She snorted. “Good luck with that. You can’t read, remember?”

My face didn’t budge an inch. I was well aware of what I was capable of.

We stayed like that for a long, intense moment—staring each other down, waiting for the other person to make the next move. Wynezra’s eyes chiseled into my so-called poker face, digging for the hint of a bluff. But my face was a fortress, stone-cold and impenetrable.

The stakes had been set. Neither of us was budging.

Wynonna would not get me a meaningful role in this play. She might even get me cast as a mute peasant. Or maybe I’d get stuck backstage, moving props.

The fires of my revenge had been lit. My mercy was a dry field, waiting to be swallowed aflame.

“Uhhhhhhhh…” said a familiar voice, coming from a sudden figure in our peripheral.

We both turned. There was Holden, mouth slightly ajar, looking at his best friend like a complete stranger. Who could blame him? The mild-mannered, sleepy-eyed, pushover Ezra Slevin of yesterday was gone. In his place was an Ezra Slevin whose cagey eyes were filled with nothing but hate.

He had no idea. He was looking at the wrong Ezra.

“Time’s up!” Ziggy called out, hands cupped around his mouth like a megaphone.

Wynezra and I pried our death glares away like a pair of locked antlers—slowly, jaggedly, dubiously—ready to re-engage at a whiff of treachery. When we finally broke free and separated, I cast a sideways glance at Wynezra, hoping she’d make some effort to maintain appearances with Holden.

Nope. She left Holden in the dust. Marched straight to the front row and sat down. Holden trailed awkwardly behind—indecisively—like a lost hiker without a compass.

Goddamn you, Wynonna.

When I sat back down, reclaiming my seat beside Imogen, my irritation had not gone unnoticed.

“Whoa,” she said. “What’s with the poopy face?”

I took a cavernous breath. Shook my head—mostly as a means of shaking out the fury. Forced the most low-key, Wynonna-like smile I could muster. It was hard to gauge my success without a mirror. I probably looked like Tina Fey telling dad jokes.

“Nothing,” I said. “I’m fine. Just about to do something really crazy.”

“Crazy?” said Imogen, thoroughly intrigued. “Do tell.”

“It’s a surprise.”

“Ugh. I hate surprises.”

“You’ll love this one.”

Imogen rolled her eyes and smirked. “If you say so.”

It wasn’t until the theater quieted and Ziggy took to the stage that I realized: I just had a conversation with Imogen. Like, one that didn’t involve me nearly hyperventilating, or having a panic attack, or a sexual meltdown.

“All right,” said Ziggy. “Any volunteers to go first?”

Imogen’s hand shot up in a perfectly straight line from her shoulder, fingers squirming.

“Imogen Klutz,” said Ziggy. “And you’re auditioning for…”

“Viola,” said Imogen.