Grace watched Adam drink the poison. It was nearly finished now.
She made him do it.
Should she feel this proud?
Far away: “Why does the drum come hither?”
Close: “Get off Fortinbras’ cape, Mrs. Banks.”
A behind-the-scenes view of Adam sinking to his knees, a command from his theater teacher, wrenched her attention.
Grace moved her foot, and the teacher shoved the other prince into the limelight. He stuttered like a skipping disc, and rambled Hamlet’s eulogy.
The scrim closed, then opened again on the line of bowing ten-year-olds.
Grace clapped the loudest, already scheming. Next year, MacBeth.