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Eisenstein planned on rewriting Hamlet to set it in present-day San Francisco.
    I talked Felix into trying out too. He’s got a natural flair for drama, and I told him it was a way to meet new people.When he still looked at me skeptically, I reminded him that we’d do this together.
    “Okay. Fine. But only because you’re making me. Sheesh. You’re such a dominatrix.”
    I patted him on the head. “Good boy.”
    “But I’m so not kissing you, so you’d better not try out for Ophelia.”
    We were sitting in the cafeteria. The only day of the week our lunch period overlapped was Wednesday, so we had a lot of catching up to do in forty-five minutes.
    “For one thing, I’m not sure Hamlet ever actually gets to kiss Ophelia in the play. For another, I’m not going to try out for Ophelia because I’d never get the part and I don’t like to set myself up for failure. I’m a winner, not a loser, got that Felix? And finally: you will not be Hamlet because Sam Fitzpayne will be Hamlet, because that is the way the universe works.”
    “Sam Fitzpayne? What’s so special about Sam Fitzpayne?”
    I just stared at him.
    “Oh my God. You have a crush on Sam Fitzpayne.”
    “I do not.”
    “Yes you do. And why wouldn’t you? He’s so dreamy.”
    “I thought you didn’t know what’s so special about him.”
    “I was fishing. Trying to get you to admit you like him. I was just setting a trap. And you stepped right into it.”
    “You’re mixing your metaphors.”
    “It’s okay. Hunting and fishing go hand in hand.”
    We took a pause to actually eat some of our organic, locally sourced lunch. I took a look around the room.
    “How come nobody sits with us?”
    “Because we’re boring.”
    “Speak for yourself.”
    “I mean we’re boring when we’re together.”
    “I reject that. We’re not boring. At least, I’m not boring.”
    “Prove it.”
    I spied Hugh Feldman across the room. “See the guy over there in the green and blue striped sweater?”
    “The preppy one?”
    “Yeah. Him. I’ve seen his penis.”
    Felix put his hands over his ears. “Oh God. Please. I’m eating my lunch.”
    I picked up a green bean and flung it at him, then stood and collected my tray.
    “Meet me in the drama room. Three-fifteen. Bring your flair.”
    He grinned. “I never leave home without it.”
    I had to go talk to Coach Jarvis because tryouts for the play conflicted with soccer practice. If I got a part, I was pretty sure I could swing both, considering whatever role I got would be minor. Soccer ended in early November. We’d put on the play in December before break. I had a speech prepared, but I didn’t need to deliver it because Coach just said, “No problem.”
    “Really?”
    “You’ve got to follow your passions, N. Golden. I’m not in the business of getting between kids and their passions.”
    “But …” I stopped myself from saying something as pathetic as Don’t you need me?
    “No buts. Other than yours, which you should get to the practice field pronto after knocking ’em dead at tryouts.”
    Kids make fun of Coach Jarvis sometimes because she’s like the textbook girls’ PE coach: bad tracksuit, bad haircut, tendency to bark orders faux–military style. But she’s really a big softie. At least, this is what I chose to believe instead of the version whereby she didn’t give a crap whether I showed up for practice or not.
    I saw you in the hall that afternoon and told you about my plans. I wanted your approval, of course, but there was also a part of me that wondered if maybe you’d decide to try out too. Maybe for once you’d follow me into something.
    “You’ll be great, Nell. I know you will.”
    “I don’t know … maybe. It just sounds like fun. And it probably won’t hurt on my college applications either.”
    “Don’t worry about that stuff yet. Just do what you want to do.”
    “Why don’t you try out too?”
    You laughed. “To be or …  NOT