The reactions were wide-ranging. Some groaned. Some laughed nervously. Others—like Imogen—took the phrase “edge of your seat” to a literal level. The amount of chair she actually sat on was molecular. Her arms and legs, meanwhile, were wound together like cinnamon twists.

Ziggy grabbed the whiteboard by one side and turned it. At the very top, like the foreshadowing of a Shakespearean tragedy, were two words:

Viola: Wynonna.

SEVEN

IT TOOK ME A long moment to pull my gaze away from those two names, and the colon that separated them. That joined them. I scraped my eyes downward, and the sound they made in my head was a fingernails-on-chalkboard sort of sensation.

Duke Orsino: Holden

Olivia: Imogen

Sebastian: Sebastian

Malvolio: Willow

Maria: Daisy

Sir Toby Belch: Jayden

Sir Andrew Aguecheek: Patrick

Feste: Tucker

Fabian: Thad

There were eighteen roles total, and I had to drag my gaze down all eighteen of them—like I was dragging my face across a grocery aisle strewn with broken glass—until I came across my name at the very bottom.

Servant: Ezra

I was a nameless role.

Considering Wynonna auditioned for the role of a tree, I should have counted myself blessed. Or—agnostically speaking—lucky. Or—scientifically speaking—the axiomatic mathematical outcome of probability theory. Who was I to say? All I knew was that the Flying Spaghetti Monster hadn’t done shit for me lately.

I glanced at Wynonna, expecting her to protest. Surely, now that she was herself, she would drop out of the role. And if Ziggy wouldn’t let her, then she would drop out of theater.

But she didn’t. Instead, she was looking at Imogen.

Imogen looked shattered.

If vengeance was measured in how deeply you damage a person—regardless of collateral damage—then I had succeeded. It was the revenge of hurting the ones you love. It was the worst kind.

Wynonna could drop out of theater, sure. But nothing could undo the damage I had done.

We weren’t the only ones upset about the casting. Willow cornered Ziggy after things wrapped up.

“Malvolio?” said Willow, like it was an STD. “Isn’t he, like, the worst role?”

“What does that mean: ‘the worst role’?” said Ziggy. “Malvolio’s the fifth largest role, and you’ve got some killer acting chops. Not everyone can pull off a role like Malvolio, Willow, but I think you can.”

“But doesn’t everyone hate him? Doesn’t the audience hate him?”

“Malvolio’s a complex character. Yeah, he’s not very likable. But that doesn’t mean he isn’t important. I think we can learn a lot from Malvolio’s behavior and how the other characters treat him.”

Willow seemed deeply unsatisfied with that answer, but she gave up trying to fight for a different role.

I waited outside the entrance of the warehouse—arms folded, leaning against the tin wall—in a mild, friendly ambush.

“Hey!” I said as Willow walked out.