Understudy by Cheyanne Young Page B

wave of awkwardness that bounces off him when our eyes meet. The whole cast is watching us now, some of the guys whistling and cat calling, but I only care about one person.
    I glance toward the front of the stage. Derek is gone. Hopefully he saw enough of the kiss to get my point across. I’m not even sure what my point is, but I hope Derek got it anyhow.
    My three pages of lines are over quicker than I want them to be, and before I know it my character of Mary has been rebuked by Jeremy’s character and sulks offstage, letting out a loud fake sob.
    “You’ll have to cry better than that, you know,” Gwen says as I slip behind the side curtains off left stage. “Jeremy just shot her down, after all they’ve been through,” she continues, the sincerity in her face as genuine as if we are talking about actual people.
    “Does it even matter?” I ask, shoving my script in my back pocket as I prepare to help Greg with the set construction. “Your character ends up with Jeremy in the end, so who cares what Mary thinks.”
    Gwen rolls her eyes and flourishes her hand in the air. “And that is why you will never be an actress.”
    I roll my eyes and move to the back of the side stage to survey the set equipment. The dining room furniture is too big, which I don’t want to think about right now. All the back drops have been painted and set on wheels, Jeremy’s room has been decorated thanks to all the guys in the cast pitching in random things from their own bedrooms, and the classroom set is fully furnished thanks to borrowing stuff from our school.
    This leaves only about a million more things to do.
    “What do you think, boss?” Greg asks, stepping over a pile of extension cords.
    I shake my head. “We still have a lot to do.”
    His hand presses against the small of my back. “We’ll get it. Stop worrying.”
    I turn to him and smile. He can be a total asshole sometimes, but he’s still a decent guy. He hasn’t acted weird at all since that night he asked me to be his girlfriend. Part of me wonders if he just doesn’t remember it due to being drunk.
    My stomach tightens as Derek walks up carrying three rolls of carpet over his shoulder. He leans them against the wall. “Floor Liquidators gave this to us for free in exchange for listing them in our play brochure.”
    “Kick ass,” Greg says, running his hands over the first roll. “This is some quality shit. You rock man.”
    I cross my hands over my chest and let out a deep breath of disappointment. “Yeah good job making decisions without consulting the director,” I snap. “What if I don’t want their advertisement in the brochure?”
    Derek’s eyebrows draw together. “They’re a family owned business. They also have that scholarship you were talking about. I thought you’d be psyched.”
    Anger rolls through my stomach. I told him that when I liked him. How dare he remember it now. Shouldn’t he be remembering things about his own girlfriend? I throw my hands in the air. “You know what? Who cares what the director thinks. Just do whatever the hell you want. Your community service hours are all you care about anyhow.”
    Derek’s jaw tightens. Greg kneels and studies the pile of extension cords in the corner, as if that makes this any less awkward.
    Gwen yells my name from onstage with a wardrobe crisis that she needs me to fix. For once, I’m grateful for her interference.
    A few hours later, I wrap up rehearsal with some bullshit motivational speech and compliment everyone on their excellent acting. Now I know why teachers say stuff like this all the time. Just a few words of encouragement really boosts everyone’s spirit. No one needs to know that I truly don’t care if the play sucks. I just need it to be performed on opening night. I just need my recommendation letter so I can get the hell out of here and make something of my life.
    Derek and I normally walk to our cars together after rehearsal. But since he got arrested three days