“Hey, Shakespeare,” Harry whispered to Mel, “Can I see the homework?”

“Homework?” Mel’s blood ran cold. “What homework?”

“You forgot?”

Melissa Roland had big strawberry-blonde hair, bigger blue eyes, and the biggest god-damn ambitions the world would ever see. She was going to go to Cambridge University to study Law after smashing her A-levels to pieces, and at university she was going to smash her exams to pieces too, and then once she was the fiercest lawyer the world had ever seen she was going to smash her enemies to pieces as well.

She did not “forget” to do homework. It was simply an impossibility.

“I checked this morning. It wasn’t in the booklet.”

“Which wouldn’t be a problem if you just remembered in the first place.”

“It wasn’t in the booklet.”

She clasped and unclasped her hands, trying to calm the rising bubble of fear working its way through her stomach. Sure, this was only Drama class, and ultimately she didn’t think the court of law would care very much about how well she could perform a soliloquy. But what did matter was her grades. She needed four A-stars.

“You look like you’re trying to lay an egg,” Harry said, leaning back in his chair, “Did you really forget? That’s so not-Mel of you.”

“No, no, no! What homework?” She was not having any of this.

“The three of us – you, me, and Penny P – are supposed to have written a scene to perform together. Today.”

Penny, who was sitting to the left of Harry, leant forward in her chair and gave her a little wave. She was chewing gum and Mel was more likely to win the lottery ten times in a row than Penny was to do a single piece of homework.

But if this was a group project, and the three of them shared the blame equally, why was Harry looking at her like that?

Unless....

“Oh god. I said I’d write it all myself, didn’t I?”

It was all coming back to her now. Drama class, two weeks ago, Mel told Harry and a more-than-happy Penny that she’d do the project for them, easy squeezy. Easy goddamn squeezy. She was going to throw herself out of the window.

“Okay, okay, okay. It’s fine! We’re fine,” she laughed. This was silly. Her hands weren’t clammy with sweat. University wasn’t falling through her fingertips. This was all fine and would end well, she just had to think on her feet a little.

Mel threw her rucksack onto her lap and plunged a hand into it, producing a pencil case and a notebook she could begin scratching down a rough outline of a scene in. She had a dream about a family of bears the other day. Maybe she could write about--

She got as far as opening her pencil case before realising that the notebook on her lap was not hers.

This was a thick stack of papers, bound together with paperclips and sticky tape, and filled with what looked like a bajillion post-it notes. Written in thick Sharpie on the front page were the words PENTHOUSE STAGEPLAY #2.

Harry paused.

“So, that whole thing you just did, with the sweating and the gasping and the... that was all acting? I just got pranked by Melissa Roland?”

“I don’t know what this is.”

She felt as if anything could happen. First, she forgets about the homework. Then, this shows up in her bag. It was like her brain was suddenly a sieve.

“What do you mean?” Harry said.

“This is... I’ve never seen it before.” Her anxiety had been tossed aside and replaced by a billowing wave of confusion. ”What is this? How did it... Was it you? Did you put this here?”

Harry shook his head. “Mel, you’re scaring me a little.”

She inspected the stack of papers further. It turned out to be five ‘bundles’ of papers, stacked atop each other, each with the title PENTHOUSE STAGEPLAY and a small number next to it. 2, 4, 6, 8, and 10.

Roughly 60 pages each. 300 pages total. Each bundle of paper seemed to be exactly the same.

Penny whistled. “Jeez, Mel. The typewriter called. He wants his ink back.”

“I don’t understand...” Mel said, flipping through the pages. It was certainly a stageplay. Lines said by a “TALL, ANXIOUS MAN” and a “BLONDE STOCKY KID”, among others. She did not write this – and, even if she did – she couldn’t imagine a world where she would forget doing so.

She took a deep breath and looked around the classroom. Well, classroom was a stretch – the chairs were pushed right to the edges of the room, forming a semi-circle that faced the teacher’s desk. Behind that were rickety dividers, splitting the back of the room into a backstage zone, filled with props and dusty-looking lighting rigs.

Mel wondered whether the stageplay had been nicked from the backstage area and someone had put it in her bag as a prank. This school was a bit like that.

She was in the middle of reading a scene about two people spatting about a locked door when Harry nudged her. The teacher was asking her something about the homework and suddenly she was knocked off of her feet with a rush of anxiety because she hadn’t done the homework.

“A-Ah. Sorry, Miss. Could you repeat the question?”

“Are you ready to perform?”

Chantelle looked at her expectantly. Despite calling her “Miss” at school, Mel would always know the woman with knotty black hair before her as Chantelle. She was Harry’s Mum – someone Mel had known her entire life.

It made this confrontation harder. Mel was normally good. There was expectation.

“Um... You see... The homework...”

Chantelle’s face narrowed. She was a kind lady, but Mel had seen her response to Penny’s attitude – or lack thereof.

“What about it?”

Oh, God. Mel felt ill. This could make its way onto her report card. Her Mum would see. Cambridge might see. There were a million eyes staring at her both inside and outside of the room.

She had to think fast.

“I have it right here,” she said, gesturing at the stageplay she did not write, “Can we have a few minutes to, um, p-practise?”

She felt Harry shift uncomfortably in his seat next to her. She tried her hardest to ignore his existence.

“Very well. You may use the canteen. Be no longer than ten minutes, please.”

*************

Penny filed through PENTHOUSE STAGEPLAY #6 while Harry paced back and forth across the length of the canteen. Mel’s head was in her hands.

“Is it possible you wrote this whole thing and forgot?” Harry asked.

Penny laughed and smacked her forehead with mock forgetfulness. “Whoops!”

He ignored her. “What else, what else... Has anyone been near your bag?”

“I don’t think so,” Mel said, “It’s been heavy all day. I just thought I accidentally packed a science textbook.”

“Heavy? Since this morning?”

“Yes.”

“So... it must have happened at home, then?”

Harry and Mel shared a knowing look.

“Sid.”

Of course it would be her idiot brother.

“I’ll talk to him,” said Harry.

“Great plan by the way, Mel,” said Penny. “Real genius, you are. One small issue. This script sucks.”

Harry scoffed. “And you’re a great judge of that, are you?”

“Hey, just because I don’t give a toss about Drama doesn’t mean I’m an idiot. I know a car crash when I see one.”

Mel picked up her own copy and started flicking through it. From a glance, it seemed to be fine. Sure, it was a little kooky – the stage directions were often confusing and poorly written – but Mel wasn’t looking for good. She was looking for doable.

She searched for a few minutes longer, and, with Harry’s help, eventually found a normal-ish scene containing two characters, an argument, and some narration that Harry could read.

She checked her watch. Five minutes left.

Penny got the page numbers mixed up. Four and a half minutes.

Harry read the narration. “The stage is decorated like a suburban street. The houses are blocky, as are the trees, and everything is lit in an uncomfortably bright light. HUNCHED, ONE-EYED FIGURE walks along the street, reading the house names aloud.”

“Are you sure we can’t just make something up?” Penny groaned. “What about that dream you were telling me about this morning? With the bears?”

“Penny.”

“Whatever.” She spoke her line in a monotone voice. “Eleven, twelve, thirteen... oh dear. That’s not good at all.”

“They walk up to the house and produce the HAIRPIN. It is inserted into a keyhole beneath the silver handles of the front doors, which both swing open, and HUNCHED, ONE-EYED FIGURE steps through. The stage transforms into LIVING ROOM 13.”

Penny said her line. “Not bad for a prison cell. Furnished. Well-lit.”

It was Mel’s turn to speak. “Hello? Who are you?”

“HUNCHED, ONE-EYED FIGURE turns around. SMALL, BLUE GIRL stands on the edge of the stage, nervous.”

“A friend. I’m here to rescue you.”

“Why would I need rescuing? This is my home.” Mel paused, getting into the character. “How did you get in? Did Andrew give you the key?”

“You are endangered, Miss Dott.”

“In danger?”

“Sure, that works. Andrew... he is not the man you think he is. He is cold, and cruel. This may come as a shock to you, because you do not have any bad memories of him. You idolise him.”

“What? Who are you?”

“But very soon – in a few weeks, maybe a few months – he will say goodbye, like always, and then he will close your front door for the very last time. You will rot in this house until the sun fizzles out.” Penny was beginning to drop the monotone voice.

“I-- You’re wrong. I can leave whenever I want.”

“Have you ever tried?”

“A beat. SMALL, BLUE GIRL laughs awkwardly.”

“Have you ever found it strange that this house has no windows?” Penny spoke. Mel shook her head, as per the stage direction. “No. I suppose not. Outside of these four walls are rows and rows of houses just like this one, containing people just like you. Andrew’s old friends. A lot of them. He’ll find new ones, Miss Dott. And he won’t need you anymore.”

“Don’t come anywhere near me.”

“Mel,” said Harry. “Wrong line.”

“Huh?”

“You want the one above that. ‘You said you were his friend’?”

Mel took a closer look at the words. No, she was definitely correct. She heard Harry flicking through the surrounding pages, double-checking.

“Guys,” said Penny, suddenly. “We can’t perform this.”

“What? Why not?”

“Look at the next page,” was her only response. Mel turned the page and was met with an entire paragraph of stage directions.

She read them aloud. “HUNCHED, ONE-EYED FIGURE ascends the attic stairs, leaving SMALL, BLUE GIRL behind. The stage sinks as the ATTIC is lowered from the ceiling. They walk over to a large object covered with a DUSTY CLOTH, and pull it off to reveal an ORNATE STANDING MIRROR. They check over their shoulder, and then-- Oh my god.”

“What the fuck?”

Penny read it for them. “They step into the mirror as if it were an open door, disappearing behind the shimmering reflective surface. The lights flicker as the mirror changes colours, flashing green and orange and purple, levitating off the ground and sparking. It cracks straight down the middle, and then lengthways, and then diagonally, shards of glass firing out directly at the audience--”

“What are you doing?” came a voice from across the room.

Mel turned around and saw Chantelle standing in the open door of the canteen. Her mouth was a thin line. Mel had never seen her eyebrows this furrowed before, not even when Harry invited Mel over for his birthday when they were fourteen and she spilt a glass of milk over their new TV.

The room was utterly silent.

“Don’t you dare read another line,” Chantelle whispered, but the words rattled around in Mel’s head as if they were being spoken through a megaphone. “Hand it over. Now.”

Penny clutched her copy of the stageplay close to her chest. “No way! This just got interesting.” And then, realising that wasn’t a very good explanation, “Mel is a very good writer and I don’t think--”

Chantelle’s glare silenced her.

And Penny never stopped talking.

They were in deep, deep shit.

“Give.”

Penny looked to Mel for help, but she could only let out a noise.

This was it. She’d lost. Goodbye, Cambridge.

Very slowly, Penny handed over the stack of paper. Chantelle then turned to Harry.

“But, Mum--” he began, and cut himself off. Chantelle usually did not object to being referred to as his Mum at school. But right now, the daggers she was staring at him were laced with poison.

Without a word, she snatched the copy from his hands. Mel tentatively offered her own before it met the same fate.

“That’s all?” she asked, holding the three copies.

Penny spoke before Mel could even process the question. “Yes. You have them all.” She was decidedly not looking at Mel’s rucksack.

Chantelle turned to Harry and Mel, wearing a sceptical look. Behind her, Penny was fervently shaking her head and mouthing ‘no’.

Mel was about to fess up when Harry spoke for her.

“That’s it,” he said finally, looking away from Penny and facing his mother, “We only printed three.”

“Good,” Chantelle responded. Her voice was weird. Mel could only imagine how disappointed she was in the three of them. “I don’t think it needs explaining how inappropriate these are. You are never to perform something like this again, is that understood?”

Mel felt herself nodding, barely conscious at this point. She was dying. She had died.

She vaguely heard Chantelle add that they needed to see her after class, followed by the sound of her walking away. As soon as the canteen door slammed, Penny and Harry burst into conversation.

“Did you see her face?”

“Why did you make me lie to my Mum? Mel still has two scripts in her bag.”

Penny laughed, “Wrong.” She reached forward and grabbed Mel’s rucksack, extracting a copy of the stageplay from it. “Mel has one script in her bag. This one’s staying with me.”

“What?”

“It has a certain charm to it. It’s shit. But it’s interesting. I wanna read some more after school.”

“That’s stupid. Mel, tell her.”

Mel had not been listening. There was only one question on her mind.

“Do you think we’re gonna get detention?”

Penny just laughed at her.