Don't be a chicken. Just walk up to one of them and ask.

     Shelley never intended to audition. Her plan was to kill time in the library until her dad picked her up late after school.

     She'd inform her dad that she tried her best, but other students were better.

     The problem was coming up with answers to her father's inevitable questions.

     What's the play called? What part did you try out for? Where will they host the play if they don't have a theater?

     Answers were on the first floor, Room 103, where dozens of boys and girls waited their turn to impress the directors.

     After a couple of failed attempts, she finally mustered the courage to head to the auditions.

     Get your answers, then head to the library.

     The tension in the hallway outside the classroom was molasses-thick. Everywhere she turned, there was a student chewing the scenery with ancient words, complaining of jitters, or bragging about their resume.

     She didn't know who to turn to for help.

     "Excuse me?" said a boy behind her.

     Shelley turned. Before her was a tall senior with a clipboard. At last, a helping hand.

     "Did you sign in?" he asked

     She didn't know his name, but she recognized those kind eyes and that tall frame anywhere.

     It was him, the talk-out-of-turner, the basketball-fowler. The smart-mouth who was actually smart.

     "Oh, I don't need to audition," she said.

     He looked at her up and down. "I don't care how many commercials you've done. No role is guaranteed. To anyone. Sign in."

     He pressed the edge of the clipboard against her abdomen.

     Shelley flinched and took it. She wasn't mad at him, although she wasn't short on reasons. It was a misunderstanding of the first degree, and it must have been the authority with which he spoke or the flattering assumption he made about her ability to act, but she printed her name and grade level on the clipboard sheet, ignoring the section marked Auditioning For. She handed the board back.

     He snatched and read it. "What role are you going for?"

     She tucked a loose hair behind her ear. "It doesn't matter."

     He pulled his face back in confusion. "Whatever you say, Hepburn."

     Hepburn? Flattered as she was, she was sure the words weren't meant to be kind. "Audrey or Katharine?"

     He kept his eyes on the paper. "Save the diva antics for callbacks. Have a seat and I'll bring you in when they're ready."

     "Wait," she said. "I have a question."

     He only looked up with his eyes.

     "Um, what's the name of the play?"

     He lifted his head all the way. His tone was bitter. "Too many auditions to keep track of, huh?"

     Shelley was taken aback. What's his problem?

     He turned, entered the classroom, and closed the door behind him.

     Shelley watched, dumbfounded. Did she just sign up to audition? Surely, it couldn't be that easy.

     Should she leave? She couldn't. She didn't have the answers to anything.

     Luckily, her name was very far down the list, giving her plenty of time to assemble an escape plan.

***

     "I don't get paid enough to do this job," said Bruce.

     "You're not getting paid at all," said Roger. "This is your detention, remember?"

     "Well, I oughta get something for dealing with snobby princesses all afternoon."

     Calvin, Roger, and Cookie sat side by side behind a long table. The desks were split like the Red Sea on opposite sides of the room, giving the amateur thespians plenty of space to recite their monologues.

     As much as Calvin denied it, Much Ado About Nothing was growing on him.

     Who wouldn't fall in love with a bawdy comedy about two couples, one young and dumb and the other old and wise?

     Calvin knew Much Ado was made of more wit and heart than Humor Me, but as far as his stubborn brain was concerned, Humor Me was better.

     Of course, Much Ado had "The Spark", the one element that made Shakespeare's comedy not only tolerable, but delectable.

     Much Ado had Beatrice, the destitute, yet sharp and sassy heroine who, despite her years, refused to get married.

     Shakespeare decorated Beatrice with so much color, filled her with so much light, and designed her with such vision, she could have been a kaleidoscope.

     And the writers' envy gnawed at Calvin's ego day and night.

     But Calvin understood where his affection for Beatrice came from, as did Cookie and Roger. It was another one of their three-way silent agreements.

     Beatrice was Genevieve.

     And over the course of the afternoon, Calvin became increasingly picky of the girls who auditioned for the role.

     He was only too happy to focus on a project that would keep Marlo happy.

     Bruce placed the clipboard down on the table.

     Calvin examined the sheet. To the far right was a row of character names. The long list was interrupted by a blank space. Next to it were the words, Shelly Stone, grade 10.

     "Bruce, do me a favor and have this student fill out the empty field," said Calvin.

     He chuckled. "Oh, Hepburn. She didn't want to fill that portion."

     "Did she have a reason?"

     Bruce shrugged. "Probably one of those over-confident, classically-trained snobs."

     "Watch it, Bruce," Roger warned.

     Calvin's curiosity got the best of him. "Bring her in."

     Bruce didn't look pleased, but he followed orders.

     After a few moments, Shelly stumbled inside, looking as petrified as a puppy at the pound.

     Calvin's brain flickered with recognition at the sight of her presence. She wasn't a freshman, so she couldn't have been one of his students, but she was definitely familiar. He wrinkled the space around his eyes trying to remember how he knew her.

     Cookie placed her hands on her lap under the table and looked at Shelley. "Hello, Ms. Stone. So, you want a role in Julian's first play?"

     Shelley studied the classroom as if answers could be found there. "I-I guess so."

     "I see," said Roger. "You don't care what role you get?"

     Shelley hands trembled by her sides.

     Seeing her standing before him, Calvin knew Bruce got Shelley all wrong. She was not classically trained, nor was she a snob.

     "Bruce here tells us you're quite the talent," said Roger. "Have you ever acted before?"

     Shelley cleared her throat. "Not on stage."

     Roger brightened up. "Oh, on television?"

     She shook her head. "No."

     The faculty trio looked at each other, confused.

     "What Mr. Stuart was trying to get at was your skill level," said Calvin. "Are you like a lot of students who've auditioned, the ones with moms and dads in show business?"

     Shelley's voice was barely a whisper. "Well, my dad works for the Navy. And my mom is, um, dead."

     The room went quiet, except for the inaudible trumpet of the elephant in the room.

     Calvin looked at her with sympathy, even though her face was visibly hot with embarrassment. He certainly knew the pain of losing a parent. "My condolences."

     Shelley cradled her elbow, unsure how to proceed.

     "Okay, well, start your monologue from the top. Remember to keep it under a minute. Go ahead and begin when you're ready," said Roger.

     Shelley looked around more terrified than ever. "Um, a monologue?"

     "You did bring one with you, didn't you?"

     She held her hands and looked down.

     Bruce groaned.

     Shelley appeared lost and ready to cry like she just broke something expensive. She let out a defeated sigh. "I'm sorry, I can't do this."

     Silence.

     "I don't know what I'm doing here. I was just trying to... I don't know what I was trying to do."

     For a moment, Calvin thought this was all part of the monologue, until he saw her run out the door with tears in her eyes.

     It was the tears that served as the finishing touch to complete Calvin's memory. It's her.

     He stood from his chair and followed after her, bumping into a few students in the process. "Shelley, wait."

     She turned around. "Please don't write me up," she pleaded. "I'm not an actress. I just wanted to know about the play and that tall boy was being really mean and he gave me a clipboard and I filled it out, but I didn't want to, and I wanted to leave, but then you called me and—"

     Calvin put his hands up, trying to soothe her without touching her. "It's okay. You're not in trouble."

     She wiped her eyes and swollen lips. "I'm not?"

     He regretted having nothing to offer her, not a handkerchief or a tissue. "I just wanted to say I'm sorry."

     "It's fine. I don't even remember my mom."

     "I meant I'm sorry about Valentine's Day."

     The terrified look was back on her face.

     "I saw you crying in the grass after school. Is everything okay?"

     A couple of students watched them from a distance.

     "I thought you might have lost your mother that day."

     "No," said Shelley. "I was upset at something else."

     Calvin wasn't sure how to handle these kind of grievances, but he tried. "Something a teacher can help you with?"

     She shook her head. "Can you make someone love you after they've led you on and left you for another?"

     Calvin blinked. Girl trouble. Stay far, far away. "I guess not."

     Shelley took a deep breath and regained more of her composure. "Anyway, I'm sorry I wasted your time."

     She turned around and walked down the hallway, with her head bowed and her shoulders slumped.

     Calvin stood in place for a moment, wondering why he was itching with an odd inspiration.

     Most of life's serendipities went over Calvin's head, but this one struck him like a bolt of lightning. How beautiful when life imitates art.

     Calvin walked back inside, where Cookie, Roger, and Bruce recovered from the fiasco.

     He walked back to his chair with a brisk hop to his step. "Add her to callbacks."

     The room was hit with its third awkward silence.

     "Who?" said Cookie.

     "Shelley Stone. Add her to the Beatrice callbacks."

     Roger became the voice of the group. "Is this a joke?"

     "No."

     "You're confusing sympathy with talent, my friend."

     Calvin looked at Roger, but spoke to the group. "She's got a broken heart, she speaks her mind, and her mother's dead. That's a typical Shakespearean heroine if you ask me."

     "That's exploitation," said Bruce.

     "That's method acting," said Calvin.

     "Alright, let's bring it back home for a minute," said Roger.

     He looked at Calvin. "Cal, you can't be serious."

     "Fine," said Calvin. "Give the strong female character role to one of the other teeny boppers who can't find subtext with two hands and a flashlight."

     "They're kids. They're not suppose to be perfect."

     "Do you want the richest people in San Kolbe to know that Julian's first play was bland? Do you want your name on that playbill?"

     Calvin had just stabbed Roger's inner passionate playwright.

     Roger grabbed a pen and dug through the pile of papers in front of him. He found the Callback list and wrote Shelley Stone on it.