Page 28 of The Drama King
"They're always planning something," Robbie added, appearing on my other side with his usual impeccable timing. "The question is whether we're ready for whatever it is."
The three of us had grown closer since the recording incident, our alliance deepening into genuine friendship built on mutual protection and shared goals. We'd spent hours strategizing, documenting, and preparing for the pack's next move.
"Any word on what this is about?" I asked as we climbed the steps to the lecture hall.
"Fall Showcase," Robbie replied. "Final project requirements, partner assignments, the usual administrative torture disguised as opportunity."
My stomach tightened. The Fall Showcase was Northwood's premier evaluation event. A chance for new students to prove themselves worthy of continued investment. For scholarship students like me, it wasn't just an assignment. It was a referendum on our right to remain.
The lecture hall buzzed with nervous energy as students filed in, clustering by year and social hierarchy. I scanned for the pack, finding them in their usual territory near the center of the room. But something was different about their positioning today. More spread out, more strategic, like chess pieces arranging themselves for an opening gambit.
Dorian sat in the third row, his dark hair catching the overhead lights, his posture radiating casual confidence. Corvus occupied a seat several rows behind him, positioned to observe the entire room. And Oakley... I frowned, finally spotting himnear the front, close enough to the faculty section to suggest he'd been invited there.
"That's new," Stephanie murmured, following my gaze.
"And not good," Robbie added grimly.
We found seats in our usual defensive position near the back exit, close enough to hear everything but far enough to avoid direct confrontation. As the room filled, I noticed other subtle changes in the social geography. Students I'd previously counted as neutral avoided eye contact with me, creating small buffers of empty seats around our group.
"The isolation campaign is working," I observed quietly.
"Let them," Stephanie said fiercely. "Quality over quantity. The people who matter know what's really happening."
Professor De Scarzis entered precisely on time, her silver hair immaculate, her presence commanding immediate attention. At sixty-five, she'd been the backbone of Northwood's theater program for over four decades, with enough clout to resist most outside pressure. But even she wasn't immune to institutional politics.
"Good afternoon, everyone," she began, her crisp accent cutting through the murmurs. "Today we'll be discussing the Fall Showcase—your most significant evaluation opportunity this semester."
I pulled out my notebook, determined to document every detail. After the recording success, we'd adopted a policy of comprehensive evidence gathering, treating each interaction as potential ammunition for future battles.
"This year's theme is 'Power and Vulnerability,'" De Scarzis continued. "Each student will present a scene exploring the dynamic between strength and fragility, dominance and submission."
The theme sent a chill down my spine. After months of being systematically targeted for my Omega status, the choice feltpointed, deliberate. I glanced toward the pack, noting Corvus's satisfied expression and Dorian's intense focus on my reaction.
"This year we will be doing monologues," De Scarzis announced. "Assignments have been carefully considered to challenge each student's artistic growth and push beyond comfort zones. As always, first year students will be paired with more experienced thespians."
My hands tightened on my pen. Assignments meant forced proximity, legitimate reasons for isolated rehearsal time, official permission for psychological manipulation disguised as artistic exploration.
"The evaluation committee will include full faculty as well as several distinguished alumni donors," De Scarzis continued. "Their assessments will determine spring semester casting opportunities and may impact scholarship renewals for applicable students."
There it was. The implicit threat wrapped in academic language. Perform well, submit to whatever your assigned partner demands, or lose everything you've worked for.
"Ms. Levine and Mr. Ashworth, will be her director," De Scarzis read from her list, her voice betraying no awareness of the bombshell she'd just dropped.
The room went dead silent. I felt every eye turn toward me, some curious, others pitying, a few openly anticipating the entertainment value of my destruction.
Dorian turned in his seat, meeting my gaze across the crowded room. His ice-blue eyes held something I couldn't identify. Not triumph, exactly, but a kind of hungry satisfaction that made my skin crawl.
"Your assigned scene is from 'Taming of the Shrew,'" De Scarzis continued, oblivious to the psychological warfare she was orchestrating. "The submission scene, Act Five, Scene Two."
Of course. The most controversial scene in all of Shakespeare, where Katherine delivers her speech about wifely obedience. The ultimate expression of female submission to male dominance, packaged as classical literature.
I felt Stephanie's hand find mine, her fingers intertwining with mine in silent support. On my other side, Robbie's jaw clenched with barely contained fury.
De Scarzis continued reading assignments, pairing other students with surgical precision. Every partnership seemed calculated to maximize drama, create artistic tension, or in some cases, reward social connections. All of the technically skilled students, like Stephanie and Robbie, would prepare the sets, lighting, and costumes.
When she finished, the room erupted in excited chatter. Everyone comparing their assignments, celebrating favorable pairings, or commiserating over challenging ones.
Everyone except me. I sat frozen, staring at my notebook where I'd written "Dorian Ashworth - Taming of the Shrew - Submission Scene" in increasingly unsteady handwriting.