Theoretically, all perfect.

Like the good actors they were, Spencer and Eric kept right on going as everyone’s favorite lovable idiots, playing to the crowd. If there was any weird feeling from the night at the party, they weren’t talking about it, weren’t showing it. As for how they treated her, however, each had his own unique method of torture.

Spencer had barely spoken a word to her in a week. He didn’t come down to her room. He closed his door when he was at home. When they went home at night, he put on his headphones, if he waited for her at all.

Eric spiced things up by adding the element of uncertainty. It seemed clear that the discovery had rattled him a little, and his response was to lay very low. He kept his communication to subtle glances, brushes in the hallway, an incredibly covert hand squeeze during a run-through of Polonius’s death scene. The major event of the week took place in the costume closet—the tight little space behind the stage with the exposed insulation. Scarlett had gone back to get Ophelia’s crazy drowning outfit to rough it up (the term was distress) a little. Eric had swung in behind her, pulled her behind the rack, given her a long, closed-mouth kiss, then grabbed a hat and run right out.

Which was great…but what did you do with that? That wasn’t a date—it was an ambush.

By Friday morning, after a sleepless night, Scarlett decided she could take it no more. She planted herself on the floor outside of the bathroom door while Spencer was getting ready for work. If he wanted to ignore her, he would have to step over her.

Spencer finally emerged in his work clothes. He didn’t see her at first because he was toweling off his head.

“Remember me?” she asked. She stretched herself wide, blocking his way as best she could. “I’m your sister. The one you used to like.”

“Come on, Scarlett,” he grumbled. “I don’t have time.”

“This has to stop. Please.”

He leaned against the door frame and sighed, picking at the crack that ran through the wood.

“After rehearsal tonight, want to get something to eat?” she asked. “My treat.”

Normally, the offer of free food would have Spencer come running across the hills. Today, not so much. He continued to work at the cracked wood with his nail.

“Come on,” she said. “Are you going to let your anger get in the way of a free meal? With dessert?”

He looked like he wanted to say something—something other than, “I have to go.” But that’s what came out. He stepped over her carefully and went off down the hall. Scarlett stayed right where she was, in case he came back, and ended up falling asleep there. Lola woke her up soon afterward.

“I have no idea what you’re doing out here,” she said, “but since you’re out of bed, want to help me with breakfast?”