kind of wish it were Natalie under my foot.
“This semester, as you may well know,” Ms. Peck continues, tucking her dishwater blond pageboy-cut hair behind her ears, “is dedicated to Shakespeare. We’re going to read a play a week. So that’s five acts per play, one act per night for all you math wizzes out there.” She thinks she’s funny. She even adds her own comic pause as if we’re all just about to cue up our laugh track right now. But we don’tgive her the satisfaction. “And since term is sixteen weeks with one week for finals, you can expect to have read”—she pauses
again,
the shameless ham—“four squared plays by Shakespeare.”
Thanks for the math. We suck at math here at Themis so your arithmetic prowess helps immensely
.
She marches over to the blackboard, her comedy routine having fallen flat, and reaches for a piece of chalk. “And as part of our Shakespeare immersion this term, you each are going to write a modern adaptation of one of Shakespeare’s plays, and you can expect that to be at least forty pages.”
Now she pauses for dramatic effect because that is dramatic. I would groan, all fifteen of us would groan right now if we weren’t masters of restraint. You take your assignments like a man here. Ms. Peck looks a tad defeated. I bet the sadist in her—the sadist in every teacher—was hoping for some resistance, some squirming in our chairs at least.
“I have already assigned a different play to each student. I will go through the list now.”
She turns to the blackboard and begins scratching out names of plays, then a slash mark, then the name of a student.
Emily gets
Romeo and Juliet
. I scoff silently. That’s the easiest one to adapt. You don’t even have to read it to rewrite it.
Brent lands
Hamlet
. Same deal. No-brainer.
Julie snags
Othello
. Jealousy, piece of cake.
I wonder vaguely if Ms. Peck is playing favorites, if she likes that trio of students best. She doles out the next round,
Henry V, Richard III, Antony and Cleopatra
. My name’s not next to any of those so I dodge a bullet, though Jones winds up with
Antony and Cleopatra
. Then she sidesteps to the obscure, actually assigning
Troilus and Cressida
and
Titus Andronicus
for this project, to Henry and Elyse, respectively. Ms. Peck must have a wicked bone to pick with them!
Then I’m next, and my task, it turns out, is to adapt
The Tempest
.
I know nothing about
The Tempest
.
When she writes my name, Henry turns around and gives me a look, more like a leer, as if he had a dirty dream about me last night or something.
Henry Rowland
. He was one of the guys who mentioned my name in Maia’s Debate Club meeting. Natalie Moretti isn’t the only person talking about me behind my back. Henry Rowland is too. It’s like there’s a sandwich board on me; the front says
I’m Easy, Just Ask Carter
. But the back would say
He’s Wrong, People. He’s Totally Completely Wrong
. I look down at my books, not wanting to meet Henry’s eyes. Fifty minutes later the bell rings and I gather my books, keeping my eyes averted.
“Hey, Alex. It was fun hanging with you Friday night,” Julie says, tapping my desk. “You know, I’m organizing a new project to mentor underprivileged grade-schoolers here in Providence. Would love to talk to you about it sometime.”
“Great. Totally. Count me in,” I say as I grab my backpack, relieved she has no interest in discussing Friday night.
“I’ll catch up with you soon, then,” Julie says, and leaves.
“So, you think there’s any way I could work in a little guitar solo into
Antony and Cleopatra
?” Jones asks.
“That would totally rock,” I say, and wait for Jones so we can walk out together. I don’t want to be alone if I run into Carter, so I’m making Jones my secret buffer, my safety net.
“Pretty crazy assignment, don’t you think?” he asks as we walk down the hall and file out onto the quad. I wrap my scarf around my neck and pull on gloves,
“This semester, as you may well know,” Ms. Peck continues, tucking her dishwater blond pageboy-cut hair behind her ears, “is dedicated to Shakespeare. We’re going to read a play a week. So that’s five acts per play, one act per night for all you math wizzes out there.” She thinks she’s funny. She even adds her own comic pause as if we’re all just about to cue up our laugh track right now. But we don’tgive her the satisfaction. “And since term is sixteen weeks with one week for finals, you can expect to have read”—she pauses
again,
the shameless ham—“four squared plays by Shakespeare.”
Thanks for the math. We suck at math here at Themis so your arithmetic prowess helps immensely
.
She marches over to the blackboard, her comedy routine having fallen flat, and reaches for a piece of chalk. “And as part of our Shakespeare immersion this term, you each are going to write a modern adaptation of one of Shakespeare’s plays, and you can expect that to be at least forty pages.”
Now she pauses for dramatic effect because that is dramatic. I would groan, all fifteen of us would groan right now if we weren’t masters of restraint. You take your assignments like a man here. Ms. Peck looks a tad defeated. I bet the sadist in her—the sadist in every teacher—was hoping for some resistance, some squirming in our chairs at least.
“I have already assigned a different play to each student. I will go through the list now.”
She turns to the blackboard and begins scratching out names of plays, then a slash mark, then the name of a student.
Emily gets
Romeo and Juliet
. I scoff silently. That’s the easiest one to adapt. You don’t even have to read it to rewrite it.
Brent lands
Hamlet
. Same deal. No-brainer.
Julie snags
Othello
. Jealousy, piece of cake.
I wonder vaguely if Ms. Peck is playing favorites, if she likes that trio of students best. She doles out the next round,
Henry V, Richard III, Antony and Cleopatra
. My name’s not next to any of those so I dodge a bullet, though Jones winds up with
Antony and Cleopatra
. Then she sidesteps to the obscure, actually assigning
Troilus and Cressida
and
Titus Andronicus
for this project, to Henry and Elyse, respectively. Ms. Peck must have a wicked bone to pick with them!
Then I’m next, and my task, it turns out, is to adapt
The Tempest
.
I know nothing about
The Tempest
.
When she writes my name, Henry turns around and gives me a look, more like a leer, as if he had a dirty dream about me last night or something.
Henry Rowland
. He was one of the guys who mentioned my name in Maia’s Debate Club meeting. Natalie Moretti isn’t the only person talking about me behind my back. Henry Rowland is too. It’s like there’s a sandwich board on me; the front says
I’m Easy, Just Ask Carter
. But the back would say
He’s Wrong, People. He’s Totally Completely Wrong
. I look down at my books, not wanting to meet Henry’s eyes. Fifty minutes later the bell rings and I gather my books, keeping my eyes averted.
“Hey, Alex. It was fun hanging with you Friday night,” Julie says, tapping my desk. “You know, I’m organizing a new project to mentor underprivileged grade-schoolers here in Providence. Would love to talk to you about it sometime.”
“Great. Totally. Count me in,” I say as I grab my backpack, relieved she has no interest in discussing Friday night.
“I’ll catch up with you soon, then,” Julie says, and leaves.
“So, you think there’s any way I could work in a little guitar solo into
Antony and Cleopatra
?” Jones asks.
“That would totally rock,” I say, and wait for Jones so we can walk out together. I don’t want to be alone if I run into Carter, so I’m making Jones my secret buffer, my safety net.
“Pretty crazy assignment, don’t you think?” he asks as we walk down the hall and file out onto the quad. I wrap my scarf around my neck and pull on gloves,
Similar Books
