Charm and Consequence (Novella) - By Stephanie Wardrop Page 0,6

of my face. It just felt so wrong, somehow.

So what do I know about these things?

Nothing.

I will probably die a misunderstood virgin like Ophelia in Hamlet, only I won’t do it by floating down a stream, singing my own mad song. They’ll just find me here, on my bed, on a weekend night, my dead body slumped over a homework assignment.

Hopefully they’ll discover me before Teeny eats my remains.

Is That a D-Bag I See Before Me?

On Monday, I decide to spend lunch period looking up some critical studies of Shakespeare’s characters for our next group project, even though it isn’t due for a couple of weeks. When I walk into the library, it seems nobody else is seated under the buzzing fluorescent lights; solitude and silent books seem like the perfect antidote to everything, so I smile in relief.

Until I see Michael Endicott sitting at a table, bent over a notebook.

Oh, joy unspeakable.

I duck into the stacks and look at a few books, estimating all the while how quickly I can get out of there without Michael seeing me. But he does. And he smiles—as if he hadn’t just committed a hit and run in the parking lot days ago. With a steamroller, no less.

“Hey, Georgia,” he calls softly, and indicates the chair across from him. “Are you working on the character analysis already?”

I walk over to his table and set my books and bag on it. But I don’t sit down.

“Yeah.”

He nods and turns a page in a thick book. “Who are you going to focus on?” he asks.

“Ophelia.”

He scowls.

“What’s with the face?” I ask.

He shrugs a shoulder under his toffee-colored Ralph Lauren sweater and says, “Nothing. I’m just surprised that you would work on that character, that’s all.”

“Why’s that surprising?”

He looks up at me and I can see in his dark eyes that he's beginning to sense he walked into a trap of his own devising. He says, “She’s just not a very strong character, I guess, so I'm surprised you would pick someone like her.”

“Well, why?” I run a hand along the edge of the table as nonchalantly as possible. “I guess I’m interested in your analysis of my character, which you seem to have drawn based on very little evidence.”

He sighs and puts his pen down on his notebook. He’s been taking notes, but I don’t look to see what he’s doing.

“I didn’t mean it as anything but a compliment. I thought you would pick a character who is less … weak and confused, I guess. You chose the Wife of Bath last time, right? Who was horrible, but she wasn’t a weak character, at least.”

“You mean unlike someone strong and noble like Hamlet?” I shoot back, knowing that I should just pick up my books and leave, but I seem frozen to the spot. I must be running some kind of masochist marathon, to see how much pain or irritation I can withstand. Still, there’s something kind of exciting about talking to Michael. No one else has ever made me feel this weird mix of exhilaration and aggravation every time we exchange a few words. What’s wrong with me?

“No, like Lady Macbeth, maybe?” he suggests. “She seems more your style.”

“Because I would nag my husband until he kills somebody just to shut me up? You’re too kind.”

“What? What are you talking about?” He catches himself and looks at me more coolly now. “As you point out, how could I say you're like any character when I hardly know you? You seem like a strong person, though, and Lady Macbeth is a strong character and that's all I meant–"

Before he can finish, a male voice rings out “Endicott!” way too loud for a library. Michael glowers as we both turn to see who it is.

It’s Jeremy Wrentham, whom I've noticed in the halls many times before. No one can help noticing him. He’s movie-star good-looking, all gold hair and green eyes; tall; athletic-looking without being bulked up; with cheekbones that curve and arch at the same time somehow … Let’s just say that if Cassie had the power of God to create man, she would have created Jeremy Wrentham.

“Wrentham,” Michael acknowledges.

Jeremy tosses his backpack onto the table and turns to me with a grin that could sell ten thousand tubes of toothpaste. “And who is this?” he asks.

“This is Georgiana Barrett. Georgia, this is Jeremy Wrentham.” Judging from his grimace, the weight of this social nicety is pressing down hard on Michael.

When Jeremy extends his hand