Wyatt grins broadly. I cannot believe I haven’t hooked up with him yet. It’s been obvious he’s gorgeous for practically the entirety of high school, and this is far from the first time we’ve exchanged flirtations. He doesn’t immediately come across as boyfriend material, but his hotness must bespeak a valuable interior. I can picture us now, having long, thoughtful conversations over cappuccinos . . .

“They do on the days I don’t double up on breakfast burritos,” Wyatt crows.

Okay, short conversations over cappuccinos.

“Today’s one of those days,” he continues. “But don’t take my word for it.” He eyes me invitingly, his voice unsurprised.

Not just because he’s Wyatt Rhodes and he knows he’s gorgeous, either. It’s because I have a reputation for being boldfaced like this. Unabashed. Unreserved. It’s no secret I’ve had seven boyfriends, and I’m not ashamed. Class Flirt is a title I’ve enjoyed every minute of cultivating.

I’m about to take Wyatt up on his offer when I feel a hand on my elbow. “Bye, Wyatt,” I hear Madeleine yell pointedly. “We have to go to class.” She drags me away from him, and in a low if not entirely unamused voice, she says, “What’ve we talked about, Megan? Wyatt Rhodes is on the no-flirt list.” She considers a moment, adding, “He’s number one on the no-flirt list.”

“No, he’s not,” I reply. “Principal Stone is.”

Madeleine gives an exasperated grumble. “Point taken. Wyatt’s definitely number two. You put him on the list yourself, remember? After he asked in sophomore English what book Jane Eyre wrote?”

I nod grudgingly. “And there was the time he said Furious Seven was his favorite book on the yearbook survey.”

“You’re going to find a guy way better than Wyatt. Just give it time,” she reassures me as we walk down the hill toward the Arts Center. “You don’t think Tyler has any competition for Romeo, do you?”

Tyler Dunning is Madeleine’s boyfriend. He headed off with a group of guys to rehearse Macbeth when Jody banished us.

“Of course not,” I answer easily.

Tyler’s a leading man in every respect. Tall, broad shouldered, with dark wavy hair—he’s undeniably hot. He plays baseball in spring and still manages to score the lead in every theater production. Between his charisma and Madeleine’s universal likability, they’re the total “it” couple of Stillmont High.

“Who’d you audition for?” Madeleine asks.

“Lady Montague.”

She wrinkles her nose. “Who even is that?”

“Exactly.” I grin. “She’s the smallest role in the play.”

I’m expecting the crowd packed in around the bulletin board when we turn the corner. What I’m not expecting is how everyone goes silent. I feel eyes on me and hear whispers start to spread.

“You guys aren’t being weird at all,” I mutter, trying to sound sarcastic despite my mounting nerves. I know this silence. It’s the silence of the un-cast, the scrutinized walk to the gallows of your play prospects. For the first time, I feel what my classmates must whenever a cast list goes up. My pulse pounds, nerves thinning my breath. I envision apologetic emails from SOTI, halfhearted tours of other colleges in winter. Even though I’m not an actress, I need this part.

I step up to the list, my pulse pounding, and intently search the bottom of the sheet where the smaller roles will be listed. Lady Montague . . .

I trace my finger to the corresponding name. Alyssa Sanchez. My heart drops. Alyssa was the obvious favorite for Juliet. Jody’s not messing around. This was brutal casting.

Reading up the list, I don’t find my name. Friar John, the Nurse . . . Unbelievable. Even after I explained my situation to Jody, she still screwed me over.

Then I reach the top of the list.

TWO

PRINCE: For never was a story of more woe

Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.

V.iii.320–1

“THIS IS A MISTAKE, RIGHT?” IN SECONDS I’ve fought through the crowd and thrown open the door to Jody’s office. “Juliet?”

I hear something clatter to the floor. Jody’s office looks like a yard sale of mementos she’s kept from every Stillmont production. There are playbills, props, and even pieces of sets stuffed onto the shelves. What looks like a brass doorknob rolls in front of me.

Jody stands up from her desk, her chunky turquoise necklace rattling. “You’re not happy,” she muses, studying me through her bright red glasses. They stand out even brighter against her gray hair. “I thought you’d be happy.”

I feel a heaviness settle on my shoulders. A nervous pit opens in my stomach. “This isn’t a misunderstanding?” I ask weakly. “It’s not Anthony pulling a prank or, I don’t know, a typo from an incompetent freshman you asked to print out the list?”

“No, the incompetence is all mine,” Jody says, a hint of humor in her voice.

“I auditioned for Lady Montague, not the lead of the play!” I barely keep myself from exploding.

She raises an eyebrow, unsmiling. “Well, you got the lead,” she says, her voice level.

“Why? I don’t want it. Can’t I be someone else? Anyone else?” I know I sound pleading.