Читать книгу Geek Drama - Holly Smale, Холли Смейл - Страница 13

eriously.

I’ve turned up for two auditions in the last four hours. Why couldn’t this be the one I got locked in a cupboard for?

Nat’s face has gone so abruptly white that her blusher is standing out like the two pink spots on a Russian doll.

“I don’t understand,” she whispers as we slip in and sit quietly on the floor at the back. “Why is everybody here? I thought it would be just the drama keen-beans.”

And with one swift chew, the last few shreds of blue nail varnish disappear.

“Apparently, if you take part in the play you don’t have to do homework for the entire duration of the rehearsals,” a girl in front of us says, over her shoulder. “Like, any. Not even maths.”

My stomach twists. This is so unfair: I have to do a play and miss homework? It’s my favourite bit about education: you get to do schoolwork without actually being at school.

Then I brighten.

There are approximately eighty girls here and only two female parts in Hamlet: if this many people audition, my chances of getting a role are statistically reduced to almost nothing. All I need to do is stay as quiet as I can and maybe they won’t even notice I’m—

“Harriet!”

I close my eyes momentarily.

“Harriet! Harriet! Harriet Manners!”

Everyone in a fifteen-metre radius stops chatting and spins to look at a cheery figure waving energetically at me. He’s wearing orange trousers and a bright blue T-shirt that says:

NEVER TRUST AN ATOM, THEY MAKE UP EVERYTHING

I give a tiny nod and then curl myself up into a ball and try to disappear into myself like a hedgehog.

It doesn’t work.

“You’re here!” Toby fake-whispers loudly, standing up and starting to pseudo-crouch-step towards me. “I was certain you said you’d be here, but then I was worried if maybe that listening device I set up outside your house wasn’t working properly and I was going to return to the shop and ask for my money back. But technology prevails! You’re actually here!”

Never mind a hedgehog. I’ve now shrunk to the size of a particularly embarrassed woodlouse.

“Hi Toby,” I murmur as my stalker starts charging not very carefully across the people sitting on the floor between us.

“Ow!” somebody mutters as he steps on one of their fingers.

“Oi!” another person snaps as he kicks their bag a few metres across the room.

“Who invited the geeks?”

Toby continues, totally unabashed. “What part are you going to be auditioning for, Harriet?” he says happily, plonking down next to me. “I think you would make an excellent Ophelia, although you might want to rethink because of all the singing. I’ve stood outside your bathroom window in the morning and it is not one of your many profound talents.”

A snigger goes round my immediate vicinity.

There’s a long curtain a few metres away: if only I had more defined stomach muscles I might be able to shimmy behind it like a snake.

“Toby,” I mutter as my cheeks start getting hot, “I don’t think I—”

Toby is waving a piece of paper. “I’ve narrowed down your possible audition speeches to Kate from The Taming of the Shrew, and Lady Macbeth. How good are you at cleaning up blood?”

Half the room is now nudging each other and giggling. My cheeks get a bit hotter as I glance nervously at Alexa at the front. She’s staring blankly at the boy on stage, who is now inexplicably doing some kind of juggling act. “Toby …”

“Or the eponymous Juliet.”

“Toby …”

“Or Desdemona from Othello. The bit where she dies.” He pauses. “Except she sings too. Maybe scrap that one.”

Fifteen more people turn to giggle.

“Or—”

And – just like that – my entire head explodes. “TOBY, PLEASE, FOR THE LOVE OF SUGAR COOKIES. GO AWAY.”

Then there’s an abrupt silence while the entire room spins to look at us.

Yeah. I don’t think that helped much.

“Harriet Manners.”

Mr Bott is standing at the front of the room with his arms folded and his face creased up like a damp pair of socks.

Oh no. Oh no oh no oh – “Yes?”

“Stand up please.”

I cautiously uncurl myself from the floor and somehow get to my feet. My entire face is now pulsing red like the pause button on our washing machine at home.

Mr Bott’s face gets just a little sock-ier.

“From what I recall, Harriet, this is not the first time you have chosen to disrupt others by shouting. After your last little display, I’m surprised you haven’t learnt your lesson.”

Last term, I accidentally yelled at Toby in the middle of an English class, which led to getting in trouble with Mr Bott, which led to accidentally upsetting Alexa, which led to her forcing everyone to put their hands up to say they hated me.

I’m quite surprised I didn’t learn my lesson too.

Maybe they need to do a class on that instead.

“I’m sorry,” I say in a small voice.

Mr Bott raises his eyebrows. “As you’re obviously so eager to be a pivotal part of this production, why don’t you come up next?”

I look at the stage.

Then at the staring, silent crowd around me. Then at Alexa, who has spun round and narrowed her eyes at me. Then at Toby, who infuriatingly beams and puts both thumbs in the air.

Finally, I look at Nat.

“Please?” she whispers. “I don’t want to do it on my own.”

I think of what happened last time I was on a stage: I accidentally knocked another model to the floor and ruined an entire fashion show.

Then I think of where I’ve been today: at a modelling-agency casting for Brink magazine (or attempting to be, anyway). I think of how much my best friend of a decade would have given to be there instead.

Then I swallow and grab the piece of paper out of Toby’s hand.

“All right,” I say as loudly as I can. “I’ll do it.”

And I make my way up on to the stage.