A Piles Fork High School Production

Two thoughts occurred immediately:

1. Holden told Principal Durden about my crush on Imogen. Specifically, how it all started with our fourth-grade production of Romeo and Juliet. Really, this came as no surprise because Holden had the biggest mouth on the planet Earth.

2. She probably thought she was helping me.

However, fourth grade was a long time ago. Not to mention, the most traumatic event of my young, fragile life. And rather than nourish my talent as a budding actor, I had hidden it under a bushel, lit the bushel on fire, and scattered the ashes in the metaphorical Sea of Things I Will Not Do with My Life.

I had nothing against Shakespeare. At least, I thought the modern retellings were all right—10 Things I Hate About You (The Taming of the Shrew), or My Own Private Idaho (Henry IV Part 1, Henry IV Part 2, and Henry V), or Romeo + Juliet (Romeo and Juliet with Baz Luhrmann spilled all over it), et cetera, et cetera. What I did have a problem with was reading Shakespeare out loud (in front of Imogen). And performing Shakespeare (in front of Imogen). And being on a stage in costume (in front of Imogen). Really, Imogen was the root of the problem—through no fault of her own—and this smelled like all those things combined.

“What the hell is this?” said Holden.

“It’s a play,” said Principal Durden. “And as of now, the four of you are in it.”

“No,” said Wynonna, shaking her head. “No, no, no, no, no.”

“I’ll also be adding each of you to our eighth-period theater class.”

“Eighth period?” said Holden, appalled. “That’s a thing?”

“It’s an extracurricular period. They meet off campus from two-oh-five to two fifty-five at the Amityvale Theater downtown.”

“That’s disgusting,” said Holden. “I’m disgusted. Man, if Pink Floyd ever heard about this bureaucracy…”

In the midst of Holden’s conniption, and as Wynonna dissolved in a vat of denial, I couldn’t help but notice Imogen’s eyes.

They were balloons inflating with delight.

“But… isn’t that class full?” said Imogen. You could tell, she was exercising every bit of restraint not to get too excited.

The class was full. At least, it had been full. I knew this because it was the reason Imogen was rejected from the class for the third year in a row. And I knew that because Holden provided me with printed copies of Imogen’s schedule for the third year in a row, along with a note about the one class that didn’t make the cut.

I swear to god, I wasn’t a stalker. Holden merely facilitated my fantasy of becoming one.

I also knew the real reason Imogen didn’t make the cut. Why many interested students didn’t make the cut. Everyone knew. It was kind of an open secret.