not wanting to be poisoned by their unpopularity. During lunch, I hide out in the library, where I can drink my Sanga! in private.
It’s a lonely existence. I walk the halls with my head down and a lump in my throat, feeling invisible. Occasionally, I’ll text with Eve and Mallory, letting them know how busy I am with new friends and after-school activities. They seem to buy mylies. Dylan, meanwhile, is actually living the life I describe — joining a skateboarding club and always racing to answer his buzzing phone — which makes the whole thing more painful.
The Dark Ones weigh on my mind, too. There are no more screams or attacks, but everyone seems on edge after what happened to Mr. Bernal. On Wednesday, the principal makes an announcement that the janitor is “taking a leave of absence and will be out for the remainder of the school year.”
Rumors zip around: Some students whisper that he was bitten by a rabid dog, and others argue that he did go crazy. In gym class, I overhear two jock guys debating the topic. One says, “Dude, what if Mr. B was attacked by a
vampire?”
I freeze, and the other guy replies, “Dude, that’s ridiculous. You watch too much TV.”
If only they knew.
When the final bell rings on Thursday, though, all thoughts of Mr. Bernal leave my head. I sprint out of science class, stop at my locker, and head to the bathroom where I bat-shifted on Monday. Luckily, I haven’t shifted again since then. And this time, I’m here for a different kind of quick change.
That morning, my skin was still a little red andsore, so I wore my usual long-sleeved shirt and jeans. But now, a glance in the mirror confirms that my sunburn is much better. Even the bump on my forehead has gone down. So I step into the memorable stall and change into a fitted white tee, a pinstriped vest, a short denim skirt, and the same espadrilles that Paige owns. If I want to be the stylish wardrobe master, I need to look the part.
Then I stash my old clothes back in my locker and stride downstairs to the auditorium, feeling like a new woman.
The auditorium looks like how I’d imagine a movie set does, only without cameras. Mr. Harker is sitting in the front row with a notepad, his expression serious. A sixth-grade girl wearing a black T-shirt that reads PRODUCTION ASSISTANT is handing him a giant iced latte from The Coffee Bean. Students are clustered throughout the rows or onstage, reading thick bound scripts. Sasha, wearing a headset, is walking around and giving orders into the little microphone: “Marc, you have to adjust the spotlight in Act One. And tell the prop master we need one of the bat puppets replaced.”
When Sasha spots me standing there, wide-eyed, she smirks and removes her headset. “Well,” shesays, a bit snarkily. “I’m surprised to see you here, considering you’ve been avoiding me all week.”
I cross my arms over my chest, annoyed. “I was not avoiding you,” I protest, even though I pretended I was hard of hearing whenever she said hello to me in homeroom. And looked the other way whenever her brother waved at me in the hall.
What I really want to say is,
I’m not here for you,
but it’s clear that Sasha wields some power in this play, so I hold my tongue.
“Okay,” she replies, shrugging. “Come on, I’ll take you to Mr. Harker. When he’s sitting like that with his notepad, he’s in ‘the zone,’ so you need to approach him carefully.” She shakes her head, her curls bouncing.
“It’s all so … professional,” I say in awe as we walk past Carmen, who is hunched over her script and furiously highlighting some lines.
“No kidding,” Sasha says. “Mr. Harker was a child actor — he was in a bunch of movies and commercials and stuff — so he has a lot of experience. And S.M.A. in general takes theater very seriously. On opening night, there are always producers and directors and casting agents in the audience. It’s a big deal.”
I feel a shiver of anticipation.
It’s a lonely existence. I walk the halls with my head down and a lump in my throat, feeling invisible. Occasionally, I’ll text with Eve and Mallory, letting them know how busy I am with new friends and after-school activities. They seem to buy mylies. Dylan, meanwhile, is actually living the life I describe — joining a skateboarding club and always racing to answer his buzzing phone — which makes the whole thing more painful.
The Dark Ones weigh on my mind, too. There are no more screams or attacks, but everyone seems on edge after what happened to Mr. Bernal. On Wednesday, the principal makes an announcement that the janitor is “taking a leave of absence and will be out for the remainder of the school year.”
Rumors zip around: Some students whisper that he was bitten by a rabid dog, and others argue that he did go crazy. In gym class, I overhear two jock guys debating the topic. One says, “Dude, what if Mr. B was attacked by a
vampire?”
I freeze, and the other guy replies, “Dude, that’s ridiculous. You watch too much TV.”
If only they knew.
When the final bell rings on Thursday, though, all thoughts of Mr. Bernal leave my head. I sprint out of science class, stop at my locker, and head to the bathroom where I bat-shifted on Monday. Luckily, I haven’t shifted again since then. And this time, I’m here for a different kind of quick change.
That morning, my skin was still a little red andsore, so I wore my usual long-sleeved shirt and jeans. But now, a glance in the mirror confirms that my sunburn is much better. Even the bump on my forehead has gone down. So I step into the memorable stall and change into a fitted white tee, a pinstriped vest, a short denim skirt, and the same espadrilles that Paige owns. If I want to be the stylish wardrobe master, I need to look the part.
Then I stash my old clothes back in my locker and stride downstairs to the auditorium, feeling like a new woman.
The auditorium looks like how I’d imagine a movie set does, only without cameras. Mr. Harker is sitting in the front row with a notepad, his expression serious. A sixth-grade girl wearing a black T-shirt that reads PRODUCTION ASSISTANT is handing him a giant iced latte from The Coffee Bean. Students are clustered throughout the rows or onstage, reading thick bound scripts. Sasha, wearing a headset, is walking around and giving orders into the little microphone: “Marc, you have to adjust the spotlight in Act One. And tell the prop master we need one of the bat puppets replaced.”
When Sasha spots me standing there, wide-eyed, she smirks and removes her headset. “Well,” shesays, a bit snarkily. “I’m surprised to see you here, considering you’ve been avoiding me all week.”
I cross my arms over my chest, annoyed. “I was not avoiding you,” I protest, even though I pretended I was hard of hearing whenever she said hello to me in homeroom. And looked the other way whenever her brother waved at me in the hall.
What I really want to say is,
I’m not here for you,
but it’s clear that Sasha wields some power in this play, so I hold my tongue.
“Okay,” she replies, shrugging. “Come on, I’ll take you to Mr. Harker. When he’s sitting like that with his notepad, he’s in ‘the zone,’ so you need to approach him carefully.” She shakes her head, her curls bouncing.
“It’s all so … professional,” I say in awe as we walk past Carmen, who is hunched over her script and furiously highlighting some lines.
“No kidding,” Sasha says. “Mr. Harker was a child actor — he was in a bunch of movies and commercials and stuff — so he has a lot of experience. And S.M.A. in general takes theater very seriously. On opening night, there are always producers and directors and casting agents in the audience. It’s a big deal.”
I feel a shiver of anticipation.
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