Bad Romeo Read Free Page B

theater there?”
    “No.”
    “So you don’t have any acting experience?”
    “I did some amateur plays in Seattle.”
    Her eyes are bright. She smells an easy kill. “Amateur? Oh … I see.” She stifles a laugh.
    My self-preservation kicks in. “Of course, I haven’t done all the amazing things you’ve done. I mean, a movie. Wow. That’s must have been seriously awesome.”
    Zoe’s eyes dull a little. The smell of blood is diluted by my suck-uppery.
    “It was seriously awesome,” she says as she smiles like a barracuda with lipstick. “I mean, I’m probably wasting my time taking this course, because I won’t make it to the end before I get a big-budget deal, but it’s something to keep me occupied ’til then.”
    I smile and agree with her. Stroke her ego.
    It’s easy. I’m good at it.
    The conversations bubble around me, and I add a comment here or there. Every half-truth that spills from my mouth makes me more like them. More likely to fit in.
    Before long, I’m guffawing and braying like the rest of the donkeys, and one of the gay boys pulls me to my feet and pretends we’re at a rave.
    He stands behind me as he thrusts against my butt. I play along, even though I’m horrified. I make vulgar noises and toss my head. Everyone thinks I’m hilarious, so I ignore my shame and keep going. Here, I can choose to be uninhibited and popular. Their approval is like a drug, and I want more.
    I’m still pretending to be butt pumped when I look up and see him . He’s a few yards away, all tall and broad shouldered. His dark hair is wavy and unruly, and although his expression is impassive, his eyes show clear disdain. Sharp and unforgiving.
    My fake laugh falters.
    He looks like a vengeful angel with his intense gaze and ethereal features. Smooth skin and dark clothes.
    He has one of those faces that stops you when you’re flipping through a magazine. Not textbook handsome, but mesmerizing. Like a book cover that begs you to flip it open and get lost in the story.
    My new false bravado feels heavy under his gaze. It slides off me all dirty and thick, and I stop laughing.
    The gay boy pushes me away and turns to someone else. I’ve lost my vulgar butt-pumping charm.
    The tall boy also turns away and sits with his back to the wall. He pulls a tattered book from his pocket. I catch the title: The Outsiders . One of my favorites.
    I turn back to the noisy group, but they’ve moved on.
    I’m torn between trying to regain my position and finding out more about Book Boy.
    The choice is taken from me when the nearby door opens and a woman steps out. She’s statuesque, with short black hair and bright red lips, and she assesses us with the focus of a laser beam. She reminds me of Betty Boop, if Betty Boop were pee-your-pants intimidating and had a patent-leather clipboard.
    “All right, listen up.”
    The chicken coop falls silent.
    “If I call your name, head inside.”
    She fires off names, her voice clear and sure.
    When she yells, “Holt, Ethan,” the tall boy pushes off the wall. He looks at me briefly as he passes, and it makes me want to follow. I feel false and uncomfortable without him.
    Names keep coming. I estimate more than sixty people walk through the door, including “Stevens, Zoe,” who squeals before strutting inside. I flinch when I hear, “Taylor, Cassandra!”
    As I grab my knapsack, the intimidating woman says, “That’s it for this group. Everyone else wait here. You’ll be collected by other instructors.”
    She follows me through the door and pulls it closed behind her.
    We’re in a large, black room. A multipurpose theater space.
    On the far wall is a long bank of collapsible bleachers. Most of the group is sitting on them, chatting quietly.
    The final count is eighty-eight. Sixty girls and twenty-eight boys. None of them look as nervous as I feel.
    I sit, feeling like a clueless hack in a sea of more experienced city kids. My leg starts trembling again.
    The instructor