The Year Shakespeare Ruined My Life Read online

  Dedication

  To all my students, past, present, and future.

  CHAPTER 1

  I took a short detour on my way to Mrs. Abrams’s classroom after school. I wanted to do something I was too embarrassed to be seen doing during regular school hours. As I approached the trophy case, I glanced around. Just five minutes after last bell and the hall was quiet. I stopped in front of the glass case. At last, I was alone with my pretties. The sports awards weren’t really my bag, though I could appreciate the happy little statue-people poised mid-athletic feat. What I wanted to see was the Valedictorian Award. The names etched on little gold plaques had reached legendary status in my mind: Ava Matheson, Charles Ling, Adam Goldstein. They were all scholarship winners whose futures were as shiny as the trophies in this case. My name would be next; I just knew it: Alison Green, written in Copperplate Gothic on its own plaque (yes, I knew what font they used—the trophy store was surprisingly open about such things if you called them).

  I pressed my palm and splayed fingers against the glass case. Which is when Charlotte Russell turned the corner at the end of the hall. I jerked my hand back, but I’m pretty sure Charlotte had already seen me petting the trophy case. I mean, we were the only two people in the hall, so I was hard to miss. I could not believe my luck. Of all people, Charlotte Russell, the very coolest person in our school, had just seen me at my geekiest. Charlotte wore her wavy, dark-brown hair short in what I was pretty sure was called an undercut. Her T-shirt sleeves were rolled up, and you could see the suggestion of a tattoo peeking out underneath her right sleeve. Two small black spacers stood out in stark contrast to the fair white skin of her earlobes. She didn’t exactly fit into a school full of girls with long hair who all loved to wear leggings and the latest trends. Me? I was a sad compromise of the two. My mousey hair hung mid-length, and I wore jeans with Converse sneakers. I was Average Teenager from any high-school movie produced in the past five decades. Charlotte was badass. And she had seen me petting a trophy case.

  I started preparing a series of excuses for what she’d witnessed. “Hi, Charlotte. I was just killing a spider. I’m tough like that.” “Oh, hey, Charlotte, I was thinking how lame awards are. I’m planning to vandalize the trophy case. Just doing some recon now.” Obviously, I had nothing. So I was mostly relieved when Charlotte turned the other way. Mostly. Another part of me was disappointed not to have an excuse, even an embarrassing one, to talk to her.

  I glanced at the Valedictorian Award one last time, then headed to the stairway. I couldn’t let my shameful little moment in front of Charlotte distract me. I had a plan, and this meeting was a big part of it. Mrs. Abrams had told me at lunch that she wanted to talk to me. She said she had a favor to ask. Whatever that favor was—walk her dog, clean her car, donate a kidney—I was going to say yes, because that yes would get me one step closer to seeing my name on that plaque. I knew this would be a pivotal moment that I would remember in years to come.

  I took long, purposeful strides into the room. The chairs were up on the desks and the whiteboard was wiped clean. The only sign the room had played host to teenagers all day was an overflowing garbage can beside the door. Mrs. Abrams, her gray hair swept up in a messy bun, motioned me over to her desk. I took a deep breath before approaching.

  “Alison, I wanted to talk to you about the school play.”

  “What about the school play, Mrs. Abrams?”

  “I’ve helped produce the school play for the past fourteen years now, and I thought it might be time to let someone new learn from my experience. Your teachers speak highly of you.”

  I could feel myself blushing. “Thanks.”

  “Not many young people could take on the responsibilities of being a coproducer, but I think you can. I could use your help.”

  “I’d be happy to help out.” I was worried I sounded a little too enthusiastic, a little too much like a brownnoser.

  “Excellent!” Mrs. Abrams didn’t seem to find my enthusiasm off-putting. Instead, she plopped a giant red binder overflowing with loose papers on the desk in front of me. “Here’s the production book with all the information from last year’s show. You should read it through tonight. I know the show is four months away, but there’s a lot for you to do. You need to get started right away.”

  I picked up the Red Binder and some papers slipped out. I bent down to gather them and looked up at Mrs. Abrams as she spoke. It felt a bit like I was kneeling to her. I had to get ahold of myself. I straightened. “Ah, Mrs. Abrams, I was hoping that maybe you could put a word in for me when the time comes for the teachers to start discussing valedictorians. I know I haven’t done anything yet, but I promise you, I will be a great coproducer and I’d—”

  “Sure, sure. Anything you want, Alison. Now remember to read through that binder tonight.”

  Mrs. Abrams shooed me out the door. I left, clutching the binder to my chest, some loose papers gripped in my right hand. I could feel the tight smile I’d plastered on start to slip, just a little.

  CHAPTER 2

  That night I did as Mrs. Abrams had asked and read through the Red Binder, even though I found a lot of it (okay, most of it) difficult to understand. I made a list of questions, then hole-punched and organized all the loose pages. I felt like I was off to a good start as a coproducer. By the time I walked into Mrs. Abrams’s class the next day, I was smiling again and ready to work.

  “Oh, Alison, I’m glad you were able to look over the production book. You should start assembling your crew. I have an appointment outside of school today, so I must run.” With that, Mrs. Abrams swept past me, jacket slung over her forearm. I’d like to think she paused for a moment in the doorway, some whisper of guilt making itself heard, but I think it’s more accurate to say that she walked out swiftly, her gray hair swishing and a bounce in her step. I followed her more slowly out the door.

  I met up with my sister and my best friend in the gym, where the school’s basketball team, the Otters, were being soundly beaten by a visiting team. Though their players were all shorter than ours, they probably practiced together sometimes, given that they knew how to do things like pass the ball. Becca, the aforementioned best friend, was grinning and clapping, her curly brown hair bouncing gleefully. Annie, my younger sister, was shouting at our team, “Defense!” Though she was smaller than almost everyone in the stands, her voice cut through the noise. That’s how enthusiastic she was. The opposing team’s fans seemed a bit confused by all the cheering and general merriment coming from the students in our section of the stands. I guess they didn’t know our reputation. The Otters had lost every game so far this season. This losing streak was itself a source of great pride, but what really filled the stands was the fact that the Otters boasted the most fights in the league. Nobody from our school came to a game to see skilled athletes. They came hoping for a fight. Given the dour faces of our Otters, it looked like they would not be disappointed.

  I squeezed in next to Becca, and she screamed “Whoo!” as the opposing team made another basket. I sighed and tried to find a way to balance the Red Binder on my knee without knocking into either Becca or the fan to my right. Without looking at me, Becca said, “Weren’t you supposed to be meeting with Abrams? I thought for sure the game would be over before you were done. If you want a drive home, I can give you a lift once the slaughter is over.” Becca knew I was one of the few people who didn’t like cheering our team on to violence, but she also knew I hated taking the bus. I appreciated that she drove me and Annie home almost every day, so I tried not to complain about having to stick around for the occasional game/brawl.

  “Than
ks, Becca. Yeah, I met with Mrs. Abrams. It was a short meeting.” I gave up trying to open the binder in the packed stands and glanced at the scoreboard. I winced: 60–4. The fight today was bound to be bloody.

  “Yeah?” Becca kept her eyes on the game and rubbed her hands together. Annie was cheering louder than ever.

  “Well, it wasn’t really a meeting. She just said she had an appointment and left. But she did tell me I should get my crew together soon,” I told Becca. I practically had to shout to make myself heard.

  “So?”

  “Shouldn’t they be our crew?”

  “Al…” Becca put a lot of emphasis on that one syllable of my name. I knew it meant she thought I was overthinking things. Again.

  “What?” I picked at a corner of the binder.

  “Al, she had an appointment. Don’t read too much into it. HEY! HE CAN’T DO THAT TO YOU!” Becca shouted this last part at one of our players who had lost the ball to a kid who looked to be a good three years younger and fifty pounds lighter than him. Someone behind us threw popcorn in the general direction of the basketball court. It mostly landed in our hair. Becca picked the kernels out of her hair and popped them into her mouth while I shook out my hair and let the popcorn land on the ground. I had to give the fans credit—they came prepared. I just hoped someone wasn’t hiding rotten fruit or eggs to throw if the game got too boring.

  “Speaking of getting a crew together—”

  Becca whipped her head around to glare at me. “Oh no. You are not dragging me into another activity I don’t care about. Wasn’t it bad enough when you got me to cover those basketball games for the school paper last year? Don’t you remember how that ended?”

  It was hard to deny that it had been a disaster. Apparently, Coach Isaacs hadn’t known that the student body was proudest of the Otters’ headlocks, not their free throws. Isaacs had demanded that we not only print a retraction, but that I also resign as editor. Thankfully, Ms. Merriam, English teacher, newspaper faculty consultant, and diplomat extraordinaire, had intervened, and I was allowed to stay on as editor, though Becca was more than happy to resign as sports reporter.

  “It won’t be like that this time! I’m sure we can find you a job you’ll love!” The crowd groaned and clapped half-heartedly as one of our players made a shot that went into the basket. Even he seemed surprised when the scoreboard changed to 60–6. In fact, he was watching the scoreboard when the player he should have been guarding dribbled right by him.

  “Yeah? What job would that be?” Becca raised one bushy eyebrow.

  “What about assistant stage manager? You get to, um, work backstage. And you get to help me since I think I may be both the producer and the stage manager.” Even after googling “role of producer” and “role of stage manager,” I still couldn’t quite tell the two jobs apart. I just knew that the Red Binder seemed to want me to “interface with the director” and “organize technical aspects of the show.” Whatever that meant.

  “Why would I want to do that?”

  “Life experience?” My voice went up an octave as I tried to sound persuasive.

  “Pass.”

  “Looks good on a university application?”

  “Nope.”

  “Favor for a good friend?”

  Becca snorted. “If we were keeping track of favors, you’d owe me at least fifty by now. Sorry. Not biting.”

  I was desperate, so I pulled out the big guns. “Because Jack is going out for the lead and we all know he’ll get it, and you’ve had a crush on him since the ninth grade and this could be a chance to spend time with him?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Becca stopped watching the game long enough to make sure Annie, who was seated on her other side, wasn’t listening in. Becca’s tawny skin hid any blushing, a fact I envied, but it was still obvious she was uncomfortable.

  Annie chimed in, “Oh, come on, Becca. Even I know you have a crush on him. It’s not exactly a secret.” Apparently, she had been listening to us, even though she had seemed completely mesmerized by the disaster on the court.

  I decided to use this opportunity to change targets. I leaned forward so I could see around Becca and get a good look at my sister. Annie calmly met my gaze, ice-blue eyes and dark eyeliner adding emphasis to her no-way-will-you-play-me-like-that look.

  “You know, Annie, I’ll also need a prop master.”

  “Hell no.”

  “Mom’s car.” I knew I only needed those two words.

  “You wouldn’t.” Annie glared at me.

  I coolly turned around and feigned interest in the game. “Wouldn’t I?”

  We watched the game in silence for a while. Even a brief shoving match, which had most of the Otters’ fans on their feet, went unnoticed. Becca was probably mulling over the fact that her secret crush wasn’t so secret, while Annie was surely doing some complicated math in her head. Had enough time passed that it wouldn’t seem like such a big deal anymore? How long would she be grounded if Mom did find out? Did she have enough in equivalent blackmail to keep me quiet? I’d done the math. I knew I had her, but I didn’t want to press too hard. Let her do the work and arrive at the same answer I had.

  “What do you think, Becca? Assistant stage manager? You get to feed actors lines and hang around backstage.” I could see that Becca was still hesitant. “What if I promised not to ask you to do any other activities for the rest of the year? I won’t even ask you to join the grad committee.”

  “Swear on the Valedictorian Award, and you’ve got yourself a deal.” Becca jabbed her index finger in the general direction of the lobby for emphasis.

  I raised my right hand. “I, Alison Mary Green, do solemnly swear on the Valedictorian Award that I will not make Rebecca Choukri-McArthur join any other activities for the remainder of this—our graduating—year, so long as she promises to fulfill the duties of assistant stage manager for the school play.” I was glad the people around us were wrapped up in the game. It was one thing for your best friend to know about your obsession with becoming valedictorian; it would be quite another for the whole school to know.

  Becca nodded, turned her attention back to the game, and said simply, “Okay.”

  “Don’t you think it’s weird that you know my middle name, but I still don’t know yours? How bad could it be?”

  “Don’t push your luck, Al.” Becca was smiling, so I knew we were okay.

  I chanced a quick look at Annie. She was scowling, her blue-for-now hair half covering her face. I could tell she’d done the math and didn’t like the answer. Maybe it was time to give her ego an out.

  “You know, it’s mostly seniors who work on the play, Annie. You’d be one of the few grade nines.” Annie grunted. “You’d also get to miss some classes for dress rehearsals,” I added.

  “Whatever. Fine.” Annie jumped to her feet with the rest of the crowd as two forwards wrestled on the ground and an exasperated referee blew his whistle over and over, to no avail. I let her save face and hoped that she’d end up liking the job enough that she wouldn’t want to find a way to get even with me.

  CHAPTER 3

  “You didn’t tell me it was going to be Shakespeare!” Annie tossed the photocopied script on the table. Becca kept flipping through her copy as if there were some kind of mistake.

  “Why does it matter?” As if I didn’t know. Shakespeare made an already difficult task practically impossible. Our school wasn’t what you’d call “artsy.” After all, the only reason the student population came out to basketball games was because they hoped for a good fight. No one was going to come see some play in “Old English,” as many of my classmates called it. I remembered Mr. Kay’s repeated attempts last year to explain that Elizabethan English was actually modern. It was like watching someone smash their head repeatedly against a brick wall—oddly fascinating, but you also worried about them. The E
nglish department had a hard enough time selling Shakespeare to a captive audience. What hope did we have?

  “You know damn well why it matters,” Annie muttered as she went back to opening cardboard boxes.

  Annie and Becca had agreed to help me take inventory in the drama department’s storage room after school. We were supposed to figure out what props, backgrounds, and costumes from previous shows could be reused. So far, we’d found a few spiders’ nests, which Annie had refused to approach until the spiders were safely removed, some ripped costumes, most of which smelled like old BO, and a box of foam swords, all of which were mysteriously bent. The dust was bad enough that our hands looked like we’d been digging through dirt. I had a hard time believing that anyone had been up here in recent years. Annie and Becca were discouraged enough at the prospect of helping produce “Ye Olde Shakespearean Disaster,” as they were now calling it, so I felt it was my duty to stay positive about, well, everything. At least on the outside. On the inside, I was panicking a little.

  I checked the Red Binder again, hoping to find an answer there. I stopped flipping when I found a page titled First Steps to Putting on a Show:

  Choose a script. (Already chosen by Mr. Evans, our enthusiastic, if eccentric, drama teacher/director. It might not have been a popular choice, but­—as Mr. Evans had pointed out to me earlier that day­—it was a cheap one. You don’t have to pay royalties to a playwright who’s been dead for more than four hundred years.)

  Get your team together. (Mr. Evans would be holding auditions early next week, but in the meantime, I’d at least found my assistant stage manager and my prop master. Though my assistant stage manager might quit soon if my prop master didn’t stop poking her with a foam sword.)

  Create your budget. (Mrs. Abrams’s “budgets” for past years consisted mainly of receipts stapled together and a note from the school principal to “be reasonable, damn it.” Not exactly the detailed, itemized list I’d hoped for. However, I did have a pretty good sense that we would need to do things on the cheap, which was why we were digging through the drama department’s castoffs instead of studying for a math test or watching paint dry—either of which would have been more fun.)