Premeditated by Josin L. Mcquein Read Free Book Online Page A

convincing Tweedledees and dums. (They could fight over who filled which role, because honestly, there wasn’t enough for me to go on.)
    That left Brooks to embody the Cheshire Cat.
    He was the one who, no matter how hard I looked or how long I watched, I couldn’t quite pin down. But I was always aware of his presence. When he entered a room, the air changed, and attention shifted in whichever direction he stood. He waseveryone’s friend, and someone was always repeating words he’d used or recounting something he’d done. Even when he wasn’t visible, Brooks hung around like a barely-there moon in the background that followed me wherever I went.
    (I blame Mr. Tripp and his free-form English lessons for the detour down the rabbit hole.)
    Drama classes in Wonderland weren’t all that different from those at my old school. We still sat in theater seats while the teacher—Mr. Cavanaugh—sat with his legs dangling off the edge of the stage into the pit. He was dressed nicer than Ms. Bonner, who was my teacher at Ninth Street, and there weren’t any cigarette holes burned into our chairs, but the room had the same feeling to it. This was where you could be anyone you wanted to be.
    “There are many kinds of acting,” Mr. Cavanaugh said. “You have your dramas. You have your comedies. You have action and horror and romance.” He mimed each genre with exaggerated expressions, juggling for comedies and the doing the
Psycho
stab scene for horror. “But with all of those, there are only two kinds of actors.”
    “Male and female?”
    Abigail-not-Abby was right. Dex was an unapologetic moron when he wanted to be.
    “Not even close, Dex, but thank you for the sexist viewpoint. Don’t expect me to intervene when the young ladies attack.”
    “Wouldn’t dream of it,” Dex said. “Rescue spoils the fun.”
    There was a collective groan, followed by fewer laughs than Dex expected, if his face meant anything. He pouted while those closest to him split off and switched chairs. That leftDex alone and put Brooks one seat forward and to the left of me.
    “I’m talking about those who want to be seen and those who want to disappear.”
    “You mean stars and everyone else,” Chandi called out.
    “That’s oversimplifying,” Mr. Cavanaugh said. “But in general, yes. There are those who slip into a character’s skin so completely, they can’t be seen underneath, and those who, no matter how they try, will always be pretending. Both are important, but which of the two is the star is up for debate.”
    He had this weird auburn mustache that looked like it had been glued, slightly askew, to the underside of his nose. It bounced up and down as he talked.
    “The star’s the headliner,” Chandi argued. “Everyone else is set dressing.”
    “Then how do you explain scene stealers?” I asked. I hadn’t intended to engage her, but she was too annoying not to poke back. Someone needed to remind Miss Model-Perfect that hers wasn’t the only voice in the room worth listening to.
    “If the star knows what she’s doing, no one will be able to steal her scenes.”
    “You think it’s that easy?” Mr. Cavanaugh asked.
    “For some of us.” She glared at me, a clear indication that she didn’t include me in “us.”
    Fine with me.
    “It seems we have our two camps,” Mr. Cavanaugh continued. “Those who will grab the audience’s attention and hold it so long as they’re onstage”—he glanced around the room, settling on Dex and Chandi—“and those who aren’t playing at all. They become the person on the page.”
    His attention settled on my section for a beat before moving on, but the pause was enough to sear acid into the sides of my stomach.
    “So the question is, do you want someone to look at you and say ‘That person is a real star,’ or to look
through
you and see a stranger who can be anything?”
    Easy answer. You can’t hunt on the predator’s home turf if he can see you coming. Make him think