Chapter One 

“Good morning, Audrey,” Ms. Nolley says, cutting a smooth path through the halls of Johnsonville High School in the sluggish madness of the before-school rush. “Ready for your tryout?”

“Absolutely,” I tell the choir teacher confidently. At least, I hope it comes out with more confidence than I’m currently feeling. Ms. Nolley is all about projecting confidence and she’s taken solos away before.

“Good. You’ll do wonderfully.” She gives me an encouraging smile and then it drops. “Mr. Jones! Is that appropriate behavior for school?” And she’s past me, rushing to put Jeremy Jones into detention. Again.

The butterflies in my stomach flutter nervously as I make my way toward the auditorium. Mrs. Armentrout should have the audition list posted this morning for tryouts for our big fall musical, The Music Man, tomorrow.

And I’m going for the lead, Marian the Librarian.

I tighten my grip on my backpack and dodge a basketball player who towers so far over me that I feel like an ant next to him. “Excuse-moi,” I mutter, but he doesn’t even hear me, that’s how far away his ears are.

A sharp twinge twists my toes. Guess I dodged wrong?

Oh. The cramp is so sudden that all I can do is come to a stop, the air seizing in my chest with the effort not to scream as all the toes on my left foot curl under, tight, tight, tight! Zut, this is a bad one.

“Audrey! There you are!”

My body tenses involuntarily, bracing for impact, which only makes my foot worse. But it’s just my best friend Becky Bonds, and the impact doesn’t come. I somehow pivot super carefully on my right foot until I’m facing Becky. Long breath in, slowly let it out. There. I can talk. “Good morning.”

Like the trained dancer she is, Becky gracefully weaves around freshmen who still look hopelessly lost even though school’s been in session for almost three weeks now. A twinge of jealousy prickles at the back of my throat. For the longest time, Becky and I were in dance class together. But that was before I had to stop. I want to think that, one day, the doctors will figure out what’s wrong with me and I’ll be able to dance again.

But that’s not possible right now. Not when I can’t even stand on this foot.

Becky slides up next to me and loops her arm through mine, almost knocking me off balance. “Soooo,” she says, drawing the word out with surgical precision because Becky is always precise, from her razor-sharp blonde fringe to the meticulous application of peach blush on her pale white cheeks to the way she color-coordinates her lip balm to her outfit, “today’s the day! Mrs. Armentrout’s finally posting the audition schedule! Are you excited? Have you finally decided what part are you going to try out for?” She plows ahead before I can answer, like normal. “I know Rona Riviera will be my main competition for Marian the Librarian, but you don’t think there’ll be a freshman who’s any good, do you?”

“Not better than you and we both know that Rona can’t act.” My stomach drops as we walk—she walks, I limp—arm-in-arm down the hall toward the auditorium. I hope I get to go early. I don’t know how much more waiting I can take. “We should wait for Izzy and Dre, though.”

If Isabella Choi and Dre Hardy were here, then I wouldn’t be so nervous telling Becky that I’ve already decided what part I want. I decided the same day Mrs. Armentrout announced the show. But Becky won’t be happy about it. Not even a little.

And an unhappy Becky is never a good thing.

“Those two? Pbthhhh.” Becky waves away her rude noise. “Izzy’s not even trying out. She’s doing costumes and stage design, as usual. And if Dre tries out for any guy part except the lead, they’ll automatically get in. Honestly,” she keeps going, not letting me get a word in edgewise, “I don’t know why Mrs. Armentrout picked this boring old show and not something with more girl parts.” She squeezes my forearm so hard that the bones shift. The pain takes my breath away. Literally. I stop breathing for just a second. “Anyway, we all know you’ve got the part of Marian’s mom locked up.” She casts a quick glance over my figure. “You’ve got the perfect figure for the old biddy, after all.” Becky follows this up with a winning smile that almost softens what she actually said.

Almost.

As if being a size 14 means I’m automatically the mother in every production. Sure, it’s meant that so far but! That was because Carley Simmons, the previous queen of the drama department, got every lead role. You don’t get full rides to the Northwestern drama department if you’re not actually good. And Carley was very, very good. If she hadn’t graduated last June, it wouldn’t even be a debate who’d play Marian.

If Carley could do it, so can I. And frankly? My comedy chops are a far sight better than Carley’s ever were. She may have been the Hallmark-romance leading lady of Johnsonville High but I could land Saturday Night Live. And still play the leading lady.

That’s the dream.

Junior year? That’s the reality. We’ve paid our dues during our freshmen and sophomore years. It’s our turn to start running this show. Literally. That means me going for the bigger roles—the heroines, the love interests. The leads.

That means Marian the Librarian. “You know Mrs. A wants us to be well-versed in Broadway classics,” I hedge while looking around for Izzy and Dre. Where are they? Becky isn’t waiting for them, that’s for sure. But hey—my toes have unclenched and I can put most of my weight on my foot again, so that counts for something. “Actually, Becs…” I brace for a different kind of impact.

Becky is my best, oldest friend. I can tell her anything and have ever since first grade. When my parents split during seventh grade and my father moved back to France, she was there for me, a solid rock in the middle of a storm that felt like it was never going to end. So telling her that I’m tired of playing the mother, the side kick, the mad scientist—the plus-sized comic relief, in other words—shouldn’t be that big a deal, right?

Right.

I pull her to a stop, which isn’t great because it almost pops my shoulder out, but Becky stops before the whole thing slips and even better, she lightens her grip where she was holding onto my arm enough that she doesn’t make it worse. “Listen. I’m going to read for Marian—oof!”

Bodies—multiple bodies—crash into me. Becky catches me as Izzy shouts, “Well? When are we taking over the world?”

“Iz! Careful!” Becky yells as she lets go of me.

Or shoves me?

I stagger, the room spinning. I can’t get my leg to—to do anything? It’s all I can do not to crash to the floor but…it’s not good. It’s bad. Real bad.

“Yeah, Iz.” Dre slings an arm around Izzy in a failing attempt to contain Izzy’s exuberance. No one can contain Izzy. Most people gave up trying a long time ago. “You know Audrey’s fragile.”

Oh my God that hurts. Tears burn at the back of my eyes as little spots dance at the edge of my vision and honestly? If the lockers weren’t holding me up, I’m not sure I could keep standing.

“Sorry, Audrey! What time are you auditioning? And what are you wearing? Are you gonna go in character? I found the coolest suit at the thrift store the other day, I was going to use it for the librarian anyway so maybe if you show up in it already looking the part…” Once Izzy gets started talking about clothes, there’s no stopping her. She’s already sketching out the outfit with big hand gestures, almost smacking me in the side in the process.

As Izzy goes on and on, I grit a pleading smile at Dre through the shockwaves of pain.

That’s all it takes for them to shoot straight for me like an arrow. “Lemme get that for you,” they say, lifting my bag off my back and subtly shifting so I can lean into their side and then, just as subtly, take a shuffling step backward, dragging me with them so that I’m not directly in the line of Izzy’s fire. It’s too little, too late and besides, I freaking hate being described as fragile, but hey, at least they try. Sometimes it feels like Dre Hardy might be the only person here who makes at effort to remember that normal things like high-fives and full-body tackles and, heck, even that one desk in Chem class make me sore. “You okay?” they ask in a low voice while Izzy rhapsodizes about our winter field trip to see shows in Chicago and seam allowances, maybe?

“Uh…yeah.” No. Absolutely not. Seriously, given the way my left leg is throbbing and my ribs are creaking, I don’t even know if I’ll be able to sleep in bed tonight or if I’ll have to make do in the recliner. And if I do that, Mom will make me another appointment with Dr. B, where he’ll say I’m too young to feel like this and maybe I should consider losing some weight? As if that expensive advice has ever cured anything in the history of medicine.

And tryouts are tomorrow! I don’t have to dance for that, thank goodness, but I need to be able to stand and move around the stage!

As the acute pain begins to edge back, a niggling thought pushes forward—did Becky shove me? No, she wouldn’t do that. We’re friends. Best friends. Sure, she might be a little frustrated that I’m reading for the same part she wants but…she wouldn’t intentionally hurt me. Just like the hurricane named Isabelle Choi would never mean to hurt me.

Just accidentally.

“Give me a minute to get my legs under me.”

Dre makes a low humming noise. “Take all the time you need. I’m not going anywhere.” Almost six foot and rock solid, clad in their usual head-to-toe black, including eyeliner and dyed black hair—which really makes their pale skin pop—Dre’s presence is a warm weight against my side. I hate needing to lean on them, on anyone, and at the same time I’m so danged grateful that they care enough to help. Especially with Chem first period, where Dre’ll make sure I get the good seat and carry my bag for me and it’ll be…

It’ll have to be okay. I’ll have to be okay.

Blinking back tears doesn’t do much. I hate this. I hate that everyone else can crash into hugs and, like, nothing happens. No huge bruises, no joints popping out, no limping for days, no awful doctor visits where nothing ever changes. I can’t even call Papa about it, since he’s seven hours ahead and tends to freak out about my health. It’s not like I can simply hop on a plane to Paris to see his doctor there. It’s all too complicated.

I just want to feel normal. Even for a day.

“Don’t forget to breathe,” Dre says. “Good ol’ air. My fav.”

“Working on it,” I mutter back, but Dre’s desert-dry humor makes me smile through the pain.

And I do work on it. I don’t think about my ribs or my leg or even the place on my forearm where Becky gripped too tightly. Instead I force my thoughts back to the fall musical and Marian the Librarian and how Homecoming is coming up and I’d like a date this time, not just the four of us going together.

And, of course, how me and Becky and Izzy and Dre are going to take over the world. Or at least the drama department of Johnsonville High.

Me being fragile has nothing to do with any of it. End of discussion.

And it does help. I take a few deep breaths, let Dre’s body heat push back against the pain, and suddenly the conversation around me snaps into focus.

Mostly because Becky snaps her fingers in front of Izzy’s face and interrupts the torrent of words about wool blends, maybe? “Hey, Ditzy. How come you’re planning a tryout outfit for Audrey but not me, huh?”

Everything about Izzy comes to a screeching halt. Her face falls and suddenly the glittery eye shadow, bright blue eyeliner, and pink streaks she dyed into her jet-black hair seem garishly out of place. Izzy’s rainbow-unicorn look just works when she’s smiling and animated, like normal. Only Becky can make her shut down like this. “You know I don’t like that nickname, Rebecca Marie. I’m not a ditz, I have ADHD. And the suit was in Audrey’s size, not yours. It’s a thrift store? You’re familiar with the concept? Oh wait, I forgot, you’re too good for those kind of places.”

The middle name is a bad sign but Becky just sighs, like she’s dealing with a four year old. “Then stop acting like a ditz, okay? You come in like a wrecking ball, nearly breaking Audrey, and then don’t even have a tryout outfit for me?” Becky levels a disappointed look at Izzy. “Do better, Isabella Louise Choi.”

Izzy’s face darkens dangerously, like a volcano on the verge of erupting. “Aw, hell,” Dre groans.

This is not going to get better. Izzy and Becky can and will devolve into a screaming match and we have to get to class and although my pain is dialing back to manageable levels, I don’t have it in me to coddle the two people who made me hurt and I really want to know when I’m auditioning, so I lean into Dre—because we’re friends, not because I still need help standing or anything.

“And why do you know that Audrey is gonna go for Marian, huh? I just found out!” Becky doesn’t exactly howl but she’s loud enough that people around us go silent.

Well, crap. I was hoping that small detail would escape Becky’s notice—I wanted to avoid exactly this fight if I could help it. But Izzy and Dre? That wasn’t a fight, that was just support. Izzy said there’s no rule that Marian the Librarian has to be tall and willowy and Dre reminded me I’m the best alto in the choir so…

“Let’s go,” I tell Dre, trying to walk it off while dragging them away, which mostly just means I’m falling in the direction of Mrs. Armentrout’s room and they’re holding me up. “I wanna check the tryout sheet.”

Dre stiffens, that current of tension as loud as a shout. “Should we leave them?” They don’t like it when people fight. Although Dre Hardy looks like they could throw—and land—one punch that would start and end a fight, they’re actually our peacemaker.

“Yeah. Please,” I add, because I know it hurts them to walk away from Izzy.

The four of us might be the closest of close friends but it’s clear that within the Fearsome Foursome, as Mom has called us since we all bonded over a production of Huck Finn in sixth grade, it’s really me and Becky and then Dre and Izzy. And after that, me and Dre. Then me and Izzy. And Becky and…

If it weren’t for me, would Becky even be friends with Izzy and Dre?

Huh. Never quite thought about it like that.

“They’ll be okay,” I promise, even as Izzy screeches, “Stop treating me like a child!” and Becky screams back, “Then stop acting like one!”

“I have to…” Dre says, pulling away.

“I’m sorry,” I call after them, but they’re already gone and I have to brace myself on the lockers.

There’s no way I can make it to Mrs. A’s room. Not like this. So I change direction and limp towards Chemistry.

This is not how I wanted this morning to go. All my friends are mad at me, I still don’t know when my audition is or, given my current pain level, even if I’ll be able to try out, and that’s all before my mother gets involved.

I’m sorry, all right. The sorriest girl in all of Johnsonville High.

But I don’t let any of that—the pain, the disappointment, the guilt, none of it—show. I square my shoulders, do my best to pivot and head into Chemistry.

I may be a mess but I’m also the best actress in this school.

Time to put on a show.