Chapter 1
Jessica — Thursday and Friday
“Jessica Mitchell,” my drama teacher, Mrs. Clark, calls out my name. “Your group is first.”
We walk up the stage steps. Kayla first, then me, then Michael. I get goose bumps just knowing he’s right behind me.
I signed up for drama class because I saw the play last year and Michael blew me away. It’s not unusual for a junior, like me, to add drama to her schedule. I’m pretty sure Kayla had the same goal in mind when she switched into the class the second week of school: Michael Hoffman. How else could we get into a class with a senior?
We get into position on the stage.
I hold the knife steady, steady, directly over Kayla’s heart. Her eyes do not flutter open. I stay poised, waiting for the exact moment when I will raise my arm higher, release my breath with a scream, and plunge the weapon downward with jealous rage.
Or resentful hate.
Or odious envy.
I haven’t really got hold of my circle of emotion yet. What I really want to do is giggle. I stare at her closed eyes, waiting for a signal. She looks like my archrival Hannah. They share the same long blonde hair. Pretty like her, too.
Michael will step between us at any moment now and save her.
“Jessica,” Michael whispers my name. I raise my arm. Jerk it. I feel a tingle in my shoulder like a tendon snapped and I half turn without meaning to.
Her eyes open. She doesn’t scream and neither do I, though one of us should. She sneers instead, rolls her eyes toward Michael and whispers the classic save me.
I slam the knife down, my fist stopping a quarter inch from her chest. In the same instant Michael leaps from behind me and punches at my hand. He knocks the knife’s handle. It easily flips away and thumps on the floor with no resounding metallic clatter. Of course not. The rubber stage prop is as phony as we are. Our sixty second impromptu warm-up exercise receives the hesitant applause of the other twenty-seven kids watching. Three guys take the stage.
Today we had to limit our dialogue to three words or less per person and concentrate on blending actions. Like a dance, Mrs. Clark had said. Michael, Kayla, and I step down and trail toward the empty fifth row as the next group gets into position. Like a dance, I think, and I sidestep my way past Kayla so I can sit next to Michael. He is so hot.
Now that I am sitting so close to him I get more nervous, if that’s possible. I want to say something, anything, but the words are stuck somewhere near my pounding heart.
My best friend, Rashanda, would have something smart to say. Her constant advice rolls around in my head: just be yourself.
“So, Michael,” I whisper as the second group on stage begins, “what are your biggest fears?” I’ve practiced questions like this in front of the bathroom mirror. Now I feel like a fool for actually asking him such a lame question so I flip my hair back with my hand and angle my body toward him, crossing my right leg over my left. Why do I bother trying to act cool? I’m hopeless at this acting stuff, and I am über-scared that people won’t like me.
“Uh,” he says. He keeps his eyes forward, frowns a bit, and then turns toward me. For a second, we are the only two people in the auditorium. He keeps his voice to something less than a whisper. I read his lips. “I’d have to say robbers, the dark, and balloons on the floor.”
I stifle my laughter. Kayla nudges me.
“What’s so funny?” she asks. Her voice is a little too loud. I shake my head, keep my lips glued shut, and focus on the three kids that are acting like animals on the stage. Mrs. Clark’s piercing glance in our direction misses me and settles on Kayla. Kayla slumps back.
