Principal Durden dropped her head in her hands. Wynonna gave a sharp bark of laughter. Imogen imploded further. She looked like a dying daddy longlegs crumpling in on itself.

“See!” said Holden. “That’s what I’m sayin’! What kind of Orwellian world are we living in when the system punishes the heroes? If you punish us, Mom, then you’re just another cog in the totalitarian machine.”

Principal Durden pursed her lips. Leaned forward and interlocked her fingers. If Holden had just issued her a challenge, then she was accepting it.

“I was going to give the four of you detention for a month,” she said. “Now I realize that isn’t severe enough.”

Holden, Imogen, Wynonna, and I straightened in our seats, each of us in varying states of panic.

“How is detention not severe enough?” said Wynonna.

“Because you don’t have to do anything in detention,” said Principal Durden. “And because you’re all friends, and I would just be giving you a place to hang out. I’ve seen The Breakfast Club. I know how it works.”

“What’s a breakfast club?” said Holden.

Imogen looked appalled—by Holden’s breakfast club comment, not the punishment situation.

“Um, we are not friends with them,” said Wynonna. “I’d rather be friends with a dead opossum.”

“Oh yeah?” said Holden. “I’d rather be friends with my own wiener!”

“Oh, I’m sure you already are.”

“Oh snap! Good one, Wynonna. I am totally friends with my own wiener. We’ve shared the best of times, he and I.”

Wynonna’s face retched in response.

“Please, Holden, never talk about your wiener in my office again,” said Principal Durden. “No one is impressed by it.”

Wynonna chuckled. Holden’s face pinched into a scowl.

Principal Durden took turns looking at each of us individually. When her eyes rested on me, however, I noticed something weird—sympathy, maybe? Whatever it was, it passed like a glint of light on the highway. She blinked, leaned back in her chair, and it was gone. Miles away.

“There’s a saying,” said Principal Durden. “Hell is a state of mind. As there are varying degrees of guilt in this situation, I’ve decided on a hell that might not be so bad for some of you. And for others… well…” She glanced between Holden and Wynonna. “It’s gonna suck.”

She opened the thin middle drawer of her desk, reached inside, and pulled out a bundle of pamphlets—four, exactly—and laid them out on her desk for each of us.

The four of us leaned forward. Several pairs of eyes widened, for various reasons—Imogen out of excitement, Wynonna and Holden out of pure, unadulterated horror. The pamphlets were black-and-white, the cover art minimalist. A pair of silhouettes were standing back-to-back. Though they stood the exact same height, one was distinctly female, and the other, male. The top of the pamphlet read:

William Shakespeare’s

Twelfth Night