Magnusson got the book back. “Take it out of Scotland, you mean?”
“I’ve seen it done. Romeo and Juliet transplanted into the Stone Age, or onto Monster Beach. A Midsummer Night’s Dream is the usual organ donor. Can you imagine it set in German-occupied France? Or in Boston during the Revolutionary War? One was set in Transylvania, but it wasn’t exactly bloodless…” She trailed off, one metallic blue fingernail tracing the green line of an artery on the back of her hand.
“You could set it in Siberia or the outback,” said Mr. Dean. He sat up and reached for the book, but Magnusson ignored him and held the captive copy spread masklike before his face. Dean dropped back into his seat and gazed into the paperweight.
“Or the Old West,” he said, crossing his arms.
“Too messy, Dean,” said Mrs. Sherman. “What I suggest is we give our actor-warriors weapons that won’t be as sloppy as bullets and swords. Give them, say, ray-guns and send them off to… I don’t know, Mars. Sure. Tie it in with the study groups reading The Martian Chronicles.”
“Mars,” said Magnusson, as if the planet were a jawbreaker that refused to dissolve on his tongue.
“With real Martian music,” said Mr. Dean.
Mrs. Sherman caught and held his eyes. “I didn’t say anything about that.”
“No, I did,” said Mr. Dean.
“We have to use the band this year,” said Magnusson.
“Why?” she asked.
“Because he promised,” said Mr. Dean. “We haven’t had a musical in the last three years. The Crucible, Man in the Moon Marigolds, Snake House… The things these kids choose, I swear. They have the sense of humor of morticians. This year we’re doing something lighter, a musical ‘revue.’ I think our own Sheri DuBose could come up with something appropriate in the way of music and songs for Macbeth.”
“Oh my God,” said Nora, sinking.
Magnusson hardly looked at her, though he was smiling with one side of his mouth. “That should keep the kids tame, yes.”
“For that you’d need wild-animal tamers,” said Mr. Dean. “At least it will keep them happy.”
Mrs. Sherman seemed to come out of a coma. “Forget I ever mentioned Macbeth. Don’t do it to that play. Not that silly girl’s music…”
“Nora,” said Mr. Magnusson, shaking his head at her and smiling as if he knew something she didn’t. “So pale. Are you well?”
“Seen Banquo’s ghost?” said Dean, with a chuckle.
“You’re not being a very good sport,” said Magnusson. “We’ve all got what we wanted.”
She tightened her metallic-blue mouth, looked at both of them, then put out a hand and touched the copy of Macbeth as if to swear upon it. When she was perfectly still, she whispered, “If you get Sheri DuBose, I get Ricardo Rivera.” Mr. Dean jumped as if he had been grabbed; but before he could form a word or stop her, her hand shot out and touched the black paperweight in the center of the table.
“Ha!” she said. “Motion passed.”
Dean slumped back in his chair.
“All right,” said Magnusson. “Let’s move on to athletics.”
Lunch bag in hand, Ricardo Rivera hurried across the quadrangle toward the crowd of twelve- and thirteen-year-old students that had gathered at the back of the auditorium by the stage door.
He was a small boy, green-eyed, with dark curly hair, fine-cut features, and a grin that some might call elfin. The grin was partly imaginary because at that moment he thought he was to be the next Macbeth.
At the edge of the group he asked Sheri DuBose if the cast list for Macbeth’s Martian Revue had been posted, though it obviously hadn’t.
“Not yet, Ricardo,” she said. “Mr. Dean wants me to write the songs, though.” She smiled. “I have it on good authority.”
“Good authority,’” mimicked Bruce Vicks, pigging his nose at her with a finger. “Sheri DuPug,” he said.
Sheri snorted and turned away, forgetting about Ricardo. “‘If it were done when ’tis done,’” Ricardo said, “then ’tis best it were done when it’s best it were… now wait a minute.” His audition piece was already sliding from memory.
“Here come de prez,” somebody said.
Ricardo jumped to look over the heads of the others and saw a tall boy with longish sun-bleached hair, a sure and smiling freckled face, and the lopsided walk of a skateboarder.
Ricardo waved at him. “Hey, Neal, over here!”
Neal Bay joined the crowd, smiling at everyone.
“Good job, Neal,” said Randy Keane, shaking Neal’s hand. “You better remember your campaign promise for lots of movies.”
“Won’t forget,” said Neal. “I’ve already got The Red Balloon on order.”
Keane groaned and laughed. “That stinker?”
Ricardo pushed his way to Neal’s side. “The list’s not up yet.”
“Duh,” said Neal. “My brilliant campaign manager. I can see the list isn’t up yet, dipstick. I don’t know how I won with you on my side.”
Ricardo ignored the insult and lowered his voice to a whisper. “I hear Cory gave you trouble yesterday.”
“Trouble? Who told you that?”
“At student council.”
“No trouble, except maybe for you. I just asked Cory about a few of the things you told me.”
Ricardo stepped back. “I told you? Like what?”
“Oh, like how you said that Lisa Freuhoff told you Cory was fixing the elections.”
“That’s what Lisa said,” said Ricardo, backing away but pointing at Neal. “I didn’t say it was true.”
“Yeah? And how she swore I’d be sorry if I won. She’d get even, you said. I never asked where you heard that one.”
“Lisa said it,” Ricardo said.
Neal crossed his arms, rolled his eyes, and smirked. “Yeah? Well, Cory and I are a team now.”
“But she was your-your enemy!”
“We were never enemies. We always knew one of us would win, and the other would be vice-president. You just wanted us to be enemies.”
Ricardo fell silent, trying to imagine what Neal meant. “We’ve been good friends, Neal,” he said. “You shouldn’t just treat me like this now that you’ve won. You’ll still see me around. Maybe you’ll even get the part of Banquo. You did a great audition.”
“Banquo?” Neal laughed. “I’m going to be Mister Macbeth, Junior.”
“No way,” said Ricardo. The idea was laughable, and he laughed. Then he turned his tongue back to the more important issue. “Cory was always nasty to you. Remember that time in the cafeteria?”
“You shut up,” Neal said, taking a step to hook his forefinger into the soft flesh and glands under Ricardo’s jaw. The bigger boy grinned, and it was not the kind of smile that makes one comfortable.
Ricardo moaned until Neal let him slip free. There were tears in his eyes, and his voice didn’t carry.
“Bet you don’t even get Malcolm’s part,” he said. “Bet you don’t even get to be a Murderer.”
Neal started forward.
“It’s a fight!”
A cry from the direction of the door interrupted them. Mr. Dean stepped outside, wincing at the sunlight and the students. He waved a sheet of ditto paper as if it were a pennant. Everyone cheered. He tacked it to the door and slipped back in before he could be trapped by the kids.
As Ricardo struggled forward, he dropped his lunch bag. He bent down, but before he could grab it a Hush Puppy squashed the sack, spilling the guts of a peanut butter and banana sandwich onto the asphalt. Rising, suddenly hungry, he heard someone say, “Awright! Macbeth for President!”