Free Illyria by Elizabeth Hand Page A

of his lip!
    A murd'rous guilt shows not itself more soon
    Than love that would seem hid. Love's night is noon."
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    The cheerleader was right: it made no sense. My face burned. The words of Olivia's speech began to skitter across the page like insects fleeing a light. I took a deep breath and concentrated on speaking as clearly as I could, on getting through the speech without passing out. When I was finished, I stumbled from the stage and thrust the pages at the next girl, then collapsed into the seat beside Rogan.
    "That was horrible," I gasped. Rogan grinned. "You did great."
    The boys' auditions weren't much more impressive than the girls'. Mr. Sullivan gave them the speech that opens the play, Duke Orsino's command, "If music be the food of love, play on!" Their second reading was cobbled together from Orsino's amatory advice to Cesario.
    I was disconcerted by how good the two football players sounded, though maybe it was just that their booming voices were more suited to the Duke's admonitory tone. Or maybe it was simply that anything sounded better than my own dismal effort had.
    "Rogan?" Mr. Sullivan pointed at my cousin. "You ready?"
    Rogan shook his head. "I'm going last."
    I looked at him furtively. He was taller than me, of course, but then, Viola's twin brother would have been taller than she was. Our eyes were different colors, but would anyone be able to tell that from the audience?
    The main thing was the hair. But surely I could find a wig among Madeline's trappings or in the box of props and costumes stored in a closet at St. Brendan's. Or Mr. Sullivan would buy one.
    "Okay, Rogan," said Mr. Sullivan. "You're up."
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    Rogan went onstage. He moved around, face turned to the light, until he found a spot he liked; then began to read.
    "If music be the food of love, play on!
    Give me excess of it that, surfeiting,
    The appetite may sicken and so die..."
    I watched, transfixed. Everyone did.
    Because Rogan didn't pronounce the words in a fake English accent or stumble as though they were a foreign language. He read them as though he knew what he was saying. And when it seemed like maybe he didn't, he winged it--he mimed some other, private meaning, looking slyly sideways at the audience and indicating by a gesture or smile that, even if we didn't understand what was going on, he did.
    Only we did understand. I did, anyway, and when I stole a look at the other students, I saw that they did, too. They laughed or stared at Rogan with this odd expression of delight and disbelief, as though they'd just been told school was canceled for the day.
    Only Mr. Sullivan didn't seem surprised. He leaned back in his seat, chin in hand and a small, knowing smile on his face, as Rogan straightened and began the Duke's second speech.
    "Come hither, boy. If ever thou shalt love,
    In the sweet pangs of it remember me..."
    When he reached the end, Rogan tossed the script pages into the audience, made a mocking bow, and jumped offstage. There were
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    murmurs of approval, and then everyone began to clap and cheer.
    "Thank you, Rogan," said Mr. Sullivan, as he'd said to everyone. He looked pleased, but also businesslike. "Thank you all. I'll post the cast list first thing Monday morning."
    "Monday?" I said in dismay. "We have to wait till Monday?"
    Mr. Sullivan nodded. "Yup. Have a good weekend, everybody."
    Several people clustered around Rogan as we left the auditorium.
    "Hey, man, that was good." One of the football players pretended to punch Rogan's arm. "Play on!"
    "You were really funny." The flaxen-haired girl smiled, then turned to me. "You were good, too, Maddy. See you Monday."
    On the way home, I found myself looking at Rogan warily. It was like the day his voice had changed, when I'd first heard him sing in a chilling tenor that had come from--where? The same place this ability to act Shakespeare had come from, obviously.
    But when had he learned this? Had he learned it? Or was it some bizarre fluke, like his