The thought depressed me. It seemed entirely possible Grace would go through her whole life never feeling an overwhelming, die-for-you love.
Lots of people probably didn’t.
Not me, though. Please. Not me.
I closed my eyes and tried to remember the lines I’d picked for my audition.
The room fell silent. Mr Nichols cleared his throat.
‘I think we’ll start with a simple visualisation,’ he said. ‘Please, everyone, find a space to stand, then close your eyes and imagine a busy marketplace in old Verona.
Observe the bustle, the townspeople in their long gowns, all going about their business. Take time to smell the freshly baked bread, to squeeze the soft fruits on the stalls, to feel the warm sun
on your back . . .’ He droned on.
I sighed. This was exactly the sort of rubbish Ms Yates was into. I let my mind drift back to my ideal guy.
A minute or two later and Mr Nichols made us visualise walking into the centre of the marketplace and sitting in a circle on the ground.
‘Now if you’d all open your eyes and find a seat . . . we’ll start the auditions by going round the room,’ he said.
There was a scramble for seats. I found myself perched on the arm of a sofa, next to Emmi.
‘Okay, let’s get going,’ Mr Nichols said, suddenly brisk and businesslike. ‘Please give your name before you begin.’ He looked over to the door. ‘James, tell
the boys we’ll be up in about half an hour. And shut the door on your way out.’
With a swift glance at Emmi’s elegantly crossed legs, James backed out of the door. We all looked at Mr Nichols.
‘A volunteer to start?’ he said.
Everyone looked at their laps. Then I felt Emmi raise her hand beside me. ‘I don’t mind going first,’ she said.
She sashayed over to the open space in the middle of the room. She faced Mr Nichols and smiled – a coy, shy smile. God, she hadn’t even started and she was already acting.
Ms Yates nodded approvingly. She, like most of our teachers, loved Emmi because she was always prepared to speak out in class and because she was polite – at least to the teachers’
faces.
She did a speech from the play – the beginning of the scene where Juliet is on her balcony and Romeo sneaks over to talk to her. She was good . . . She moved around naturally, and put
loads of expression into her voice. But for all that, she never really sounded like she meant anything she was saying. I watched Mr Nichols. He was concentrating intently on her, his eyes following
her as she moved. At the end she looked up at him from under her eyelashes. He nodded and smiled at Ms Yates.
Great.
After that we went clockwise round the room. Grace was next. Unlike Emmi she didn’t move into the middle of the room. Instead, she stood where she was and recited her poem in a loud, clear
voice.
She was actually quite good. A bit stiff maybe, but she put loads of expression into what she was saying and at least she remembered all the words. Asha Watkins forgot her poem, while Maisie
Holtwood refused to even start. Two more girls just stood there, staring shyly at the carpet as they did a bit from the play.
On and on it went. After twenty minutes Mr Nichols was looking bored, his chin propped in his hands. A sly smile was sneaking across Emmi’s lips. So far there was no one to touch her.
Thanks to the order we were sitting in, my audition was going to be last. I tried not to let the wait prey on my nerves.
A few more girls gave okay-ish performances. Daisy Walker, a tall girl with high cheekbones and intense dark eyes, was good. She moved about a bit, using her hands expressively like Emmi had
done.
I felt more and more nervous. The time dragged and dragged. Then suddenly it speeded up and Mr Nichols’ eyes were on mine – ‘Yes?’ he said.
I stood up. I was determined to take the stage like Emmi had done. That meant standing in the middle of the room.
It seemed a long way across the carpet.
As I faced Mr Nichols, I could feel my legs shaking. My heart pounded so loudly I was sure everyone would hear it.
‘I’m River Armstrong,’ I said nervously. ‘I’m reading from Act 2, Scene 2.’
Too quick. Slow down.
I started, doing my best to keep my voice low and measured and my movements fluid.
I loved the lines I’d picked. When we’d studied
Romeo and Juliet
at school I’d been bored at first – all the fighting between their two families seemed stupid and
pointless. And then I read the scenes between Romeo and Juliet. The love scenes.
I could feel my neck flushing with the intensity of what I was saying. I looked up into the middle distance, seeing nothing and no one. And for a second I forgot I was dumpy River Armstrong,
neither loved nor in love. And I became Juliet:
‘
My bounty is as boundless as the sea, my love as deep. The more I give to thee the more I have, for both are infinite.
’
I could feel what that meant in my heart. In my soul.
I love you so much, so unselfishly, that it will never run out.
I clasped my hands together to try and stop them shaking. Then I slowly looked up from the carpet.
Mr Nichols was staring shrewdly at me.
And then he nodded. ‘Good,’ he said. He looked round the room. ‘Now I’m going to leave you for just a minute to chase up some refreshments.’
He strode out.
Suddenly feeling massively self-conscious, I slunk over to Grace and Emmi.
‘You were great, Riv,’ Grace beamed up at me.
‘Thanks,’ I said, blushing.
Emmi raised her eyebrows. ‘I thought you weren’t that bothered which part you got?’
I could feel my whole face reddening.
Then Emmi grinned. ‘Not that you fooled me.’ She laughed. ‘And you were good, you cow. I bet you get it.’
I smiled at her. ‘I bet
you
do. You were brilliant.’
I squeezed her arm as I sank down onto the sofa.
Suddenly I was filled with relief that it was over. That I’d done it. And done it okay. At that moment I didn’t care about love or playing Juliet. I was just glad to be with my
friends.
‘Hey, Grace,’ I said. ‘You were really good too. I think Darren might have to cope with you doing a play in a boys’ school after all.’
Grace’s pale face flushed with pleasure. ‘Hey, Riv,’ she breathed. ‘D’you really think so?’
Mr Nichols reappeared after a few minutes with a tray of plastic cups, a plate of biscuits and a couple of cartons of juice.
As we each took a drink, he started speaking.
‘The standard this evening has been very high.’ He coughed. ‘I will send the full list of girls invited to take non-speaking parts to your headmistress tomorrow, but for now I
would like to see the following people for second readings so that I can assign the main parts: Daisy Walker, Grace Duckworth, Emmi Bains and River Armstrong.’
Yes
. I was up for one of the female speaking parts. But which one would I get? There was Juliet, of course, plus her nurse – sort of like a nanny from when she was a child –
and her and Romeo’s mothers. At least I knew I had one of them.
One of them.
One of them wasn’t enough. I didn’t want to be a boring mother or a sensible nurse.
I
had
to be Juliet.
Everyone was chatting again. I glanced across at Emmi. Her lips were pressed firmly together. She wanted it too. I knew she did. More than she’d let on.
‘Wow. I can’t believe it,’ Grace squealed, hurling herself at both of us. My plastic cup of orange juice tipped up against my jumper.
‘Oh, no,’ I said.
Grace leaped backwards. ‘Oh, sorry, Riv. I’m really sorry.’ She started dabbing at the dark grey stain on my jumper with her sleeve.
I wrenched it away.
God
. Now I was going to have to read with a big clumsy mess down my front.
‘D’you want me to show you where the bathroom is?’ James Molloy was back, smiling, his eyes flickering over to Emmi even as he spoke to me.
I nodded a grateful ‘yes’ and slunk off after him.
‘I’ll see you in a minute, River,’ Grace called plaintively after us.
‘Great. You can prepare something else to chuck at me when I get back,’ I muttered under my breath.
James laughed. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said pleasantly. ‘No one’ll notice.’ He paused. ‘Though I suppose you could take off your jumper. Er . . . I mean . .
.’ His face went red and he strode ahead a couple of paces.
I rolled my eyes at his white-shirted back.
It took several minutes to reach the girls’ bathroom. James explained, blushing furiously, that there was only one in the whole school – as there weren’t any girl pupils. Then
I took a few more minutes to rinse off my jumper and check my make-up. I wasn’t wearing much. Just a bit of mascara and lipgloss. I tried not to look too closely at my face – I
didn’t need my confidence knocked any further.
We hurried back to the common room. My hands were shaking again – I didn’t want to be late on top of everything else.
Mr Nichols, Ms Yates and the girls from my school had been joined by four boys, all standing in a row against the wall beside Mr Nichols. My heart was pounding so hard it was practically bumping
against my ribs. All the boys looked up as I walked in, but I kept my eyes on the floor, then glanced over at Emmi.
She smiled encouragingly. She looked irritatingly at ease.
Mr Nichols ran his hand through his slick dark hair and started organising the readings. He got Grace to read Lady Capulet – Juliet’s mother – with a boy with red hair, then
asked her to try the Nurse, with me as Lady Capulet.
We didn’t read much – just a few lines at a time. Mr Nichols kept switching the boys around and asking each of us to take different female parts – I completely lost track of
who had read what. All I knew was we hadn’t got to Romeo or Juliet yet.
Then, at last, Mr Nichols called over to a tall, dark-haired boy who’d been lolling against the wall at the end of the row.
‘Flynn. Come and read with Emmi,’ he barked.
The boy loped towards us. Though he didn’t look up, there was something about him that commanded the room, that made you watch him.
He was Romeo. Had to be.
‘Act 2, Scene 6,’ Mr Nichols said with a flourish. ‘Right, Flynn. Start with Romeo’s line:
Ah Juliet, if the measure of thy joy
. . .’
Emmi wiped her palms on her skirt.
And Flynn, finally, looked up. He stared at the door as he spoke his first line, then he turned and looked at Emmi. His eyes wandered over her face as he spoke, then he looked away again.
I watched him, mesmerised. He was good. Unbelievably good. Way better than everybody else. His voice was strong and clear and flexible. The lines contained lots of weird, old-fashioned
references that you’d have to really think about to understand. At least, that’s what I’d had to do when I read them. But Flynn made their meaning clear just by speaking them.
As Emmi started with her lines, I stared intently at Flynn’s face. He wasn’t obviously good-looking. That is, he didn’t have the melting brown eyes and square-jawed features of
my fantasy guy.
But there was something about him. Something that meant you couldn’t look away. The way his dark fringe flopped over his eyes. The way his nose turned up just the tiniest bit at the end.
The way his mouth curved as he spoke. Above all, his face was so expressive. Just the blink of an eye or the curl of a lip and you could see his whole being flood with shock or anger. Or love.
I felt movement next to me and turned round. James Molloy was standing beside me, his eyes firmly fixed on Emmi’s bum.
He must have sensed me looking at him, because he suddenly shifted his gaze to me – a sheepish, guilty look on his face.
‘They’re good, aren’t they?’ he whispered.
My mouth was dry. I nodded. ‘What’s his name?’ I said. ‘His first name.’
‘Patrick,’ James whispered. ‘He hates it, though. You have to call him Flynn or he won’t answer.’
I turned back to Flynn.
Emmi was still speaking.
Flynn was staring at her. He looked bored. Like he knew she didn’t mean anything she was saying. Like he could see she wasn’t feeling it.
Or maybe because he wished he was kissing her instead of having to listen to her speak.
Emmi finished.
‘Lovely,’ crooned Mr Nichols. ‘Well done. Now, Flynn, the same again, but with River this time.’
I blushed at hearing my name said in front of all these boys . . . in front of Flynn. No one ever heard it right the first time. I was forever being asked to spell it and while I rarely got
teased like I had at primary school any more, sometimes people made a face that suggested they thought it was weird . . . or funny . . .
I didn’t want Flynn to laugh at me too.
Emmi stepped backwards and I took her place, my copy of the play trembling in my hands.
Flynn was an arm’s length in front of me now. God, why was I so short? My eyes were level with his chest. I stared at it. His tie was loose, his white shirt untucked. As he read his lines,
I could hear the same expressiveness I’d noticed before. But this time I could tell he was only going through the motions. Like his mind was on something else.
Emmi, probably.
I looked up into his face just as he said his last line:
‘
Let rich music’s tongue unfold the imagin’d happiness
. . .’
Our eyes met.
Oh my God
. His gaze pierced right through me, like he was trying to see who I was. Who I
really
was.
No one had ever looked at me like that.
And his eyes were beautiful. Greeny-gold. Set the perfect distance from each other.
‘. . .
that both receive in either by this dear encounter
.’
There was a pause.
Damn
. It was my turn. I had completely forgotten what the next line was. I bent over the play in my hand, searching desperately for it.
Flynn’s finger landed on the page in exactly the right place.
I felt myself blush as I started reading.
I put all the feeling I had into what I was saying. At first I was too self-conscious to look up. When I finally did, Flynn was frowning slightly.