office when Mr. Harper emerged and posted a flyer on the bulletin board.
“Auditions for all roles in Camelot will begin Tuesday, January 16, in Goddard Hall at four o’clock,” the flyer read. I would have thought no more about it if Bill Cross hadn’t read the words aloud.
“All roles except Lancelot,” he continued as though he were still reading. “No tryouts are necessary for a role custom made for Haviland’s pride, Ted Spencer.”
Andy Beecham and a few other guys were standing nearby, and they all hooted. I felt color rise in my cheeks, and I couldn’t stop myself from tossing my chemistry book into a hedge and tackling my best friend. Caught completely off guard, Bill landed in the hedge, too.
“Hey, this thing has thorns,” he yelped. “Damn you, Spencer. I was only joking.”
“Sorry,” I said, grabbing his hand and helping him up. “Don’t know what got into me.”
“Good thing he didn’t have his lance with him,” Andy said, and all the guys laughed again.
“Screw you,” I said, just as Mr. Harper stuck his head out the door.
“What’s going on out here?” he asked.
“Nothing,” Bill said quickly. “I just tripped, and Ted was just helping me up.”
Mr. Harper heaved a weary sigh.
“Get moving,” he said. “I know you all have someplace to be.”
“Hey, come on. Just do it,” Bill said as we headed toward the science building. “I’m stuck doing the lights. Harper says I have to train my replacements—a couple of freshmen.”
“Ha,” I said. “If he only knew what they’re really going to learn.”
Bill had been Haviland’s light man since ninth grade. The light booth in Goddard Hall was his secret hideaway. Fortunately, he was very talented at snowing faculty members, or he would have been expelled many times over for what he did and stored in there.
“The key to doing anything you want,” he used to say, “is remembering that what you are and what you seem don’t have to match.”
I envied him that. I could never seem like anything different from what I was, a self-consciously square violin player. Bill was a chameleon. To the Haviland faculty, he was a valuable asset. Not only did he keep the antiquated wiring system in Goddard Hall working flawlessly, he once prevented a fire in the science building by noticing a leaky gas valve in the chemistry lab. Another time, he saw that the retaining wall above the gym was developing a big crack. It turned out a water pipe had broken, and he was credited with saving the gym from a giant mudslide. Deeds like that are unusual for a high school student, and they gave Bill an equally unusual invincibility.
“You have to admit you’d make a good Lancelot,” Bill went on. He dodged as I took another half-hearted swing at him. “No, Ted. I mean it. Good legs, golden curls, and we’ve all heard you in the shower. Perfect pitch.”
“The hell with you, Cross,” I said. Mr. Gillespie was standing at the door of the chemistry lab, or Bill might well have found himself in another hedge.
But Bill was right. Again. The guy was a master at pushing my buttons. If it hadn’t been for him, I never would have joined the tennis team, and I would have gone my entire high school career without once drinking beer or sneaking off campus. I wasn’t nearly appreciative enough at the time, but if it weren’t for Bill, I would have been an impossible goody-goody.
Which, of course, was exactly why I was such a good candidate for the role of Lancelot. Even though I detested the idea at first, I couldn’t help considering it. For starters, I actually had a little free time. Teachers know better than to try to get second-
semester seniors to work very hard, and my college applications were in. Until the deciding envelopes arrived, I was in a tense holding pattern, and I longed for a little distraction. Gradually, I decided that an acting part in Camelot might be an amusing way to close out my four years at Haviland, and more chances to hang out with Bill in the light booth didn’t sound too bad, either.
And so it came to pass that on the appointed day, I arrived at the back door of Goddard Hall at precisely four o’clock. I was not carrying a violin.
Chapter 2
I was a shoo-in for the role of Lancelot, but it wasn’t because I was a fantastic actor. Only five boys showed up at the first round of tryouts, and Camelot has five significant male roles. Mr. Harper gave the part of Merlyn to Jonathan Griffith, who was the shortest among us, and the part of the aged King Pellinore to Greg Hornsby, who was skinny and not much taller. David Cummins, a pudgy bookworm type, got the role of Mordred. That left Arthur and Lancelot, and as soon as Mr. Harper told Brian Collier he’d have to work on his regal bearing, I knew Bill’s prediction had been accurate. Even though I was happy about it by then, I was glad my buddy wasn’t there. One smug smirk, and I would have decked him.
If casting the boys was easy for Mr. Harper, dealing with the girls more than made up for it. There was only one significant female role, and it seemed like every girl in school was determined to have it. “Who’s going to be Guenevere?” echoed across the campus for days. The scuttlebutt around the dorms was that Elizabeth Dunhill would get the part. Not only was her father the president of Twentieth Century-Fox, he was a member of Haviland’s board of trustees. How could Mr. Harper ignore those connections? If not Elizabeth, then Robin McCullough. Her father was the American ambassador to Japan, and Robin had been acting in Haviland musicals since ninth grade. This was her last chance to be a star. And then there was Penelope Lambros, and Margaret Kellerman. Or what about Roberta Phillips? The list went on, and so did the midnight gossip sessions. It seemed unfair that I had walked into my own role so easily, but there was nothing to do but wait and see what decision emerged from Mr. Harper’s office.
Olivia de la Vega. The group that had gathered around the bulletin board next to the music room looked at the name in disbelief. Two girls started to cry, and two more ran away. Brian and I, who had been inside Mr. Harper’s office when he said he was ready to post his decision about Guenevere, just stared in surprise. Who the heck was Olivia de la Vega? Haviland was not a large school, and I was sure I knew everyone. But Olivia de la Vega? The name was new to me.
“Who—?” I began, but Brian interrupted.
“She’s the daughter of one of the cleaning ladies,” he said. “A sophomore.”
Word spread like lightning, and the reaction was just as swift. Robin McCullough threw a noisy tantrum in the dining hall at lunch, and Elizabeth Dunhill swore she’d get Mr. Harper fired. I decided to keep a low profile until the hysteria blew over.
In spite of Robin’s histrionics and Elizabeth’s threats, rehearsals began on schedule. Mr. Harper, who no doubt had weathered some brutal telephone calls from parents and board members, didn’t back down. Olivia de la Vega was Guenevere, and the Haviland student body would have to learn to live with it.
I didn’t meet Olivia until the first rehearsal. It was a table reading of the script, and we were meeting in a conference room next to Goddard Hall. I was late, and the reading had already begun when I got there.
Olivia was speaking when I opened the door, and she paused to look up at me before continuing. Light from the window lit her face, and as our eyes met, I saw that hers were green. As she looked at me, the rest of the room fell away. A current as tangible as physical touch passed between us, and a shiver rippled through my body.
Olivia looked back down at her script, and I slid into a chair next to Jonathan Griffith. Mr. Harper shot me a disapproving glance over his reading glasses from the end of the table, but I hardly noticed. I was still under the spell of Olivia’s gaze.
I sat there transfixed, unable to take my eyes off her as she read her lines. How could it be that I had not noticed her before? She was strikingly beautiful. She had long, smooth black hair and creamy skin that glowed golden in the afternoon sun. Her voice sounded as if she were singing even