The Taming of the Drew Read online

  Copyright © 2016 by Stephanie Kate Strohm

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  Cover design by Sarah Brody

  Cover photo credit Nina Masic/Trevillion Images

  Print ISBN: 978-1-5107-0215-8

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-5107-0216-5

  Printed in the United States of America

  For the Valley Girls: here’s to bonfires, bold moves, and a summer we’ll never forget.

  CHAPTER 1

  Freedom might have smelled like cow manure, but it had never tasted so sweet. I crumbled another piece of sticky maple goodness off the leaf-shaped candy I’d bought after my last pee break. Man, even the gas station candy was fancy in Vermont. The most gourmet thing we had at the Vince Lombardi Service Area was Kit Kat bars. I licked my fingers clean before putting my semisticky hand back on the wheel.

  More air. Louder music. I jammed my left finger against the button on the side of the door, rolling the car window all the way down, cow poop scent be damned. Mmm. The fresh, stinky air whipped my hair, sending red tendrils smacking against my sunglasses.

  As “Born to Run” blasted out of my speakers, I yelled out the window along with Bruce’s growl, startling a field of particularly pungent bovine clustered near a split-rail fence.

  Like any self-respecting person from New Jersey, I loved Springsteen. Actually, I was highly suspicious of anyone who didn’t love Springsteen, regardless of their home state. I was just glad I hadn’t let Dad ruin Bruce for me. Although, to be fair, could anything ruin Bruce? The man was un-ruinable.

  Maybe I wasn’t born to run—as my not particularly successful athletic career could attest to—but I’d never been more ready to run. Things hadn’t been great at home before the Sext Heard ’Round the World, but after, it was like World War Z had erupted. At this point, I would much rather face an army of zombies than hear the name Heather ever again.

  Okay. I knew Heather wasn’t the reason my parents divorced. It was probably coming anyway. I’d gleaned enough from television to know that most parents didn’t constantly scream at each other. It was more like Heather had become the blond, perky embodiment of their divorce. And I’d heard more than enough from my mom on the topic of Heather to last a lifetime.

  Sometimes I wished Mom was more of a let’s-repress-all-this-stuff-and-never-talk-about-our-issues kind of mom and less of a let’s-share-all-the-details-of-my-personal-life-with-my-teenage-daughter kind of mom. There were things I didn’t need to know. And things I could never un-hear.

  Snap out of it, Cass. I shook my head, trying to clear it. None of that mattered anymore. I was driving north, farther and farther away from Jersey and my parents and everything. And every mile that put a bigger distance between me and the stupid Ruth’s Chris Steak House where Heather worked was a mile I relished.

  Ruth’s Chris Steak House. What did that even mean? What was a Chris Steak House? Was Chris a preparation of steak? It wasn’t Ruth Chris’s Steak House, so it wasn’t her last name, whoever Ruth was. It made no sense.

  I turned the volume up even louder, blasting all thoughts of Heather out of my brain. I definitely wasn’t in Weehawken anymore, and that was the important thing to remember. Hell, even just a quick glance out the window confirmed I was way out of Weehawken. I knew Jersey had farms, because of all the tomatoes and stuff that showed up in the grocery store with their cheery JERSEY FRESH! labels every summer, but there weren’t any near where I lived. Vermont was serious farm country. Gently rolling hills, bales of hay, big red barns, tall silos, and even a couple weathered farmhouses complete with wraparound porches and gingerbread detailing on the eaves. And, of course, cows. So many cows, lazily flicking their tails back and forth as they grazed in the summer sun.

  When I’d imagined making my professional theater debut, I never imagined cow country. I certainly wasn’t complaining—I was only a couple weeks out of high school and about to grace the stage of Vermont’s only professional outdoor summer Shakespeare theater. And yeah, that may have been a lot of qualifiers, but it was still a real theater. My stomach tumbled over into a nervous happy flutter. A real theater. I’d only ever been in plays at school or theater camp before. But out of all the people who’d auditioned for this internship, I was one of the chosen ones. And now I was being paid to act—a meager amount, but still—just like a real job. Just like I’d always wanted. I knew, of course, that out of the millions of people who wanted to be actors, very few actually were. But getting this part made me think that maybe, just maybe, I could be one of those few. Now all I had to do was act my face off.

  The road curved, cutting away from the fields and gradually climbing as it arced toward the small mountain range I saw to my right. As I turned the car around the bend, the trees by the side of the road got denser. It was like from farm to forest in a heartbeat. Everything was so green and lush, I felt like I’d rolled right into Narnia.

  I passed a wooden sign nailed at the start of a dirt road: LAKE DUNMORE THATAWAY. Crap! Assuming, of course, that Shakespeare at Dunmore was actually at Lake Dunmore—which seemed like a pretty safe assumption—that was my turn. I swerved quickly to the right, just barely making the turn, which of course sent my maple candy flying off the passenger seat. Noooooo! Not my sweet maple goodness!

  I bent down to get the candy—five-second rule—when something hit the back of my car. The force of the collision jolted me forward a few inches. I screamed in a not very dignified way, sat upright, and threw the car into park. And in the process, I smushed the maple candy into a pale brown goo. I quickly wiped it on a crumpled Burger King napkin in my cup holder. Awesome. I’d gotten into a car accident over candy, and now I couldn’t even eat said candy. I’d gotten into a car accident! Oh my God. I’d been driving this thing for less than a day, and I’d already been in an accident! I was so dead.

  Oh, crap, crap, crap. Crap on a stick! I turned the car off and smacked my head against the steering wheel. You know what this was? This was karma. I had accepted Dad’s don’t-hate-me-I’ll-let-you-drive-my-old-car-to-Vermont-and-keep-it-there-all-summer bribe, and now the universe was punishing me. I’d accepted that bribe under false pretenses. I did hate him. I just wanted the vehicle he’d cast off after his midlife crisis insisted he chauffeur her around town in a brand new Beemer.

  I screamed again. A heavily bearded guy in a plaid shirt was knocking on my window, and he looked pissed. Was this how Deliverance started? I’d never seen it. Now, I wished I’d had. It probably contained some tips I could have used. At least one person always survived. That was how horror movies worked. So, there’s always a chance. Unless you have glasses. In which case, you’re screwed.

  He knocked again and he still looked pissed. I took a deep breath, unbuckled my seat belt, and opened the door.

  “So, you want to tell me what the hell happened?” the guy demanded, crossing his arms. F
rom what I could see underneath the heavy beard, he was much younger than I’d originally thought—he might even have been close to my age.

  “Why don’t you tell me what the hell happened?” I jumped out, shut the door behind me, and crossed my arms right back at him. “Unless I’m mistaken, you rear-ended me.”

  “Technically accurate, but—”

  “Yes,” I interrupted, “actually, in every way accurate. If someone hits you from behind, the accident is that driver’s fault.”

  “Not if the front driver stops suddenly for no apparent reason.”

  “Nah-uh. A basic rule of the road requires that a driver be able to stop safely if a vehicle stops ahead of said driver. If said driver cannot stop, he didn’t leave enough space between himself and the vehicle before him. Ergo, your fault.” Thank you, Ideal Driving School.

  “Did you just nah-uh me?” he asked incredulously.

  “Yes. Yes I did. And then I dropped some knowledge. And then I ergo-ed you. Boom.”

  “Did you just drop the mic?” The incredulity continued.

  “Dropped the heck out of that mic.” My hand was still frozen in mid-air. “Bringing back an old-school burn. Old-school burn on you.”

  “Cool hand gesture.”

  What a smartass.

  “I can think of a different hand gesture that would be more appropriate right now,” I muttered. Curling my hands into tight fists, I could practically feel my middle fingers itching against my palms. But I wouldn’t let those birds fly. After all, I was a lady.

  “I’m sure you could.” He narrowed his eyes at me, like he was afraid I was one step away from going full-on reality TV villain or something. Which I so was not. I had never ripped out anyone’s weave. Ever. “Regardless of technical fault, you were still driving irresponsibly.”

  “I was driving perfectly responsibly.” My nostrils flared—a surefire tell that I was lying. Luckily, this weirdo didn’t know that. Or that I’d crashed the car for maple candy. The car! I pushed past him and ran to check the fender, wedging myself in front of his filthy Jeep Grand Cherokee. I squatted down, running my hand along the back of my car. No bump. No dent. Not so much as a scratch or a flake of silver paint missing. Holy flying gumballs. I had seriously lucked out.

  “There’s no damage,” I heard from behind me. “I checked.”

  “No damage to the fender, maybe.” I quickly stood up and turned, crossing my arms defensively again. Generally speaking, I preferred not to be standing butt-out when confronting people. It’s really hard to have the upper hand that way.

  “I think you mean the bumper,” he corrected me. “The bumper is the part of the car at the rear designed to absorb the impact of any collision.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “That was a really enjoyable lesson on car parts. Quite timely and absolutely necessary to this conversation.”

  “So, we’re done here?” He shoved his hands in his pockets.

  “Not done! I haven’t decided if I’m suing you yet.”

  “Suing me!” he exclaimed. “For what? Look, the car is fine.”

  “I’m not fine! I could sue you for emotional damage! Or whiplash! Owww, my neck …”

  “Oh, please,” he sneered. “Save that performance for the academy.”

  “You could at least apologize, you asshat.”

  His eyebrows rose a little at asshat. Whoops. Once again, my temper had gotten the best of me. I took in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Flying off the handle wasn’t going to win any arguments.

  “Fine. I’m sorry I was driving perfectly normally and a collision occurred that was technically my fault but was actually your fault.”

  “Great apology, bro,” I snorted.

  “Are we done now? Or have you decided to sue me?”

  “Not going to sue you. If for no other reason than that would require exchanging contact information. And I have no desire whatsoever to contact you ever again.”

  “I can assure you, the feeling is mutual.”

  “Great. See you never.”

  “Great.”

  We were still standing on the side of the road glaring at each other.

  “Try not to rear-end anyone else today.”

  “Try to drive like a normally functioning human.”

  “Thanks. Drive safely.”

  “I don’t think I’m the one who needs a reminder to drive safely here.”

  Okay. That was enough glaring, even for me. I stomped back to my car, slid into the seat, and slammed the door.

  What a ridiculous douchewaffle. Obviously I wasn’t going to sue him, since that meant Mom and Dad would find out I got in a car accident, even one that wasn’t technically my fault, and I sure as hell didn’t want to lose the car. So why did any words remotely related to legal action pop out of my mouth? Something about that guy just got under my skin. But here was the important thing: I’d had an incredibly lucky break. The car was fine, I was fine, and I’d just seen Señor Pantalones Locos drive off in my side mirror, never to be seen again. It was over. Time to move on. I put the key in the ignition and carefully eased back onto the road.

  After rounding another bend, heading deeper into the forest and under the shade of the trees, I was immediately distracted by a squirrel. A GIANT squirrel. The King Kong of anthropomorphic squirrels. It was even taller than the roof of the Bait ’n’ Bite General Store it stood next to. The squirrel was dressed in an old-fashioned red-and-white-striped bathing suit and held a sign that read WELCOME TO LAKE DUNMORE: HOME OF SOME-MORE SUMMER FUN!

  Wow. Now there was something you didn’t see every day.

  CHAPTER 2

  Pulling past the Bait ’n’ Bite, I turned the corner and came face to face with the shores of the lake. It was enormous, and beautiful—a perfect oval of deep blue water, still as glass, ringed on all sides by cabins. I passed a tiny pebbly beach with Adirondack chairs bordering a makeshift marina with kayaks and canoes waiting on shore. I loved the way the cabins disappeared into the woods as they marched up the side of the mountain. It was almost like something out of a fairy tale, like Snow White should be hiding out in one of those cabins with the Seven Dwarfs. I half expected Little Red Riding Hood to go skipping past me at any minute. And there was my turn—luckily, no last-minute swerving mishaps involving maple candy this time. At least these directions were pretty easy to remember. Black Bear Pass had a way of sticking in one’s brain. If I’d been looking for a street sign, I would have missed it—the only road demarcations seemed to be painted planks of wood nailed onto posts. There, at the end of the dirt road, stood an old white house on the shore of the lake. From the front it looked like any normal building, but the back half of the bottom level was in the water, like some kind of boat garage. A wooden sign in front proclaimed it to be the BALD MOUNTAIN SCHOOL BOAT HOUSE. I pulled into the driveway and parked.

  Grunting, I managed to yank my huge duffle bag out of the trunk. Slinging its strap over my shoulder, I resisted the pull to topple to the ground and crunched my way over the gravel toward the front door. The house’s white paint was cracked and peeling in more places than not, but the bright green shade on the shutters gave the whole place a cheery look. It didn’t look rundown so much as—well used. I pushed the screen door to the front of the house, careful not to put my palm through a softball-sized hole in the middle. The door creaked noisily open.

  “Hello?” I called cautiously, my eyes adjusting to the relative darkness inside. All I could see was wood. Wood floors, wood paneling, wood ceiling. And on top of that, the wood paneling on the walls was almost completely obscured by wooden oars of all shapes and sizes. This whole place was like a beaver’s fantasy.

  “Welcome, stranger.” A pale girl with a heart-shaped face and bright blue bob made her way down a narrow set of wooden steps. That was the most vibrant hair color I’d ever seen in my life. She shone in the relative darkness, an electric beacon. “You must be Cass.” She pulled Pokeball-shaped earbuds out of her ears, tucking them into the pocket of
her cardigan. I nodded. “Our last arrival. Points for insouciance. Our extremely informational meeting is imminent. I’m Langley,” she saluted, raising a dark brow sardonically above the rim of her cat’s-eye glasses, “your stage manager and overall SAD servant.”

  “Sad? You’re a sad servant?”

  “S-A-D. Shakespeare at Dunmore. You’ll need to pick up the acronyms quickly around here. And considering the intern stipend they not so generously bestowed upon me, factored against the insane hours and amount of work this job requires, I’m basically an indentured servant. It’s theatrical debt bondage. Only not as fun as it sounds.”

  I stared at her blankly. It didn’t sound particularly fun.

  “Ooookay,” she sighed, clearly thinking her biting sarcasm was lost on me. “You’re checked in. I’ll give you the tour.”

  “Great.”

  She had the kind of sense of humor where I wasn’t quite sure if she was mocking me or not. Or if she was attempting to be humorous.

  “So, we’re in the storage room now, which is ultimately useless to you unless you have a penchant for sporting life jackets as a fashion statement.”

  “Not out of the water.” I watched an industrious spider spinning a web between two oars.

  “Don’t wear these ones in the water,” Langley shook her head. “The Bald Mountain Prep School uses this place to train their crew team during the school year and as storage in the summer. And, of course, to make rent money off homeless actors—on the condition that we stay the hell away from the boats. Which, incidentally, are through the doors on my left. Not that you need to know. Door at the end of the hall leads to the world’s smallest kitchen. Good luck claiming your fridge space. Follow me.”

  Behind her, I struggled up the creaky wooden stairs with my bag, barely squeezing through the narrow passage. Upstairs, it was far more spacious.

  “This is the Actor Lounge,” she announced as we hit the top of the stairs, arriving in a room with two mismatched floral couches, a TV, and a foosball table that had been unsuccessfully duct-taped together. “This is where you guys hang out. This or the kitchen, if you can fit. Nowhere else. See the sign on the door back there?”