Geek Drama

“Err …” I briefly consider curling up into a ball and rolling off the stage, and then glance at Nat and decide against it. “Deny thy father and refuse thy name; Or, if thou wilt not …”

Alexa rolls her eyes and yawns elaborately.

“… I’ll no longer be a Montague. No, sorry, a Capulet. I’m a Capulet.”

“Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?”

“I think you should probably be quiet, Toby,” Miss Hammond says firmly. “Or you’ll be asked to leave the room.”

“But Harriet is the sun,” Toby objects.

“That’s as maybe, but I suggest you enjoy her silently.”

Toby pulls a pretend zip across his mouth and winks at me from the corner of the stage. I’m going to kill him when I get out of here, and not a single jury in the country will convict me, due to the reasonable circumstances.

I take a deep breath.

Keep your head, Harriet.

“T­i­s­b­u­t­t­h­y­n­a­m­e­t­h­a­t­i­s­m­y­e­n­e­m­y­t­h­o­u­a­r­t­t­h­y­s­e­l­f­t­h­o­u­g­h­n­o­t­a­M­o­n­t­a­g­u­e­w­h­a­t­s­M­o­n­t­a­g­u­e­i­t­i­s­n­o­r­h­a­n­d­n­o­r­f­o­o­t­n­o­r­a­r­m­n­o­r­f­a­c­e­n­o­r­a­n­y­o­t­h­e­r­p­a­r­t­b­e­l­o­n­g­i­n­g­t­o­a­m­a­n­o­b­e­s­o­m­e­o­t­h­e­r­n­a­m­e­w­h­a­t­s­i­n­a­n­a­m­e­t­h­a­t­w­h­i­c­h­w­e­c­a­l­l­a­r­o­s­e­b­y­a­n­y­o­t­h­e­r­n­a­m­e­w­o­u­l­d­s­m­e­l­l­a­s­s­w­e­e­t­s­o­r­o­m­e­o­w­o­u­l­d­w­e­r­e­h­e­n­o­t­r­o­m­e­o­c­a­l­l­e­d­r­e­t­a­i­n­t­h­a­t­d­e­a­r­p­e­r­f­e­c­t­i­o­n—”

“OK,” Mr Bott says, holding up his hand. “I think that will do. Thank you, Harriet. That was … illuminating.”

Alexa starts a slow, sarcastic clap.

“And that will do too, Alexa Roberts,” Mr Bott adds sharply.

“What, sir?” Alexa says innocently. “I was simply showing my enthusiasm for Harriet’s profound and inspiring performance.”

“I find that hard to believe,” my English teacher says fairly. “So let’s move on as fast as possible, shall we? Next.”

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he next hour is like watching some kind of terribly amateur circus.

I slink to my position with Nat at the back of the hall and sit as quietly as I can while my cheeks return to their normal colour.

Luckily, there’s plenty to distract me on stage.

There are people doing cartwheels, people singing, people dancing, people pretending to ‘breathe fire’ with a lighter and a small aerosol (they get a detention). Somebody even brought their dog with them, except instead of jumping through a hoop it sits down on the stage and farts resplendently.

All of which would be a lot less surprising if there wasn’t a sign on the door saying:

Finally it’s Nat’s turn. She stands up and smoothes her hair down and I can feel myself starting to get genuinely excited.

Maybe she’s going to be good.

No: maybe she’s going to be great. Maybe this is the amazing future my best friend is destined for, and this will be the moment that changes everything. In ten years’ time I’ll be lying under a parasol by her Hollywood pool, applying SPF 50, because I don’t really have skin that tolerates Californian weather.

“Good luck,” I whisper as she squeezes my hand tightly.

And then – with great poise – Nat walks slowly on to the stage and stands very still for a few seconds, looking at us calmly.

I stare at her in astonishment.

All anxiety, all jitteriness, every bit of nerves has magically disappeared. In their place is total composure and dignity. Tranquility