Chapter Three

Kiev + Horatio

 

Horatio. The character’s already taken. Tragedy. Run for your life! No, no, no, and hell, no. I’m panicking. Relax, Kiev, relax. Deep breaths.

Cole narrows his blue eyes at me, focusing. “You okay?”

I force an all-teeth smile. “No biggie.”

“That doesn't look like a ‘no-biggie.’” He points at my mouth. “Your grin is that of a person who just heard news of the horrible kind, Mr. Kiev Jimenez.”

I nod, holding my I-just-received-horrible-news grin.

He motions to my face. “Drop the smile—you’re scaring me.”

I do as he says. “Better?”

Cole folds his arms across his chest. “Aren’t you gonna ask why Horatio’s part is taken?”

“I’m good,” I lie—I’m disintegrating inside.

He rolls his eyes. “Mr. Butrow sent an email yesterday.”

“Who told you?” I ask.

“I heard it on the cornfield of gossip,” he says, looking at his fingernails.

“You’re shitting me.” I need to confirm it because Cole’s made this email joke numerous times. The sad truth is—I check my school email once a week at best.

To my horror, Cole moves his head up and down, expression as serious as it can be.

“I don’t get it,” I say. “Why would the teacher audition Horatio’s part before today’s audition?”

Cole shrugs. “My source said the information you’re seeking is in the electronic mail.”

I produce my phone and log in to my school email. Right there at the top, there’s an urgent message. It says that too many people signed up for Horatio’s part, so Mr. Butrow, the theater teacher, decided to audition the “interested parties” yesterday evening. I suspect he did it to discard people who ignore their school email, like me. I pocket my phone and stare at Cole, unable to utter a word.

After an excruciating minute, he grabs my upper arms and shakes me. “Say something—you’re scaring me.”

“Shit!” I shake my head. “Shit, shit, shit!”

“Excrement it is, Mr. Capital of Ukraine with a Mexican last name.”

“I studied Horatio’s lines.” I rub the back of my head. “What am I gonna do?”

He fishes his phone out of his backpack and checks it. “You still have five long minutes.”

“Help me think, dude.” It sounds like begging.

“Sure. So—” His eyes open wide.

“So, what?” I ask after a moment.

He points his chin at the entrance’s glass doors, and I look in that direction. The hot Latina from before strolls our way and even in this panicking state, her presence mandates a minute of silence.

She stops in front of us, books clutched against her chest. “Hi.” She gives us a two-finger wave.

The minute of silence continues.

She bobs her head, waist-length, jet-black hair falling to the side. “Cole…” She wrinkles her perfect nose. “I forgot your last name, sorry.” She frees one hand and offers it to me. “I’m Monica Serrano.”

I shake her hand like a businessman. “Nice meeting you, Monica. But I’m not—I mean, I’m Kiev Jimenez.”

“¿Hablas Español, Kiev?” she asks.

I consider saying no, but that would be denying my Mexican roots. “Nada más en la casa.” I say only at home.

“¡Yo también!” She giggles. “Me too.”

“Cool.” I jerk a thumb at Cole. “This is your guy—Cole Novotny.”

She squints at him.

He freezes for a minute until I elbow him.

“Yeah?” he says in a breathy voice.

She smiles at him. “Mr. Butrow wants to see you.” Her words take me by surprise, until I remember that Cole volunteered to help with the auditions. She extends a hand to him. “Come with me.”

He takes her hand and stands.

“Gusto en conocerte, Kiev,” she says before leaving.

“Nice meeting you, too,” I reply.

And there they go, walking toward the school entrance. Cole opens the door for her, being all gentleman-like. But I know he’s checking out her legs and butt. As she goes through, he turns to me and fist pumps.

“Get her, Tiger,” I mouth.

He rubs his hands together before entering.

Good for him. Bad for me because I need to figure out a plan B. I should’ve memorized another character’s lines or something. I check the time again—one minute.

I am royally doomed.

Standing on wobbly legs, I drag my feet to the auditorium, where I wait several long minutes for all the candidates to sign up. Now that I’m the last to audition, I produce my phone and bring up Hamlet’s script.

“Excuse me,” says a guy behind me.

I step aside, and he rushes past me and signs his name. I glance around for more last-minute auditioners. None. I go through the script and try to figure out whose character’s lines I can memorize in whatever-time-it-takes for the others to audition. But only two crappy characters come to mind—Bernardo and Marcellus, the guards. I think hard and make an educated decision: I flip a coin.

Marcellus wins.

Each character has a signup sheet, so I find Marcellus’s and scribble my name. I’m number three in the auditioning order for his character. I enter the semi-dark auditorium. Potential candidates sit on the middle seating rows with their scripts or phones under their noses. A lanky blonde in a black dress stands on stage, reciting Ophelia’s lines.

For a strange reason, a girl with auburn hair pops in my head. No, not strange. That scowling girl shares this character’s name—Ophelia. Cole’s words come to mind, a hot girl hides under her baggy clothes.

Nah.

I shake that thought off and search for him and Monica. I can’t find them. Maybe they hit it off or something. I march down the aisle to a free seat.

“Thank you.” Mr. Butrow cuts off the girl on stage.

She looks down at her red heels.

“I said, thank you,” the teacher says.

She scurries off of the stage, covering her face. Yup. That’s why we call him, Mr. Butt Row. He is a great teacher but is also a premier-class asshole.

He looks over his shoulder and pushes his glasses back up. “Next.”

A short girl in tight jeans and a tighter blouse hurries to the stage. “Hi, I’m number five on the list, and I’m auditioning for Hamlet’s Ophelia.” She clears her throat and starts her performance.

The teacher also stops this girl mid-dialog, which makes my heart throb because it means I’ll audition soon. I concentrate on my phone, but all the words in the script spell: failure. No. I am panicking again. I take a breath, then exhale it slowly.

I read Marcellus’s first lines. “And liegemen to the Dane,” I say in the tiniest of voices, just to myself.

“Shh.” The limby guy next to me brings a finger to his lips.

I glare at him, and he glowers back.

Looking at him, I recite my character’s next line, “O, farewell, honest soldier: Who hath relieved you?”

He rolls his eyes, stands, and moves toward the empty seat at the end of the row, brushing his butt against a girl’s nose.

“Gross.” She shoves him with both hands.

He tumbles over the seats in front and lands over other people.

“Watch out, dude!” Supermuscle says from his seat—he owns this name for a good reason.

“It’s not my fault,” the limby guy protests in a high-pitched voice, scrambling to his feet. “She pushed me.”

“That’s lame, dude.” Supermuscle thrusts his six-five, two-hundred-and-fifty-pound body from his seat. “You should never blame a lady.”

The skinny guy blinks and blinks, almost on the verge of crying. “But she did push me!” he shouts, interrupting Ophelia number six on stage.

“Silence!” the teacher shouts from the front row.

The limby guy waves at the girl next to me. “But she pushed me, Mr. Butrow.”

The director stands and points at him. “You are excused.”

“But—”

Mr. Butrow raises a hand. “Leave.” He points in our direction. “You too.”

Supermuscle nods. “As you wish, Mr. Butrow.”

“Not you,” the teacher says. “Her.”

The girl next to me stands. “He splattered his butt on my face.” She shivers. “That is so gross.”

The director runs a hand through his mess of gray hair. “Just leave—no excuses.”

“So unfair.” The girl snatches her script and storms out of the theater, while Limb Guy walks out with his head glued to the carpet.

The teacher turns to the girl on the stage. “Continue.”

What follows is a blushing girl babbling a mess of words.

“Next,” Mr. Butrow shouts without even saying thanks to her. After she leaves, and no one climbs onto the stage, he asks, “Any other Ophelias?”

Silence.

“Next character to audition is…” He grabs a notepad and inspects it.

My brains goes, “Not Marcellus, not Marcellus, not Marcellus!”

He stabs a fat finger on it. “Bernardo.”

Phew. I drop my extremely tense shoulders and read my new lines again, but after a minute, I sense something’s wrong, like when entering an empty house and possibly finding a ghost. I lift my chin and find an empty stage.

The teacher cranes his neck in our direction. “Anyone auditioning for Bernardo?”

No one replies.

“Marcellus,” he shouts.

A guy, a girl, and I raise a hand in the air.

Mr. Butrow walks toward us with hands clasped behind his back, inspecting row after row. He addresses the girl. “Why do you want to audition for Marcellus?”

She stands and salutes. “I’m joining the Army after high school, sir. And Marcellus seems like a tough guard.” She motions both hands at her unathletic, not-Army-material body. “It suits me, sir.”

“Good answer.” He points at the guy. “And you? Why do you want to play Marcellus?”

“Marcellus is like this cool-kickass dude.” The guy inspects the ceiling for a long moment, then adds, “Yeah.”

“O-kay.” The teacher faces a dude in the row behind. “And you?”

My stomach drops—that dude happens to be me.

“Mr. Jimenez?” the teacher asks after a moment so pregnant, I think it just gave birth to a panicked baby moment.

“Wh-what was the question again?” I ask.

He steps forward, leveling with my seating row. “Why are you auditioning for Marcellus?”

“Because Horatio was already taken,” I blurt, my mouth acting up.

Mr. Butrow frowns. “Come again?”

Sweat trickles down my back. I sigh. “I only studied Horatio’s lines.”

“Come here.” He waves me over.

I walk sideways to avoid butt-hitting girls’ noses, and join the teacher.

He studies my face for a long moment. “Excellent.” He says no more.

“Excuse me?” My words echo throughout the auditorium.

“Congratulations.” He clasps my shoulder.

“Thanks?” I lift a brow. “For what?”

He gives my shoulder a squeeze. “You’re playing Bernardo.”

“Me, Bernardo?” I ask, mostly to myself because this was unexpected. “I am?”

He gestures around. “Unless you want to compete with all the Marcelluses.”

“Bernardo’s fine,” I say.

“Good.” He waves me off. “You can leave now.”

I open my eyes wide. “I’m not auditioning?”

“Consider this your audition,” he replies. “Now go.”

I rush out of the auditorium before he changes his mind. Everything inside me relaxes, including my stomach that lets out a growl, reminding me I skipped lunch. I pull out my phone and text Cole.

Me: Where are you?

Cole: Backstage.

Me: Doing what.

Cole: Helping Monica.

He adds a banana emoji, a reference to his favorite body part.

Me: Dude.

Cole: Let’s exchange information after school. Kumi okay?

Me: Don’t you work today?

Cole: No. Your memory fails you.

Me: Your messy working schedule confuses me.

Cole: You sound like my mother.

Me: Whatever. See you at Kumi’s.

Kumi Taco is our favorite Korean Tex-Mex hole-in-the-wall joint.

Later, much later, after hours of classes I fail to register, I drive my Jetta through the scorching sun to Kumi’s. I park on the century-old shopping strip and head to the one-story shady building. A sign announces the restaurant: Kum  Tac , home of  a e some  aco. As far as I remember, it’s missing letters.

When I open the door, mouth-watering smells confirm why we love this place. I find Cole sitting at a rusty table, studying a menu. I slide onto the chair in front of him. “Dude.”

He lowers the menu. “If it isn’t Mr. Kiev Jimenez.”

I show him my palms. “Guilty as charged. How did it go with Monica?”

He raises the menu. “Your humble server cannot provide information without food.”

“All you think about is food.”

“And females.” He pokes his head over the menu. “In the opposite order.”

I raise a brow and cock my head.

“Females and food. In that order.” He looks back down at the menu.

A bored-looking waitress with white hair approaches us. “The usual?”

Cole peers at her. “What’s my usual?”

She chews on the pen in her hand. “Takito plate number four and a kimchi chimichanga.”

“And a diet coke,” he says.

“Got it.” She faces me. “For you, Korean BBQ enchiladas and a glass of water.” It’s not a question.

“Yup.”

Our food arrives in a few minutes, and we inhale our meals.

Cole peers down and pats his stomach. “Are you happy?” He looks back up. “He’s happy.”

“Are you now gonna tell me about Monica and you?”

He raises a finger. “First, let me confirm that you got a part. Who?” The last word sounds like an owl with a serious case of sore throat.

I wiggle my brows. “Guess.”

“I have no idea.” He motions a hand. “Do tell.”

I puff out my chest. “Bernardo.”

He winces. “That’s a shit part.”

“Better than nothing.” I scoff. “Horatio was taken, remember?”

“About that.” His eyes lock on mine.

“What.”

“Horatio is related to the information I want to give you.” He leans forward. “I know who’s playing Horatio.”

I inch forward and motion for him to elaborate.

Cole places a hand against his heart. “I’m in love.”

“With all the girls in school.” I lean back. “I know that, dude. Answer me.”

He shakes his head. “I’m in love with Horatio.”

“C’mon.” I reach across the table and shove him. “You changed your sexual preferences in the last couple of hours?”

“No.” He shoves me back. “She’s super-duper-jumbo hot.”

“Horatio’s a she? Bullshit.”

He rubs his chin. “Mr. Butrow doesn’t mind if a girl auditions for a guy’s role and vice versa.”

The girl wanting to audition for Marcellus comes to mind. “Yeah, but he’s never picked a girl to play a guy’s important part and—” I cut myself short as realization falls like an anvil from the sky. “No.”

Cole goes serious. “Yes.”

I rub my forehead. “No, no, no.”

“Yes, yes, yes, Mr. Kiev Jimenez.”

“For real?” I have to ask.

He nods. “The future mother of my offspring got the part.”

“For real-real?” I know it’s stupid to ask again, but I have to confirm it.

He narrows his eyes. “Monica Serrano is Horatio.”