Spencer turned away, pretending to be fascinated with a folk art sculpture of a large black rooster. Even though surely everyone in town—in the country—had heard about her ordeal with Real Ali, it was strange that someone like Beau had paid attention. “Most of the rumors aren’t true,” she said quietly.
“Of course they aren’t.” Beau strolled toward her. “But it sucks, doesn’t it? Everyone talking. Everyone looking at you.”
“It does suck,” she said, surprised Beau had nailed her struggle so succinctly.
When she looked up, he was staring at her with an enigmatic look on his face. It was almost like he was trying to memorize every inch of her features. Spencer stared back. She hadn’t noticed how green his eyes were before. Or the cute little dimple on his left cheek.
“So, um, should we get started?” she asked after an awkward beat.
Beau broke his gaze, walked across the room, and settled into a leather chair. “Sure. If you want.”
Spencer felt a stab of exasperation. “You told me to come here so you could teach me. So . . . teach me.”
Beau tilted the chair back and pressed a hand to his lips. “Well, I think your problem is that you don’t understand Lady Macbeth. You’re just a high school girl regurgitating her lines.”
Spencer straightened her spine. “Of course I understand her. She’s determined. She’s ambitious. She gets in over her head. And then she’s plagued by guilt for what she did.”
“Where’d you get that from, SparkNotes?” Beau scoffed. “Knowing facts isn’t the same as getting into the character. You have to experience what she experiences and really feel her. That’s Method acting.”
Spencer resisted the urge to laugh. “That’s bullshit.”
Beau’s eyes flashed. “Maybe you’re scared to really go for it. Method acting can dredge up some demons.”
“I’m not scared.” Spencer crossed her arms over her chest.
Beau rose from the chair and moved a few steps closer to her. “Okay, so you’re not scared. But you are doing this to get a four-point-oh, aren’t you? Not because you care about acting. Not because you care about the integrity of the play.”
Heat rushed to Spencer’s face. “You know what, I don’t need this.” She spun on her heel and started out of the room. Arrogant jerk.
“Wait.” Beau clamped his hand on hers and spun her around. “I’m challenging you. I think you’re good, better than you realize. But I also think you can step it up to the next level.”
The sudden scent of sandalwood incense tickled Spencer’s nose. She looked down at Beau’s large, warm fingers tightly entwined around hers. “Y-you think I’m good?” she asked in a voice barely over a whisper.
“I think you’re very good,” Beau said in a suddenly tender voice. “But you also have to let go of a lot of things first.”
“Let go of what?”
“You need to become Lady Macbeth. Go to a special place inside of you to understand her motivations. Feel what she feels. Know what you would do, if faced with her predicament.”
“Why does it matter what I would do?” Spencer protested. “She’s the character Shakespeare wrote about. Her lines are there on the page. She helps kill the king and sits silently by while her husband kills off everyone else in his way. Then she freaks.”
“Well, wouldn’t you freak if you killed someone and kept terrible secrets?”
Spencer looked away, a lump rising in her throat. This was a little too close for comfort. “Of course I would. But I’d never do that.”
Beau sighed. “You’re taking this too literally. You’re not Spencer Hastings, good girl, straight-A student, teacher’s pet. You’re Lady Macbeth. Sinister. Conniving. Ambitious. You convinced your husband to murder an innocent man. If it hadn’t been for you, he might not have gone off his rocker. What does it feel like to be responsible for so much damage?”
Spencer picked at a loose thread on her cashmere sweater, uncomfortable with Beau’s scrutiny. “How do you become one with Macbeth? Where’s the special place you go to?”
Beau looked away. “It doesn’t matter.”
Spencer placed her hands on her hips.
Beau pressed his lips together. “Fine. If you must know, I was bullied a lot when I was younger.” His voice was pinched. “I thought a lot about getting revenge. That’s where I go. I think about . . . them.”
Spencer’s hands went slack at her sides. The words hung heavily in the air. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Beau shrugged. “It was these assholes in my eighth-grade homeroom. I wanted to hurt them so badly. It’s not the same as Macbeth’s ambition, but it gets me in the right head space.”
He walked across the living room and spun a large old globe around and around. With his hunched shoulders and heavy head, he almost looked vulnerable. Spencer shifted her weight. “I’m really sorry that happened to you.”
The corners of Beau’s mouth pulled up in a wry smile. “I guess we have something in common, huh? You were bullied, too.”