I go up the steps at the side of the stage and crouch down beneath Megan. She’s wearing a baseball cap with SWAG printed on the front and has a thick fake-gold chain with a huge fake-gold dollar sign dangling from her neck. There’s no way she’d be seen dead in that outfit anywhere else; that’s how much she loves Mr. Beaconsfield. I’m about to take a picture when Megan hisses down to me: “Make sure you don’t get my spot.”
“What?” I whisper back.
“The spot on the side of my nose. Make sure you don’t get it in the picture.”
“Oh. Right.” I shift to one side and zoom in. The lighting from this side isn’t the best but at least the spot isn’t visible. I take the picture, then turn to leave the stage. As I do, I glance out into the auditorium. Apart from Mr. Beaconsfield and the two assistant directors, all of the seats are empty. I instinctively breathe a sigh of relief. To say I’m not very good with crowds would be a bit like saying Justin Bieber isn’t very good with the paparazzi. I don’t know how people can actually perform onstage. I only have to go up there for a couple of seconds to take a photo and I feel uneasy.
“Thanks, Pen,” Mr. Beaconsfield says as I hurry down the steps. That’s another cringe-fact about him—the way he calls us all by a nickname. I mean, seriously! It’s okay for my family but not my teachers!
Just as I get back to my safe spot at the side of the stage my phone bleeps again.
Oh my God, Juliet used to be played by a man back in Shakespeare’s day! You have to tell Ollie—I’d love to see his face!
I look up at Ollie, who is currently gazing up at Megan.
“But, soft! What light through yonder window breaks?” he says, in the worst New York accent ever.
I can’t help but sigh. Even though Ollie’s dressed in an even worse costume than Megan’s—making him look like a cross between a Jeremy Kyle guest and Snoop Dogg—he still somehow manages to look cute.
Elliot hates Ollie. He thinks Ollie’s really vain and calls him the Walking Selfie, but, to be fair, he doesn’t really know him. Elliot goes to a private school in Hove; he’s only seen Ollie when we’ve bumped into him on the beach or in town.
“Shouldn’t Penny take a picture of me in this scene too?” Ollie asks, when he finally gets to the end of his speech. He’s still talking in his fake American accent—which he’s been doing ever since he got the part. Apparently all the top actors do it; they call it “method acting.”
“Of course, Ollz,” says Call-Me-Jeff. “Pen?”
I put down my phone and run back up the steps.
“Can you make sure you get my best side?” Ollie whispers at me from beneath his cap. His one has STUD printed on the front in black diamante.
“Sure,” I reply. “Er, which side is that again?”
Ollie looks at me like I’m crazy.
“It’s just so hard to tell,” I whisper, my face flushing crimson.
Ollie continues to frown.
“Because they both look good to me,” I say, desperation setting in. Oh my God! What is wrong with me?! I can practically hear Elliot shrieking in horror. Thankfully at this point, Ollie starts to grin. It makes him look really boyish and way more approachable.
“It’s my right side,” he says, and turns back to face the trailer.
“Is that—er—your right, or mine?” I ask, wanting to make double sure.
“Come on, Pen. We haven’t got all day!” Mr. Beaconsfield calls out.
“It’s my right, of course,” Ollie hisses, looking at me like I’m demented again.
Even Megan’s frowning at me now. My face burning, I take the picture. I don’t do any of my usual things, like checking the lighting or the angle or anything—I just press the button and stumble out of there.
When the rehearsal is finally over—and I’ve learned from Elliot that Shakespeare was only eighteen when he got married and he wrote thirty-eight plays in total—a group of us head to JB’s Diner to get milkshakes and chips.
As we reach the seafront, Ollie starts walking along beside me. “How you doin’?” he says in his fake New York drawl.
“Um, OK, thanks,” I say, my tongue instantly tying itself in knots. Now he’s out of his Romeo gangster gear, he looks even better. His blond surfer-dude hair is perfectly tousled and his blue eyes are sparkling like the sea in the winter sunshine. To be honest, I’m not entirely sure if he’s my type—he may be a little too boy-band-meets-athlete perfect—but it’s so unusual for me to have the undivided attention of the school heartthrob that I can’t help feeling embarrassed.
“I was wondering . . .” he says, grinning down at me.
Instantly my inner voice starts finishing his sentence: What do you like to do in your spare time? Why have I never properly noticed you before? Would you like to go out with me?
“. . . if I could take a look at the picture you took of me? Just to make sure I look OK.”
“Oh—er—right. Yes, OK. I’ll show you when we get to JB’s.” It’s at exactly this moment that I fall into a hole. OK, it’s not a big hole and I don’t actually disappear inside it or anything, but I do catch my foot and end up tumbling forward—making me look about as attractive and sophisticated as a Saturday-night drunk. That’s one thing I hate about Brighton, where I live. It seems to be full of holes that exist just for me to fall into! I style it out and luckily Ollie seems not to notice.