Free Illyria by Elizabeth Hand

remember doing that?" I pointed to poor Malvolio's scribbled face.
    My father took the book and frowned, riffled the pages, then gave it back to me.
    "I'm afraid I don't remember it, dear," he said, in the tone he might use if a small child attempted and failed to tell a joke. "It's got your name in it."
    "Mmm."
    While we ate dessert I asked, "Is it okay if I dye my hair?"
    "No," said my mother. "Are you out of your mind?"
    "Nice try." My sister smirked.
    I glared at her and went on. "It's for the play at school. The main parts are twins. Rogan and I are trying out together. If we get it I'll need to look like him."
    "Then make him get his hair cut," said my father tersely.
    "I won't even do it unless I get the part," I pleaded.
    "No," my mother repeated. "Don't ask again."
    The auditions were held right after school on Friday. Rogan and I made a few halfhearted attempts to practice lines during the week.
    But there was only one afternoon when we had several hours to ourselves, and we spent those hours in the attic.
    "That's really stupid," I said when we first crawled in and Rogan lit a cigarette. "Someone could smell it."
    "My parents smoke. And no one's home now."
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    I looked at the overflowing ashtray. "It could start a fire."
    Rogan stubbed it out and pulled me to him. "I don't need a cigarette to do that. Come on, they'll be home soon--"
    Fear of discovery made the time feel urgent, almost frantic. Even the toy theater seemed irradiated by our anxiety. Its footlights dimmed to a glowering dull red, and indistinct shadows cloaked the topiary trees and faraway shipwreck, as though they had been cursorily sketched onto the backdrop. Rogan lay beside me, his face suspended above mine; but I couldn't see him, only smell him, his breath resinous with marijuana, and hear the broken rhythm of his breathing: silence, then a sound like a sigh, then silence once more.
    "Rogan." I pressed my hand to his face and he kissed my palm. "I can hardly see you."
    "That's because I'm not really here," he said.
    On Friday, I was surprised by how many people showed up for the auditions. There were students scattered all over the auditorium, the usual drama crowd but other people, too. A bunch of girls from different English classes, and quite a few upper-class guys. Everyone I knew liked Mr. Sullivan, but I hadn't realized his popularity extended this far--there was a small cohort of cheerleaders, and two seniors from the football team. I sat near Rogan and several of our friends in the third row. Mr. Sullivan sat in the very front, by himself, with a notebook, a script, and several mimeographed sheets of dialogue.
    I assumed Rogan and I would be permitted to audition together. Instead, Mr. Sullivan had all the girls read, one at a time, and then all the boys. The girls were given the same two speeches of Olivia's. In the
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    first, Olivia declared her love for the boy Cesario--actually Viola in disguise--while in the second Olivia berated her drunken uncle Toby, and then fawned over Sebastian, Viola's twin brother, thinking he was Cesario. I listened, and secretly gloated, as the cheerleaders stumbled over the strange words and meanings.
    "Mr. Sullivan, this is confusing!" one of them wailed.
    "Imagine how confusing it is to Lady Olivia," said Mr. Sullivan.
    My turn came. A moonfaced girl with long flaxen hair walked off the stage and handed me a script. I glanced at Rogan.
    "Break a leg," he said.
    Onstage, a row of lights shone down blindingly. I shielded my eyes and stared out into the auditorium, but could see only vague smears and shadows. Was that Mr. Sullivan? Rogan? When I looked down, the white pages of my script glowed with a diabolical brilliance.
    "Whenever you're ready, Madeline."
    I nodded and smiled nervously.
    "O, what a deal of scorn looks beautiful
    In the contempt and anger of his lip!"
    "Louder," said Mr. Sullivan.
    I cleared my throat and began again.
    "O, what a deal of scorn looks beautiful
    In the contempt and anger