I despise him. I despise him with the white hot intensity of a thousand suns. He thinks that just because he gets the top grade in the whole drama department, that makes him the utmost expert on all things Shakespeare and theatre related. Sometimes I wonder why I haven't kicked the crap out of him on the way to his car in the afternoon.

Oh yes, because I have no upper or lower body strength.

One of these days Tom Hiddleston is going to learn that just because he has a seemingly natural talent for acting, doesn't mean that he's the best. I've been in musical theatre for ten years now. Ten. Stinking. Years. In which I worked my butt off to get into RADA.

He. Of. All. People. Will. Not. Mess. This. Up. For. Me.

But it just seems that he might. Because this morning, after I'd walked into class, Mr. Thompkins had one phrase written on the board. One phrase I'd heard about from previous Drama students who'd taken this course. A phrase that was unanimously despised by all.

The board simply said, "Play-On: Romance- A Study in Shakespeare" in white chalk.

The term "Play-On" in the course was simply that a small group or single person was required to act out a scene- typically by the end of the week. It was a Monday.

One week. This wouldn't have been so bad if I'd been paired up with Charlie or Harrison. No.

"Class will only be a half hour today, giving you the rest of the time to begin outlining your scenes." Mr. Thompkins drawled, slapping a stack of papers onto his desk, "You will know at that time who your partner is and what you'll be performing."

So, I was meant to be tortured for thirty minutes until he was ready to doom my world.

"Now, in the world of Shakespearean fiction..." he continued, and I listened to the best of my ability, but there was only one thing irking me to the point of distraction.

Tom's stupid curly head kept getting in the way of the notes we were supposed to be taking down on the chalkboard. When I'd move one way to see, he'd move that way. I came so close to just flicking him in the back of the head and telling him to pick a side so I could actually pay attention.

He was such a jerk to me. I thought at the first of the year he was just being funny- picking on the new girl, teasing her about her accent. But he never stopped. Soon enough his easy grins were evil smirks, daring me to shoot him a comeback that he'd easily brush away with a witty English comment. I could never win.

Which made me despise him all the more.

I hated staring at the back of his stupid head. He sat directly in front of me, which gave me the overwhelming desire to spit gum in his hair on the worst of days. I never had; knowing it'd be too evil a thing for a person like me to do and it'd take him much too long to get it out. Sometimes I liked to pretend I'd done it though, and picture him in his dorm bath, staring in the mirror, tears springing up in those blue-green eyes that never seemed to pick a shade, all red-rimmed and his pouty lips quivering as he pulled the bright pink bubble gum out of those tight honey-blond curls.

Oh- I get goose-bumps just thinking about it.

Thirty minutes flew by while encased in my fantasy of Tom attempting every means necessary to keep from cutting his precious locks because of my fruity chewing gum.

Mr. Thompkins began reading off the list of names, pairing off boy/girl couples two-by-two until there were only a few of us left who didn't have partners. I prayed that I wouldn't be stuck with the monstrosity of Tom's gargantuan ego and that I'd be sent off to be Jeremy's partner (even though he was the worst actor in the whole class).

"Mr. Hiddleston you'll be paired with-,"

And there it is.

My. Name.

He called. My. Name.

Stinking. Tom.

Craaaaaap.

My luck. Always my luck. It never goes the way I want it to. And now, Tom is looking back to me, his stupid face one of frustration and disgust. I can't say I'm not giving him the same look.

I'm super aware of the classmates seated around us though- they all know of mine and Tom's distaste of one another, and I assume they're all curious as to how this is all going to go down.

As am I, peers. As am I.

And then Professor gives us our scene and I immediately want to throw up all over the floor.

"Romeo and Juliet: Act I, Scene V, starting with line ninety-one."

Holy. Palmer's. Kiss.

I can almost taste my lunch as I look up and see the horror on Tom's face. We get the two highest grades in the class. We both have memorized every play we've had to read in here. We read Romeo and Juliet last month. We both know what that scene entails.

Two. Kisses.

Two stinking on the mouth, lets get married after knowing each other three days, I love you so much I'll die for you, kisses.

Am I that good of an actor?

There is no way I'm going to pull this off without vomiting on him.

But then I'd have the satisfaction of seeing him almost cry because of the awful stuff getting in his hair. Thinking of this- it's almost worth it.

But only almost.

Part of the assignment is to outline the scene- explain the situation, explore the characters and their motivations, reword the entire passages of dialogue to modern day terms and then come up with not only a good scene with the original text but also perform the modern version we, as a team, are intended to write.

It's so much easier when working with a group of four or five- you're able to divvy the work up and still get all of the information you need. With two? And especially with Tom? Well, let's just say that we'll be fighting over who gets to do what.

Because there's no way in Texas he's getting to write the modern version on his own. I heard he tried to pull that crap a couple weeks ago during the Play-On "Othello". Thankfully, I hadn't been in his group.

I probably would have put gum in his hair.

Now I know what you're probably thinking- Why does it matter that he wanted to take initiative and do a big chunk of the work on his own? Well, it's not that we, as overworked college students, mind that he wants to take some of the burden of class off our backs- no. It's because writing the modern adaptation is the most fun thing we ever do in the wonderful world of Shakespeare. You get to pull apart the language and try to fit it in with some sort of area in your life- making it completely relatable to anyone in this time period.

That's something no one ever wants to give up. Even Jeremy likes doing that part.

So after I'm given the assignment that will more than likely prove fatal (for Tom or me, I'm not sure yet) Tom stands as other peers snicker and leave- actually excited for this.

He glances down at me, with this look of pure annoyance, "If we're going to get this outlined we need to get going."

His accent rolls over me like a putrid smell, frustrating me beyond reason. I've got to listen to his drawling "R's" and long "O" sounds for the next week without choking him.

I hum a quick reply, signifying a yes while gathering my notebook and pencils, stuffing them into my overglorified backpack/purse. He needs to calm his britches and understand that I am not going to be taking orders from him.

I will take my own sweet and precious time.

He begins tapping his foot, precariously checking the time on his watch, scratches his head absent-mindedly before I finally decide that I'm ready to head in the direction of the library.

He tries to stay ahead of me, not wanting the supposed embarrassment it would cause his reputation if he were to be seen with me next to him. That just makes me want to sidle up beside him even more- just so he has to acknowledge my existence.

I see his eyes roll back in annoyance, a huffed breath of air release from flared nostrils as his long legs pick up pace and easily surpass my stride. It takes a bit of time to finally reach the old library- rows and rows of books compelling me to jump inside each page and live in their stories.

Any story would be better than having to work with Mr. Snooty Pants. Even a Stephen King novel.

I follow behind him toward the "Script and Plays" section, the dim lighting capturing my imagination and sending me on a journey back into Shakespeare's time. This library was always capable of sending you off somewhere you had no intention in going. It felt like it belonged in Hogwarts, the simple magic the shelves possessed in getting my train of thought onto fifteen different tracks.

He hurries past the romance novels section, past hundreds of books on England's history, a smaller section dedicated to American history (I sometimes go there when I'm homesick) before we're deep in the back of the massive cathedral-like room.

He walks directly to the shelf, golden curls darkening in the yellow light, and pulls two books off immediately. I find him extremely annoying. He's stinking memorized the back wall of the library, because, as far as I know, this is where he spends most of his free time (when he's not off with his friends... doing who knows what.)

With a steady hand, he shoves a book at me, "You know the page."

Oh goodness, yes, I know the stinking page.

"Let's just get this over with- I've got to get back to the dorms before three," he brushes past my shoulder, probably intending to knock me over on his way to a vacant table.

"Where do you want to start," I ask, although really, I don't know why. I was just ready to leave him and his stupid face, let him work on his own and then somehow collaborate before Friday rolled around.

He says nothing, deep and yet alarmingly shallow eyes searching pages in his copy of "Romeo and Juliet."

"Tom?" I roll my eyes, sighing when he doesn't respond.

There's a moment of pure silence in which I feel like slapping him. I always feel like that- but now, it's even more tempting. Right now I have a reason to slap him. He's not listening.

"Look," I begin, reaching across the table and shoving his book down. Its spine hits the table with a loud thwack that makes him blink before narrowing his eyes at me, "I know you don't want to work with me- and trust that I would love nothing more than to have Jeremy as my partner instead, but we have an assignment and I'm not about to get a bad grade just because you have this otherworldly hatred of me. Man up, suck it up, and let's get the stinking project done."

"I was reading," he snips, ripping the book out from under my hand, "and thank you for the wonderful little speech. I was unaware that you had so many words bottled up in that head of yours. I do hope you haven't used them all."

Insulting my intelligence- way to really stoop low, Hiddleston. Woo.

"Yeah, well, at least I have the satisfaction of knowing you die at the end of the play."

"Oh, you're so hilarious," his small nose scrunches in obvious disgust as he leans back in his chair, pressing the appendage into the book, "Get out your notebook- I'll tell you what to write."

Aw, heck no.

~Later~

"I'm going to kill him, Di- I really am this time." It's all I'm able to say through my burning red face as I pace across our shared dorm room.

"It can't be that bad," Diana tries to soothe, sounding like this shouldn't be half as bad as I'm making it out to be, "He's kind of cute..."

"Oh-" I make the most disgusted face, spinning to her sitting on the edge of her bed, "Not you too. For the love of tap-dancing, Di!"

She can't. She really can't flipping think he's cute. He is the most repulsive, low-down, sinister thing that has ever crossed my path, including the skunk I had an encounter with when I was seven.

"Tell me you didn't think he was somewhat handsome when you met him."

"And then he opened his mouth and it all went downhill from there," I finish for her, pointedly giving her this look that told her it wasn't smart to argue.

"Are you PMS-ing? You're usually not this... flamboyant when it comes to Tom."

"Don't even say his name," I grit my teeth together through the words, "And no. My hormones are completely fine, thank-you very much."

"How long did you have for the project? The week?"

"Yes," I groan out, "A.K.A. the worst week of my life."

"Now, how do you know that- it just started."

Di and I have this shared facial expression, one that completely conveys how stupid the other just sounded- and I lay it thick on her.

"Ahh- I see you won't be swayed on thinking it'll go more smoothly than you plan."

"Because it won't. It's that simple. He's a jerk, and I'm an American who apparently isn't able to hold her own in his beloved country."

~Tuesday~

"Have you noticed how short the scene is?" Tom asks Tuesday afternoon, turning around in his chair to address me.

"I'm sorry-" I feign innocence, sitting up straighter, "Were you talking to me?"

His eyes roll, "No, I'm talking to my friend Julio."

I lean forward and whisper, "Tom- you might want to get your head examined... there's no one here named Julio."

"Seriously-" he huffs, "The scene is like miniscule. If he wanted us to do a romance, why not have us do the death scene?"

"Love the wishful thinking," I say, "But this is more romantic than the ending. The ending is depressing- at least at this point they had some sort of hope for the relationship."

He just remains quiet, looking down at his open script, a solemn frown plastered on his lips.

"Have you noticed that?" I ask, glancing around the room, "Everyone's romance scenes are happy ones. They're hopeful- because Shakespeare was very hopeful in the beginning. It wasn't until the story really got going that the reality set in for his characters, and they freaked out and everyone decided to kill each other."

"Hmm," he hums, glancing at the other groups, "I guess you're right."

Well- that's a start.

"Did the one and only Tom Hiddleston just admit that I was correct?" I ask- pretending to be absolutely starstruck.

"Don't let it go to your head," he turns around, an annoyed tone creeping into his vocal chords, "Start Juliet's character analysis for the scene."

"Aye-aye Cap'n," I salute to the back of his head, picturing a large wad of wet pink gum sitting there, staring back at me.

~~
Well, this looks like the beginning of a beautiful enemy-ship. :D

Feedback, darlings? It would be lovely :D