Always Never Yours Read online

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

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  New York, New York 10014

  First published in the United States of America by Penguin Books,

  an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, 2018

  Copyright © 2018 by Austin Siegemund-Broka and Emily Wibberley

  All Romeo and Juliet quotes from the Folger Shakespeare Library Updated Edition

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  Ebook ISBN 9780451478658

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Names: Siegemund-Broka, Austin, author. | Wibberley, Emily, author.

  Title: Always never yours / by Austin Siegemund-Broka and Emily Wibberley.

  Description: New York, New York : Penguin Books, 2018. | Summary: Between rehearsals for the school play and managing her divided family, seventeen-year-old Megan meets aspiring playwright Owen Okita, who agrees to help her attract the attention of a cute stagehand in exchange for help writing his new script.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017058698| ISBN 9780451479846 (hardback) Subjects: | CYAC: Dating (Social customs)—Fiction. | Theater—Fiction. |

  Families—Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.1.S535 Al 2018 | DDC [Fic]—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017058698

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either

  are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously,

  and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses,

  companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  Contents

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  For our (respective) parents

  ONE

  ROMEO: Is love a tender thing? It is too rough,

  Too rude, too boist’rous, and it pricks like thorn.

  MERCUTIO: If love be rough with you, be rough with love.

  I.iv.25–7

  “ALL THE WORLD’S A STAGE . . .”

  Brian Anderson’s butchering the line. I listen for the posturing and borderline mania Shakespeare intended, but—nope. He’s doing some sort of half English accent and throwing iambic pentameter out the window.

  “How about we stop there for a second?” I interrupt, standing up and straightening my denim dress.

  “Just once, Megan, could we get through the scene?” Brian groans.

  I shoot him a look and walk into the middle of the “stage,” which for today is the hill behind the drama room. Our drama teacher, Ms. Hewitt—who everyone calls Jody—sent us outside to rehearse whatever Shakespeare scene we wanted. And by “sent us,” I mean kicked us out for being obnoxious. I picked the hill for our rehearsal space because I thought the pine trees nearby would evoke the forest in As You Like It.

  Which was stupid, I now realize.

  “I feel like we’re not getting what’s going on in the characters’ heads,” I say, ignoring Brian and speaking to the group. It’s only the four of us out here in the middle of sixth period. Jeremy Handler wears a hopeless expression next to Brian while Courtney Greene texts disinterestedly. “Orlando”—I turn to Jeremy—“is fundamentally a nice guy. He only wants to steal from the Duke to help his friend. Now, Jacques—”

  I falter. A glimpse of green catches my eye, a Stillmont High golf polo. Biceps I have to admire peek through the sleeves. A wave of brown hair, an ever-present smirk, and wow do I want to go over and flirt with Wyatt Rhodes.

  He’s twirling a hall pass, walking unhurriedly in the direction of the bathroom. He’s chosen a good bathroom, I notice. Roomy, with plenty of privacy because it’s not near the locker hall. Perfect for a brief make-out session. I could walk over, compliment his impressive upper arms, lead him into said bathroom—

  Not right now. If there’s one thing that could keep me from flirting, it’s directing the hell out of Shakespeare.

  “Now, Jacques,” I repeat, regaining my directorial demeanor.

  “Come on, Megan,” Brian interjects. “This scene doesn’t even count for our grade. Jody doesn’t give a shit. She just wanted us out of the room. And you know everyone’s distracted.”

  I’m opening my mouth to argue that every scene matters when I hear a voice. “Megan!”

  I turn to find my best friend, Madeleine Hecht, jogging up the hill, her perfect red ponytail bouncing behind her, freckled cheeks flushed with excitement. “I just left the library,” she continues, breathless—Madeleine volunteers in the textbook room during sixth period. “And when I walked past the drama room I saw Jody posting the cast list!”

  Hearing that, my actors drop their scripts and disappear around the corner, obviously on their way to the bulletin board at the front of the Arts Center. Not suppressing a smile, I collect the scripts.

  I’m a director, not an actress, so the cast list doesn’t hold the same thrill and terror for me that it does for the rest of the class. But this year, I’ll be making my Stillmont High stage debut in one of the smallest roles in Romeo and Juliet, the fall semester play. I’m guessing Lady Montague or Friar John.

  I wouldn’t be, except it’s my dream to go to the Southern Oregon Theater Institute. It’s the Juilliard of the west, with one of the best directing programs in the nation. For whatever reason, they require every drama student to have one acting credit on their résumé, a requirement I’m going to fulfill as painlessly as possible.

  “Walk over with me?” I ask Madeleine.

  “Duh.” She quickly takes half the scripts off my stack, chronically unable to resist lending a hand.

  Right then, Wyatt Rhodes emerges from the bathroom. I follow the lanky confidence of his walk, biting my lip. It’s been six months since my last relationship. I’m due for my next boyfriend. Scratch that—overdue.

  “Wait here,” I tell Madeleine.

  “Megan—”

  I ignore her, a boy-starved moth drawn to a polo-wearing flame. I’m grateful I spent the extra ten minutes brushing the inevitable knots out of my long brown hair this morning. I know I don’t have Madeleine’s effortless beauty, but I’m not not pretty. I guess I’m in the middle. I’m neither short nor long-legged. I have features not round, closer to round-is
h. Mine isn’t the body that comes with swearing off burgers or going running more often than every January 2.

  Wyatt doesn’t notice me, preoccupied with tossing his hall pass from hand to hand. I call out to him in a practiced and perfected come-hither voice.

  “Hey, Wyatt.” I gesture to his defined biceps. “Do the abs match the arms?”

  Not my best work. I haven’t flirted in too long. In fairness, it’s kind of a high-school bucket-list item of mine to make out with a really, really nice six-pack, and the boy attached. Even in seven boyfriends, from athletes to drama kids, nada.

  Wyatt grins broadly. I cannot believe I haven’t hooked up with him yet. It’s been obvious he’s gorgeous for practically the entirety of high school, and this is far from the first time we’ve exchanged flirtations. He doesn’t immediately come across as boyfriend material, but his hotness must bespeak a valuable interior. I can picture us now, having long, thoughtful conversations over cappuccinos . . .

  “They do on the days I don’t double up on breakfast burritos,” Wyatt crows.

  Okay, short conversations over cappuccinos.

  “Today’s one of those days,” he continues. “But don’t take my word for it.” He eyes me invitingly, his voice unsurprised.

  Not just because he’s Wyatt Rhodes and he knows he’s gorgeous, either. It’s because I have a reputation for being boldfaced like this. Unabashed. Unreserved. It’s no secret I’ve had seven boyfriends, and I’m not ashamed. Class Flirt is a title I’ve enjoyed every minute of cultivating.

  I’m about to take Wyatt up on his offer when I feel a hand on my elbow. “Bye, Wyatt,” I hear Madeleine yell pointedly. “We have to go to class.” She drags me away from him, and in a low if not entirely unamused voice, she says, “What’ve we talked about, Megan? Wyatt Rhodes is on the no-flirt list.” She considers a moment, adding, “He’s number one on the no-flirt list.”

  “No, he’s not,” I reply. “Principal Stone is.”

  Madeleine gives an exasperated grumble. “Point taken. Wyatt’s definitely number two. You put him on the list yourself, remember? After he asked in sophomore English what book Jane Eyre wrote?”

  I nod grudgingly. “And there was the time he said Furious Seven was his favorite book on the yearbook survey.”

  “You’re going to find a guy way better than Wyatt. Just give it time,” she reassures me as we walk down the hill toward the Arts Center. “You don’t think Tyler has any competition for Romeo, do you?”

  Tyler Dunning is Madeleine’s boyfriend. He headed off with a group of guys to rehearse Macbeth when Jody banished us.

  “Of course not,” I answer easily.

  Tyler’s a leading man in every respect. Tall, broad shouldered, with dark wavy hair—he’s undeniably hot. He plays baseball in spring and still manages to score the lead in every theater production. Between his charisma and Madeleine’s universal likability, they’re the total “it” couple of Stillmont High.

  “Who’d you audition for?” Madeleine asks.

  “Lady Montague.”

  She wrinkles her nose. “Who even is that?”

  “Exactly.” I grin. “She’s the smallest role in the play.”

  I’m expecting the crowd packed in around the bulletin board when we turn the corner. What I’m not expecting is how everyone goes silent. I feel eyes on me and hear whispers start to spread.

  “You guys aren’t being weird at all,” I mutter, trying to sound sarcastic despite my mounting nerves. I know this silence. It’s the silence of the un-cast, the scrutinized walk to the gallows of your play prospects. For the first time, I feel what my classmates must whenever a cast list goes up. My pulse pounds, nerves thinning my breath. I envision apologetic emails from SOTI, halfhearted tours of other colleges in winter. Even though I’m not an actress, I need this part.

  I step up to the list, my pulse pounding, and intently search the bottom of the sheet where the smaller roles will be listed. Lady Montague . . .

  I trace my finger to the corresponding name. Alyssa Sanchez. My heart drops. Alyssa was the obvious favorite for Juliet. Jody’s not messing around. This was brutal casting.

  Reading up the list, I don’t find my name. Friar John, the Nurse . . . Unbelievable. Even after I explained my situation to Jody, she still screwed me over.

  Then I reach the top of the list.

  TWO

  PRINCE: For never was a story of more woe

  Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.

  V.iii.320–1

  “THIS IS A MISTAKE, RIGHT?” IN SECONDS I’ve fought through the crowd and thrown open the door to Jody’s office. “Juliet?”

  I hear something clatter to the floor. Jody’s office looks like a yard sale of mementos she’s kept from every Stillmont production. There are playbills, props, and even pieces of sets stuffed onto the shelves. What looks like a brass doorknob rolls in front of me.

  Jody stands up from her desk, her chunky turquoise necklace rattling. “You’re not happy,” she muses, studying me through her bright red glasses. They stand out even brighter against her gray hair. “I thought you’d be happy.”

  I feel a heaviness settle on my shoulders. A nervous pit opens in my stomach. “This isn’t a misunderstanding?” I ask weakly. “It’s not Anthony pulling a prank or, I don’t know, a typo from an incompetent freshman you asked to print out the list?”

  “No, the incompetence is all mine,” Jody says, a hint of humor in her voice.

  “I auditioned for Lady Montague, not the lead of the play!” I barely keep myself from exploding.

  She raises an eyebrow, unsmiling. “Well, you got the lead,” she says, her voice level.

  “Why? I don’t want it. Can’t I be someone else? Anyone else?” I know I sound pleading.

  “You’re just nervous, Megan.” Jody crosses her arms, but her tone has softened. “Yours was the only audition other than Anthony Jenson’s that demonstrated a true understanding of the material. I’ve seen you direct Shakespeare before, I know you understand the play. You’re Juliet, whether you like it or not.”

  “Jody, please.” Now I’m definitely pleading. “You know I only auditioned because SOTI has an acting requirement. I’ve never acted in my life.”

  “It’s a learning experience. I’m not expecting you to win a Tony,” Jody says.

  “Well, are you expecting Romeo and Juliet to be a comedy? No? Then—”

  “Megan,” she cuts me off sternly. “You auditioned for the play. You got Juliet. You can take it or leave it, but I’ve cast every other role.”

  I know I have no choice—Jody knows it, too. It’s already the end of September. This production’s my last chance for an acting credit before college applications are due in December.

  “This is not going to go well for you.” I sigh in exasperation, reaching for the door.

  * * *

  I’ve taken one step outside Jody’s office when I run into something solid and flat.

  “Whoa,” I hear above me.

  Of course. I step back to find Tyler grinning down from the imposing height of six foot whatever. “Hey, Juliet,” he says, his deep voice working on me in ways I sincerely wish it didn’t. “This could be awkward, huh?”

  It hits me suddenly. Tyler’s Romeo. And I’m Juliet.

  I quickly recover. “Nothing could be more perfect than the two of us playing doomed lovers.”

  He laughs and turns to face Madeleine, who’s come up beside him.

  It’s not a big deal, but Tyler and I dated last year. Now we don’t. He’s with Madeleine, but I’m not jealous or resentful. In a way, I was expecting it.

  Honestly, hating acting isn’t the only reason I don’t want to play Juliet. The other reason is, I’m not a Juliet. I’m not the girl in the center of the stage at the end of a love story. I’m the girl before, the girl guys date right bef
ore they find their true love. Every one of my relationships ends exactly the same.

  Take Tyler. He’s the only guy I’ve ever felt myself close to falling in love with, and he dumped me six months ago to date my best friend. But I’m okay, really. Everyone knows Tyler and Madeleine are meant to be. Besides, I’m used to it.

  It started when I was eleven. I’d just proclaimed to Lucy Regis my undying love for Ryan Reynolds with the intention to marry him. The next day we found out he’d married Blake Lively. Not that that was a real example. Just an omen of things to come.

  The first boy I kissed, in seventh grade, passed me a note in social studies the next day informing me he was going to ask Samantha Washington to the Hometown Fair. They’ve been together ever since. Freshman year, my first real boyfriend ended up cheating on me with the literal girl next door, who, it turned out, was Lucy Regis. They just celebrated their third anniversary.

  It’s happened time and time again. It’s not a “curse” or something stupid like that—it’s just more than a coincidence. And it’s why I couldn’t possibly get into the head of Juliet, western literature’s icon of eternal love. If the world’s a stage, like Shakespeare wrote, then I’m a supporting role. Or hidden in the wings.

  “You’re not going to steal my boyfriend, are you?” Madeleine teases, wrapping an arm around Tyler.

  “No, that’s your thing,” I chide without thinking.

  Madeleine’s face immediately falls, and I’m afraid she’s going to cry for the hundredth time. When Madeleine confessed to me her feelings for my then-boyfriend, it took two hours of hugs and reassurance before the guilty tears ended. It’s not like they cheated—Madeleine’s so ridiculously thoughtful that she told me before she even told him.

  And it hurt. I won’t pretend it didn’t. But I knew the pattern. I knew what was going to happen with me and Tyler. And I understood I’d only get hurt worse trying to fight the inevitable. Better to let the relationship end before I fell for him for real.