Saint Crispin's Day

Saint Crispin’s Day

By Jody Terres

The bus carrying Englishtown High School’s drama club road hard and loud down the side street that led to Dauphin Regional High School’s parking lot, reigning champions of Shakesperience and thus host of this year’s final round. This year the play was Henry V—Englishtown’s performance pitted against Dauphin’s.

In the seat furthest to the back, John tipped his flask over his coffee cup, releasing a generous amount of brown liquid into the black. Not a drop spilled.

“John, dude.” Dean never called him Mr. Simon. None of the students did. “What are you doing? Keep it together until this is done, will you. They took us to help.”

“This is going to help me help,” John said flat, “young Hal.”

Dean glared at him. “Whittaya tryin’ to do here. Can you keep anything to yourself? Really.”

“I’m just saying. You know this stuff better than they do.”

Dean’s expression hardened. “Yeah, well. Least I’m not like them.”

“You got that right,” John said as he handed his whiskey-infused coffee to Dean.

Dean took a hard sip, squeezed his eyes tight. “Jesus, John,” he said, handing back.

“Acting!” John yelled, hand raised in the air like Jon Lovitz’s master thespian character on SNL. No one noticed.

Dean slapped John’s arm down.

“Relax Dee,” John said. “When the apocalypse comes, these kids’ll be dead on the first day. You did it right. You take apart cars and frame houses while they play dress-up. ‘Oh, what’s my motivation.’ Fairies.”

Dean stared at him, shaking his head slowly.

John smirked. “Oh, come on. You know I don’t judge. I’m just a—"

“Yep, I know. Product of your time. You might want to try the present out someday. And stop juicin’ up your coffee! I’m not putting up all these stage sets by myself. ”

John blew out a spittley raspberry and capped his flask. He turned a shoulder to Dean and set to staring out the window.

So used to John’s endless quips and prattles, Dean didn’t know what to do with the quiet. He latched onto to Princip Ruel rehearse his lines. Princip was King Henry. His lines were from Act Four, Scene Three—the Saint Crispin’s Day speech.

“What’s he that wishes so? My cousin Westmorland? No, my fair cousin. If we are marked to die, we are enough to do our country loss…”

The words came from Princip’s mouth in a voice not his own, a regal yet boyish, a perfect English accent. Only a few lines in and he had become King Harry, transporting himself and the entire bus to that field in France just before the battle of Agincourt. His voice, a light tremor of fear with tenacity pushing above it, building in strength and confidence.

Dean followed along, mouthing each word in silence, keeping the same pace and rhythm as if they were of one mind.

“…This day is called the feast of Crispian. He that outlives this day and comes safe home will stand o’ tiptoe when this day is named…”

Line after line, Dean followed without error. Shop classes were his day but at night it was Shakespeare. He had copies of the plays hidden in a box within a box buried under a pile of hoodies in his closet. The books were his mom’s. She used to read them to him when he was a younger boy. When she died, his dad threw them away, but Dean rescued them and kept it secret. His dad wouldn’t like it if he knew. Drink beer in his room…fine. Leave porn up on the computer screen…no problem. Leave a book, any book, sitting around on a table and it got trashed. “Don’t waste time on this shit like your mother.” Dean’s dad was mad at her for leaving. The cancer didn’t give her much of a choice. 

“…And gentlemen in England now abed, shall think themselves accursed they were not here, and hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks that fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s Day.”

The scene was done and the bus erupted into applause. Princip acknowledged with a slight tilt of the head and sat back down as the bus slowed to a stop.

“Everyone. Please, everyone.” Mr. Evans, the drama teacher, yelled over the rustling of twenty students standing and stepping into the aisle. “Remember, these are our competitors but we are their guests. Keep it respectful…at least until after we win.”

The students cheered as they filtered past Mr. Evans off the bus. John and Dean lingered until the bus was clear.

“Gentleman, will you be joining us? Our scenery is in the cafeteria, so I’m told. We’re up first so please be quick.”

“Ok Paul,” John said with a big stretch, his beer belly pressing against the seatback in front of him. “Go break a leg, or something. We got it.”

Mr. Evans rolled his eyes and muttered something as he stepped down the steps to the bus door.

“All right Dee. Time to shine.”

“Gavin. They’re here.”

Gavin closed his eyes and breathed in deep, straight backed and chest inflating, steeling himself in front of the others as when he is about to take the stage. He was man of the theater, Best Actor in a Leading Role at last year’s Shakesperience a first for a sophomore at Dauphin Regional High School. Gavin was a prodigy, in his mind and the minds of his sycophants.

He opened his eyes and clapped his hands together. “Then it is time. My friends…the game’s afoot. You know what to do.”

The troop of three nodded, each brandishing an instrument of Gavin’s plot: a black iron rod, a pad lock and a can of Thrust energy drink, Lemon Lightning, Princip Ruel’s favorite.

He won’t take it from me, Gavin thought, then whispered aloud: “I. Am. Harry.”

Dauphin’s drama club had prepared a lovely reception in the cafeteria: sparkling champagne and finger foods. While Dean and John rolled the scenery across the back of the room, Dean watched the two clubs mingle in a performance worthy of an academy award. The enmity was palpable yet invisible.

“Best acting we’ll see all night,” John said. Dean knew different.

Gavin DuPree held court at a gathering of students from both schools, clothed in hubris and sipping the fake champagne as if not to overindulge.

Princip Ruel stood alone beside the drink table, face frozen, eyes pinned to the floor. He knew the lines, he knew King Harry. His fear would give him the edge.

A perky blonde stepped up to Princip and handed him a Thrust Energy Drink, a dripping lemon wedge and a bolt of lightning printed on the side of the can. The two talked for a bit, Princip taking big gulps of the drink when the girl spoke, which was often.

Dean wanted to knock the can out of his hand and shoo the little groupie away, but John was on the other end of a rolling set piece pushing him backward out the door.

Twenty minutes later, an Englishtown actor asked Dean if he had seen Princip.

“No one’s seen him since he left the reception.”

“Sierra, grab his phone.” Gavin nodded his head toward the cell phone on the bathroom floor, while he and another actor rolled Princip’s unconscious body onto a blanket. “Ok, ready to slide. You two drag him out next to the dumpsters. Sierra, time to disappear.”

Dauphin High’s security guards began the search for Princip after Mr. Evans reported him missing to the school Principal Tonesdale. Showtime was in one hour.

Mr. Evans had been pacing the floor, when Principal Tonesdale approached with a tablet: “Mr. Evans, a word.”

Dean watched the conversation. Evans’s brows furrowed, incredulous, then arched up when Tonesdale when he saw whatever was displayed on the tablet.

“Seems your Mr. Ruel has interests other than acting.” Tonesdale gave a respectful silence, then asked: “I suppose you’ll continue the performance with your understudy.”

“He’s out with the flu.”

Tonesdale exhaled an insincere concern. “Then I suppose forfeiture it is.”

Evans didn’t respond. He stormed off past Dean and John muttering. “Unbelievable.”

Without a word, John followed, caught up with Evans at the end of the hall.

Dean couldn’t hear what was being said, but then both men looked down the hall at him. “Son of a bitch.”

The dressing room was dead silent as Dean sat in the makeup chair with King Henry’s robes already on. He stood up, sweat breading along the wig’s hairline.

“I know this seems terrible, but I got this.”

His words did nothing to move the actors in the room.

Dean took to the stage. Never before had he felt such terror and excitement in a single moment. He stepped to his mark, then said nothing. He stood still, deaf, unblinking, numb. He saw his Exeter standing by, brows arched, beckoning Dean to speak.

Sensation and sound returned. He spoke.

“Where is my gracious Lord Canterbury?”

He heard his voice, didn’t recognize it as such.

Exeter said his line and Dean replied. “Send for him good uncle.” The words fell from his mouth. Speech was no longer under his direct control. The lines went direct to mouth from memory, a connection created by his mother all those years ago.

It wasn’t until Dean uttered the final lines of Act One that his actions became willful. He walked off stage under his own power, and to the sound of unbridled applause.

Evans shot straight to Dean and hugged him. “Dean Campbell, Dean Campbell. Where have you been!”

Act Two was a success. Act Three was moments away from beginning; opening with the famous “once more unto the breech” speech. Chorus finished and Dean strode onto the stage, ready to deliver his line, when a dazed and disheveled Princip stumble through the backdrop. 

Gasps from backstage and murmurs from the audience. Dean rushed over to support Princip.

“Where were you?” asked Dean.

“I was at the reception. I left to go to the bathroom, then I don’t remember.”

Someone snickered; Dean looked up. Gavin and two of his minions stood on stage, hands over mouths. Their narrowed eyes showed the laughter had not ended.

By now, the ensembles from both schools had poured onto the stage.

Dean stood up, slowly. He looked at his compatriots. Their expressions revealed all were of the same mind as his.

Then, he belted out the next line. “Once more unto the breech, dear friends!”

The Englishtown troops rushed into the line of Dauphin students and started swinging. Teachers and security waded into the melee, pulling students from each other. John rushed to Dean’s side. John took a punch to the head.

The bus was empty on the ride home to Englishtown—parents had been called to collect their bruised and bloodied teenagers. Dean and John sat in the middle of the bus, shattered scenery in the aisleway and slung onto seats. Dean had a band-aid over one swollen eye. His lips were cut and cracked. A blood-stained tissue hung out from one nostril.

“You did great tonight,” said John right before he took a swig from his flask. “Guess you’ll joining the drama geeks now.”

Dean pulled the tissue from his nose and looked at it curiously.

“Nope. Too dangerous.”