Unscripted - Nicole Kronzer Page 0,42

feet away behind a pillar. Where did I go after high ropes? That’s what we were talking about?

“I was wet.” I shrugged. “I went back to the cabin. Changed. Took a nap.”

“You took a nap?” He put his fists back on his hips like he had at high ropes. “You missed rehearsal.”

“I didn’t know.”

“You didn’t ask.”

“You told me to run back.”

“To the Lodge.”

“You didn’t say Lodge.”

“I didn’t say cabin, either.”

“I was wet.”

“So were we!”

I gritted my teeth and imagined lasers shooting out of my eyeballs.

“You need to make up that rehearsal.”

I wrinkled my forehead. “When?”

“Tonight. After dinner. Upstairs in Rehearsal Room B.”

My mouth opened to protest. Someone grabbed my hand and squeezed it. I jerked a quick look behind me. Paloma was holding my hand. She and the other Gildas were piled up on the other side of the pillar, eavesdropping on our conversation. I bit my lips and exhaled through my nose, turning back to Ben. “See you then.”

Ben spun away. I wanted to bury my face in my hands, but didn’t want to give him the satisfaction in case he looked back.

The Gildas circled up.

“He could have been nicer about that,” Emily said, and everyone nodded.

“Where’s Will?” I asked.

Paloma gave me a small smile. “He and Jonas were walking away from the Lodge when I came in. Picnic, maybe? They haven’t seen each other all afternoon.”

I barked out a laugh. “That long, huh?”

Hanna looped an arm around my shoulder. “Chin up, Zelda-girl. I know we’re poor stand-ins for a real-life best-friend-almost-twin.”

I shook my head and smiled.

“But we’re here for you.” Sirena squeezed my arm, and I looked around at the other Gildas, who nodded.

A warm ball of strength glowed in my belly. The Gildas weren’t just my cabinmates anymore. They were my friends now. And I was theirs, too.

I’d never been up to the second-floor rehearsal rooms—Varsity had always rehearsed on the stage in the main room of the Lodge. This, of course, must have been where JV and the skill-building teams practiced.

I followed the hall to the right and found Rehearsal Room B. I tried the doorknob and it clicked open. The room was empty.

When I flipped on the lights, they revealed a large room with high windows, a hardwood floor, and a mirrored wall with black velvet curtains pulled across it, except for the last few feet. A piano stood tall in the corner and several black rehearsal blocks looked leftover from a living room scene.

Makeup rehearsal. I shook my head. If he had wanted me to go to the Lodge after high ropes, I wished he would have said something. I wandered to the piano and plonked on a few keys.

“You made it.”

I looked up. Ben had changed into jeans and a flannel, the top three buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up below his elbows. Was this guy incapable of covering his forearms?

“Yup,” I said, plonking a few more keys. “What do you want me to do?”

“Who/What/Where scenes.” He folded his arms.

I folded mine, too and met his eyes. “Alone?”

He held them. “I’ll be your partner.”

My stupid heart started pounding. I broke eye contact and cleared to the mirror side of the room.

He entered raking the ground.

He was establishing the “what”: yard work. It was up to me to name “who” and “where” we were.

I pitched my voice in a southern drawl. “You must really miss Grandpa, son, because this is the third time you’ve raked his grave this week.”

“Scene,” he said. “Again. Enter with an action.”

I circled back and started pulling on what I hoped looked like a gorilla costume.

He swiftly joined me, miming holding a clipboard. “Mickey Mouse auditions, line up right here, please. The director will see you soon.” Then he “set down” his mimed clipboard and said, “Scene.”

Gorilla, Mickey Mouse—close enough. But I had that nagging feeling about relationships—if you don’t know your scene partner, you have so much work to do to establish it. I couldn’t believe assuming the relationship was a crutch. It—

Now he was chopping something on a counter.

I picked up my own “knife” and chopped next to him. “My boyfriend and his parents will be here in five minutes, Dad. If you finish up these veggies, I’ll set the table.”

“Scene.”

I swept back around and came out tossing Frisbees.

“Quit throwing the dishes, Lisa!”

See, now there was another thing—telling someone not to do something shuts down the scene. Plus, he’d only established the “what.” Now the “where” and the relationship of the “who” were my job.

I chucked the