Rizzo seems like a completely different person when he’s asleep. He doesn’t have that annoying smirk

he sometimes gets. He doesn’t have that grin that makes half this goddamn school weak at the knees.

Including me, I admit it. And he doesn’t have that hard edge to him that I sometime see. He doesn’t

have any of that shit.

I can see my hand trembling where it’s resting on his chest. And it’s been a hell of a long time since I

had that smoke on the stairs out front, and even longer since I had anything else.

And I need something after last night, and whatever the hell was going on. I know it’s probably

some new twisted game Rizzo’s playing, but shit, it’s working. I’m worse off now than before.

I don’t know if it’s the way I’m shaking now, or something else, but I can tell that Rizzo’s starting to

wake up. I don’t want to see him change back into who he is when he’s awake. I can’t deal with it right

now.

Because if it’s not a game…

Hell, if it’s not a game, then he really was paying attention to me, and I am in way over my head. I

slip out of the bed, grab my clothes, and I’m out the door before he even opens his eyes.

* * *

I can just make out Jeff’s face in the front row, watching all of us up on the stage.

We’re all good actors. Every one of us up here is. We’re so good, in fact, that not one of us looks

nervous, but you can feel it in the air. We all know what this role means, the sorts of people that’ll be at

the show, what it could do for us, and every person on this stage wants it as much as the next one.

And why do I want it? Shit, that should be obvious… This is the one thing I have that I’m good at.

And it has nothing to do with either one of my parents. It’s the one thing where I can get up in front of

people and make them watch me. I can say “screw you” to my parents and people love me for it. It’s the

best job I can imagine.

If I can only convince Jeff to give me the role. I wish I knew what he’s looking for - what he’s

expecting of us and of the part. It would make this audition a whole lot easier.

Of course, that’s why he hasn’t dropped any hints at all. He wants to see what we come up with.

Brilliant asshole.

At least my hands are steady, though. I had to tear my entire room apart this morning before my

shower, but I managed to find a tiny emergency stash I’d hidden who knows how long ago. Lucky

thing, because I seriously doubt that Horatio is supposed to be as twitchy as I was earlier.

Now though, now I’m loose and relaxed, except for that pit of nerves in my stomach that comes with

every audition. Everything I talked about and practiced with Rizzo is right there in my brain…

* * *

“It’s not there yet. You’ve got the lines but it doesn’t sound right.” I can feel the bed almost moving,

so I tip my head back and follow the long line of his body up and see that he’s shaking his head at me. I

just blink at him and relax again, looking at the wall across the room.

We’re lying on his bed, completely naked, talking about Shakespeare and auditions. He’s still

propped up against the headboard, my audition piece held loosely in one hand. I’m using his thigh as a

pillow, lying with one foot hanging off the end of the bed.

“Come on, Keller, do you want this part or not?”

I don’t look up at him, but I frown at the question. “Of course I do.”

“Then show me. Your Horatio’s boring. And I’m not going to let a boring Horatio on my stage.” He

sits up more, and I shift over to let him, turning myself so that I can watch him.

He takes just a second to look at me, then he’s moving and suddenly on top of me, propped up on

those amazing arms, and I’ve barely had time to blink. He grins.

“You need more passion. Intensity.”

“I need more passion? Right. And what does the ‘master actor’ suggest I do to get this intensity?”

He laughs at me and shifts his hips, and I’m gasping and arching like the whore he makes me into.

His voice is suddenly in my head and running along my body, all at the same time.

“Say the lines again, Nick.”

And I do, while he keeps moving against me. I finish them with my fingers digging into Rizzo’s

shoulders, and I don’t care that he’s laughing, because the lines have feeling, and passion, and Rizzo’s a

goddamn genius.

…And now if I can only remember exactly how that felt, I can’t go wrong with this audition.

I see Jeff raising his eyebrows at me, and apparently it’s my turn. I grin at him and step forward, and

he nods at me.

Here we go…

Chapter 9

Halloween Son

JAMES: I hate Halloween. With a passion. Not because it’s a Celtic holiday turned into a ridiculous

marketing gag for candy companies, but because the day where everyone gets to dress up as cowboys,

monsters, and fairytale princesses happens to be my birthday.

We had an unwritten law back home, and that law said that October 31 had to be made the most

miserable day of the year for me. Something really shitty always happened, and I’m not talking about

everyday oh I just spilled my milk shitty. Really shitty. Can someone just put me out of my misery shitty.

Even with Simon gone, this year looks quite promising for shitty things to happen. I can almost feel

it, lurking in the background and snickering in a creepy, manic way. Next week I’m gonna be told

whether I get to go to Berlin or not. Next week my entire life is gonna get changed around - or not. And

like I need even more pressure, Casey has been acting weird lately.

I don’t know, sometimes I miss the old times when we were “just friends”. Everything seemed so

much easier then. But then I remember how unbearable it was, not being able to have him. I’d prefer

getting my toenails ripped out one by one to that torture.

And then I sometimes feel like I’m such a disappointment to him. It’s not like I’m not trying to

change and be more open. And with the new position as editor, improved social skills are much needed.

I’ll never get why they picked me. I’m crap at team work. And I’m even more crap at running this show

without having everyone in tears by the end of the day. I’m the critic from hell that everybody fears. I

tell people when their writing sucks. Unfortunately, it usually does. And when the writing doesn’t suck,

the research is an insult to journalism itself. Rhea told me that the freshmen are absolutely terrified of

me. And they’re not even allowed to write for the paper yet. Go figure.

There are days when I just feel so old. Like I’ve lived all of this twisted shit at least twice, and it’s on

endless loop. Don’t dream. Don’t hope. Reality will turn out to be a hell of a lot worse than you’d ever

be able to imagine. Every good thing has its flaw. Nothing in this world is perfect or lasts forever.

What’s happening to us? Why does it feel like Casey is slipping away? Every so often, it doesn’t

even feel like he’s with me when he’s with me anymore. And I wonder where he is, or with whom.

* * *

There’s a full moon outside my window, looking in. Mountains of heavy black clouds are drifting past it

like monsters from another dimension. In the pale light, most of the trees are standing bare like

skeletons against the bitter sky. If it weren’t way too early in the year, I’d say it looks like snow.

Happy birthday, Foley. The powerful bell of the old campus clock tower just struck twelve. I close

my book to call it a night. The small reading lamp on my desk leaves everything but the desk itself in

utter darkness. Witching hour. Witching hour on my birthday. That’s like Friday the thirteenth squared.