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  Dedicated to Mrs. Russo’s CHS Shakespeare class. This book is proof that I absolutely should have been the allusion contest winner in 2000. Ah-yoos forever!

  CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  DEDICATION

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  COPYRIGHT

  Briana Beland @alleyesonbree

  At machale and ready for some drama. #hamletauditionstomorrow!

  I clicked TWEET and stared down at my avatar, looking up at me from my tiny iPhone screen. The picture was a headshot from last summer, sent in with my MacHale application even though the admissions form made it clear that a photo — let alone a professional shot complete with hair and makeup — was unnecessary. The girl in the photo had sparkly brownish eyes with a rim of gold around the edges, a wide smile, and blondish hair perfectly blown straight over her shoulders. She looked confident, assured, the type of girl who felt school-play auditions were worthy of an exclamation mark.

  I hated her.

  A flurry of good-luck Tweets flew in from Annie, Carolyn, Brittany, and Katy — all of my friends from Wright Memorial High School, but they did little to soften the knot of anxiety calcifying in my stomach. I appreciated their support, but their well-wishes couldn’t sit next to me in the MacHale dining hall. Their “positive vibes” wouldn’t choose me as a tennis partner instead of forcing me to spend forty-five minutes making awkward conversation with Coach Ruth as I missed serve after serve. Right now, all that mattered were my new classmates. The only problem was that I didn’t seem to matter to them. I swiped my phone to refresh the feed. Nothing.

  “Are you studying your monologue back there, honey? We still could run some lines if you feel that would be helpful. You know I love to see you perform. Can you just do a little bit of it? For me?” My mom craned her neck back toward me, the jangling of her gold earrings breaking up the otherwise silent car trip.

  “That’s okay, I think I’ve got it. But thanks!” I added perkily. Or at least, that’s what I was going for. It was a very good thing that I wasn’t auditioning for a teen romantic comedy. I don’t fake perky well.

  Mom shot me a hurt gaze. I felt a familiar twinge of guilt at having disappointed her. It wasn’t my fault I wasn’t the animated, always-the-center-of-attention drama queen she’d been in high school. But she seemed to act like it was.

  I glanced out the window to avoid eye contact. In the past hour, the sky had gone from shadowy twilight to inky black, and I had no sense of what direction we were headed. I wanted to enjoy the silence, not have my mom begin her inevitable barrage of questions: Who else was auditioning? What did Dr. Spidell say before break? Have you been practicing speaking in a lower octave? You know it creeps up when you get nervous, which can make you sound shrill.

  “Can you at least tell me what play it’s from?” Mom asked eagerly. “It can’t be healthy for you to keep everything bottled up like that. Come on, just tell me. I won’t say anything.”

  “Dad? Are we almost there?” A pleading note was evident in my tone. Dad was more like me: quiet, thinking, not always saying every single thing that popped into his head. While I loved my mom, living with her was exhausting.

  Had been exhausting.

  “Fine.” Mom heaved an exaggerated sigh. “I guess it’s a crime to care about my only daughter’s interests. I’m sorry.”

  “Give her a break,” Dad said, as though I weren’t two feet behind him. He rested his hand on Mom’s knee. “And remember, we are talking about her interests.”

  Mom huffed derisively. I felt a tug of affection toward Dad, at the same time wishing for the hundredth time that I’d just taken a train up to MacHale from Connecticut. While deep down, I appreciated my mother’s almost obsessive interest with my high school theater career, it didn’t negate the fact her presence made me feel nervous and jumpy.

  “You know, if I were auditioning for a Shakespeare play, I would choose something from A Winter’s Tale. It’s one of those ones directors don’t hear very often, so they’ll automatically pay more attention than if you were doing another ridiculous Romeo and Juliet monologue. That type of decision shows you aren’t afraid to make your own choices. Back at the theater, I’ll always let someone read to the end if it’s a piece I haven’t heard recently.”

  “I know, I thought of that,” I said. In addition to her job as a pharmaceutical sales rep, Mom was also a volunteer at the local community theater, directing the two plays the theater put on each year. Invariably, they’d star Dr. Winters, my former orthodontist, who was also a talented tap dancer, and some rising high school theater star who’d then go on to major in drama at UConn. The theater itself was the multipurpose room of the local rec center, and opening-night parties for the cast were held in our basement. Not like you would know from hearing my mother talk about it. She treated her small community theater as if it were just a step below Broadway.

  “Also, I’m surprised that Dr. Spidell chose Hamlet for Winterm. It’s so long. I mean, of course it’s a classic, but I don’t know why you can’t do something like Guys and Dolls or Carousel. Something fun. Part of me would love to go to his office and tell him that, but I know you wouldn’t let me, would you?” She asked hopefully, as if she didn’t know the answer to the question. Which was No, absolutely not and Are you kidding me?

  Luckily, before I had to think up some sort of Thanks but no thanks response, I spotted the small white hand-painted sign marking the turnoff to MacHale. Or, if you read the sign: M CH. The harsh Maine winters had caused the other letters to peel away, making it virtually impossible to find the path unless you were looking for it.

  “Dad, turn!” I said.

  Instantly, Dad took a sharp turn that caused me to slide against the door.

  “Greg, be careful!” Mom admonished, carefully patting her shoulder-length blonde hair into place.

  “Oops, sorry about that,” Dad said sheepishly as he slowed the car to a five-mile-an-hour crawl.

  The gas lamps lighting the entrance were unlit, and the security guard wasn’t standing at his usual post inside the circular guardhouse that flanked the iron-gated entrance to the school.

  “Is it always this dark around here? You don’t walk around alone, do you?” Dad asked nervously as he continued up the steep hill toward the castle-like complex of dorms in the center of campus. Above us, the trees creaked from the inches of snow that had accumulated on their spindly branches.

  “Greg, she’s fine!” Mom said. “This is MacHale. It’s safe.”

  “I wonder if that girl’s parents said the same thing,” Dad muttered. “What was her name again?”

  “Sarah Charonne. And I’d prefer we didn’t talk about her,” my mom said tightly.

  Mom and Sarah had crossed paths, briefly. Mom had been a senior when Sarah, a freshman, had disappeared from campus during finals week. For a long time, everyone assumed she’d run away. After all, she’d been on the verge of failing most of her classes, and rumors had swirled that she was dating a townie her parents hated. I’d never even heard of her until this past August. That was when, five days before fall semester started, her remains had been found in the woods near the Runnymede River dam. The police had allegedly questioned a few of the people she’d associated with, including a mechanic in town who’d gone on a few dates with her, but none of the questions had led t
o any suspects.

  But even though there weren’t any real leads didn’t mean people weren’t suspicious. The discovery had stirred up the already uneasy relationship between the town of Forsyth and the school. MacHale kids were always snobby about the working-class town that housed the school, but the discovery of Sarah’s body had made things even more icy.

  “Sarah Charonne.” My mother sighed. “She shouldn’t have even been a student at MacHale. All that girl did was hang out with townies. She didn’t make herself a part of the community. Everyone at MacHale looks out for each other. She didn’t have anyone, poor girl.”

  Mom glanced at me in the rearview mirror as I slunk down lower in my seat. I wondered what she’d think if she knew my own socializing habits at MacHale, which, even after a semester on campus, were pretty nonexistent. But all that was about to change. It had to. That’s why butterflies had been in perpetual motion in my stomach since the day I’d found out the winter play was going to be Hamlet. I needed to play Ophelia. Because, after four months of almost anonymity, I was done playing the new girl.

  “Don’t get me wrong, I am glad you’re doing the winter play. Winterm used to be my favorite few weeks. You had all the fun of school without the school part. And it’ll be fun even if you don’t get a part. Besides, it’ll show Dr. Spidell you’re committed.”

  “I know, Mom.” Fewer students came back for Winterm, giving me the ideal opportunity to make my mark. By the time the play opened on the first Friday of spring semester, I’d finally have a core group of friends and solidify my spot as a future star in the MacHale theater department.

  I knew it wouldn’t be an easy road. After all, most people who came to MacHale started as freshman. Anyone who transferred specifically for an extracurricular like theater had probably at least performed in one school play at their previous high school. But I couldn’t have done that. Not with Mom watching.

  It hadn’t always been that way. When I was little, performing was one of the few ways I could get my mother’s attention. I’d beg to put on shows for her friends, spend every single car ride to and from school belting out show tunes, and would try on various accents when we were out in public. Until, one time, a casting director had overheard me speaking in a Southern drawl while tagging along after my mom through the grocery store. For most people, that would be the story of how they got started.

  For me, that was the beginning of the end of my so-called acting career. As soon as that casting director had pressed his card into my mom’s palm, she’d sprung into action, dragging me from commercial auditions to modeling agencies to acting coaches, where my face (too generic), my personality (too nice), and my voice (too Muppet-y, whatever that meant) were pulled apart.

  By middle school, I’d made it clear I was done with acting. I never appeared in any of the plays my mother directed and would always find excuses not to come to the shows. I joined the photography club and tried out for the swim team. I’d spend hours at my friends’ houses. It wasn’t a bad life. In fact, it was pretty good. But I knew that something was missing. After all, I still thought about theater all the time, devoured every play we had to read in English class, and wondered how I could ever attempt it without my mother knowing.

  And then, bizarrely, last winter, I’d realized the best way to get out from my mother’s shadow was to follow in her footsteps.

  My mother and I had just attended a one-on-one guidance counselor meeting meant to help sophomores figure out how to maximize their high school careers. My guidance counselor had blinked at me several times

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you before,” she’d said finally, as she shuffled papers around. “You must really blend in!”

  She’d meant it as an icebreaker, but my mother heard it as a moral failing.

  Later that night, I’d overheard my mom’s voice wafting through the heating vents of my bedroom. “She needs to develop her character, Greg. She needs to learn how to define herself on her own terms. She’s so … blah.”

  It was more an exhalation than an actual word, a deep and cutting sigh imprinted on my brain. Blah. It was the opposite of how I felt when I was alone. It was the opposite of how I felt when I read plays under the covers, mouthing the monologues under my breath. But it was who I’d become, especially under my mom’s shadow. And if I wanted something to change, I needed to change it.

  The next day, I’d spent my lunch period researching boarding schools with good theater programs. Of course I’d heard endless stories about my mother’s life at MacHale — the school plays, the secret parties, the middle-of-the-night runs to Deli-C. But I’d usually tune them out. I mean, how could I fit in at the same type of school my mom loved?

  Or at least that’s what I thought before I clicked on the MacHale website.

  The Maine Difference, the red headline boldly stated in sixteen-point type, over a photograph of smiling teenagers mid–snowball fight. And when I clicked on the arts tab, I knew this would be the perfect place for me. I could imagine myself in the homey, barn-style theater-in-the-round where shows were performed. I loved that the drama program had an emphasis on Shakespeare. And though I’d never admit it, I loved that the theater director, Dr. Spidell, wore an elbow-patched jacket in his faculty photo, just like I’d imagined a theater teacher would. And I loved that I would no longer be scrutinized by my mother.

  Once I was accepted, Mom’s skepticism turned into pure enthusiasm. She’d been the one to encourage me to apply to live in her old dorm, Rockefeller, and she’d presented me with her own MacHale trunk, full of vintage MacHale insignia–printed clothing, as a going away present. During the past semester, she’d made the eight-hour drive up to campus no less than five times. I knew she meant well. But I also knew that living under her microscope wasn’t doing me any favors in figuring out who I was and where I belonged.

  Because the fact was, deep down, I worried that my mother was correct. Maybe MacHale wasn’t a good fit. Maybe it was the perfect school for someone louder, bubblier, more sure of herself.

  After all, I’d been there for four months, and I still didn’t know if I fit in. My new classmates seemed like they’d come from a different planet, full of inside jokes, shared histories, and odd traditions.

  I wasn’t a loner, exactly. I had people to study with or run to Deli-C on the edge of campus for emergency ice cream with. My dorm mates and I pulled all-nighters in the hallway to finish final papers in December. And just before break, I’d accompanied my roommate, Willow, to the piercing parlor in town and watched as she got a delicate silver hoop threaded through her nostril. But I still felt more like an extra than a star. When I played a small part in the one-act theater festival in October, I’d gone back to the dorm only to see on Twitter that everyone else was at a cast party that I hadn’t heard about. In November, the only “happy birthday” I’d gotten on my Facebook wall from anyone at MacHale had been from my academic advisor.

  We crested the hill and slowly drove around Daniels Pond. The ice glittered in the moonlight and I involuntarily shivered.

  Mom rolled down the windows. “I love this scent!” she said enthusiastically, pushing her head out the window as though she were a golden retriever. “Hello, MacHale!” she shouted, her voice echoing in the wind.

  “Mom!” I reddened, even though no one seemed to be around.

  “Well, you’re no fun.” Mom pouted, even as she pulled her head in and rolled the windows up.

  “Where’s your dorm again?” Dad craned his neck to look at me.

  “Rockefeller. Keep going.”

  “It’s the one that looks like the Cinderella castle, Greg,” Mom said, as if that differentiation would be at all helpful to my father.

  “It’s, like, the one that’s not quite at the top of the hill,” I clarified.

  “That’s where I lived my junior year, too.” Mom’s eyes glazed over in happy reminiscence. “I lived there with Lucy Gordon. She and I hung black curtains and then got violet lightbulbs. We called
our room —”

  “Studio 54. I know, you’ve told me a million times.”

  Mom ignored me.

  “Well, we called it Studio 54 because it was ironic. We were playing Phish and the Grateful Dead all the time. It was really the hippie haven, but we thought we were being clever.”

  “Did any gentlemen pay a visit to Studio 54?” Dad teased.

  “No! Of course MacHale would never allow unsupervised fraternizing between a male and a female. Isn’t that right, Briana?” Mom asked with a showy wink.

  I didn’t have the heart to tell Mom I wouldn’t know. She was the type of parent who would have been proud if I had spent the first semester cutting class to make out with members of the football team. Instead, I hadn’t made out with anyone and spent most of my extracurricular time trying to avoid my room when I knew that Willow and her boyfriend were there.

  At that moment, Dad pulled under the stone archway leading to the dorm entrance. He turned off the ignition.

  “Ready, Briana?” Mom opened the car door and stamped her feet on the packed snow. She turned eagerly to the Rockefeller entrance.

  “You guys can just leave me here. I’ll be fine!” I said hurriedly as I undid my seat belt and climbed out of the car. I knew if I gave my mom any sort of encouragement, she’d be begging Ms. Robinette, our housemistress, for a rollaway cot so she could sleep over in our dorm room. No thank you.

  “Well, at least let us come in and say hello to Willow and the gang if they’re around!”

  I suppressed a grimace. There was no Willow and the gang. There was Willow, her friends, and sometimes, depending on if I was in the room at the time and if they realized I was actually there, me.

  “I don’t think they are,” I fibbed. In fact, I had no idea. The only text I’d gotten all break had been from Leah Banks, a puppyish freshman who’d also been a part of the fall series of one-acts. She’d wanted to know if she should prepare her audition in Shakespearean English or the easy-to-understand text printed on the opposite side of the page.