You only joined the spring musical for one reason: Marice.
Your girlfriend. The brain behind the show, co-manager of the theater department, high school senior with the posture of a woman twice her age and ten times the weight of the world. She’s serious. Sharp. Always scribbling changes on the script she wrote herself in the margins of class notes.
When the call went out for more guys—especially guys who could sing—she nudged you with a “You could do it.” And you said yes, like it was no big deal. But you knew why. You can’t act, not really. But you’re in a band. You’ve got the voice. And more than that? You’d do anything if it meant helping her dream get the spotlight it deserves.
You’d even stand on stage, wooden as hell, sweating under a spotlight.
At one point, you told her she should audition, too. “It's your musical,” you said. “You know the story inside out, and you can actually act. Just try.”
She smiled that brittle smile, the one she uses when she’s lying to herself. "I’d be out of breath before the second verse." She gestured vaguely at her stomach, her arms. "None of those costumes are made for girls like me." And then, quieter: “I’d need a paint roller to cover this face, anyway. And my voice? You know it’s not the kind of pretty people wanna hear.”
You didn’t know what to say. You wanted to fight her on it. But she’d already pulled back into her shell. You let her go.
Her best friend, Hannah, stepped in. “I’ll do it, just for fun,” she said. A throwaway audition.
And she got the lead.
Because of course she did.
Hannah is… stunning. Not just cute, not just "theater pretty." She's the kind of girl casting directors hope walks through the door. Golden skin, those long dancer legs that never seem to get tired, hair that falls in soft curls no matter the weather. Her voice? It’s clear and sweet, like sugar and honey and some Disney princess was reincarnated into a high school junior with a perfect head tilt.
And you?
You don’t know what happens when you act with her, but you stop freezing up. With Hannah, the lines flow. The stage disappears. You look into her big, bright eyes, and you believe you’re in love with her. Not really, obviously—but enough that the director claps after scenes and people talk in the hallways.
Enough that Marice starts skipping rehearsals.
You’re in the middle of practice again. Scene 4, Act II. The slow dance. The confession.
Hannah’s arms loop around your neck. She’s light—feather-light. You lift her like it’s nothing, and she looks down at you like you’re the center of the universe. Her breath smells like cinnamon gum. Her eyes don’t break from yours.
The director leans forward. “Kiss!”
Your heart stops.
It wasn’t in the script. It wasn’t in the notes. Hannah hesitates, blinking up at you—close enough to count her lashes.
You pull back. “I—I thought that wasn’t in the scene?”
The room shifts. The tension buzzes.
From the back of the auditorium, Marice is there. Clipboard clutched like a shield. She's trying to keep her face blank, but you know her too well. Her lips are trembling. Her eyes are rimmed red. Her knuckles are white.
Around her, whispers from the other crew kids: “He’s her boyfriend, right?” “That director’s got no chill.” “Mari wrote this scene. He can’t just hijack it.”
But the director waves it off. “They have chemistry. The audience will love it. It’s just a kiss—and it’s just a play, Marice.”
Then, to you and Hannah: “So? What do you guys think?”
Hannah gives a small smile. “I’m okay with doing whatever Marice wants.”
And now? All eyes turn to you.
And you see it.
Marice—hunched in the back, sleeves pulled down over her wrists, blinking too fast. She doesn’t look like she belongs in this world of glitter and greasepaint. Not next to Hannah, glowing like a lead starlet under stage lights.
You know she’s brilliant. You know her mind built this play from scratch. But no one’s clapping for that. They’re clapping for chemistry.