Get Even (Don’t Get Mad)

BREE STOOD IN THE BACK OF THE HOUSE, TRYING TO ACCLIMATE her eyes to the low lighting. She wasn’t sure what to do. Introduce herself to the foppish British guy who appeared to be running the show? Eh, she wasn’t there to kiss ass. He’d figure out who she was eventually. Besides, it wasn’t as if she could hide from John all semester. Better to take the bull by the horns.

She scanned the auditorium and saw John sitting between Shane and some redheaded senior chick Bree had never met. Here goes nothing.

“Hey,” she said, slipping into the row in front of them.

John started as if he’d seen a ghost. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Same thing you are.”

John planted a boot-clad foot against the back of her seat. “I seriously doubt that.”

Bree didn’t like the clouded look she saw on his face. What right did he have to be pissed off?

The redhead leaned on John’s arm. “Who’s your friend?”

Bree eyed the girl. She wore heavy purple lipstick and more black eyeliner than the lead singer of KISS, and the way she touched John’s arm—so familiar and comfortable—rubbed Bree the wrong way. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

“It’s Bree, right?” Shane extended his hand.

Holy shit, he knew her name? “Yeah.” She shook his hand, praying her palms weren’t gross and sweaty.

“Are you joining drama?” he asked.

The redhead rolled her eyes and nodded toward Amber and Jezebel, posing on the stage like they were auditioning for a Madonna video. “I don’t know why anyone would want to join this freak show.”

“When you gaze long into the abyss, the abyss also gazes into you,” Bree said, carefully quoting Nietzsche. She’d memorized a dozen or so of the philosopher’s best, just in case she got the chance to drop one in front of Shane.

But instead of smiling in recognition, Shane tilted his head to the side. “Huh?”

John snorted. “I believe she’s quoting Nietzsche.”

“Oh!” Shane’s eyes grew wide. “I had to do a report on him last spring. Didn’t understand most of it.”

John grinned from ear to ear. “Yeah, Bree’s a huge Nietzsche fan.”

Bree wanted to slap the smugness off his face.

Shane smiled. “I’m Shane, and this is Cordy,” he said, thumbing at the redhead. Bree noticed that her knee was touching John’s leg. What the hell was that about? “Cordy does the promo and shit for Bangers and Mosh. She’s sitting in on class today to get the DL on the gig.”

Bree had no idea what gig he was talking about, but clearly Shane thought John had filled her in, so she flashed Cordy a shit-eating grin and played along. “So you’re a groupie.”

Cordy wrinkled her nose. “Look who’s talking.”

“Dude,” Shane said, slapping John on the shoulder. “Glad you could transfer in. This gig is going to be epic for us.” He stepped into the aisle. “I’ll go tell Mr. C. that you’re here.”

Cordy climbed over John and followed Shane, assiduously avoiding Bree’s eyes as she went. Bree waited until they were halfway to the stage before she turned to John, eyebrows raised. “Cordy seemed really friendly,” Bree said. “Why haven’t I heard about her?”

“Why haven’t I heard about your sudden interest in the theater?” John countered.

“You weren’t exactly sharing that little nugget either,” she said, suddenly embarrassed. “And what the hell is this about a gig?”

Instead of answering, John linked his fingers behind his head and crossed one combat-boot-clad foot over his knee.

Bree narrowed her eyes. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on or am I going to have to rip that boot off your foot and beat you senseless with it?”

“Pay attention, Miss Charming,” he said with a nod toward the stage. “Class is starting.”

With a series of cringe-inducing squeaks, Shane helped Mr. Cunningham wheel a massive television across the stage. “All right, everyone. We have a lot to cover today, so let’s start with a few announcements. Thank you, Mr. White.”

Shane saluted, then jumped off the stage in one bound and took a seat in the front row next to Cordy.

“Um, right,” Mr. Cunningham said, eyeing Shane suspiciously. “First off, congratulations to everyone who was cast in our fall play. I was impressed with your auditions, and I believe we’re going to have a fabulous production. Now, I want to share with you the concept for this semester’s production of Twelfth Night.” He plugged his phone into an auxiliary jack and connected it to the screen. His browser appeared, showing a photo gallery marked “Twelfth Precinct.”

“Thanks to the generosity of our donors, we are building this production from scratch, based on my own original concept.” He tapped on the gallery and opened a slide show. The first image was a watercolor mockup of the stage, portraying a run-down urban landscape: New York–style brownstones pockmarked with boarded-up windows, a burned-out hulk of an old sedan peeking out from the wings, and graffiti plastering every available surface.

“This is our main set. It’s a near-future dystopian landscape, based on New York City as depicted in the 1979 cult classic”—he paused and swiped to the next photo—“The Warriors.”

Mr. Cunningham waited, clearly expecting some sort of reaction to the production still of several shirtless dudes in brown leather vests, open to show their glistening torsos, hairless like Ken dolls. It was a seventies explosion—afros and feathered headbands, beaded necklaces, and ridiculously low-slung jeans.

“What the hell is that?” Bree said, out of the corner of her mouth.

“Oh, come on, guys,” Mr. Cunningham said, practically pleading. “The Warriors? ‘Can you dig it?’”

Giggles erupted from somewhere near the front of the theater. Mr. Cunningham ran a hand through his thinning hair and sighed. “No matter. We’ll be watching it in class tomorrow.” He cut off the groans with a wave of his hand. “Be thankful I’m not assigning it for homework. The point is that we are recreating a gritty, dangerous gangland. Think West Side Story on steroids. And we’ll be going all out—original sets, costumes, even an original score.” Mr. Cunningham waved Shane to his feet. “This is Mr. White, who performs in a local rock band.”

Bree glanced at John. “You’re kidding me.”

“Mr. White will be performing the role of Feste, the fool, and will be composing and performing original music for our production.”

“Hold up,” Shane said. “I play guitar and sing, but I’m crap at writing songs.” He pointed at John. “My bassist Bagsie is the epic songwriter.”

Every head in the theater turned around to face Bree and John, a backlit amalgam of shock and awe.

“Yes. Right.” Mr. Cunningham fussed with his phone and flipped to another screen. “Moving on.”

The rest of his presentation was lost on Bree. John had kept yet another secret from her? She turned fully around to face him. “You’re composing songs for the school play? And you were going to tell me this when?”

“You’re not my mother, Bree,” he said without looking at her. “I can go to the men’s room without you there to wipe my ass.”

His jaw was clenched; the tendons below his cheek rippled back and forth as he ground his teeth together. John rarely got angry—either at Bree or anyone else—but when he did, it was not something to be taken lightly.

Why was he pissed at her? Shouldn’t it be the other way around? Twice in one week she’d found out he’d been keeping major life decisions secret from her. What kind of friend did that?

John leaned forward and whispered in Bree’s ear. “What do you see in him?”

“Mr. Cunningham?” Bree asked.

“Shane.”

“Oh.” It wasn’t a question Bree had an answer to, even if she’d been inclined to give it. “I don’t know. He’s cool, I guess.”

“Cool?”

“Who can resist a rock star?” she half-joked.

The class began to stand up and move toward the stage, the presentation apparently over. John slowly rose to his feet. He looked down at her, his hair hanging in front of one eye. “We’ll see about that.”