Jane Eyre, Beware

JANE EYRE, BEWARE

By Carolyn Chambers Clark & Anthony Auriemma

Copyright 2012 by Carolyn Chambers Clark and Anthony Auriemma

Smashwords Edition

Chapter 1

Life's a play, but I can never remember my lines...now that I've got a sticky brain.

It's the beginning of my senior year of high school and Mr. Tandish, my psychology teacher, is about to point out one of my many defects. I thought for sure he wanted to talk to me about the essay I wrote wherein I told him I count tiles in the ceiling and step over cracks in the floor when I'm nervous. All this counting means I don't have time to concentrate on what's going on in class, and that's a real problem for someone whose family wants her to graduate from Columbia University Law School and become the next Clarence Darrow, except in my case it would be Clarissa Darrow. Worse than that, I wrote in that terrible essay that if all that fails, I usually end up hiccupping, which seriously sucks, but is totally true.

Hands sweating and heart pounding, I stand in front of his desk trying not to hiccup. Okay, so he's a ringer for Brad Pitt, but that doesn't matter because he's a member of the psychiatric community and I know he can read my mind. Worse than that, he doesn't like what he sees.

He shuffles papers on his desk, which just delays the torture.

Now my hands are cold as ice and a small hic escapes my lips.

He points to my essay. In this paper you wrote...It's all due to stress, Jane, but you can learn to overcome sticky brain.

Sticky brain? I swallow hard. Is that my diagnosis? Easy for him to say I can overcome it. Adults always say stuff like that.

He adjusts his red power tie and rolls up the sleeves of his shirt like he's just getting started. I'm not allowed to diagnose you, Jane. You'll have to go to a psychologist in private practice for that. He opens the top drawer of his desk and deposits a pile of business cards in front of me.

Can you tell me more about this sticky brain thing? I shove the business cards into my jeans pocket.

Sure. Your brain works fine when you're calm and in familiar territory. But when you're put in a new situation, sticky brain takes over.

I gulp back tears. So, what am I doing auditioning for the lead in the school play?

He just stares at me like I've lost my mind.

The clock ticks.

Oh, God, sticky brain at work. My guidance counselor told me my law internship was cancelled because the principal in the company got sued for sexual harassment. And that if I wanted to get into an Ivy League school, I had to show leadership potential, do something unique like get the lead in the school play. Then she told me--get this--to go to the audition after school today.

Hmm...Does that make sense to you, Jane?

No, but I wasn't going to argue with her. It just doesn't pay. She can screw you up royally so you might not get into any college after she's through with you. It happened to Jack Swanson. He works at the Dairy Queen now, and he had a 3.78 average. Extracurricular activities make you or break you these days. Jack was in the Future Farmers of America, but that didn't get him into Princeton. Didn't even get him sprinkles on his ice cream.

A smiles starts on the edges of his mouth, but he quickly squelches it with a frown. It's true that extracurricular activities are important. Remember all those stress reduction suggestions in your psychology book?

I nod, but I can't really remember anything, my mind's too busy sticking to itself.

Try telling yourself to stay calm and focus on your breathing. Let me know how it works out. He goes back to his stack of papers and I'm on my own.

So, here I go...counting my steps, the number of lockers along the wall, the athletic trophies in the trophy case, the number of door knobs and whatever else there is to count. At the same time, I try to focus on my breathing, but that just makes me breathe faster and faster until I'm lightheaded. I hurry down the hall of Ash City High and tell myself I can play Jane Eyre. I can, I know I can, even though I don't believe one word.

When I reach the door to the Drama Club/Mock Trial Club room, I open it a couple of inches and peer inside. I've got so many butterflies in my stomach, they have to stand in line and take a number.

My feet feel super-glued to the floor as I stand in the threshold of the audition room, not sure I'm ready for this. A couple of girls come up behind me and sweep me inside with them.

The room smells like nervous perspiration. Mostly mine.

 Scandinavians and Native Americans rule in my school. Nicola Crowe, Ariel Anderson, and Emma Olsen, three girls from my English class, whisper in front of the teacher's desk and look in my direction, giving me that you're-an-outsider glance. I guess I should have worn my better jeans and changed my name from Jane Lloyd to Bree Johnson.

I stop near the world map where it feels familiar, next to the gavel and the books about law and trials. This is so painful. I'm on exhibit like one of those animals in the zoo everybody points at.

Mrs. Swanson, my English teacher, sits at the front desk in her plaid skirt and frilly white blouse, mentally signing us in. You don’t want her breathing down your neck about an assignment because she never lets up. She keeps after you more than the guidance counselor.

Jane? She raises her eyebrows above her thick glasses and gives me a surprised look like I’m about the last person she expects to see at an audition. Glad you came.

I pull back my shoulders and try to look confident, but I don’t think it’s working.

Please take a seat. Mrs. Swanson points to the empty front rows.

After a quick glance around the room, I slide into one of the many empty seats in the second row. I look around and count twenty other students, mostly girls.

I can't believe it when Sara Olsen, my used-to-be-second-best-friend-now-enemy, comes in and sits down five seats from me. She's not exactly an enemy. I mean, I'd still like to be friends, but she has different plans. What's she doing here anyway?

Leaned back against her chair, long legs crossed, she adjusts the sleeve of a blue sweater that molds to her body like whipped cream and exactly matches her eyes. Her hair never got mussed once this morning when we played volleyball in gym class, while my messy brown hair looks like I’ve been in a dog fight no matter how much I comb it.

She gives me a bored glance from behind her peaches-n-cream complexion and shows off her dimples with a half-smile at Mrs. Swanson. No doubt she's trying to influence the teacher so she gets the lead.

I look in Mrs. Swanson's direction so I can smile at her.

At that very moment, she turns her back to the group and goes over to the board in the front of the room. Please pay attention. She writes Jane Something across it.

Because the sun glares down on the board, I can’t read what follows my name.

Ashley and Bella, two girls in the front row, whisper to each other and laugh. They glance back at me as if I don't know that's my name up there.

Mrs. Swanson raps her knuckles on the table and glares at them before she picks up a bunch of booklets and steps to the first row. I’m going to pass out partial scripts. Take the ones you’d like to audition for. Pass the rest down the aisle or to the row behind you.

Soon the girl in front passes packets of papers to me over her shoulder. I grab them and stare at the top copy for the lead role of Jane Eyre.

Now I remember what the word Jane on the board means. Jane Eyre is the title of the play. After being stressed out by my psychology teacher about having a sticky brain, it's lucky I remember where I am. I pass the rest of the copies along, open mine, and start to read. Adapted from Charlotte Brontë’s novel. Time: 1840’s. Place: Thornfield Hall, near the town of Millcote, England.

My mouth drops open and I feel Mrs. Swanson's stare on me.

You have a question, Jane?

I do a quick shake of my head. I'm not opening my mouth until I have to.

Mrs. Swanson heads into her lecture tone. This is a classic. It has a ghost, a fire, a crazy woman, romance and more. I guarantee you’ll like it.

I flip through the script, looking for the good parts.

We’ll begin with the female lead. I’d like each of you to turn to page one. We’ll start reading about halfway down the page after the paragraph where Leah drops a curtsy.

Curtsy? Did I hear right? I fumble back through the pages and see that yep, Mrs. Swanson is right, there’s a curtsy. I haven't had to curtsy since we did the minuet in third grade.

I’ll read the part of Mr. Rochester. Let me pick someone to read the part of Jane. Mrs. Swanson gives each one of us an intense stare before she returns to the second row on the other side of the room. Sara, we’ll start with you. Begin on page one when you’re ready.

I scowl at teacher's pet and can't believe Mrs. Johnson called on her. Then I remember. Sara was in a play last year. They probably know each other really well. I hate teacher's pets, probably because I've never been one.

Sara moves up to the front of the room with a silky stride, bringing a few catcalls from the guys hiding in the back behind a row of girls.

Mrs. Swanson turns her glare on them. They shut up, not wanting to end up in detention.

Sara waits until we're all looking at her. Bring my luggage. I am going to finish my tea.

She reads her lines like she's a cat, purring. Ugh! What a diva.

What the deuce are you doing here? Mrs. Swanson says in a deep voice, reading the male lead.

A tall guy steps into the doorway. We all turn to look. Nate Swenson.

He is so hot! Good thing I have a tight grip on my desk, or I might slide right onto the floor.

Dressed in jeans that fit oh-so-right and a blue shirt, Nate scans the group. He stops for an instant when he gets to me, then moves on with that amazing smile of his that lights up his gorgeous blue eyes and shows off his white teeth. He brushes back his shaggy blonde hair and looks so perfect up there with his strong jaw and broad shoulders. I wonder if he can see my heart pounding in my chest or read my mind and tell how much I'm into him.

Sara gives Nate a triumphant smile like she thinks he belongs to her. She motions to him to come inside the room.

Mrs. Swanson looks relieved that another boy has shown up. Are you here for the audition, Nate?

Sure, I'll try out. His deep voice resonates with mysterious glands hidden deep inside me.

Come in and read Mr. Rochester’s part. Mrs. Swanson hands him a script and shows him where to stand next to Sara.

They look to be about the right height for each other. I’m dying inside. I’d give anything to be up there next to him, although I probably couldn’t speak anyway, not with all that brilliance next to me.

Sara bats her eyelashes at Nate and gives him a half-surprised, half-annoyed look she’s so good at. Who are you and what are you doing here? She stamps her foot like she's giving an Academy Award-winning performance, even though it’s not in the script.

Mrs. Swanson frowns and stares down at the stage directions on her page. I don't think she likes Sara's attempts to improve on the play.

Where did you come from? Nate reads from his script in a deep voice that makes me want to swoon. Then he stares into Sara's eyes and down to her lips like he wants to kiss her. His body tenses in that animal me-want-you position and she answers, her body moving into a take-me-you-gorgeous-hunk.

I could ask the same thing. Sara's barely able to get the words out, face pink, eyes widening. Hands on her hips, her eyes roam over his body like he's ice cream and she's hot fudge. She leans in, hair gleaming in the lights.

After a pause, or maybe I'm dreaming this, he moves his head closer toward hers.

Ten inches.

Nine inches.

Eight inches.

She half-closes her eyes and gives him a dreamy look.

Seven inches…

They both lean even closer.

His lips are two inches from hers and…

I'm hanging on the edge of my seat, half-wanting it to be me up there with Nate's lips so close.

Mrs. Swanson taps her knuckles on the desk. Okay, that’s enough for you two. Let’s have another Jane Eyre, another Mr. Rochester.

I jerk upright and fan myself with my script. Yeah, pour some cold water on them. Pour some on me too, while you’re at it.

Mrs. Swanson steps to my side. Are you going to read for the lead?

I nod, still breathing hard like I was the one about to be kissed.

Mrs. Swanson scans the class. Norman, you too?

Great. Sara gets Mr. Dream Guy. I get skinny, pimply, bad breath Norman Rossweiller. All that sexual tension in the room evaporates. Not only that, my heart pounds so hard, I think it’s going to burst when I think about Nate watching me audition.

Norman struggles out of his seat, walks to the front of the room, head bent over, hems of his jeans dragging the floor. His half-unbuttoned flannel shirt reveals a puny chest, and his scraggly hair hangs down in clumps on his neck. He doesn’t even have a beard yet, just a few hairs above his thin upper lip and a few on his weak chin. I count them and observe one is extra long. At least he brings his script with him, and he does have a kind of sorrowful-puppy look going for him.

Mrs. Swanson has to show him where to stand. You two continue on with the Mr. Rochester-Jane Eyre dialogue. Jane, get up here.

A groan later, I force myself to walk over to Norman. When I stand beside him, I see he's four inches shorter than I am.

Norman, you’re first. Mrs. Swanson gives him an encouraging glance.

He clears his throat. Out comes a falsetto voice. Who owns this house?

I stare down at the words I’m supposed to say. They seem to disappear, along with any oxygen I had in my body. I count the words on the page and focus on my breathing, but it doesn't help.

Everybody’s nervous the first time. Mrs. Swanson whispers in my direction so she doesn't shame me by saying it loud. Start talking. The more you say, the easier it gets.

I clear my throat. This is Mr. Rochester’s house. I wince and look at Nate out of the corner of my eye. Only he’s not in his seat anymore. He heads for the door and takes some of the light in the room with him. I start to worry that maybe I was so bad he left.

Do you know, Mr… Norman looks over at Mrs. Swanson.

Mr. Rochester, she whispers. Move a little closer to Jane, Norman.

Do you know Mr. Rochester? Norman takes a step in my direction.

I catch a whiff of body odor coming from him, covered over by the most awful after-shave ever. It smells somewhere between fish oil and rotten raspberries. I cough and roll my eyes.

Your line, Jane. Mrs. Swanson looks over at me.

I’ve never met Mr. Rochester. I sound stronger, better, almost one-twentieth as good as Sara.

You must be the gov… Norman fidgets and tries to get out one more

Governess. Mrs. Swanson's face is all concerned wrinkles, and she’s yanking on one of her gold hoop earrings.

The woman has the patience of a mother raising quintuplets but it’s starting to come undone. I hope she doesn't rip the earring out. That would really hurt.

Gov…er…ness. Norman sounds it out like we did in grade school. Have I fright..fright..? He stars at Mrs. Swanson, pleading with his eyes.

Frightened, Mrs. Swanson whispers, a hint of desperation in her voice.

He nods agreement.

Certainly not, sir. But you are extremely rude. My words come out forceful and a few girls in the back clap.

Norman stares at his script as if the words are moving and he can't catch up with them. "Are you... fond of pres…ents?

We all heave a sigh of relief that Norman was able to sound out a whole sentence.

I'm not sure if he's even listening when I say, I hardly know, sir I have little experience of them.

Norman grins. I think he recognizes a word he can say without stumbling. They're pleasant things.

I perk up, realizing I'm almost through with my script. Generally that is thought to be true, but, what do you think? A present has many faces to it, has it not? Oh course, it depends on who the present is from. I hear a few surprised gasps, including my own. I step away from Norman and feel like taking a full bow, but I restrain myself and only nod my head at the audience.

Almost everyone bursts into applause and I get my first taste of adoration. That wasn't bad. It was almost…fun.

When I sit down, I keep repeating in my head: I may not beat out Sara Olsen for the lead, but at least I didn’t