I'd never stayed in the drama room, but as soon as I take a stumbling step on the polished linoleum, I know why Heaven chose it. It's a fortress. The top room of the academy in a domed bell tower, an octagon with an arched window in each wall.

 Instead of desks, the classroom is full of plastic chairs. Black drapes hang over an oak slab of a raised stage. The floor is covered in shadow.  

The drama teacher's sitting up in the front row with his laptop balanced across his knees. He turns to us, pushes his glasses up on a bulby red nose. "Galaxy spoke to me." He nods at the back of the classroom. "You can sit in. I trust you boys aren't in too great danger?" Brown eyes lined with crow feet widen behind his lense. 

Gats shudders, so I answer for him. "No, sir. We just got in a little scuffle with a few villains a while ago and, you know, Gal felt better if we stayed here while she fought some of the campus intruders. It's fine," I say, my hands slimy and cold with sweat. "We're fine."

The teacher nods, brow creased. "And how are you, Gatsby? Fairing alright?"

Gats nods, blinking out at the lazy drift of clouds past the window. "Huh? Oh. I'm good." He shuffles toward the glass, his steps slow and precious. His fingertips skim the divets of the thick cinderblock, his head hung as if he stands inside a prison. The drama teacher glances back at me and I nod with my mouth pressed into a grimace.  Help him, I want to beg. I don't know what to do. You're his favorite teacher, you're an adult, you have to know what to say. The man closes his laptop with a heavy click.

"I'm on a free period," he says, turning up the sagging folds of his turtleneck. "Why don't we run a few scenes of Romeo and Juliet? There are some I need to still block, and it would be great to see a more instinctive take from two actors. What do you boys say?"

I tip my head to the side. Gats still holds his hands behind his back, staring on tiptoes out at that piece of cloudy sky. Looking at him makes my chest close up. "Block?" I ask, willing Gats to turn back to me.

"Yeah," he obliges, his voice so soft I strain on tiptoes to hear him as he glances back at me. His face is washed out in the glow of early morning sun. "Blocking. Where the actors are on the stage and how they move, when, why." He leans on his heels, shoulders rolled back. Pink has returned to his cheeks. A dim smile sweeps his gentle features as he glances back at the teacher. "Sounds great, Mr. B."

"Yeah." My wings flutter against my back, crushed flat between my shirt and spine. "Sounds fun."

And it is fun—for Gatsby. Me? I'm shaky on my feet, moving across the room like I'm wading through sludge. But as soon as the teacher hands out spiral-bound script books, assigns us characters, and asks us to "feel out the stage," Gats is at home. He bounds up the creaking steps, smiling up at me. Smiling. And because he's home, so am I.

First, we're the two servant guys who open the play after the intro, Sampson and Gregory, snorting dirty jokes maybe half the audience will get. Shakespeare's Gatsby's domain. His and Heaven's, so I'm at least sort of familiar with the language. We meander across the stage, Gats prodding me to "cheat" and "project" while I slip into my character's skin, the 'thous' and 'thees' rolling smoothly from my tongue. 

Then we skip to Mercutio's death. I plant myself center-stage, Gats just right of me. Dying on stage is an adrenaline rush of the stupidest kind. You're staggering across stage, clutching at wounds that aren't there, all while real emotion surges through you. For your own death, for the death of the character you're starting like. Mercutio was a good guy. "Ask for tommorow," I read, "and you shall find me a"—knowing little pathetic smirk—"graaave man." Puns and stupid kids. All at once, I understand why Heaven and Gats love this play.

And it becomes just that. Play. Like when Hev and I would spear each other with pretend swords, Gats and I dance around each other with words, pretending so intensely I lose myself in the lines and in the role. I can forget everything that's happened to me in the struggles of these other kids. And I do. 

I think Gats does, too, because when Mr. B asks us to act out the balcony scene over by the tape he's laid, neither of blink. I just jump in behind the marks, a little backstage, past center. Gats tips his head to the side, thinking through a few assumed mental calculations and catapults himself down in "the apron" in front of the first row. I step forward, a hand propped on my cheek as I sigh out at an imaginary moon.

"But soft!" Gats says, turning to me. He isn't even looking down at his script book. I've heard him deliver this monologue at least a million times, but he speaks it seriously now. Crouched down, then rising slowly, slowly as he moves downstage. The poetry flows naturally off his tongue, his eyes wild with the glitter of devotion. "What light through yonder window break? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun..." He's good. Natural. Speaking crisply and clearly, but with real finese. When he talks the words, you'd think everyone should still speak in Shakespeare. "...Oh, if I were a glove upon that hand, that I might touch that cheek!"

"Ay me." My eyes skim the pages. For maybe the second time in my life, I've achieved flow, doing without thinking. And I freaking love it. Fitting graceful words into my mouth. Becoming someone else. I like having different problems. Instead of being a stupid kid about to get whacked off the face of the earth by supervillains, I can be a stupid kid about to get whacked off the face of the earth by love. Frankly, you gotta take what you can get.

"She speaks." Gats draws close to me with another stride. His eyes are blue bolts, flashing when they stop over my body. Face full of color, arms outspread, Gatsby looks alive. So much more than the crying little lump he's become. No wonder he tries acting all the time. "Oh, speak again, bright angel!"

Though I'm trying to stay in character, I can't help the teensiest of a smile.

We make it to 'Wherefore art thou Romeo?' (Where are you, Romeo?), before the bell rings and Gats bounds off the stage. Mr. B pats him in the back, which makes him so smile so widely I sneak a glance at his canines, which are so pointy they put a vampire's too shame. I step down onto the tile, my knees wobbly and all the blood rushing up to my skull. Mr. B offers me a handshake. "So you're Angelos?"

The man's wiry and thin, brown hair striped with graying streaks. His eyes are kind in a weathered face.

"Ay, sir." I blush. "I mean, yeah. Y-Yes, sir."

He turns his smile to me. It's bright. "Heaven and Gatsby talk about you all the time. You're not half bad."

"Thank you, sir." Kids are filling up the plastic seats. With a shaking hand, I wipe the dampness from my forehead. The back of my wrist is soaked.

"You make a good Juliet. If heads didn't explode if I did, I'd consider you for the part."

I smile. I can't remember how long it's been since I've done that, and now my cheeks hurt. "Really?"

He nods.

"Oh, wow, sir. I, uh. That's great. I mean, this is a lot of fun."

Fun. I glance over my shoulder to the back of the classroom, where Gats slumps against the window. The hem of his blazer is a sweaty knot in his hands. This is who he is when he isn't acting, and watching all the life drain out of him makes my heart hurt. This isn't fun for him. To him, it's everything he is.

"You should consider taking the class next year."

I shake my head. "Stage fright." But as soon as I say it, I decide I should think about his offer. Theatre isn't a science class, sure, but I think I deserve some fun in my life. And if I could get over my fear of heights, I can get over this. I think.

The rest of the third-period kids sweep into the classroom, which means Heaven. And Aaron Elms. And a Gats who's smiling and snuggling up to various strangers with silky conversation.

Once class begins, I lean up against a vacant window since all the chairs are full of murmuring students. I'm skipping AP lit right now, so my grade is sure to tank, but for now, I'm almost okay with it. Gats splits a seat with Aaron Elms, an arm curled around his waist and his head propped on the doodling redhead's shoulder as if he needs him for support. I never see Heaven's face.

This is how the day passes. Slow and meandering, partially squandered by the window, partially squandered in improv games that make me double over laughing, and partially squandered jotting down theatre words in loose sheets of printer paper. "Cheating, projecting, blocking, stage-whispering, downstage, upstage, apron, arena..." Shakespeare words—the pronunciation of 'doff' (duff) and the meaning behind all of those weird jokes I only half got. Gats and I skip lunch, even. Heaven never speaks to us. Just sort of stands on tiptoes to ruffle my hair and kiss a frowning Gats on the forehead.

When the last bell of the day rings, Gats and I are sitting criss-cross applesauce on the floor, finishing off our lunches. Mr. B raises a bushy eyebrow at us. "You always have steak for lunch?"

"It's a treat," I say as Gats winces as he chews. "For surviving."

The man nods.

After my last swig of cold coffee, I rise shakily to my feet. The doorway buzzes with hopefuls. Looking at them, Gats snatches my hand in his cold fingers. "We're doing this together, right?"

I shrug. "You and Hev are always playing around with the balcony scene. Don't you and her want to..." I stop talking, because Gats is shaking his head, back and forth, back and forth so quickly he blows a strand of hair out of my eye. As the hopefuls sweep into the room on a wave of happy chatter, Gats goes pale. Paler than usual, I mean, his face sopped with sweat. Mr. B passes out audition forms, and shaking, Gats leaves me to socialize.

"Is it weird we care about this?" Heaven asks. I don't notice her until we're shoulder to shoulder, or more accurately, shoulder to the ribcage. She twists her fingers in her curls, eyes narrowed and glistening. "After all that crap that happened? Shouldn't we worry about that?"

"No," I say. "Why? You nervous?"

"Um." Hev blinks at the ceiling. "Yeah, Actually. Lord, that's weird." She shakes her head, tossing curls against the back of her neck.

I've never gotten her to tell me she's nervous about anything before. Weird, how this almost dying stuff has got us talking this way. Skip the small talk, hash out the emotional core. Together, we watch Gats flirt with a petite blonde girl. Hev rolls her eyes.

"Naw," I say, "I'm kind of glad about it, to be honest. It's cool you've got interests in other stuff."

"I lied."

"Yeah?"

"About asking you to remind me not to try out for Juliet. I've wanted this part since I was a kid."

No, we're not kids anymore. Her phrasing is an unintentional gut punch.

"Gats is probably right about it being dangerous to stay around the school so long." Her voice drops to a whisper. "But after everything, I can't take this away from him and me and...it isn't fair...and that doesn't matter, the world isn't fair, but..."

"No." I stuff my hands into my pockets. The wings have become stiff and itchy over the course of the day. How Poison does it is beyond me. "You guys deserve this. Enough crap has happened already. You shouldn't have to add missing out on the play to the pile. And, like, we'll be fine. We've been fine before."

Heaven nods, frowning still. If Gats or I get hurt, she'll blame herself for ignoring her executive power as superhero of the group. She'll hate herself for approving our auditioning in the play. But she needs this, almost as much as Gats does.

"I'll keep an eye on you and Gats," I blurt. Heaven raises an eyebrow. "When I get Townsfolk Number Three, I'll keep watch during practice."

Heaven nods slowly. Then, she grins. "Fibbs, it's 'rehearsal.' Not 'practice.'Re-hears-al. Gats'll kick your skinny butt out that window if he hears you call it 'practice' and you'll totally deserve it."

"Nerds," I moan, and she cuffs me softly on the shoulder.

"Alright, kids!" Mr. B clasps his hands. The other two judges—teachers I don't quite recognize—slip into the back of the room. "There's a lot of you this year. Which is always great to see. Let's get on with monologues."

The only monologue I know off the top of my head is Romeo's 'But, Soft!' from years of Gats. He's the first to go and he's good. And though the thought of all the kids watching makes me squirm in my skin, I want to try, because it's fun. So, I jump up on the stage as soon as he's finished, pretend Gatsby's bravado is something you can catch like the world's most dashing disease, and knock out the performance. "But soft, what light through yonder window breaks! It is the east, and Juliet is the sun!" That Gats is watching me narrow-eyed makes me perform with every trembling fiber of my Frankensteined being. I want to make him sweat as much as I'm sweating for this, petty as that may be. As the words grow crisper in my mouth and the poetry moves more like music, I fall into flow. It has me dizzy with adrenaline by the time I finish.

Mr. B smiles. That's one adult who doesn't want to beat me to a pulp. I'm up two. After the other students monologue, many of which have me pinned to my seat in awe, we move to cold reads. Except to me, they aren't all that cold, because my two stupid friends beat me to an Elizabethian death with Shakespeare. I love watching Heaven act. As Tybalt, you think she's about to lunge over the chairs and tear out your throat. You really fear for that poor Romeo guy. As the nurse, she's crotchety and sweet. And as Juliet, she's different. The poetry, so pretty and demure, sounds like its fused with iron when she speaks it. He shoulders rolled back, head tilted, she carries herself with the poise of royalty. But she's still fragile when she pretends she's in love. Even when the guy playing Romeo is someone she hates, in the gentleness in her speech, in the way she touches him, looks at him, it all rings true.

Basically? She plays Juliet as a young Galaxy consumed with love and I and everyone around me eat it up. Everyone except Gats, who looks down at his feet.

Gats and I are paired one more time after we finish cold reads, in the balcony scene. Except this time, I get to play Romeo. I'm so caught up in the adrenaline, the hormones of this crazy kid, I don't "break character" even when the kids are snickering because Gats and I aren't even reading anymore, just talking off spotty memory, his hand in mine while the lines clip.

"Oh, will thou leave me so unsatisfied?"

"What satisfaction can though have tonight?" He turns from me and I hop the tape that marks the balcony, blocking his way back into the imaginary chambers. Romeo and Juliet was pretty much the first YA love story, after all. I'm trying my best at being a sixteen-hundreds bad boy.

"The exchange of thy love's faithful vow for mine."

Gats is smiling, blushing. "I gave thee mine before thou didst request it: And yet I would it were to give again."

Recoil. "Wouldst thou withdraw it? for what purpose, love?"

Gats giggles. Line, line. Line, line. We move together to the rhythm of the words until the scene ends, and I'm so caught up in Romeo's line I could kiss the kid before I'm jerked out of character by Mr. B murmuring to the teacher beside him. "Heads would explode but..."

My face goes hot as Gats slides his hand out of mine and bows in front of impromptu applause. I copy the gesture, sweat-drenched and shaking as the kids stare. Watching me pretend to be a poetic fool. Probably badly. I take a few wobbly steps off the stage, confirm this is my last performance of the day with Mr. B, and slip out the door to a few pats on the back and a single whistle from a girl in the back.

"Not bad, Fibbs." Heaven winks. "Not bad at all." I make a clumsy attempt at Gats' bow and whoosh out the room, down, down, down the spiral steps.

I'm hot. And my blood's all fizzy and I'm sweat-soaked, replaying the scene in my head not as Romeo Montague, but as Angelos Fibbs and cringing. Jaylin would kill me. Wouldn't she?

And yet, I can't regret throwing my heart into the role. I was good, almost as good as Gats, and the thought puts a rush in my veins. Basically? I'm distracted.

And even the adrenaline doesn't save me when I pass the janitor's closet and a gloved hand clamps over my jaw.

Back to reality.