The university auditorium, usually reserved for solemn lectures and graduation ceremonies, buzzed with an unfamiliar energy. Folding chairs were haphazardly arranged, and a small stage, bare save for a dusty microphone, dominated the front. Ms. Dubois, radiating theatrical enthusiasm in a flowing, purple scarf, clapped her hands for attention.
"Welcome, future stars and stage wizards!" she chirped, her voice echoing a little too loudly in the cavernous space. "I'm Ms. Dubois, your Drama Club advisor, and I'm thrilled to have so many new faces! As you know, we're tackling Shakespeare's enchanting 'A Midsummer Night's Dream' this semester!"
A collective murmur went through the room as thick, dog-eared scripts were passed around. Mia gripped hers, the faint scent of old paper filling her nostrils. She hated the idea of this, truly, but a small, stubborn part of her—the part that had expertly executed the 'Primate Prince' revenge—was already eyeing the script for a challenge. And, more specifically, a way to make Kris Windsor regret his witty little trap. She flipped through the pages, her gaze landing on the character descriptions. Helena. Hermia. Titania. Lead roles. This was it. If she was going to suffer, she might as well suffer spectacularly, and potentially make Kris suffer alongside her.
She caught Kris's eye across the room. He was leaning back in his chair, script held loosely in one hand, a smirk already playing on his lips as he watched her. He looked bored, superior, and utterly out of place in a room full of aspiring thespians. Mia knew his type; he'd be aiming for the most minimal, behind-the-scenes role imaginable, just enough to fulfill his "volunteer" duty.
"So, the Shakespearean scholar has arrived," Kris drawled, his voice carrying just enough to reach her, yet low enough not to draw Ms. Dubois's attention. "Ready to butcher some classic poetry, Princess?"
Mia bristled. "Unlike some people who are only capable of grunt work and looking pretty, I appreciate literature, Windsor. And I'm aiming for a lead role." She squared her shoulders, holding his gaze. "I'm going out for Hermia."
Kris scoffed, a short, dismissive sound. "Hermia? The lovesick damsel? You? I'd say you're more suited for a screaming banshee, or perhaps the perpetually enraged donkey." A few of his friends, scattered nearby, snickered quietly. "Stick to your canvases, Princess. The stage requires actual talent, not just a talent for petty vengeance."
A hot flush crept up Mia's neck. His words hit a nerve, dismissing her artistic passion and talent in one go. The casual contempt in his tone was infuriating. "Oh, I'll show you talent, you arrogant oaf!" she shot back, her voice low and sharp. "I'll get that role. And I'll be so good, you'll regret every single one of your snide remarks." She leaned forward, her eyes blazing. "In fact, I bet on it. The loser has to—"
"The loser has to do whatever the winner demands for a week," Kris cut in, his eyes gleaming with a dangerous thrill. He suddenly sat up straighter, the boredom vanishing, replaced by a predatory focus. "Consider it a side bet, dearest friend. Your pride versus mine. May the best actor... or the least embarrassing one... win."
Mia's jaw tightened. She'd intended to propose something small, something humiliating but contained. But Kris had just raised the stakes to an entirely new level. Yet, the challenge was intoxicating. "Deal," she snapped, a fierce determination igniting within her. "And don't worry, Windsor. You're safe. You couldn't act your way out of a paper bag. You're only fit to play the role of 'Spoiled Rich Brat Number One'—a role you've perfected, I might add."
Kris's smirk didn't waver, but Mia saw a flicker in his eyes. Something cold, assessing. He had originally planned to slink into a background role, maybe help with stage setup or budget management—anything to fulfill his 'volunteer' duty with minimal exposure. The idea of acting, of putting himself out there, was anathema to him. But Mia's taunt, delivered with such cutting precision, had struck a deep chord. 'Spoiled Rich Brat Number One.' The thrill of proving her wrong, of winning against her, was a powerful motivator, a perverse fascination that outweighed his discomfort.
Mia watched him, a knot of unease forming in her stomach. That look. He was actually considering it. This wasn't just a threat.
Meanwhile, James, having quietly flipped through his own script, looked decidedly green. When Ms. Dubois asked for people interested in technical roles, he practically leaped out of his seat. "Direction! Lighting! Sound! Anything behind the scenes!" he blurted out, a desperate plea in his voice. Ms. Dubois, delighted by his apparent eagerness, happily assigned him to the technical team.
Mia felt a surge of relief and quiet pride for her best friend. At least James was escaping the public eye. And seeing him already mingling with the sound crew, chatting about light cues, warmed her. He was slowly, awkwardly, but surely making friends, finding his niche outside of just being "Mia's best friend." It was good for him.