The Understudies [2]

(Malory)

I’m not having a great day. I’m wearing washed out jeans and an oversized hoodie, and I look like a zombie. The bags under my eyes could be sold to the dark side as jewellery. I move through the locker hallway with a death glare plastered over my face. I don’t wave to the students who are telling me good morning. I don’t nod to anyone. I don’t feel alive. I’m so sleep deprived I’m seeing pillows instead of lockers.

I reach my locker, opening it and shoving a book inside before pulling out a pile of handouts that were set neatly in a binder. All the handouts fall to the ground from my weak, lazy hand. My body just won’t function today. I stare at the mass of pages on the floor in defeat. I groan. I stoop to pick them up.

Black ankle-length boots I know all too well, attached to a pair of long legs in thick, black, cotton jeans appears beside me as I extend my hand to pick up my pages. I ignore the individual, reaching down and gripping at my pages before standing.

I don’t look at him. I neaten the pile by organising it against the closed locker beside my own, and then I put them back neatly into the shelf of my own locker space. I shut it, revealing a polished Kyle with a smug, questioning look on his face and an annoying raised brow.

He lets out a deliberate breathy laugh. “Well, you look like shit.”

His arms are folded. He leans against the locker beside mine and tightens his jaw, transitioning into a stern expression.

I focus my eyes back onto my closed locker –specifically at the actual lock. I count the numbers to calm myself. “I’m not in the mood.”

“Clearly,” he acknowledges, immediately, his voice hot with intention and a good spoonful of spite.

“What do you want?” I ask him.

“I went through the script this morning,” he says, not elaborating.

A good few seconds passes. I scoff.

“Good job,” I award him with a forced sarcastic smile. “Do you want a medal? I’m sorry, the only thing I have at the moment is a strong fist and a really, really clever mouth.”

The oaf doesn’t even bother to acknowledge my comment.

“Even without the kiss scene,” he says, “the play is still ridiculous, Lloyd. I’m not here this morning to mess with you. I’m here because for once we’re both agreeing that this plan of theirs to make us cooperate is absolute shit.”

“You’re absolute shit.”

“Can you not be a bitch for two seconds?” He spits.

“Can you not be an immature brat?”

“I’m trying to have a civilised conversation with you,” he insists, “We both don’t want to do this. We said we were at least going to try to cooperate.”

It may be true that we said we were going to try, but every time I look at this guy I feel the urge to shoot a cannonball right at his face. “I don’t want to cooperate with you.”

He just keeps nagging and nagging. “I don’t care. You have to. I’m making the effort. Clean slate, remember?”

“Who says I don’t want mine?”

“You make that concept a pretty hard code to crack.” His tone of sarcasm and his face starts to irritate me.

I blink and swallow, trying to find the strength not to kill him or faint before I even attempt to kill him. “I did not get any sleep last night, Davidson. Before I pass out and ultimately have to be dragged to the sick room, can you please get to the point of whatever you’re trying to say?”

“I didn’t get any sleep either,” he tries to defend. “We’re both busy people. But like most other busy people, we’ve both gotten used to handling how to stay awake when we’re actually just mentally sleeping. So stop trying to be a smartass and listen to me. What I’m saying is the play is ridiculous. If we’re getting out of doing this you have to work with me.”

Hah! As if...

I scoff lazily and raise an eyebrow. “You have a plan?”

He nods once saying, “Just hear me out...” and while I wait for him to elaborate I lean against my locker and stare at him, bored. “I don’t know jack shit about drama. I don’t study it. But you, Olivia and Ron all do it. I did some research. And Ron mentioned this once, too. If we... if you and I... could somehow get Olivia and Ron to be the understudies...”

“We could get out of the actual play when it comes around.”

“See?” He says to me, “You’re not stupid.”

“See? That’s one of the reasons why I punch you,” I tell him in mockery. “Olivia and I already thought of that. Days before the actual auditions. If they get chosen to be the understudies it’s highly unlikely it will because of us. It’s not our decision to make.”

“They’d enjoy having the leading roles... even as the understudies. And Olivia and Ron don’t piss each other off like we do.”

“You piss me off first, doofus.”

He runs a hand through his hair and sighs, wearily. “We’re not fighting this morning. We both know we’re too tired for that today. I honestly don’t know how you even have the strength to do that today considering how wrecked you look from a lack of sleep.”

Is he really trying to be considerate right now or is he low-key trying to insult me?

“I’ll feel better if I knock you unconscious before I fall unconscious myself.”

He looks so done with me. “Please shut up. Please. I’m asking.”

“Are you done?” I ask.

“One more thing.”

I get restless and start tapping my foot on the hard tiled floor. “What now?”

“Is there any way we can convince the teachers or the directors to make Ron and Olivia the understudies?”

Oh my god.

Hello, universe?

Yes, it’s Malory M.V. Lloyd speaking.

I’d like to get a refund on my life.

Yes, give it to someone with the will to live.

No, I would not like to keep the memories. Get rid of them all.

If possible, refrain from having Kyle Davidson meet the next body to inhabit my soul, thank you.

“If they don’t become the understudies on their own with their amazing acting, then I don’t know, Davidson, I’m not a god. I’m going to class. Goodbye.”

I could hear a faint groan as I bend to the corner, and then a hard punch hit the metal lockers. I bet he hit mine.