That Way Madness Lies: XV of Shakespeare's Most Notable Works Reimagined

by Dahlia Adler

“Percy Jackson lied to us,” I told Cece the year the ceramics hut burned down. “Maybe camp is only good if your parents are gods,” she said.

Because, to my dad, camp wasn’t some old slice of the woods on the other side of a stomach-churning, two-hour bus ride. Camp wasn’t its stinky mess hall or empty owl sanctuary or weird frozen food concoctions. To him, camp was home.

“You can be taller than me all you want,” I said, scrunching my nose at my reflection in his glasses. “But I’m here to keep you height humble. I won’t let you forget where you came from. The top of your head used to be my armrest. You started at the bottom. Of my elbow.” He rolled his eyes. “You’re ridiculous.” I smiled at him. “Yeah, but you must have missed me a little.” He smiled back. “A little.”

“Taking three-legged races too seriously is immediate crush disqualification.”

“Stop wishing your whole life away. You’ll get older just like everybody. You’re rushing.”

“The world is his office! And the woods are his world!”

“We were children,” Lando said. “We had no choice but to match.”

“Someone please warn me if I am about to see an orgy because my virgin eyes can’t handle it! My mother said that there was a chance that this place was some kind of sex thing, and I never should have doubted her—” “What are you talking about?” I interrupted her. “I didn’t see any naked people!” I started to go back over the hill to get another look, but my cousin stopped me, pulling me out of sight of the people below. “I saw blindfolds,” Cece whispered loudly. “Haven’t you seen Fifty Shades?” “No!” I said at the same time Lando said, “Yes!” Then he added, defensively, “It was shot by the same cinematographer as Jurassic World.” I goggled at him. “And that’s a positive?” Cece side-eyed us both and sniffed. “I saw a redband trailer. Blindfolds were part of it!” Sometimes it was hard to believe that I was the baby cousin.

“Do you see your dad?” Lando asked me. My stomach churned at the idea of my dad being part of the mocking crowd, but I looked carefully as we walked by them. It was almost a relief that he wasn’t there. “Hey, kids, you’re at the wrong camp!” someone called from the keg. The product of strict and attentive parents, Cece was momentarily frozen in place by the sound of adult disapproval. To her, rules were rules, even when set in place by strangers at an adult summer camp. But we had practiced for this. “Go home to your jobs!” I shouted back at them.

“Adults are supposed to be in charge of themselves,” Lando said. “True,” said Ollie. “That means being in charge of hyping themselves up. Getting excited to do the camp stuff. Making bird feeders. Talent night. Playing guitar around the campfire. Capture the flag.” He counted activities on his long fingers. “No one wanted to do everything, so lots of people did nothing.” “I do not blame them,” I said. “That shit all sucks.”

“To avoid going home,” I said. My stomach ached as I imagined my dad feverishly looking for a way to push autumn away. The year of camp restoration had turned him into a shadow person, a ghost whose true self lived in the woods. I sucked my teeth. “So, what? Without your phones you forgot what day it was?” “I guess they don’t teach you to read the sun anymore,” Lando added, arms folded in judgment. I knew he had a policy of being anti-Ollie, but it still felt nice to have someone on my team. “No,” Ollie said. “We didn’t forget. It’s just not important. Duke owns the land. There are built-in activities everywhere. We’re hanging out and eating through the freezer. It’s chill.” “Chill for you,” I spat. “Not for the people you left in the real world. Just because you don’t check doesn’t mean there isn’t news or that people don’t need you!”

“Where is Rosie’s dad?” Cece asked. Ollie stood up and dusted himself off, his ears momentarily blocking the sun. “At the lake. He’s always at the lake.”

“We could do one more fun thing,” Cece said, clutching my arm. She lowered her voice to a sleepover whisper. “Talking to your dad is going to make you sad. Why not do one more happy thing first?” “Because I can’t put off being sad,” I whispered back. “I’d rather face it.” I took one more look at Lando and tried to imagine being the object of his constant crush. It filled me with an uncertain glow that brightened the more I believed in it. I tried to hold that feeling of being so impossibly liked as I walked away.

“I thought you said you never wanted to come back here.” “I thought I’d have more of a choice.”

Leonato: Well, niece, I hope to see you one day fitted with a husband. Beatrice: Not till God make men of some other metal than earth.

“I come to launch the merriment of our wrapped show and find you drowning your sorrows. You do know that’s meant to be done with alcohol.” “As I don’t drink, I must do it the old-fashioned way.” “I believe alcohol is the old-fashioned way,” Hazem countered. “Call me new-fashioned, then.” “Never.”

“Taron, curb your dramatic instincts for a moment. Nothing is damaged! You were an incandescent star these last months, and Tegan got to shout endlessly onstage, eyes fixed upon you, which we all appreciated. Their attentiveness can zap a person straight through and has done to so many of us, if you know what I mean.” Taron did. That was at least part of the problem.

Taron banged a fist on Tegan’s door. “Open up, harlot!” Tegan flung the door ajar, blocking the entrance. “Call me one more womanly slur, even one Uncle Will penned himself, and I will destroy you and the antiquated gender binary you rode in on.” “Harlots can be any and all genders.

“The best actors in the galaxy couldn’t conjure this amount of vivid tension. We’re natural enemies.” “You misunderstand me. They set us up … to live out the story of Benedick and Beatrice. To fall for one another or some such nonsense. Hazem admitted it moments ago.” Tegan stood, now as tall as Taron, and got very close to his nose. “They were playing matchmaker with our roles? That’s too meta, even for them. Besides, they failed spectacularly. I loathe you more now than when I played Horatio to your whiny-ass Hamlet.” “I was not whiny!” “Thou doth protest so much,” they said with a haughty laugh that cut off abruptly. “Plus, it’s a direct quote from one of our reviews.” “I’ll have you know—” Tegan slapped a hand over Taron’s mouth. “Before we banter into oblivion, if what you say is true, we need a revenge plan. Our so-called friends must be punished.” They lowered their hand. “Agreed,” Taron said. “Which must be a first.” Tegan nodded once and began to scheme. Truly, scheming should have been in the Special Skills section of their acting resume, along with scansion, fight training, and speaking four interplanetary languages. “Now, what is the best rebuke for this foul act?” they asked.

“Isn’t the answer obvious?” they asked with a put-upon sigh. “We let them believe we are in a mountain of affection. Let their special hell be the one where they get exactly what they asked for. A couple.” They booped Taron’s nose with their finger. “The worst, most obnoxiously in love couple The Globe has ever seen.” “Why couldn’t you just ask me to kill Claudio?” he muttered. “That would be easier.” “It would be easier to run Marius through with a rapier than pretend to be my boyfriend for a single night?” “I should think you’d thank me,” he said. “Marius is a jerk of the highest order.” “Oh, look, we agree on two whole things. Don’t get cocky and try for a third.”

“Now do you want to punish the wayward Bodkins or not?” Taron stood to his full height and inhaled, breath control so obvious that Tegan wanted to kill this soliloquy before it started. “I will create a tempest of flirtation. I will love you with such sloppy, unstoppable passion that—” “Stop.” Tegan let their not-quite-impressed face settle. “This might be too hard. I mean, it’s acting, which is not exactly your strong suit.” “It is my only suit,” Taron said with pride and affliction. “Right, speaking of which, you need to change.” “If I change in order to woo you, no one will believe it,” Taron tossed back. “If this ruse has any chance of working, I must be myself.” “I meant changing your questionable sweater, not your equally questionable personality.”

“Stop talking and take off your clothes.” “See, it’s like we’re in love already,” Taron said, so flatly, it was almost impressive. Almost.

They kept their room stocked with clothes for every possible gender presentation. When Tegan took on a role, they rolled with the gender—held their body differently, bound their breasts or displayed them proudly, took on whichever pronouns suited. And when Tegan finished with the part, it was back to shaved head, murderboots, and they/them.

He tugged off his sweater and grabbed the shirt, pulling it on in a smooth motion that gave Tegan a single flashburn of seeing him. Really seeing him. Without that hapless sweater, Taron had a strong, dashing torso that stayed broad all the way until a notch before the hips then narrowed fast. “Your scars are fading. That’s good,” they said matter-of-factly when Taron caught them looking. They’d seen him during countless quick changes. Why should this be different?

“We’ll have to do better than that if we want them to truly suffer our love.” Tegan took a single unsteady breath; preshow nerves they hadn’t felt in years were creeping back in for this special, command performance. “What do you have in mind?”

“You’re sure about the touching?” Tegan asked, to double-check. They didn’t want this charade to make Taron uncomfortable. They wanted to make everyone else uncomfortable. “Despite your need to slander me, I am an actor. We’ve been touching every night for theatrical purposes. Don’t you remember my hand all over your…?” He pointed vaguely at their entire backside. “Indeed. My ass has only the fondest memories of your fingers,” Tegan deadpanned.

What kind of speech would snare the company? Acting was best with a drop of truth, right? “My Taron, who turns the color of a red dwarf star when he’s nervous. Who sings to himself in the shower. Who has this blindingly cute expression every time I touch his chest.” They raised their cup. “He is the only one of you I would bother fighting with!”

“You don’t date actors. Last week you literally carved it into your headboard with a knife. No thespians allowed.” “Oh, you do remember?” Tegan asked, a drip of acid in their voice. “I vowed to be done with dramatics everywhere but onstage.” Dating in-company never worked out, and Tegan wasn’t a fan of such misery, which their friends obviously knew, so the fact that the cast was behind this setup only hurt more. And now Tegan would eat all of their hearts in the marketplace. “Just yesterday you told me, ‘Love is a self-inflicted wound,’” Icon reminded them. “And today you’re willing to fall on your sword for Taron?” “You have no idea what I’m willing to do.”

“You’re thoughtful.” “For you? With pleasure.” And he must have meant it, because he truly was a terrible actor. Well, he was terrible when he had to stretch. Benedick was firmly in his wheelhouse, which said all sorts of things about Taron that Tegan didn’t want to think about. Right now Taron couldn’t stop thinking about how much Tegan pushed themself. In every strong direction, all the time. Even now, he was ready to let this latest, greatest, torturous teasing by the company go, but Tegan would have their soulful regret and nothing less.

He wondered what that little kid would think of him now, body reclaimed, a ship full of mates, an electric person on his arm … even if they were only there to make a point.

Taron made the mistake of clapping eyes with Hazem, who shook his head and laughed in a way that made his too-visible abs clench, which was … annoying. Why couldn’t he be in love with Tegan? Why was that the funniest, most audacious reality the company could imagine?

“Why are you fighting the rhythm?” “Is it not a battle?” “No!” Tegan smiled and dropped two soft fingers over his eyes, closing them, making themself the lead. Taron followed and moved, as in rehearsals. He found their waist, so familiar after the show, but this was not a stage, and they were not trading lines. His hands drifted lower to their hips, enjoying the way they moved so fluidly, sailing on the surface of a liquid beat. For the first time in a very long time, he let himself imagine Tegan’s fingers on his lips, his hand finding the edge of their pants and all that waited beneath. Taron’s eyes shot open, and he was two steps away from Tegan before he thought to run, and then he wasn’t anywhere near the dance floor, instead slamming through his parents’ cold house into the bathroom full of polished, gleaming tile. Too much, too much, too much, the words were a prayer in his mind.

Hazem was there, perfectly sculpted eyebrows reaching for the ceiling, the imaginary brother Taron had wished for so long ago now come to life. “My dear friend, you are a terrific mess. Tell me our gamble didn’t pay off now. I want to judge your delivery.” “We mean to punish you for that gamble,” Taron said, because that part still made sense. “And you did not succeed! But it may be that our plans to make you see how viciously wrong you were have … turned against me … most foully…” “Don’t write the Bard’s lines, brother. That’s not your art.” Taron turned to Hazem, the feel of Tegan’s hips still in his open hands, a mental picture of them smoldering in his bed. And not for the first time, no. “Do you really want us together?” “Do you really think it would be so bad?” Hazem’s usual smile rested. He put a hand on Taron’s shoulder. “Tegan does something to you that no one else does.” “I told you about those dreams in the strictest of confidence!” Taron roared. Hazem grabbed Taron’s other shoulder and spoke with punctuated enunciation. “I am not teasing you! You like Tegan. More than like them! We all noticed.” “Yes, and they do not like me, so you are worse than teasing. You’re breaking my heart. It’s been endless months of cracks. Every single show a new fracture.” “Taron.” Hazem’s eyes actually clouded, a small, disbelieving laugh slipping out. “I’m so happy for you. You’re in love.” “How are you happy? After Marius … after you, even! Tegan swore off dating in the company. ...

As Taron strode out of the bathroom, crossing the long, pristine hallway, Tegan fell in love. While there were bright new parts of his body on display, it was Taron’s dark, determined eyes that made Tegan catch their bottom lip with their teeth. They gave it a good, sobering bite. Taron had upped the stakes, yes, but this was still just part of the game. After all, he’d only lasted a mere half song of dancing before running away. People did that. Swore they wanted to be Tegan’s love interest then half-assed it. Actors. “I’m enamored with this look!” Tegan said, instantly questioning their overdone delivery. “Ready for phase three? I’m afraid the company has discovered your parents’ grand hall.” Taron gave a smile that was mischief let off its leash. “I am ready for whatever the night could bring.” “Good, because your outfit is going to make the next bit a challenge.”

“Come, I will have thee, but by this light, I take thee for pity.”

“I would not deny you,” they rattled off, “but, by this good day, I yield upon great persuasion, and partly to save your life, for I was told you were in a consumption.”

But they were barreling toward a moment that hardly felt simple. A kiss that Tegan had thought they were done with. And why did it feel like Taron had willed them back here? “Peace, I will stop your mouth,” he said. Their bodies, so used to cheating out to face the audience, sealed together, and his mouth pressed theirs, full-on. This was categorically not a stage kiss. When Taron’s lips warmed and his hands moved to the softly shaved nape of their neck, feelings Tegan had tried to banish for months were right there, waiting. Taron kept his face close, cupping their cheek, and whispered softly, “How was that, my dear disdain?” Zounds. Taron was trying to prove his acting chops. Whatever emotions that kiss had set free, Tegan was alone with them. Taron was merely playing along with Tegan’s plotting.

“I’m going to say something I never thought I’d say to you.” Taron waited, looking hopeful. Bright-eyed. Sweet, even. It was too much. “You’re quite a scene partner.” “Scene partner?” Taron mumbled, expression folding up. “I thought … but it seemed…” “You thought I felt something?” Tegan’s nerves spiked. “No. Of course not. I mean, I felt you pop my nose ring up.” Their finger went to the spot where the sparkly little stud had lifted after Taron’s face collided with theirs. Taron nodded with his eyes closed. “Right. Good. That’s what I thought.” “I mean, you certainly didn’t feel anything. Did you?” Taron stared down at Tegan’s one bare foot. “No more than reason.”

“Fool,” Taron whispered

He shrugged off Hazem’s suspenders, trying not to remember the sweet shiver when Tegan had led him to those chairs by tugging on one. They were really good at not making Taron feel like an oddball for not wanting to grope everyone all the time like everyone else. They were really good at acting. “Fool,” Taron said again. “Idiot. Dreamer.”

Unlike the rest of the company, he had all the money in the universe. And unlike the lot of them, he knew intimately what money could never, ever buy. Maybe he’d go find an entire water planet to stick his head in and erase the too-pleasing memory of Tegan’s mouth and hands and words and wiles.

“Oh, wow.” “It is something else.” He leaned on the railing, folding his arms over his exposed chest. “You need something? I have to admit I’m burnt out. Sorry we weren’t able to turn them inside out with regret.” Heavens, his voice was the piece turned inside out. He felt sure that Tegan could hear it. “You do like me, don’t you?” they asked. Taron looked away. He thought of about twenty things to say. He said none of them. “Here’s our own hands against our hearts.” Taron turned swiftly, puzzled. “That’s my line. And if it were true, you…” “I would what?” Tegan was sort of smiling at him. “I could swear you off in the name of all the fools I’ve kissed in the past. I could ignore these feelings now and bring them out onstage, when it’s safe and convenient. Or I could tally up all the moments that have fashioned the seemingly inextinguishable truth that we are incompatible … and toss them out. I could kiss you right now. Not the way we’ve kissed a thousand times before, but a real kiss.” Taron’s arms dropped to his sides. “You’re teasing me.” “No,” Tegan said with a small shrug, hands slipping up his shoulders, his neck, cradling Taron’s face in both hands. “I’m not.” They waited for him. And it felt like a very long time indeed, from the moment he’d met them at theatre school years ago … to the day he’d agreed to make them a part of the company his parents had funded, despite their endless bickering … to the posting of the roles for this Much Ado and the scenes they wove t...

To bait fish withal. If it will feed nothing else, it will feed my revenge. He hath disgraced me, and hindered me half a million, laughed at my losses, mocked at my gains, scorned my nation, thwarted my bargains, cooled my friends, heated mine enemies—and what’s his reason? I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions? Fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer, as a Christian is? If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die? And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge? If we are like you in the rest, we will resemble you in that. If a Jew wrong a Christian, what is his humility? Revenge. If a Christian wrong a Jew, what should his sufferance be by Christian example? Why, revenge. The villainy you teach me, I will execute, and it shall go hard but I will better the instruction.

“Dude, I am so goddamn depressed.” “First of all, Tony, you are not depressed,” Sebastian Denunzio says without missing a beat as the two sidestep way too many overeager freshmen in the halls of Venice High. “Are you ugly? Yes. Are you broke? Also yes. Did you bomb the physics midterm? Absolutely.” “You give the shittiest pep talks.” “You don’t deserve a pep talk,” Bas tells his friend, and this time, he does stop. “Your dad gave you a Benz for your seventeenth birthday, and you already totaled it. You know what my pop got me for my seventeenth birthday? A phone call. In February.” “Isn’t your birthday in June?” “Yup.”

Tony squints and scans the room, and Bas watches his eyes land on a slight, bespectacled boy and light up as if Tony’s seen God Himself throw down a spotlight.

He doesn’t do anything about it, though, and Tony’s tired of not doing anything. The White Knights—they do things. They understand the power of threats and violence, and the fact that they respect and embrace Tony in a way his father doesn’t makes him powerful too.

Wherever Shai is, he’ll find him.

“It really never gets less brutal out there, does it?”

disappearing from the cafeteria had become something of an invisibility cloak.

Tony laughs, as if his continued trashing of Shai’s lunch is nothing more than a joke between friends. Never mind that if Shai’s mother knew of the food being wasted, she would unleash a firestorm of intergenerational trauma–induced rage that would burn Venice High to the ground. Never mind that it’s been mental torture for Shai every single day. Never mind that Shai’s been subsisting on vending machine fare and his belt can’t be cinched any tighter.