Читать книгу Strings - Megan Edwards - Страница 9

Chapter 2

I was a shoo-in for the role of Lancelot, but it wasn’t because I was a fantastic actor. Only five boys showed up at the first round of tryouts, and Camelot has five significant male roles. Mr. Harper gave the part of Merlyn to Jonathan Griffith, who was the shortest among us, and the part of the aged King Pellinore to Greg Hornsby, who was skinny and not much taller. David Cummins, a pudgy bookworm type, got the role of Mordred. That left Arthur and Lancelot, and as soon as Mr. Harper told Brian Collier he’d have to work on his regal bearing, I knew Bill’s prediction had been accurate. Even though I was happy about it by then, I was glad my buddy wasn’t there. One smug smirk, and I would have decked him.

If casting the boys was easy for Mr. Harper, dealing with the girls more than made up for it. There was only one significant female role, and it seemed like every girl in school was determined to have it. “Who’s going to be Guenevere?” echoed across the campus for days. The scuttlebutt around the dorms was that Elizabeth Dunhill would get the part. Not only was her father the president of Twentieth Century-Fox, he was a member of Haviland’s board of trustees. How could Mr. Harper ignore those connections? If not Elizabeth, then Robin McCullough. Her father was the American ambassador to Japan, and Robin had been acting in Haviland musicals since ninth grade. This was her last chance to be a star. And then there was Penelope Lambros, and Margaret Kellerman. Or what about Roberta Phillips? The list went on, and so did the midnight gossip sessions. It seemed unfair that I had walked into my own role so easily, but there was nothing to do but wait and see what decision emerged from Mr. Harper’s office.

Olivia de la Vega. The group that had gathered around the bulletin board next to the music room looked at the name in disbelief. Two girls started to cry, and two more ran away. Brian and I, who had been inside Mr. Harper’s office when he said he was ready to post his decision about Guenevere, just stared in surprise. Who the heck was Olivia de la Vega? Haviland was not a large school, and I was sure I knew everyone. But Olivia de la Vega? The name was new to me.

“Who—?” I began, but Brian interrupted.

“She’s the daughter of one of the cleaning ladies,” he said. “A sophomore.”

Word spread like lightning, and the reaction was just as swift. Robin McCullough threw a noisy tantrum in the dining hall at lunch, and Elizabeth Dunhill swore she’d get Mr. Harper fired. I decided to keep a low profile until the hysteria blew over.

In spite of Robin’s histrionics and Elizabeth’s threats, rehearsals began on schedule. Mr. Harper, who no doubt had weathered some brutal telephone calls from parents and board members, didn’t back down. Olivia de la Vega was Guenevere, and the Haviland student body would have to learn to live with it.

I didn’t meet Olivia until the first rehearsal. It was a table reading of the script, and we were meeting in a conference room next to Goddard Hall. I was late, and the reading had already begun when I got there.

Olivia was speaking when I opened the door, and she paused to look up at me before continuing. Light from the window lit her face, and as our eyes met, I saw that hers were green. As she looked at me, the rest of the room fell away. A current as tangible as physical touch passed between us, and a shiver rippled through my body.

Olivia looked back down at her script, and I slid into a chair next to Jonathan Griffith. Mr. Harper shot me a disapproving glance over his reading glasses from the end of the table, but I hardly noticed. I was still under the spell of Olivia’s gaze.

I sat there transfixed, unable to take my eyes off her as she read her lines. How could it be that I had not noticed her before? She was strikingly beautiful. She had long, smooth black hair and creamy skin that glowed golden in the afternoon sun. Her voice sounded as if she were singing even though she wasn’t, and she used her hands when she spoke. They were lovely, delicate hands, with slender fingers that seemed almost translucent. And those eyes. Those marvelous, magical green eyes.

Jonathan nudged me under the table, yanking me from my thoughts. “Who’d’ve thought we’d get a Mexican Guenevere?” he whispered.

“Shut up,” I said.

Mr. Harper had won his skirmish, and my leading lady had won her role. But the battle for Camelot had barely begun.