The drama coach was standing and clutching her hands to her bosom. Like any good teacher, she knew that keeping decorum was priority one. But her flashing eyes revealed that she was rapturous. I expanded my gaze. The other auditioners sat there with stunned looks upon their faces. Even Tub’s face was void of sarcasm. Two water boys on their way to the football field had paused with their bag of thermoses and were staring at us, enraptured. Mrs. Leach turned to a wardrobe parent, who was clapping her hands with tears in her eyes.

“Mrs. Dunton, take some measurements. I think our Romeo might just wake up this town of football fans.”

“Yes, I think so,” Mrs. Dunton replied. She tilted her head a little. “If we can make him taller, that is.”

The wardrobe lady approached, unspooling her measuring tape and running it from foot to inseam and waist to armpit, making disappointed tsks at every step. I had learned in math class just how much taller Claire was than me, but Claire herself didn’t seem to care. She crossed her arms over her frayed jacket and a dozen bracelets slid down her wrists. Her dark hair blew and caught on her lips, and she spoke just loudly enough to be heard over the gridiron warriors and the roaring mower.

“Very interesting, Mr. Sturges.”

16.

“I’ll never figure out how that nut sack made a living writing,” Tub said.

“Flames,” I groaned. “I’m going to go down in big fiery flames of fire.”

“I’ll show Mr. Shakespeare a renaissance. A renaissance of my fist.”

“Nobody can say those sentences without sounding like a jerk. Right?”

“Generally you’re right,” Tub said. “It’s definitely an elite club of superstars who can wrap their tongues around that baroque bullcrap. Sir Lawrence Olivier, Sir Kenneth Branagh. We’d be remiss, of course, to leave out that legend of stage and screen, that matinee idol of the ages, Sir Jim Sturges Jr.”

Tub slapped me on the back. He had a big hand; I stumbled. I heard chuckles from the direction of the football field. I kept my head down and picked up the pace. We were heading home, but the talk of the audition would not die. I looked at the RoJu script in my hand. Only forty-five pages, but it felt a whole lot heavier.

“How am I going to memorize all this?” I asked.

“Here’s a tip,” Tub said. “You forget a line, just shout ‘Saint B. Battle Beasts rule!’ and those morons in the stands will go crazy.” He winked at me. “That one’s a freebie. Next one costs.”

By now we were passing the San Bernardino Historical Society Museum, a lure too great for Tub not to bite at. He gave me his usual impish grin.

“Not today,” I pleaded. “I don’t have the required speed.”

“Speed? You? You’re not the one schlepping this bag, Sir Jim.”