High Drama Read online

  Text copyright © 2015 by Lerner Publishing Group, Inc.

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  Front cover: © Jon Feingersh Photography/Getty Images (teen girl); Cover and interior: © iStockphoto.com/Sorapop (ripped paper).

  Main body text set in Janson Text LT Std 12/17.5.

  Typeface provided by Adobe Systems.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Terrell, Brandon, 1978–

  High drama / Brandon Terrell.

  pages cm

  Summary: After seeing her best friend, Kat, kissing another girl, Dessa keeps the secret but her anger over Kat not confiding in her causes trouble.

  ISBN 978-1-4677-5710-2 (lb : alk. paper)

  ISBN 978-1-4677-8097-1 (pb : alk. paper)

  ISBN 978-1-4677-8826-7 (eb pdf)

  [1. Best friends—Fiction. 2. Friendship—Fiction. 3. High schools—Fiction. 4. Schools—Fiction. 5. Secrets—Fiction. 6. Lesbians—Fiction. 7. Theater—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.T273Hig 2015

  [Fic]—dc23

  2014041435

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  1 – SB – 7/15/15

  eISBN: 978-1-46778-826-7 (pdf)

  eISBN: 978-1-46779-034-5 (ePub)

  eISBN: 978-1-46779-033-8 (mobi)

  CHAPTER ONE

  Bzzzt-bzzzt. Bzzzt-bzzzt.

  In the darkness of Mr. Jacoby’s Earth Science class, I clawed at my back pocket. I needed to reach my phone before it vibrated again. It was against the rules to have a phone in class. If Mr. Jacoby caught me, he’d confiscate the thing, and I wouldn’t see it until the end of the week.

  Which, let’s face it, is basically the end of time itself when you don’t have a phone.

  I found it, clicked it off. A couple of kids nearby turned to look at me, but nobody really gave a crap.

  “Is everything all right, Dessa?” Mr. Jacoby’s nasally voice chirped over the video he was making us watch. It played on an old television perched on an audio-video cart that looked like it might topple over and crush an unsuspecting kid. On the screen, a narrator droned on about the various layers of the earth’s crust.

  Riveting stuff.

  “Everything’s cool, Mr. J,” I answered in a too-perky voice. Mr. Jacoby hated when people called him that.

  He went back to watching the video, eyes fixed on the screen like he hadn’t seen the same thing during the first two periods of the morning.

  Who called me?

  Keeping my eyes on Mr. Jacoby, I slid the phone out of my pocket. As I did, it vibrated again, and my screen blazed bright in the darkness of the classroom. I pressed the phone against my chest. This time, my actions didn’t warrant a glance from my middle-aged, balding science teacher.

  I waited a moment longer to be sure, then snuck a glance at my screen. The call I’d missed a minute ago was from my best friend, Kat. She’d also just sent me a text.

  SOMETHING 2 TALK ABOUT, it read. CUT CLASS. MEET ME @ THE USUAL SPOT IN 15.

  My nose wrinkled in confusion. Kat and I were about as close as two friends could be, yet I had zero clues what she could be talking about. And just like that, my trembling hands could hardly hold onto my phone.

  It must be mega-important if it can’t wait until after school, I thought as I shoved the phone back into my pocket. I began to nervously twist the streak of blue in my black hair. Kat and I had dyed it a couple of months back. She’d since gone back to being blonde; I’d decided to keep my rebellious streak.

  I have to get out of here.

  “Mr. J?” I hissed, raising my hand. “Yo! Mr. J!?”

  Mr. Jacoby’s eyes rolled at the second mention of his nickname. “Yes, Miss Kingston?”

  “I gotta run to the bathroom.” And then I lobbed out the two words that made every male teacher at Brookstone High squirm. “Girl stuff.”

  As expected, Mr. Jacoby nodded at the door. “Of course, of course,” he mumbled.

  I snatched my backpack off the floor, slung it over one shoulder, and wove through desks to the door.

  The ancient, brick halls of Brookstone High were quiet. Rows of baby blue lockers, battered and dented after years of use and misuse, lined the corridor. I passed a number of classrooms closed off by thick wooden doors.

  The “usual spot” Kat had talked about in her text was a patch of trees back behind the school, out beyond the track and football field. A tiny path in the woods led to an outcropping of rocks that clung to the shadows no matter the time of day.

  Students had used the rocks while cutting class for years. Kat and I started hanging out there last spring, when her parents were going through a messy divorce and she needed a place to cry and curse and talk to someone whose only job was to shut up and listen.

  We understood each other, Kat and I. We didn’t keep secrets, and we didn’t lie to one another.

  I rounded a corner on the south side of the building and began to head toward the cafeteria. That’s when I spied Ms. Updahl walking my way. She was ancient, a crusty relic of a teacher. If I didn’t have her for English class in the afternoon, I’d have probably just assumed she was a ghost forced to haunt the halls of Brookstone for eternity, scowling and shushing students. Thankfully, there was a bathroom on my right. I ducked inside until I heard Ms. Updahl’s high-heeled boots pass.

  During the school day, most of the heavy metal doors are locked. No one gets in, no one sneaks out. There are, of course, a few workarounds. And I know them all. The easiest one is here on the south side, past the auditorium and the stage entrance and the dressing rooms. It’s a door the janitors use on-and-off all day, mostly in the afternoon, because there’s a line of gigantic dumpsters just outside. This is where the remainder of our—insert grotesque adjective here—leftovers from lunch are deposited every day.

  You have to be kind of careful sneaking out this door, though. Sometimes Ron, the head janitor, is just hanging out. He’ll be sneaking a smoke and reading a magazine. Usually Lowrider or Hot Rod.

  This time, though, the gods were with me.

  As I passed the backstage area of the auditorium, I noticed a crack in the auditorium doorway. There was a light on, fairly bright, so I could only assume it was one of the spotlights over the stage. A pink poster had been taped to the black metal door. The design had flowing black letters written in calligraphy inside the shape of a scroll. Romeo & Juliet, it read. The ampersand between the star-crossed lovers’ names was all big and swirling.

  “Art class suck-up,” I whispered.

  I was about to continue on my way when I heard voices coming from inside the auditorium.

  “But she’s your best friend,” the first voice said. It was a girl, but I didn’t recognize the voice.

  “ ... really don’t think it’s a good idea,” the second person countered. I placed this voice right away.

  “Kat?” I whispered.

  I was more confused than ever. What was Kat doing in the auditorium? Usually we wouldn’t be caught dead in there.

  I looked both ways to make sure I was still flying solo in the hall. Then I pushed open the door and silently entered the backstage area.

  It was dark and draped in shadows
, with the only light coming from the main spotlight. I almost called out Kat’s name as I wandered around backstage. But for some reason, I didn’t.

  “Just ... just do whatever you want,” the first voice said. There was a slight hitch at the end, like she was about to cry.

  I couldn’t see Kat and whoever it was she was talking to. Half-built sets—fake rock walls and castles built out of plywood sheets and 2x4s—blocked my view. The stage’s enormous purple velour curtain was open, bunched up at both sides of the stage.

  I felt weird, creeping up on my best friend. It almost made me want to hightail it out of there before I fell through a trap door in the stage or something.

  Almost.

  “Don’t be like that, Arwen,” Kat said.

  Be like what?

  Again, I opened my mouth.

  Again, I remained silent.

  I pushed aside part of the curtain and saw Kat. She was standing center stage, the spotlight from above casting her in its glow, dust particles swirling about her. She wore her favorite black leather coat and combat boots, and her blonde hair was bathed in angelic light.

  The girl standing in front of her was Arwen McKenzie. I had kinda put two-and-two together when I heard Kat say her name a second ago. Not too many Arwens loitering the halls of Brookstone High. Anyway, Arwen was standing with a large red binder hugged tight against her chest. She sniffled, then wiped her cheek with one sleeve of her oversized sweatshirt.

  “Look,” Kat said, placing a hand on her hip. It was her ‘I’m annoyed’ motion. I’d seen it too many times to count. “I gotta run. She’s probably waiting for me.”

  “Yeah,” Arwen said. “Sure. Whatever.”

  And then, before I could step out and ask what in the name of Billy Shakespeare was going on, Kat stepped forward, placed her hands on Arwen’s shoulders, and kissed her.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I couldn’t believe my eyes.

  Kat, the yin to my yang, the PB to my J, was kissing a girl.

  I didn’t even think she swung that way. Sure, she’d never really had a serious boyfriend, but there had been boys. Like Luke Best, who she dated for a while when I was with Luke’s friend, Coen Marsh. But I never thought ...

  It wasn’t until they parted that I realized I was eavesdropping on a very private moment. And it clicked that this, this right in front of me, was what Kat wanted to talk about.

  And so I backtracked before either of the girls noticed me. I followed the same path through the backstage area, making sure not to trip over anything or have my boots scuff the wooden floor, which was coated in black paint for some reason.

  Then I was out the door, heading to the school exit just as fast as I could go. I wanted to be waiting in the woods for Kat, ready to talk and lend an ear or a shoulder. I didn’t care who she loved or dated, boy or girl or slimy green alien from the planet Korbos VII. If she was happy, I was happy. Still, this was a huge deal. Life defining. If she was going to tell me, then I was going to let her tell me and pretend that I hadn’t seen a thing.

  It was sunny and cool outside, but not cold. Fall had taken root, but winter had yet to dig its icy grip into us. Nobody was outside by the dumpsters, so I dashed across the stretch of parking lot and toward the wooded area nearby. In the distance, I could hear one of the morning gym classes out on the track.

  In the shade of the trees, the morning wind was colder. I pulled my flannel from my backpack and slipped it on. I glanced back over my shoulder. No sign of Kat yet.

  When I reached the outcropping of rocks, I tossed my pack on the nearest one and sat down. My breath was ragged, and I realized I’d probably moved faster than I’d ever moved in gym class. The rocky surface beneath my butt was cold, and a chill passed through me.

  Kat came walking down the path a couple of minutes later. I’d calmed a bit by then but still took a deep breath to settle my nerves. Why was I nervous? She was the one with the news, not me.

  She moved down the path, head lowered, watching her feet with every step. She looked far more vulnerable than I’d ever seen her before. I could practically see the weight on her shoulders, and I wanted nothing more than to lift it right off her and cast it aside.

  “Hey, Kit-Kat!” I tried to sound upbeat but could hear a waver in my voice that wasn’t usually there.

  She looked up, gave me a half-hearted smile. “Oh, good,” she said. “You got my text.”

  “Of course. Mr. J’s pretty invested in his lame rock movie. Doubt he’ll even remember I left. So ... what’s up?”

  Kat leaned against a nearby boulder, where splinters of light cut through the trees and danced in her golden hair. Whereas I’d shed all of my childish looks, Kat still had a bit of baby fat in her cheeks, and her ears stuck out just a bit farther than normal. As a kid, I remember her trying to use loops of Scotch tape to try to pin her oversized ears back against her head. Now she just made sure her hair was long enough to cover them at all times.

  She bit her lip—another nervous tic she’d had for years. “Nothing. Well, something, I guess. I don’t know.” Her voice trailed off.

  “Everything all right?” My mind flashed to the beautiful image of Kat and Arwen in the spotlight. Everything seemed all right in that moment.

  Kat nodded. “I just ... well, I’ve been thinking a lot about something, and I wanted to run it by you.”

  “Okay.”

  This is it, I thought. I felt myself inching forward on the rock, near to the point of falling off.

  “Well, it’s just that ... ” she hesitated, and I held back from pushing her onward. Then she sighed, reached into her pocket, and removed a piece of folded, pink paper. She held it out to me. “Here.”

  I stared at the slip of paper, unmoving.

  “Take it,” she said, waggling it in front of me.

  I did. Unfolded it. Stared at it. It was a flyer for Romeo & Juliet in the same silly font as the poster on the auditorium door. “What is this for?” I asked.

  “Read it.”

  I scanned the paper. Opening night was just over three weeks away. Underneath the performance dates was a plea for help in bold black letters. “Set construction help needed,” I read aloud. “Handy with a hammer? Great at wielding a paintbrush? Put those skills to work! Find William Tuttle in the halls and tell him you’re game.”

  I don’t know why, but I really wasn’t piecing things together. Though I could tell Kat wasn’t going to tell me about Arwen. At least, not yet.

  Kat plucked a fallen leaf off the rock ledge where I sat. It was orange and brittle and crumbled at her touch. “I thought it’d maybe, I don’t know, be kind of cool to help out,” she said.

  “Help out the theater geeks?”

  “Yeah.” Kat was not the type to step up and help out. She liked to stand back and let things happen.

  And then, as before, it all slid into place. She didn’t care so much about Shakespeare or the rest of the club or extracurriculars. She wanted to be close to Arwen. And she didn’t want anyone to know why.

  Not even me.

  And I think that’s why I suddenly grew mad. This was me. Me. The person she’d come to when her family had been torn apart like a ship in a raging storm. The person she talked to at three in the morning on the phone, when there was more silence than speaking, because we really had nothing more to discuss. The person who saved her from drowning at Spring Lake Park when we were ten and she didn’t know how to swim but dove into the deep end anyway because she wanted to impress me.

  This is me, Kat. So why aren’t you telling me the truth?

  I jumped down from the rock. “This is what you made me cut class for?” I asked, holding up the flyer.

  “Yeah,” she answered, more breath than voice.

  I shoved the flyer back at her. It crumpled with the force. “Cool,” I said. “Go ahead. You don’t need my permission to ‘wield a paintbrush’ with the Dork Squad.”

  “But ... I thought maybe we could both do it.”

  I
was a pot about to boil over. “No. And by the way, I—”

  Saw you kissing Arwen McKenzie in the auditorium was the end of that sentence, but it died on my lips when I saw the hurt and bewilderment in Kat’s eyes. She didn’t deserve my anger. And she certainly didn’t deserve what I was about to say.

  “Forget about it,” I said instead. “I’ll see you around.”

  And I left her by the rocks, holding the crumpled up flyer to her chest as I trudged back through the woods, into the sunlight, and back toward Mr. J and his movie about rocks.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I didn’t talk to Kat for the rest of the week. We saw each other, though. Mrs. Engel’s Art class, second period. Mr. Hoffman’s Geography class, sixth period. We sat rows away from each other but worlds apart. At lunch, instead of eating with Kat in our usual place, I would sit at a table by myself or with a group of skateboarders Kat and I chilled with sometimes. They weren’t close friends, but they didn’t care if I tagged along.

  I knew that I was angry at Kat, but I was still struggling with why. She was going through a lot, and I should totally have had her back during it. But it really hurt my feelings that she hadn’t trusted me. And, if I really wanted to be truthful, I was afraid that she’d found someone to replace me. Not like that, of course. Replaced by someone who understood her better.

  So I kept my distance.

  There were no texts or calls from her. Of course, I didn’t try calling or texting her, either, so all was fair.

  On day five, as the final bell rang and I wound my way back toward my locker, I ran into Grady Neelan in the hall. Grady was short and stocky, his wild hair crammed into a beanie. He already had his skateboard tucked between his backpack and he was making a mad dash for the door.

  “Hey, Grady,” I said, walking alongside him.

  “Yo, Dess,” he said in his gravelly monotone. No spikes in Grady’s emotions. I couldn’t tell if he was glad that he’d run into me or annoyed.

  “You guys hitting Union?” I asked. Union Skatepark was located down near the rail yard. I don’t know why I asked, though. I already knew the answer.