Understudy (10 page)

"Isn't it obvious?" I asked.

"I wouldn't be asking if I knew."

As if on cue, my stomach rumbled again, and Eric's eyes strayed down my shirt.

"Guess I should ask again when you're not hungry," he smirked. "Maybe you'll be less grumpy by then."

I opened my mouth to say something; maybe I should just tell him that I hated him because he was responsible for his brother's death. But didn't that apply to me as well?

I wanted to slap him instead, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. Not when Adam's eyes stared back at me.

It was torture, and the only way I could free myself from it was to simply walk out of the shop and get away from him as fast as I could.

When I got home, Dad asked me about my day, and I was proud of myself for holding myself together. That was until he asked, "Where's my cornbread?"

Chapter Ten

The whole senior class was assembled inside the gym, all one hundred twenty three students. The excitement hung thick in the air, though it had more to do with skipping class for the next three hours than the play fest. Highcrest took the play fest too seriously. We actually believed that they cared more about it than our SAT's.

We were divided into two groups, one for the Christmas Carol in Mr. Blake's class, and the other for the Scarlet Letter in Mrs. Frey's. I preferred the latter, and wished I was in Mrs. Frey's class instead, but I realized that it didn't really matter since I was probably going to end up in the design department anyway.

Mr. Blake's class occupied the right side of the gym, and you could immediately notice the difference between the groups. The Scarlet Letter group was rowdier, and Mrs. Frey couldn't hide the envy in her eyes whenever she glanced our way. Little did she know that our quiet attentiveness was only because we just wanted to be done with the meeting.

"Okay, may I have your attention now?" Mr. Blake asked, and we shifted our attention to him.

We were seated on the floor, with Mr. Blake in the middle holding a pen and a clipboard. He looked around and frowned as his eyes focused on something outside our circle.

We followed his gaze and found Eric slouched against the wall beside the piano, his arms folded across his chest, looking bored as ever. Still, that wasn't an excuse to make himself stand out among the crowd, literally.

"Would you like to join us, Mr. Wharton?" Mr. Blake asked.

Eric only blinked at him like he didn't hear anything at all.

"Okay..." Mr. Blake's eyes flickered toward the circle, unfazed. "As I was saying, this is the list of characters along with the names of the students who are going to play them."

Sara leaned her head over my shoulder. "No auditions?" she hissed.

"No," Mr. Blake said, tapping his pen over the clipboard. "If we do that, we'll end up with the same faces." He shot an apologetic look toward Natasha and her fellow Drama club members. "Not that I'm implying anything...so let's start alphabetically.

"The Scarlet group is going to hold up an audition," someone said.

"Well, Mr. Gupper, this is not the Scarlet group," Mr. Blake said, fixing his tie.

"But isn't that like an S.O.P?" Marc Gupper asked.

"No. Let's move on shall we? Nigel Armstrong, you're going to be the Ghost of Christmas Past."

Nigel, a pimply kid from the Math Club sat up in surprise. He almost knocked the large framed glasses from his face. I felt sorry for him. Nigel had a stuttering problem. It wasn't really that bad, but making him act in a play was like asking someone with a limp to power walk.

"I−I don't t−think I can, Mr. Blake," he said, adjusting his glasses. "I−I've never b−been in a p−play before."

Mr. Blake waved his hand in front of his face. "Come on. That's the beauty of it! You'll get to try new things!"

Nigel opened his mouth to protest, but Mr. Blake was already reading from the list again.    

"Sara Brown, you're Fred's wife."

"I wonder who's going to play Fred," she murmured.

"Amanda Crowley, you're Belinda."

"Yeah, whatever," she muttered under her breath.

The list continued and I felt my insides churning as names were called. What if I ended up in the cast? I hated acting, and I had no intention of becoming an actress.

"Frank Fordsten, you're assigned to logistics."

Frank was a member of the Drama club, and his disappointment at not landing an acting role was evident from the way his face crumpled.

"Henry Hampton, you're Jacob Marley." 

"Drake Kendall, you're going to play Fred."

"Seriously?" Sara mouthed as she turned to face me, her lips jutting out in disapproval. She hated Drake, and playing his wife was the last thing she expected.

"It's just for a play," I said, keeping my voice down.

"He's a jock!"

"At least his brain cells are working properly, unlike his teammates." In my peripheral vision, I saw Drake shake his head. "And I don't think he likes you either."

"Blythe Mansen, you'll be Cratchit's wife."

"Tina Swanton, you'll be in charge of the props and costumes along with Diana Redwood."

I felt my world crumble. Those were the two positions I was hoping to be assigned with.

Sara winked at me. "Uh−oh, guess you're going to act."

"I don't want to."

She shrugged. "It's just for a play," she said, repeating my own words.

"Katharine Vanburgh!"

My heart lurched, making it hard to breathe. I didn't know much about A Christmas Carol, and I struggled to remember if there were any female roles left to assign to me.

Mr. Blake placed the clipboard on his lap and studied my face. "I really liked what you did with the pep rally posters last year."

I gulped, not sure what the pep rally posters had got to do with the role I was going to get.

"As much as I want to see you on the stage, I'm going to appoint you as the Production Designer. You'll be handling the whole creative department. I know I can count on you."

It took a moment for the words to sink in, and by the time they did, I felt Sara's arms around my shoulders, locking me in a tight bear hug. "You lucky bitch!"

"I−I can d−do c−creative work too," Nigel whispered, though no one seemed to care as people congratulated me and wished me luck.

"Enough of that," Mr. Blake said, raising his pen. "We have one character left and one student on the list."

His eyes travelled down to the bottom of the list, and I realized that I knew who exactly came right after my name. I was used to having Adam's name called out after mine, but now that he wasn’t around...

"Eric Wharton."

The room fell silent, at least on our side as the Scarlet group continued to be noisy. Everyone's eyes shifted to the wall where Eric stood.

"Is he going to be Ebenezer Scrooge? That role would suit him perfectly," I heard someone whisper.

"Except the part in the end where he gets all jolly and generous."

"No, Waylon Nettly got that part."

In the weeks since Eric's arrival in Highcrest, he hadn't made any friends. Not a single one. He always kept to himself, and if anyone tried being friendly to him, he either ignored the gesture or mocked the person entirely.

In the end, people just ignored Eric back, though they couldn't help comparing him to Adam.

All eyes were shifting back and forth between Eric and Mr. Blake. The latter seemed to be oblivious to the thick anticipation that hung in the air. Or maybe he knew, it was the kind of atmosphere he was aiming for ever since he announced the play fest anyway.

"You'll be playing Tiny Tim."

An almost imperceptible widening of his eyes was the only reaction Eric allowed himself. And he continued acting unfazed.

"That's the one with the leg brace, right?" Amanda asked, looking over her shoulder to study Eric, a mischievous smile forming on her lips.

"Yep, he's the one," Mr. Blake replied, tapping a finger over his chin.

"But how do we make Bob Cratchit carry him on his shoulder?" Bethany asked. "Isn't that one of the key moments in the story?"

Several people nodded in agreement and some started suggesting different ways Eric could perch on Billy Johnson's shoulder, who was playing  Bob Cratchit. One suggested a piggyback ride.

"That would be awkward," Drake said with a smirk, and Sara rolled her eyes.

"Duh, isn't it obvious?" she asked.

Drake stared at her with raised eyebrows. "I'm sorry, wife."

There was a general uproar followed by catcalls. Sara's face turned red but she kept her mouth shut.

Mr. Blake, on the other hand, seemed pleased that Drake was already in character, and I found myself smiling despite Sara's ominous glare.

"I'm sure we'll come up with a solution to that," Mr. Blake said, suddenly thoughtful. "Or we can just scrap that part. The important thing is we come up with a great show!" 

Eric looked away from the group, putting on the stoic mask he wore when he wanted to let people know that he didn't care. But I'd seen that look enough times on Adam's face to know that the subtle way his brows furrowed meant only one thing. He was annoyed. The very same reaction he had when Reggie spilled coffee on his jeans.

I seldom saw that reaction from Adam, usually only when we were talking about his brother. Now that Eric was the annoyed one, I felt a small satisfaction. He wasn't totally indifferent after all, and I couldn't wait to see how he would transform himself into Tiny Tim. I bet Adam would want to see it as well.

***

Adam and I hadn't talked about what happened the other day. We mostly talked about school and the play, in which he seemed bothered by the fact that Eric was going to play Tiny Tim, a reaction I hadn't expected.

We were sitting by the edge of the lake, watching as a flock of ducklings swam by.

"Tiny Tim, huh?" He rested his chin on his knee. "Isn't that the kid with the leg brace?"

"What's  the fascination with the leg braces? Amanda asked that question as well."

Adam gave me a sidelong glance. "Can't Mr. Blake find another student for the part?"

"I don't think so." I grabbed a small stone from the ground and traced my finger along its curved edges. "I thought you'd be psyched about it."

It took him a long time to answer. "Not really."

"Is there something wrong?"

"Nothing. How about you?  What character are you going to play?"

"I'm not. I was assigned to be the production designer."

"Fancy title."

Adam squinted toward the sky, and I found myself doing the same. There were thick gray clouds up ahead, and I wondered if it was going to rain.

"Tiny Tim. I never expected that. Scrooge would've been perfect."

"You bet."

"But he has to be Tiny Tim."

"Yeah."

Adam nodded, his lips curling into a humorless smile. "Seriously, Tiny Tim. Of all the characters."

"What?" I asked. "Why is this such a big deal?"

"Nothing." 

My eyes flickered back to his face, and he avoided my gaze. "Seriously, what's wrong?"

"Nothing, I was just thinking about something."

"Then that's not nothing."

He didn't answer. He lay down on the grass and I continued staring at him, waiting for an answer.

At first, he tried to ignore me. But after a minute or so, he sighed. "You won't let this go, will you?"

I shook my head.

"I'm sorry, but I'm sworn to secrecy." He drew a cross mark over his chest.

The more he tried to avoid whatever it was, the more curious I got. But then I reminded myself that I didn't care about Eric.

So he was going to be Tiny Tim and Adam seemed uncomfortable with it. So what? For all I knew, Adam was just worried that his jackass of a twin brother would screw up. Worst case scenario, the play would suck and we'd end up getting a low score for English. That's got to be it. I mean, it's no big deal even if Eric played Ebenezer Scrooge. He didn't give a damn anyway, so why should I?

But still, as I studied Adam's face, I saw something that made it impossible for me to completely ignore the subject.

He was worried. For what?

Chapter Eleven

Eric

If Mesopotamia was the cradle of civilization, Highcrest was the cradle of extreme boredom.

The town was so quiet I actually preferred being in a dark alley somewhere in Brooklyn, where the walls were riddled with graffiti and something new was always happening in the streets.

I lay back on my bed and closed my eyes. Maybe I could just sleep the hours out and wake up the next day, go through the same routine of having an awkward breakfast with my parents, go to school, go home, and go to sleep. I felt like the dude I used to make fun of at boarding school.

Anthony would've found that funny, but the thing that would have made him die with laughter would be the news that I'd be playing Tiny Tim. Just thinking about it made me want to kill myself.

I could've been cast as an extra, or a bystander. Hell, I'd even play Scrooge! Or maybe not. No, definitely not. Maybe as a production assistant?

From what little knowledge I had of that stupid classic, Tiny Tim was the kid with the leg problem. He was supposed to be this sick cheerful boy who would somehow help Scrooge become a jolly old guy. It was a far cry from the image I have. Maybe I could pass as a sick boy. But cheerful? Never.

As if agreeing with me, my stomach grumbled and I remembered that the last thing I ate were the carrot sticks I found in the fridge.

The kitchen was immaculate. Like no one actually lived in this house, which was sort of true, considering we all acted like dead people. It's funny how death could affect the living in extreme ways. There was some left over lasagna in the fridge. It would've been ok if it weren't for bits and pieces of ground beef.

I opened up plastic containers; I even considered the tofu cubes until I found something better. A bag of Romaine lettuce.

I quickly tore the plastic open and was munching on a crunchy leaf when Dad entered the room with Mom following behind. I could tell from the way they were dressed that they just got home from a meeting. No doubt an important one, judging by Dad's choice of Armani jacket. But then again, he always wore his fancy suits like second skin.