push my glasses up my sweaty nose, letting my eyes land on the bottom of Momâs cast list. My eyes move one step up the list with each beat of my heart, and my heart gets a little louder with each thumpâlike footsteps climbing stairs, getting increasingly closer. Until I make it all the way to the top of the list. And find it. My own name: Quin Drewery. And the horrific title: Director.
My head spins. Iâm falling now, tumbling down every step I just climbed. Bouncing uncontrollably.
How could she do this to me? Director? No way. Everyoneâs already complaining. âHer mother made her the director?â âOf course she did.â âMust be nice.â
I havenât been imagining anything. I bet those hallway elbow jabs have been coming from Advanced Drama nobodies all day. All of them anticipating this very thing.
It looks like favoritism, Mom. Surely you knew that it would. Whyâd you do this?
I glance into the classroom, but thereâs no sign of Momâer, Ms. Drewery. Itâs like sheâs left her bomb and run, avoiding any of the flying shrapnel.
In front of me, Liz Garrison is shaking her head. Liz is the senior class mother in training. The type to buy you a cupcake from the dessert line in the cafeteria because you seem a little down, or offer you her cardigan when you sneeze. And beside me, Cass is saying, âNo, no, no, no. I knew it. I knew sheâd do this to me.â
âWhat did you get?â I ask, afraid of her answer.
âHope Harcourt.â
âThe lead?â I ask.
âThe lead.â Her hands fly to her head, her fingers weaving through her dirty-blond locks.
In front of me, Liz is still shaking her head. âWhy would she pick me? For that? For that ?â To emphasize her completefrustration, she throws her arms into the air at the same time she spins on her heel, ready to stomp off. But her hand brushes Cassâs cheek.
Liz draws her hands back into her chest, and her eyes swell and her pink frosty mouth curls into a shocked O.
Cass flinches. Tugs at her hair to let it fall like a curtain across her face. But itâs too late. The damage has been done. Liz and I both know it has.
Because when somebody has a giant port-wine stain down the entire right side of her faceâlike Cass doesâthe polite thing to do is to simply ignore it. Not draw attention to it by smacking it. Or letting your face show exactly how surprisedâand maybe even a little grossed outâyou are by the rough feel of the red cauliflower bumps.
We all know that.
And now Liz is more than embarrassed. Her face is getting even redder than Cassâs birthmark. She doesnât know what to say, and her eyes have turned into pinballs because she canât even look Cass in the face.
I know I should do something to make up for Cassâs hurt feelings. She always says sheâs used to it, this shockedâor awkwardâresponse to her face. But you never get used to knowing that people are secretly thinking that whatever that thing is crawling down your forehead and cheek is every bit as bad as the gobs of greasy grimy gopher guts kids are always singing about on playgrounds.
MeâIâd forgotten about it a long time ago. And I donât mean âforgetâ in the way some people say, âOh, Iâve forgotten the whole thing,â when really, theyâre still carrying around a grudge. I mean it has slipped out of my sight, right out of my head. But isnât that what happens to unimportant thingsâlike a graded math quiz from last semester or the receipt for a cash gas purchase? They fall out of your pocket or blow out the rolled-down window while youâre driving. People are always losing their grip on insignificant things. The same way I always lose my grip on Cassâs birthmark.
I donât see it. That is, until somebodyâlike Liz, who is still in the crowd hemming and hawing, her eyes darting