few romantic interludes."

"So, let's cut that all out right now, shall we? If you're holding anything written by the one and only William Shakespeare, please put your book down on the floor."

I don't know what he has in mind, but I suddenly wish I'd picked up Hamlet instead. Whatever's coming next, I don't want to be involved.

"Okay. Now, obviously, we have some requirements that will need to be met. If the play you're holding has less than five speaking rolls, put it on the floor."

Alice, Rabbit, The Queen, Ches.h.i.+re, Caterpillar-I can list five characters in this script without even looking. I keep my book up in the air and hope Mr. Sullen has some sort of objection to anything that Disney has adapted.

This set of instructions takes a bit longer to do. Ultimately, Mr. Sullen ends up helping most of the people still holding books along, telling them which ones fit his criteria.

When the second group of people put their books down, Kent finally looks up and notices me standing there like an idiot and trying to pretend like I haven't noticed him. He raises his eyebrows in silent greeting. I offer a tight smile back because that's all I can manage without turning my face deep scarlet.

As the minutes pa.s.s, Mr. Sullen continues to narrow down the selection until only three plays remain in the running, letting everyone else sit down. Alice in Wonderland is still a contender. Across from me, Kent and a guy with impressive-looking dreadlocks are still standing as well.

With each set of instructions, I hoped that my book would be knocked from the running, but, of course, I'm not that lucky. I'm never that lucky. h.e.l.l, with my luck, my play will be selected and I'll have to take the lead or something ridiculous like that simply because I was the one stupid enough to be holding this book when the man teaching our cla.s.s decided he was bored. The only small concession so far is that we don't have to hold the books over our heads anymore.

"So what do we have left?" Mr. Sullen asks. We each turn our books toward him.

"Twelve Angry Men, Alice in Wonderland and"-he frowns-"The Wizard of Oz. How have we not knocked all musicals out of the running already? There is not one single chance of me listening to you lot try to sing We're Off to See the Wizard' all semester. You can sit down, Jermaine."

Finally, I have to look up at Kent, the last man standing. He's already watching me. When our eyes meet, his face pulls itself into a goofy smile. He looks completely relaxed, as though he already feels right at home here in Mr. Sullen's cla.s.sroom.

"Now, I'd usually make the two of you state your cases, but since you were holding these two plays at random, let's open this discussion up to the entire cla.s.s. So, what do we think?"

If I had been expecting people to raise their hands to speak in this cla.s.s, I would have been disappointed, but of course this cla.s.sroom functions with everyone simply saying whatever pops in to their heads. The cla.s.sroom starts discussion the merits of silly versus serious, costume options, commercial appeal.

I continue to stand in front of everyone like an idiot, casting sideways glances at Kent, who has moved to stand beside me near the blackboard.

"True," Mr. Sullen says. "But we could easily have ladies playing the roles of men. A challenge for our costume department, certainly. Not that we have a costume department. Minor detail."

"But why should we have to do a play only about men when there's an alternative that offers both genders roles?" someone says, which is what I was thinking, in a voice that sounds suspiciously like mine.

All at once, the whole cla.s.s turns to look at me.

Did I say that out loud?

"An excellent point, Reagan." Mr. Sullen is grinning at me.

I'm not sure what compelled me to contribute, but I feel myself stand up a little straighter.

"Okay," Kent says, "but wouldn't it offer more of a challenge to do Twelve Angry Men than a children's book?"

"And when you join the Oxford Drama Program, you and your challenge will be very happy together. We're like fifteen and Alice in Wonderland is way more fun," challenges the girl who was sitting with Kent earlier.

Someone laughs, and a couple of others murmur their agreement.

"Well, let's take it to a vote then, shall we?"

A few minutes later, two-thirds of the cla.s.s has voted in Alice in Wonderland as our project for the semester, and somehow, I find myself standing in front of the cla.s.s, once again holding a book over my head.

How did I get myself into this?

"Hey! Reagan!" Kent yells after me as soon as I escape into the growing swarm of the hallway after cla.s.s. "I saw Reilly and Reece yesterday, but I never got to say hi to you. And now you're in my cla.s.s!" He seems genuinely excited by the idea.

I wait for him to bring up the whole reason I transferred in the first place, but the bomb never drops.

"Yeah. They let me transfer in even though cla.s.ses have already started. Mr. Sullen seems interesting? I definitely never had any cla.s.ses like that back home," I say. Words are spewing from my mouth without warning. I almost want to blabber on endlessly to keep him here, standing near me in the hallway, as we get pushed closer and closer together by the throng of moving students. Part of me wants to disappear into that same crowd so there's no chance of me saying something moronic.

"Then you've never had a drama cla.s.s before."

"That obvious?"

"Nah. It's just that, at least here, drama cla.s.ses are always kind of nuts. Mr. Sullen is a lot of fun. And a little moody. That's for sure. But you did great."

"Well, no one's asked me to actually act yet. There's still lots of time to self-implode."

"That's the spirit!" Kent says with a laugh. "I've got to get to cla.s.s. But I guess I'll see you tomorrow?"

And the next day, and the next day, and then all the weeks after that. I will see him nearly every single school day for the rest of the year. And he's actually acknowledged that I exist outside of his mother's newspaper. I try to think of something smart to say, but all I do is nod, slightly dumbstruck.

I never thought I'd see the day where I was looking forward to drama cla.s.s. Yet here it is.

Chapter 6.

The end of our first week at Fairview also marks the end of our fourteenth year. When cla.s.ses start up again on Monday, we'll be fifteen-something I feel like I've been waiting for forever.

As we walk home together on Friday afternoon, all trying to figure out our long-overdue birthday plans. We've all met people this week, people we could potentially be friends with-even me, which is a small miracle facilitated entirely by drama cla.s.s-but we're all in agreement that inviting anyone over or anything like that would seem desperate this early on. We're better off making this birthday Donovan only and then going all out for number sixteen once we've been here for a while-or Mom has regained her senses and moved us all back to Virginia, where we can celebrate with friends we've known our whole lives.

"Pizza and movies," I suggest not for the first time.

Reece, who is walking beside me, rolls her eyes. "Boring."