Understudy by Cheyanne Young Page A

“We’re done, bitch.”
    Gwen breaks into hysterical sobs and Derek places a comforting hand on her shoulder. Outraged at this small bit of affection toward the girl he just dumped, Blake yells obscenities at Derek. One second he’s shoving Derek toward the stage, making him tumble backward. The next second, Blake’s arm is twisted around his back and he collapses to his knees with Derek holding onto his wrist. Derek’s voice is a hiss through clenched teeth. “Get out.”
     

     
    Derek helps me pick up props after rehearsal. I don’t say a word until I see Margot leave and ensure that the door has closed behind her. Only a couple cast members still linger in the auditorium, all talking to each other or cleaning up trash from food wrappers. We walk to the back of the stage and stack plastic chairs on top of each other. I glance around to make sure no one is eavesdropping. “That was interesting.”
    Derek shrugs. “All in a day’s work, I guess.”
    “Do you think he’s going to be a problem again?” I ask. Derek’s phone beeps with a new text message but he leaves it in his back pocket as we fold up the fake water fabric and tuck it into a box offstage.
    “I don’t know. You better make sure all your lines are memorized just in case.” He snaps his finger and points at me with a smile. He’s joking, but—shit. He has a valid point. I haven’t even bothered memorizing my lines as Understudy. I guess it never occurred to me that Gwen might not be able to act if her boyfriend throws a fit on opening night.
    “You look like you’re going to puke,” Derek says as we walk to the edge of the stage. He hops down the four feet distance and holds up and hand to me. I don’t need the help, but I take it because, duh, it’s Derek’s hand.
    “I feel like I’m going to puke. I have none of Gwen’s lines memorized.”
    He shakes his head in a mocking way of being super disappointed at me. “Wren Barlow… tisk tisk.”
    I roll my eyes but feel my cheeks flame at the way he makes fun of me. He is so freaking cute, even when I’m the object of ridicule. The auditorium lighting is dim, so when Derek’s phone beeps with yet another text message, I don’t look at his screen on purpose. I just can’t help but glance over instinctively because the tiny screen is so bright.
    It’s a good thing Derek’s attention is on his phone and not at me. Because this time I really do look like I’m going to throw up.
    The text on his phone was from someone whose name is saved in his phone as Lexie.
    With a heart next to it.

 
     
     
    Margot’s next two weeks of dashing off after rehearsal to visit Jordan turns out to be a great thing. It means I get to hang out with Derek after school and not have to make up lies as to why I can’t sit on Margot’s pillowtop mattress and watch reruns of Supernatural with her.
    I’m sitting on Derek’s futon which is so far from a pillowtop mattress, I don’t even know how he sleeps on it, but that isn’t the point. The point is that I’m sitting. On. Derek’s. Bed. His mom didn’t even care when he suggested that we go to his room because his dad’s poker friends were making too much noise from the den.
    The pink glittery spiral notebook I purchased from the bookstore sits in my lap. It’s half-full, not with poetry like I had originally intended for it, because that’s what you write in a notebook that costs ten bucks, but with notes for the play. My finger fumbles with the sticky note I’d pressed into a blank page during first period.
    Derek clears his throat. “So we have a problem with our lead actress.”
    “Is she leaving us for America’s Next Top Model?”
    “Not quite that bad.”
    Derek’s sprawled out on his side of the futon with his head lying across the back so he can gaze at the ceiling. He runs his arms down his knees and fumbles with the rips in his jeans. I watch his fingers as they play with the denim frays; it makes me forget what I was about to