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  Take Her Down

  Synopsis

  In this queer YA retelling of Shakespeare’s, Julius Caesar, stakes at Augustus Magnet School are cutthroat, scheming is creative, and loyalty is ever-changing.

  Overnight, Bronwyn St. James goes from junior class queen to daughter of an imprisoned felon, and she lands in the care of her aunt and younger cousin Cass, a competitive cheerleader who Bronwyn barely knows. Life gets worse when her ex-best friend, the always-cool Jude Cuthbert, ostracizes Bronwyn from the queer social elite for dating a boy, Porter Kendrick.

  Bronwyn and Jude are both running for student body president, and that means war. But after Bronwyn, Porter, and Cass share a video of Jude in a compromising position, Jude suddenly goes missing. No one has seen her for weeks and it might be all Bronwyn’s fault. Will Jude ever be found? Or will Bronwyn finally have to reckon with what she’s won—and what she’s lost?

  Content Advisory: Depictions of sexual assault.

  Advance praise for Take Her Down

  “Effortlessly transporting the halls of the Roman Forum to the halls of high school, Take Her Down grapples with questions of identity, community, and the public sphere. The personal is political while the political is personal—especially for teenagers—and Lauren Emily Whalen ensures that readers will question their own motivations, biases, and narratives as the story of Bronwyn, Jude, and their cadre of conspirators unfolds. Diversity only adds to the complexity and dynamics of the story—a brilliant realism where no character is an archetype, despite the source material. Take Her Down makes both history and Shakespearean Histories approachable for the reader.”—Emily Edwards, author and host of F*ckbois of Literature podcast

  “Take Her Down follows a cast of teens as they work through disappointment and betrayal amid a ruthless school election—all while experimenting and questioning who they might love. Whalen’s writing asks the reader to examine how the boxes we put ourselves in don’t always close, and how our capabilities for harm are as vast and far reaching as our abilities to heal and move on. The pace is fast; the stakes intense and breathtaking. I could not put it down.”—Jessica Cranberry, author of In The Trap

  Praise for Two Winters

  “This retelling of The Winter’s Tale follows parallel stories of family and forgiveness in two very different times…Finding the original play’s resonance in the complicated kingdoms of high school while still appealingly down-to-earth, the specificity of place and slow build toward complication and tragedy work well in Paulina’s section but less successfully in Perdita’s. Readers need not be familiar with Shakespeare’s original to appreciate this skillful adaptation. Unabashedly queer, moving, and sincere.”—Kirkus Reviews

  “Two Winters is an exceedingly clever adaptation that captures the heart of one of Shakespeare’s most complex works—and it’ll capture your heart, too. This multi-generational tale of self-discovery and the secrets we inherit needs a place on your bookshelf.”—Stephanie Kate Strohm, author of Love à la Mode and It’s Not Me, It’s You

  “Two Winters is a breath of fresh air; a sweet, nostalgic trip back to the 1990s, when music was everything, the angst was real and lifelong friendships were forged in the struggle of emerging identities. This modern retelling of Shakespeare’s The Winter’s Tale is a poignant and hopeful tale of love, tragedy and divided loyalties that will resonate with anyone who was ever a confused teenager. I just loved this book!”—Lillah Lawson, author of Monarchs Under the Sassafras Tree, So Long, Bobby and the Deadrockstar trilogy

  “Compelling characters lead complicated lives whose twists and turns will keep you turning pages of Two Winters.”—Crystal Cestari, author of Super Adjacent and the Windy City Magic series

  “Two Winters somehow magically, skillfully pulls off the feat of balancing two independent but interrelated narratives that are equally compelling, with complex characters who we get to see learn and grow on the page. Both stories are funny and sharp and dramatic and heartbreaking, and the way they ultimately weave together makes for an encompassing and satisfying read.”—Michelle Falkoff, author of How to Pack for the End of the World and Pushing Perfect

  Take Her Down

  Brought to you by

  eBooks from Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  http://www.boldstrokesbooks.com

  eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

  Please respect the rights of the author and do not file share.

  By the Author

  Two Winters

  Take Her Down

  Take Her Down

  © 2022 By Lauren Emily Whalen. All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-63679-090-9

  This Electronic Original Is Published By

  Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 249

  Valley Falls, NY 12185

  First Edition: March 2022

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Credits

  Editor: Cindy Cresap

  Production Design: Stacia Seaman

  Cover Design by Inkspiral Designs

  eBook Design by Toni Whitaker

  Acknowledgments

  For loving this story from its inception, allowing it to grow and putting it out there: the Bold Strokes Books team, including Sandy Lowe, Cindy Cresap, Ruth Sternglantz, and Carsen Taite.

  For my absolute favorite cover ever: Inkspiral Designs.

  For the best beta reading on the planet: Jess Moore.

  For answering the tough questions: Hannah Mary Simpson, Andrea Berting, Zoë Mikel-Stites, Megan Pedersen, Allison Kirby, and Dan Scully.

  For all my tarot needs, including Cass’s spreads in the book: Avalon Dziak.

  For letting me shamelessly plug on their podcasts: Emily Edwards (Fuckbois of Lit), Anita Kelly (Lez Talk About Books, Baby) and Brian Rowe (Piece of Pie: The Queer Film Podcast). Like and subscribe!

  For letting me shamelessly plug in and out of their spaces: Jacksonville Public Library, Book Cellar Chicago, the Chicago YA Book Festival, and Our Town Books.

  For constant inspiration and support: authors Lillah Lawson, Stephanie Kate Strohm, Jayne Renault, Dahlia Adler (and LGBTQReads) and countless others.

  For everything: my fellow writers and performers, my family, and my friends.

  For the B’s in LGBTQ+.

  I see you.

  Prologue

  Dear Ms. Strohm,

  For our senior AP English project, you asked us to sort out our experiences of the past three and a half years in whatever literary-adjacent way we felt appropriate. You wanted to give us the feeling of a thesis—in essence, something where research and writing would take an entire semester, that was physically impossible to throw together the night before or the morning of—before we got to college and grad school, which are in the business of theses. So, here you go.

  We’re on the verge of a new president of the United States, coming out of a global pandemic, and the world is (sometimes literally) on fire. I was a first-year at this school when the following events took place, with Mrs. Kirkpatrick droning through grammar lessons while I stared open-mouthed at the upperclasspeople sashaying through the hallways, gracefully and eloquently fighting over the power to…well, have power.

  And then suddenly, a metaphorical bomb dropped.

  Everything changed, under circumstances both well-known and mysterious, leaving more questions than answers. History was made, not only in the outside world but in our teenage microcosm. How could I not reflect on how we all felt then?

  My senior project is an oral and written history of that semester, featuring interviews with the main players conducted in person and via phone / FaceTime, transcriptions of audio recordings, journal entries, and drafts of campaign speeches (school-approved and otherwise)—including the tiny but pivotal part I played in the whole ordeal. Though I’ve edited for brevity and compiled interviews into chunks for storytelling purposes, all important details are real.

  To quote the old-school crime shows my grandpa loves, these are their stories. (Too much?)

  Speaking of stories, with the subjects’ permission, I’ve re-created certain scenes with dialogue. You know my affinity for creative writing, Ms. Strohm. So, with that in mind, I guess it’s not a strict oral history. But stick with me. The things they said, they’re important, and I want to put you right in the moment whenever I am able.

  Everyone I profiled has graduated. I know you’ll recognize your former students, but I’ve changed the names of most people and our school, to protect the innocent. I kept my full name and Cass’s first name, with her encouragement. I thought a parallel to Julius Caesar would be especially appropriate not just because of my name, but the institution that was the center of our world, just like Rome was for Caesar, Brutus, and the conspirators.

  Can’t get more Shakespearean than that, huh? Not that I’m looking for extra credit, but I wouldn’t turn it down either. Like everyone else at what I’m calling “Augustus High,” I’ve got the Ivies in my sights.

  More than anything, though, I’
m proud of this project, the interviews I conducted, the informational and emotional gaps I was finally able to fill. When you’re fourteen and entering a brave new world where “take ’em by the tits” is suddenly leadership language, plus you still have to take pre-calculus and remember where the bathroom that doesn’t constantly, inexplicably smell like chili is located, you can miss a whole lot of what’s around you. The kids above me seemed so…together, even when they were at each other’s throats. Knowing that was far from the case is both comforting and strangely terrifying. Will we ever have it together? Do you?

  I’ve rambled long enough, so I’ll leave you to my oral history. My first thesis. A project I thought would never work, that started out as sort of a middle finger because you always say I “tell” when I should “show” but then, weirdly, came together and taught me more than almost anything in my four years here. If I were a suck-up I’d say “Thank you for this opportunity,” but really…yes? Yes.

  Yours truly,

  Calpurnia Kennedy

  The Players

  Bronwyn St. James, she / her, junior at Augustus High, candidate for student body president

  Cassandra “Cass” St. James, she / her, sophomore at Augustus High, Bronwyn’s cousin, housemate, and campaign manager, club cheerleader and tarot enthusiast

  Jude “JC” Cuthbert, she / her, junior at Augustus High, candidate for student body president, power lesbian and Bronwyn’s ex-best friend

  Porter “Pleaser” Kendrick, he / him, junior at Augustus High, Bronwyn’s first boyfriend, Exploding Kittens devotee, straitlaced straight guy

  Antonia “Tone” Marcus, she / they, sophomore at Augustus High, demigirl, Bronwyn’s and Jude’s ex-girlfriend, Jude’s campaign manager

  Scarlett (she / her), Nasim (he / him), and Declan (he / him), coconspirators and students at Augustus High whom Jude Cuthbert has alienated, ostracized, or busted over the years

  Calpurnia Kennedy, she / her, unsuspecting baby gay and first-year student at Augustus High

  Mr. Roman, he / him, teacher at Augustus High, idolized and / or lusted after by his students who are too young and / or dumb to know better

  Principal Olive Murrell, she / her, principal of Augustus High. Has a PhD but prefers “principal.” Stylish and authoritative. You don’t mess with her, ever.

  Augustus Magnet School, also known as Augustus High, technically the setting, but as you’ll see, almost a character in itself. An exclusive magnet school, its motto is “Ut est rerum omnium magister usus.” Because of course it is.

  Various revelers, coaches, and parents

  ACT I

  “…not that I loved Caesar less, but that I loved Rome more.”

  —Brutus, Julius Caesar

  Chapter One

  Bronwyn

  Three thirty-five a.m. and my boyfriend was doing jumping jacks.

  Is that a good place to start? I’ve never been part of an oral history before. No offense, I barely know you and now we’re sitting together on my college campus. Thanks for the coffee, by the way.

  And I’m your first interview? Wow. No pressure or anything. And you want to re-create dialogue? Yeah, I guess. Go for it.

  Anyway, the jumping jacks.

  For weeks, I’d jerked awake at that exact time, my body yanked out of REM tense and ready for a fight. Normally, the person next to me let out a small, satisfied snuffle-snort, turning over on their side to face me, eyes squeezed shut and mouth wide open. I didn’t mind. It was the most peaceful they looked all day and all of the night. No way in hell I’d wake them up. I hoped their mind was quiet the same way mine raced with thoughts I wasn’t ready to call regrets, with defensive responses no one in my waking life had even asked for. At that time, I was ready and waiting to be put on trial. Even at twenty-five to four in the morning.

  Sometimes my fists even punched the air. Before I gave in to the shut-eye that would become sleepus interruptus a mere few hours later, I offered up an intercession to the Flying Spaghetti Monster that I wouldn’t hit the precious one snoozing next to me. So far, so good.

  After that initial body-jerk, I wouldn’t move. Not only did I not want to interrupt their REM cycle, but it also felt wrong to interrupt the night. Barring climate change and / or natural disaster, of course. At that point I’d already done enough to disrupt what should have just unfolded in front of me, naturally as nightfall.

  Every morning at three thirty-five a.m., my eyes popped open and stayed wide for at least an hour. I could kick all the way out of the sheets already mangled with my tossing and turning, pour a glass of water, stream Full House reruns on my phone. But because I stayed still, considering the inner peace of others, I tortured myself with my own thoughts. An apt punishment, really, for someone who used to think she could get inside everyone’s head. Who always knew what she wanted and exactly how to make it so, to paraphrase my jailed father’s paraphrasing of Jean-Luc Picard.

  There’s no head I wanted to be in less than my own.

  Yet at three thirty-five a.m., that’s what I was stuck with, no card games or kisses or blustery speechifying to distract me from the inevitable.

  But that morning things were different because Porter was a jumping-jack bean. I could see a sheen of sweat on his brow, but his hair was pulled off his forehead by one of my cousin’s hairbands she used when she was washing her face, doing an especially intense tarot reading or…doing jumping jacks. His breathing was like huh. Huh. HUH.

  This was a guy who had his psychiatrist write him a note so he could do Yogilates instead of regular PE.

  I remember rolling over on my side and patting the sheets next to me, trying to look as enticing as possible while hiding my alarm. I’m sure I read as constipated if he could even make me out in the dark. “Por. Come back to bed, hon. What are you doing?”

  He ignored me, kept huffing and puffing, bare feet slapping against the old rug Cass and her mom had put over the concrete before I moved into their garage.

  I tried again. I think I moved the strap of my cami down my shoulder. I’ve never been good at the seduction thing. It was then I knew he could see me because he rolled his eyes.

  “What are you doing?” I asked again, but the dread was growing inside me.

  He wasn’t doing cardio at the ass-crack because he wanted to build stamina for whatever reason. No. My boyfriend’s jumping jacks, when we should have been sleeping or screwing, were both a product of his beautifully messed-up brain—the messed-up was what made it beautiful, I want to be precise about that—and what we’d done, him and me and Cass, so I could win a stupid school election.

  Jeez. Even just remembering the jumping jacks is hard. I hope you get an A.

  Bronwyn

  Our world ended the night he won.

  Do you remember? Of course you do, you were like fourteen. Does your stomach still do funny shit when you think about that administration? Because mine does.

  We were so excited. A woman president, the first in anyone’s lifetimes. One who could trounce any sexist argument thrown her way, who’d already survived a world of hurt thanks to a philandering husband who denied he knew what a blow job even was, who had an amazing daughter, who was old enough to be our mom but still ambitious and cool. There was no way that November night wouldn’t be a huge celebration, like when we were little and the previous president was elected and people partied in the streets—not like it was the end of the world, but like it was the very beginning.

  The next morning, I woke up to dead silence.

  This wasn’t completely out of the ordinary, the quiet. Cass was a morning person but didn’t bang around like my dads used to. Her mom, my aunt Deb, usually took early hours at the hospital so she was long gone, either that or she was asleep from the graveyard shift.