The Royal Treatment Read Free Page B

water and cleared my throat. “It’s a gurgle.”
    “It’s gross.”
    “I can’t believe I’m doing this.” I drank some more water. “I’m going to pass out on the stage.”
    “Maybe that’ll get you a part. Pretend like you’re falling asleep—that’s perfect for A Midsummer Night’s Dream .” Kylee pushed me out the doors and into the front quad. Our steps fell into sync as we hit the sidewalk that separated the junior high from the high school. “Besides, you’ve done this before.”
    “I’ve tried out for a play before, but I’ve never gotten a part. And those plays were not Shakespeare.”
    Confession time: this probably makes me sound dumb, or just not deep, but I don’t love Shakespeare. Sure, the stories are great, but why keep it in ancient words that everyone pretends to understand, but no one actually does? I’m guessing I’m not alone in my feelings, but if you admit this, it’s like saying you don’t see the emperor’s new clothes. Loving Shakespeare makes you literary and artsy cool, two traits that are an edge in the performing-arts world. Funky hats help, too—all the theater kids had them. I didn’t bring one, but I was wearing a shakespeare rocketh shirt. I figured that might earn me some street cred.
    “Shakespeare is like anything else, with some thees and thines mixed in,” Kylee said.
    “Don’t forget the aye and ere . Do you think people used to fall asleep in the middle of conversations?” I stopped walking when we rounded the corner. Sproutville High—ivydraped red brick, built in the 1930s and an easy double for an insane asylum—loomed before us. “I can’t do this. Let’s go home.”
    “Nope. You’re doing it.” Kylee pulled me forward. “Here, tell me your monologue.”
    “We weren’t supposed to prepare anything. The director tells us what we’re reading at the audition.”
    “Just say something.”
    I delivered a line, one that I’d memorized from the second act.
    “See?” Kylee beamed. “You’re going to get a part, I know it. The words make sense when you say them.”
    “Whatever. Shakespeare is probably rolling in his grave every time I read.”
    “Who made up that expression anyway?” Kylee said. “Why is rolling in your grave bad? Maybe it means you’re a zombie or something. If your acting creates a Shakespeare zombie, I’d be all for that. Like, he could come on the stage during all his plays and be like…‘Iambic pentameter…bad. Brains…good.’”
    I scrunched up my nose. “You’ve been watching too many of those gross horror movies again.”
    “Better that than your old Audrey what’s-her-name movies.”
    “What’s-her-name? What’s-her-name? Audrey Hepburn is only one of the greatest actresses to ever live on this planet. Or any planet. Oh my gosh, if I were in my grave right now, I would be rolling.”
    “Doesn’t work if you’re still breathing. Then you’re buried alive, and that’s just sad—”
    “ROLLING!” I yelled. Kylee giggled.
    I don’t know when it happened, but somewhere between June and now, Kylee and I had reached that wonderful place . The one where you know things about each other that no one else does. Even more, you accept them.
    Like, Kylee’s so cultured, if she had MP she’d probably skip over Level One and settle right into Level Two at Façade. She moved to Sproutville a year ago from Seattle with her professional, smart, cool parents (from India. My dad is from Idaho Falls. If there was a contest for coolness, her parents would get the grand-prize trophy and mine a nice participant ribbon). The Maliks take their daughter to exhibits and the symphony and poetry readings. But cute, clean-cut Kylee is also hard-core into horror movies and gory video games. Isn’t that awesome? I love that about her.
    We walked around the building, stopping at the theater entrance door. Kylee gave my arm a squeeze. “So I’m going to run over to the band room to make sure that the woodwinds