Don't Look Behind You (Don't Look Series Book 1) by Emily Kazmierski (summer reads .txt) 📗

Squaring my shoulders, I make my way down the aisle toward where the club’s members are sprawled out on the platforms talking and laughing. A guy tosses a cheese puff into the air and catches it to the squeals of a couple of younger girls. When I get close enough, they turn to stare.

My instinct to puff up and make myself as large as possible to intimidate them prickles under my skin, but I ignore it. It took a lot of compelling arguments to convince Aunt Karen to let me participate in drama club, and the last thing I need is to ruin it by creating a scene my very first time in the building.

“You’re Megan, right? I’m Fiona. Welcome to drama club.” A tall Black girl with long, multi-colored braids stands and greets me, brushing her hands on the front of her jean shorts.

“Thanks. I heard you guys were doing The Mousetrap this semester. It’s a great play.”

“Yeah, it should be fun. Why don’t you come sit with us?” She leads me to one of the platforms and introduces me to her friends. “Marisa, our Mollie Ralston. Viv, Costuming. I usually work lighting. What about you?”

I glance at Marisa, wishing desperately I could tell her I played that role when we’d done the play back home. But I can’t. It was part of my deal with Aunt Karen. No front-of-the-curtain parts. “Stage crew all the way.”

“So you’ve done this play before?” Marisa asks, holding up a cracked-spine paperback. She shoves her raven hair back when it falls in her eyes.

I nod, enthusiastic, and tell them about how, at my old school, we staged the murder mystery play in a train car as a nod to Agatha Christie’s most famous book, Murder on the Orient Express.

“The police officer was a woman? Nice touch,” Marisa says, tapping the cover of her book thoughtfully. “I suggested to Esau that we do this one with an all-female cast, but he said no.”

“He glared, is what he did,” Viv puts in.

“Directors.” Marisa huffs a strand of hair out of her face.

“Seriously,” I put in. My nerves are jangling. I’ve never met this Esau person, but he sounds like a terrible director. Hopefully he’s learned there is no “I” in team. T. E. A. M. Team. Clap clap.

“Excellent. Want some popcorn?” Fiona pulls a clear ziplock out of her bag and holds it out to me.

“She’s always trying new flavors,” Marisa puts in, smoothing her hair into a high ponytail.

I run my fingers through my own mousy brown locks, hesitating when my eyes land on the bag of green-tinted kernels. I don’t want to alienate these girls. How bad can green popcorn be? I take some. Chew slowly.

“So… can I ask you a question?” Viv asks, her green eyes bright with curiosity.

Here it comes. I brace myself.

“How’d you get that scar?” She points to her own cheek while looking at mine.

Thick, hot blood running down my neck.

Pulling as the doctor yanked my face back together.

Taking off the white gauzy bandage to see the angry red line that cut through my cheek.

Stark black stitches against tanned skin.

“Shut it, Viv. It’s rude to ask,” Fiona scolds her before turning to me. “Sorry, sorry. You don’t have to answer that.”

My head shakes. I exhale. “It’s fine. Running with scissors. Stupid, I know.”

The girls recoil in chorus.

“That must have hurt,” Viv says, gritting her teeth.

“You have no idea.”

“All right, let’s get started.” The commanding voice rings through the room, hushing all other conversation.

Everyone turns toward it.

A male figure is silhouetted by the afternoon sun. The door thuds as he advances toward us. I blink him into focus and my eyes widen.

“Who’s that?” I whisper to Fiona.

“Our director—Esau Chavez. He’s a senior and the leader of the club. It’s his first semester directing. Miss Crabtree, she’s our advisor, has an office through there,” she points down a hallway, “but she pretty much lets us do our thing. She’ll pop in from time to time to make sure we’re actually working, though.”

I can’t help but notice that many of the other students’ attention is riveted to the director as he walks between the platforms and stands with his arms crossed in the center of the stage. And no wonder. He’s north of six feet, with sun-bronzed skin and black eyebrows like slashes above his eyes. Black hair in two French braids that hang down his chest. Large gauges in his ears. Whoa, is all I can think when I look at him.

Esau’s jaw works as he surveys us. “Nice to be back with everyone. I’m looking forward to working on The Mousetrap with you guys. If we bust our butts, this play will be great. Maybe the best the town has seen in years.” His eyes pause on me. “Who are you?” There’s a note of accusation in his voice that makes my hackles rise.

“Megan Pritchard,” I say, standing with chin raised. “I just moved here, and I’m interested in working with the stage crew. I’ve done this play before, so if you’re interested, I’ve got some ideas on how to—”

“I’m directing, so no thanks. I’ve already got a strong vision for how I want this thing to look. I’m sure Fiona can find something for you to do backstage, though.” Esau turns away to talk to a guy on the opposite platform. Dismissing me. Blocking my view of the other half of the group.

Embarrassed, I take a step closer. “I really think you’ll be able to learn from my experience.”

Esau tenses, glancing at me over his shoulder. “If you’re not interested in listening to your director, there’s the door.” One long arm points toward the exit.

My skin glows red hot as he stalks off toward what I assume is the advisor’s office.

“Holy smokes.” Marisa fans herself with her script. “That was a scorcher.” There’s no missing the piqued interest in her expression. “He’s pretty hot, huh?”

I catch myself before I