Get Even (6 page)

ELEVEN

OLIVIA WAS STILL FRAZZLED FROM HER ENCOUNTER WITH
Ronny when she walked into drama.

“Liv!” Peanut called from the front row the moment Olivia started down the aisle. “Where have you been?”

“Secret meeting with your new boyfriend, Ed the Head?” Amber asked. She was all smiles, but there was an edge to her voice.

Olivia dropped into the empty seat next to Peanut and attempted to compose herself. “I wasn’t feeling well.”

“Miss Hayes,” Mr. Cunningham said from the stage, his lilting British accent at once casual and commanding. He ticked her name off the roll sheet. “Lovely to have you back this semester.”

As if his only scholarship student would miss it.

Olivia felt the row of seats bounce as a blond guy in cargo shorts and Timberlands plopped down next to her. Mr. Cunningham used his clipboard to shield his eyes from the heavy stage lights and stared at the front row. “And you are?”

“Logan Blaine,” he said.

Mr. Cunningham checked Logan off the list. “Do you have any theatrical experience, Mr. Blaine?”

“Sure do.” Logan flashed a boyish smile but didn’t elaborate.

“O-kay,” Mr. Cunningham said slowly. The late bell rang, and he took one last scan of the roll sheet while he waited for the echo to fade. “Looks like we have everyone but—”

The back door to the theater flew open, banging against the wall with a violence that made Olivia jump. She turned her head and her fingers dug into the cushy armrest as Donté jogged down the aisle.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said.

Mr. Cunningham consulted his clipboard. “Mr. Greene?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I understand that Advanced Drama is considered an easy elective for some of you athletic types.” He paused, pursing his lips. “Which is why Father Uberti forces me to take you. So understand this: being on time for my class is a prerequisite for a passing grade.”

Donté joined drama? Excitement rippled through her. She’d have an entire semester with him. It was too good to be true.

“Sorry,” Donté repeated, holding his head high. “Won’t happen again.”

Mr. Cunningham nodded, seemingly satisfied. “Apology accepted, Mr. Greene. And I’d like to thank all of you for your patience while I was out of town last week. As you will soon learn, the delay was well worth it.”

Olivia leaned forward. It sounded as if Mr. Cunningham had a surprise for them. Celebrity coach? Field trip to Broadway?

“We have a few new people this semester.” Mr. Cunningham nodded to Donté and Logan. “Mr. Greene, Mr. Blaine, and Mr. . . .” He pointed toward the house left seats. “What was your name again?”

“Shane White.”

“Yes, Mr. White. If I’d known we’d have so many males in the class, I’d have picked one of the
Henry the Sixth
s to do.” He chuckled at his own joke. “Regardless, we’ll be moving very quickly into advanced scene study, focusing on Shakespeare, and I expect the newcomers to keep up.”

Amber let out a strangled sound, somewhere between a squeak and a growl.

“Speaking of the Bard . . .” Mr. Cunningham walked to the edge of the stage and sat down with his legs dangling into the orchestra pit. “Due to the generosity of Mr. and Mrs. Stevens”—he gestured to Amber—“we are mounting a brand-new production of
Twelfth Night
this semester.”

“What?” Olivia turned to Amber, who stared fixedly at Mr. Cunningham, refusing to meet her eyes. Amber’s parents were funding the fall play? That didn’t make any sense. Not only was Amber ambivalent about theater, but she wasn’t very good at it, possessing a remarkable inability to remember her lines. Why this sudden interest?

Olivia’s hands went cold as another realization dawned upon her. If Amber’s parents were paying for this production, then she’d known for a while that the fall play would be
Twelfth Night
, even though she’d steadfastly told Olivia all summer that she thought it would be Mamet. Why had she lied?

“So brush off your monologues,” Mr. Cunningham continued. “Because auditions will be Wednesday after school.”

“Wednesday?” Peanut gasped. “But that’s in only three days!”

“Two, Miss Dumbrowski,” Mr. Cunningham said. He sounded almost sad. “Two days to prepare a soliloquy from the Shakespearean catalog. I know that seems impossible, but there is a method to my madness. I want your auditions to be spontaneous. Uniquely individual. And so, for this audition only, I’ll be allowing you to read from the script.”

Was it Olivia’s imagination or had Mr. Cunningham’s eyes rested on Amber for a brief moment as he dropped that bomb?

“I’ve saved the best for last. The reason for my absence at the beginning of the semester. I was in Bath, attending a performance of
As You Like It
, directed by the great Fitzgerald Conroy.”

Olivia sat straight up in her seat, the shock of Amber’s involvement in the production forgotten.
The
Fitzgerald Conroy? Former director in residence at the Royal Shakespeare Company and current artistic director of the Oregon Shakespeare Festival, Fitzgerald Conroy was the godfather of modern Shakespearean productions, a world-class director who had literally worked with every leading stage actress of the last two decades.

“Fitzgerald is an old friend and colleague,” Mr. Cunningham continued. “And I am pleased to announce that he will be attending our opening-night performance and will be evaluating members of our cast for an internship position in this summer’s Oregon Shakespeare Festival.”

Olivia’s jaw dropped. An internship at Ashland? Working with Fitzgerald Conroy? This was the chance Olivia had been waiting for.

Amber squealed and grabbed Peanut’s hand. “Can you imagine? Me performing at Ashland?”

“You?” Olivia said. She couldn’t help herself.

Amber turned on her. “Why not? You’re not the star of the show around here anymore.”

Anymore?

Mr. Cunningham clapped his hands again, and the class quieted down. “There is one catch, so listen up. Due to Fitzgerald’s calendar, we need to open this production in three weeks.”

Olivia gasped again, this time simultaneously with almost everyone in the theater. Three weeks to mount an entire Shakespearean play? That was the most insane production schedule she’d ever heard.

“I realize that three weeks is a compressed rehearsal period, which means I must have a full commitment from everyone involved. For those of you not cast in the play, there will be important roles to fill: stage crew, costumes, lighting. This is a brand-new production with a great many moving parts, and it’s going to take all of us to pull it off. We’ll also need more behind-the-scenes crew than usual, so recruit your friends. Sound good?”

He didn’t wait for a response.

“So let’s start with some warm-ups. Everyone onstage.” He pointed at Amber. “Miss Stevens, would you like to lead? We can see how those private lessons over the summer paid off.”

Amber pranced up the stairs onto the stage, preening like a peacock. “I’d love to.”

Mr. Cunningham asked Amber to run the warm-ups? That was Olivia’s job, had been for four semesters. She was practically Mr. Cunningham’s TA, a de facto position based on her status as the only student at Bishop DuMaine on a drama scholarship.

Olivia slowly followed the rest of the class onto the stage, moving to the far corner as the class loosely formed rows behind Amber. Her mind reeled. Amber had taken acting lessons during the summer. Amber had lied to her about what the fall play would be. Amber had conned her parents into donating the funds to mount the new production. Amber had known about the internship with the Oregon Shakespeare Festival all along and decided she wanted it for herself. Why?

“We’ll start with some stretches,” Amber instructed.

“Olivia,” a voice whispered.

Olivia turned her head sharply. Mr. Cunningham stood in the wings, beckoning her over. As Amber began a windmill drill, Olivia ducked behind the leg curtain.

“
Twelfth Night
,” Mr. Cunningham said quickly. “I’m sure you want to play Olivia. It was your mother’s greatest role, and your namesake.”

Olivia was confused. “No, I don’t. I want—”

Mr. Cunningham held up his hand, cutting her off. “I need you to audition for Viola.”

“Okay.”

“And don’t tell anyone that’s what you’re doing.”

“Uh, okay.”

He placed a hand on her shoulder. “Things are going to be a little different this semester. I . . .” His eyes faltered from her face. “I need this production. Fitzgerald’s looking for original stagings to fill next summer’s lineup. It would be my own production, a huge directorial role for me. Do you understand?”

Olivia had no idea what he was talking about but nodded anyway.

“I’ll do everything I can for you.” He squeezed her shoulder.

“Mr. Cunningham?” Amber called out. “We’re ready!”

Mr. Cunningham whipped his hand away. He straightened his shoulders and stepped past Olivia onto the stage.

“Excellent. Shall we start with some
Hamlet
?”

TWELVE

OLIVIA MADE SURE SHE WAS AT THE COFFEE CLASH EARLY
for her date with Ronny. She picked a small table in the corner, obscured by the dessert counter, where she ran minimal risk of being seen by . . . anyone, and opened her copy of
Twelfth Night
to study one of Viola’s monologues. Mission or no mission, she needed to be prepared for the audition.

One hour, that was all she needed to give Bree. One hour spent dodging Ronny’s octopus hands and avoiding anyone she knew.

Thankfully, she had an exit strategy this time. Kitty would be showing up precisely at five o’clock. It made her feel better, somehow, knowing she had Kitty there looking out for her.

“Babe!” Ronny yelled from the front door of the café.

Ugh. It took all of Olivia’s acting ability to plaster a demure, flirtatious smile on her face as Ronny sat down opposite her.

“Hi,” Olivia said in return. “I’m
so
glad you could make it.”

She glanced at her cell phone. One hour started now.

Bree crouched behind a large green wastebin and stared at Ronny’s house. She’d been huddled in the backyard for half an hour; her knees dug into the gravel, her back ached, and the stench of rotting leaves and manure was starting to make her nauseous.

She tapped the Bluetooth device in her ear. “You still with me?”

“Don’t do that,” Margot grumbled. “You’re going to make me deaf.”

“Sorry.” She could hear the clack of Margot’s keyboard on the other end as she worked to disable the DeStefanos’ security system. “Almost done?”

“I’ll tell you when I’m done.”

Bree shifted her weight to her heels and arched her back. “Easy for you to say,” she muttered. “You’re not the one hanging out with the garbage.”

“You know I can hear you, right?”

Another few seconds of manic typing, and then Margot let out a long breath. “Okay,” she said. “Try it now.”

Bree crept out from behind the bin and ran swiftly to the back door. The crunch of the gravel beneath her boots sounded cartoonishly loud in the silence of the afternoon, and she paused at the door, listening for any signs of life.

Why was she so paranoid? Ronny was safely engaged at the Coffee Clash, and his dad and stepmom wouldn’t be home from work before six o’clock. She had plenty of time to break in, download the contents of Ronny’s hard drive and email using the passwords cloned from his phone, delete the video, and hustle out of there before Kitty rescued Olivia from her date.

Easy.

“Are you inside yet?” Margot asked.

“Patience is a virtue.” With a deep breath, Bree inserted her skeleton key gingerly into the lock and gave it a jiggle. The back door swung open. “In!” she said. “Heading to Ronny’s room now.”

Blackout shades were drawn over the windows, but the screen saver on Ronny’s computer was bright enough to light Bree’s way into the darkened room. Which was a happy accident because his bedroom was a freaking pigsty.

Clothes were strewn about the bed, desk, and floor like they’d been churned up by a tornado and were left where they fell. Several food-stained plates were piled up on the nightstand, and at least a dozen glasses of half-consumed mystery liquids christened every available surface.

“Must be the cleaning crew’s day off,” Bree said, wrinkling her nose.

“They come Wednesday and Friday,” Margot said.

“Damn, he did all this since Friday?”

“Bree, the computer,” Margot prodded.

“Yeah, yeah.” She had an hour, after all. It would only take about twenty minutes to download Ronny’s hard drive.

Bree picked her way toward Ronny’s desk, avoiding a pizza box with unknown contents and several pairs of dirty tighty-whities that made bile gurgle up the back of her throat.

“What an incredible smell you’ve discovered,” she murmured.

“Did you just quote
Star Wars
?” Margot asked.

“No,” Bree said quickly. “Maybe.”

John was clearly wearing off on her.

“Okay,” Bree said, forcing herself to focus on the task at hand. “Logging in to his computer now.”

Kitty swung through the door of the Coffee Clash right on schedule.

Ronny’s back was to her as she approached the register, but Kitty watched as Olivia quickly drew her hand across her chest from left shoulder to right, signaling that she was ready for extrication.

“Can I help you?” the barista asked.

Kitty reluctantly pulled her gaze away from Olivia and Ronny. “I’ll have a small—” Kitty started as she recognized the barista. “Barbara Ann?”

“Hi, Kitty.” Barbara Ann smiled; her eyes did not.

Kitty stared at her former teammate, unsure what to say. Barbara Ann Vreeland had been a sophomore at Bishop DuMaine when Kitty was a freshman, and had been captain of the junior varsity girls’ volleyball team until she was expelled from school after being implicated in a grade-fixing scandal. The last time Kitty had seen her, Barbara Ann had tried to recruit Kitty into the scheme by offering her a passing grade in geometry. The scandal had broken two days later, and Kitty hadn’t seen Barbara Ann since.

“How are you?” Kitty said lamely.

Barbara Ann shrugged. “Good, I guess. I’m at Gunn now.”

Kitty tilted her head to the side. If Barbara Ann was at Gunn, they should have played each other at volleyball.

“I don’t play anymore,” Barbara Ann said, as if reading Kitty’s mind.

“But . . . but you were amazing,” Kitty stammered. “Pro level. I thought—”

“Oooooooh,” Olivia groaned from her table. She grabbed her stomach, doubling over in pantomimed pain.

The Coffee Clash was half-empty, but several patrons glanced in Olivia’s direction.

“Babe?” Ronny said nervously, not moving from his seat.

“My stomach,” Olivia cried. She writhed in her chair.

“Are you okay?”

Olivia stumbled forward out of her chair, bracing herself against the dessert counter. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

That was Kitty’s cue. She wanted to talk to Barbara Ann, find out why she wasn’t playing anymore, and if that was somehow her fault. But they were on a tight schedule. With a weak smile at her old teammate, she stepped toward Olivia. “What’s wrong? What hurts?”

Olivia jabbed at her stomach below her rib cage. “Here. It’s like I’ve been stabbed.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Ronny said, slowly rising to his feet. “I never touched her.”

Kitty fought to keep from rolling her eyes.

“It must be your appendix,” Kitty said instead, sounding like an extra on a medical drama. She snatched Olivia’s purse off the back of her chair. “We need to get her to the hospital. Now.”

Ronny’s eyes practically bugged out of his head. “Right. Um, should I take her? Or, I mean, do you have a car?”

“It hurts!” Olivia sobbed.

Were those real tears streaming down her face? Wow, she really was an amazing actress.

“Come on,” Kitty said, putting an arm around Olivia. “I’ll take you.”

Kitty took one last glance over her shoulder as she escorted a groaning Olivia out of the café. The rest of the patrons had returned to their conversations, but three heads were turned in their direction. Barbara Ann’s stare was hard; Ronny’s, dumbfounded. And in the back of the café, Theo Baranski gazed at her, eyes wide, watching their retreat.

“How much longer?” Margot asked. Bree could picture her, manically checking the clock every thirty seconds, paranoid that they were behind schedule.

“Two minutes.”

“Finally,” Margot said sharply.

“Not my fault his ancient laptop was so slow. Freaking PCs.”

A soft chime echoed through Bree’s earpiece. “Kitty just texted,” Margot said. “She and Olivia left Ronny at the Coffee Clash. His drive time is approximately sixteen minutes in rush hour traffic.”

“Then I’ll be out of here in five.”

Bree stared at the download progress bar, which kept changing its mind as to how much time was left. It taunted her, jumping from thirty seconds, to sixty, to ninety, then back to thirty.
Come on
. Her fingers tapped impatiently against Ronny’s desk as she glared at the screen, mentally threatening it with physical harm if it didn’t hurry up and finish.

“Cut it out,” Margot said, her voice edgy. She was losing her cool.

“Cut what out?”

“Tapping your fingers against the desk.”

Bree paused. “How can you possib—” She stopped midword as a faint creak broke the silence of the room, followed by an almost imperceptible patter, like bare feet retreating down the hall.

“What’s wrong?” Margot asked.

“Sh!” Bree sat frozen, listening, but the sound of footsteps had vanished. Silently, she swung Ronny’s desk chair around to face the bedroom door, which was closed.

Did she close the door? She was pretty sure she’d left it open. Maybe a breeze swung it shut? Or maybe the DeStefanos had a cat?

Or maybe it was a person.

“What happened?” Margot whispered. “Bree, are you—”

DING!
The download was complete. Finally.

“Nothing,” Bree said, quickly ejecting the flash drive. “Just thought I heard something.”

“Okay,” Margot said slowly. “Did you delete the video of Mika?”

Bree swirled the mouse across the screen and with a few deft clicks, the video was erased from Ronny’s computer permanently. “Done,” she said. “Now I’m getting the fuck out of here.”

“You have twelve minutes,” Margot said.

Bree’s hands trembled as she eased Ronny’s desk chair back to the exact spot she’d found it. Why was she so skittish? If anyone had been in the house and actually seen her at Ronny’s desk, they would have either confronted her on the spot or called 911. A distinct lack of blaring sirens in the distance meant it had all been a figment of her imagination.

She carefully threaded her way back to the bedroom door and was about to swing it open with her foot when something caught her eye. Taped to the back of Ronny’s door was a list of names.

Coach Creed

Rex Cavanaugh

Theodore Baranski

What possible connection could exist between a dickwad teacher, the biggest douche at school, and a bullying victim?

“Ten minutes,” Margot said. “Are you done yet?”

Bree shook her head and nudged the door open. Whatever the reason, it didn’t affect the mission. “Exiting the house now.”

As soon as her car rounded the corner at the end of the block, Kitty held up her hand for a high five. “Nice job.”

Olivia slapped Kitty’s hand with all the ferocity of a butterfly. Oh well, at least she was getting into the spirit. “It felt
so
good. I mean, it’s like those interactive theater shows in New York. The exhilaration is absolutely amazing and . . .” She paused midthought. “Hey, did you know that barista?”

“No,” Kitty lied.

“Oh. I thought I saw you guys talking,” Olivia said, still chattering away at a mile a minute. “Sorry if I interrupted, but I couldn’t take another second of Ronny.”

“Did you see Theo in the café?” Kitty asked, desperate to change the subject. She didn’t want to talk about Barbara Ann.

“Theo Baranski?”

Kitty nodded. “In the back corner.”

“Huh,” Olivia said.

Kitty pictured the look on Theo’s face as she escorted Olivia from the café. He wasn’t concerned or worried, he was confused, as if seeing Kitty and Olivia together was as strange and out of place as a polar bear in the desert, which might be a problem if he remembered seeing them together with Ronny after their revenge against him went public.

Kitty’s cell phone buzzed. She waited for a stoplight, then checked her incoming text. “Margot says that Bree successfully downloaded his hard drive and deleted the video,” she said. “I’d say, phase one accomplished.”

Olivia sighed as Kitty rolled up in front of her apartment building, visibly relieved that her role was over. “I’ll see you at school tomorrow?”

“Absolutely.” Kitty nodded. “Don’t get mad.”

Olivia smiled. “Get even.”