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clasping his hands together as he gave Tyler an empathetic nod.
    “Well, anyway,” he said. “Yes, I'll be directing this semester's play, which is one of The Bard's most renowned works. Auditions are on Friday, with casting posted on Monday, I imagine. It shouldn't take me much too long to decide who's a suitable fit, should it?”
    It was a funny thing, how he sewed his dialogue together. He posed what Americans would spout as statements in the form of a question. For instance, if I were looking out the window and saw rain falling, and someone were to suggest that I go play outside, I could easily tell them: well, that's stupid. It's raining . But if I were to suggest the same thing to Will, he would have likely looked at me with a twinged confusion and muttered, pointing in the direction of the rain-streaked window: but I can't, can I?
    The inflections always hung with a sort of hope, like the possibility of playing in rainfall was still on the table. Nothing was impossible.
    I looked at him, now standing at the whiteboard and scribbling something across the slate in marker; the sounds his conversation with another one of the students was entirely muted as I watched him talk, smiling and laughing about something I couldn't hear.
    With a slow, shifting blur, I envisioned him pausing, locking eyes with me, and beckoning me to stand. Where, when I reached him, he would hand me the marker and lean in, whispering just loudly enough for me to hear while still giving the students nothing to question. I would touch the marker to the whiteboard, as if obeying some kind of instruction, and he would utter, soft and seductive:
    “ What I would give to have you on my desk right now.”
    Suddenly, the sound of my name being called tore me back into the present. Will now stared, appearing vaguely alarmed.
    “Kaitlyn?” he asked. “Are you alright?”
    I quickly recovered, clearing my throat.
    “Yes,” I told him. “I'm just a little out of it, I guess.”
    He nodded, still at the whiteboard with a finger pointed to a list of books that he would be giving us the choice of reading. Out of the selection, we were to pick one, and after a quick raise of hands, the decision was unanimous: Nabokov’s Lolita .
    Oh God, I thought. Perfect .
    When class was dismissed, I lingered, waiting until everyone had sifted out of the room. It all seemed to pass so sluggishly, with each of the girls hanging around Will as he nodded politely, answering their questions about class, and play auditions. Which, in truth, was why I was hanging around. My hope was to score a spot painting scenery, or working on props for the set. Anything to keep myself close to Will, even if I hadn't decided on Marius' wager. Preparation was key.
    After they had left, and only the two of us remained, he smiled warmly.
    “Hello,” he said. “Can I help you?”
    It was all so painfully formal.
    “I actually wanted to ask you about the play, Mr. Tennant.”
    We looked at each other, and Will started busying himself with wiping down the whiteboard. A distraction, I figured. Though from what I had no idea.
    “Are you going to audition?” he asked, sounding curious enough. I shook my head immediately.
    “No. I was thinking about something more along the lines of painting scenery or, I don't know, helping with stage props.”
    Will stopped mid-swipe, lowering the eraser with a surprising look of disappointment.
    “I'm not much of an actor,” I added. “Or, I guess, I think I'd be better off behind the scenes.”
    “Would you consider trying?” he asked, and there it was: hope. A dusting of hope weighed on his tongue, echoing the last word, trying, like something sweet. “I'll be frank here, Kaitlyn. Seeing you in that mask made me think of a young Olivia Hussey in Zeffirelli’s Romeo and Juliet. Have you seen it?”
    “No,” I said quietly, embarrassed. Will touched my shoulder gently, then drew away.
    “You should,” he said. I made a silent mental note,