No matter what was troubling her, she had to say good-night to her mother.
When Beth went downstairs, she saw her mother hunched over a pile of college history papers that she was grading. She sat on the faded couch that they had had since Beth was a baby.
“Professor Owens, you’re working too hard,” Beth said, trying to make her voice cheerful.
“It’s not so bad, honey,” her mother said, looking up. “Some of the papers are good. But some college students are appallingly lacking in their knowledge of American history. This one thinks the Vietnam War occurred before the Korean War.” She rolled her eyes. “At least the paper wasn’t plagiarized. I hope.”
“Good thing he or she is taking your class,” Beth said. She paused. “I’ve been thinking. I’d like to stop using my smartphone again for a while.”
“What! Not again!” Her mother stared at her. “Are you having problems with it? I’ve never heard of any other teenager who was so reluctant to use a smartphone. You used to love it.”
“I do love it, Mom. I just want to be smartphone-abstinent sometimes. Not be too dependent on it.”
Her mother raised her eyebrows. “Are you sure it isn’t just that you don’t want me to be able to reach you?”
“Mom!” Beth exclaimed. “You know you can trust me.” The words made her feel as deceptive as Juliet was to her parents. Her mother would have been horrified at her time traveling. “I never go places I’m not supposed to go or get in any trouble.” Not in this world, anyway.
She hated lying to her mother, but it was necessary.
“I know that. But it does worry me that you’re so intense. You worked too hard when you took that special studies class on Shakespeare with Ms. Capulet.”
“Oh Mom, you’re hilarious.” Beth made her voice sound casual. “How many mothers tell their daughters not to work too hard? Don’t worry. I won’t be tempted to do that this semester. Especially not in geometry.”
“You do have to keep up your math.”
“I know that. As an actor, I’ll have to calculate the diameter and circumference of the stage.”
“You’re still peerless at advanced placement clever retorts,” her mother said. “Get some rest, honey.”
“You, too, Mom.” Beth crossed the room and kissed her. “Goodnight.”
It could be difficult having a good mother, Beth thought. But she was sure it would be worse having a bad mother. People said that being a single mother was difficult, but her mother made it look almost easy.
Chapter 3
THE NEXT DAY, BETH smiled on her way to drama class. At least Ms. Capulet could be counted on not to choose a play that would hurt Beth. No Richard III. No Romeo and Juliet.
Beth entered the classroom. It looked the same as it had the previous semester—the dramatic black walls, the poster of Shakespeare, the computer screen behind the teacher’s desk, and the dark blue curtains that could be used to turn the front of the room into a stage. The room was odorless, until kids brought in their snacks.
All her friends were there—Sita, Arnie, and Kevin, and many other kids as well. Beth knew some but not all of them. Some James Dean wannabes wore leather jackets. Kevin wore one, too, and had his hair slicked back to look like the Fonz. How retro! Beth covered her mouth with her hand so she wouldn’t giggle at him.
Everyone seemed much more eager in this class than in any other. A couple of girls wore so much makeup that she wondered whether they thought they had to be ready to audition for the movies.
Beth wanted to wear make-up too—stage make-up that made her look old or young depending on the part. It would be fun to have fake wrinkles, she thought.
Beth exchanged friendly glances with everyone. She hadn’t seen Sita in two days. That was a long time for them. Since then, Sita had had a new haircut, stylish as always. And she wore a new outfit with a spangled top. Sita’s parents were doctors and could afford plenty of new clothes.
Beth wasn’t sure whether she would tell Sita about what was happening, or how much to tell. Was it better to tell before Sita guessed?
Sita was so sharp that she could figure out when something strange was going on. Beth thought of the first time she learned she had magical powers, when she had inadvertently turned another actor’s ears to donkey’s ears during a production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream at a summer theater camp play directed by Ms. Capulet. Merlin, disguised as an old man who had just wandered into the rehearsal space, had given Beth the spell to reverse the magic: “Shakespeare midsummer wild thyme hedgehogs Thisbe”—and the reverse spell to make everyone forget what had just happened—“Thisbe hedgehogs wild thyme midsummer Shakespeare.” Everyone’s mind was wiped—everyone’s but Sita’s. Sita had remembered that something had happened, though she hadn’t been sure just what. So it wouldn’t be long before Sita guessed that Beth was back in touch with Shakespeare’s world. And Sita would resent that, as she had before.
“This semester, we will perform a comedy,” Ms. Capulet told the class. “By popular request.”
Kevin applauded. He was a good actor, Beth thought, but he didn’t seem to be as bright offstage as Sita or Arnie.
“How about The Importance of Being Earnest?” Beth ventured. Not Shakespeare, please, she thought.
“That is an entertaining play,” Ms. Capulet said. “Unfortunately, the seniors are already doing it. Shakespeare is my specialty. I had thought of Twelfth Night.”
Beth exhaled. At least it was a comedy, and one of her favorites.
“The high school would let us put on Twelfth Night?” Arnie blinked. “It doesn’t have too much bawdy language?”
“I was thinking of making it an unofficial production, just casting my own students, and of course toning down the language a little,” the teacher said.
“Or a lot,” Sita murmured.
“It might be fun,” Beth said. At least no one got killed in the play. That was all she cared about.
“I hope you’ll try out for Viola,” the teacher urged her.
“Sure.” Beth had no problem with that suggestion. If she was going to pretend to be a guy in the Otherworld, she might as well play the part of a woman pretending to be a man in her own world, too. The parts might be good practice for each other. Being Mercutio could teach her how to play Viola. Or vice versa. Playing Viola could teach Beth how to be Mercutio.
“Why not try out for Olivia?” Ms. Capulet said to Sita.
Sita frowned. Even when she frowned, she looked like a model. “I’m not sure I want to be Olivia.”
“Or Feste,” the teacher added. “You could be either.”
“A deluded girl or a fool?” Sita said, but she smiled. “I’d rather be one of Shakespeare’s fools, of course.”
“I want to be Sir Toby Belch. Playing a drunkard would be fun.” Kevin Connelly stuck out his stomach and tried to look fat.
“You’ve got the belching down pat. I’d like to try out for Sir Andrew Aguecheek. That’s another good comic part,” Arnie said.
“Yes, and Duke Orsino, too,” the teacher suggested.
“Perfect.” Arnie grinned even more than Kevin.
So, Beth thought, she was supposed to be in love with Arnie if he played Duke Orsino. And have a girl in love with her. Very interesting, if a little weird. It would be more fun if she were bisexual.
Amelia Hansen, a quiet blonde girl who had just joined the class, said, “I want to try out for Olivia if I don’t have to wear make-up. I have chemical sensitivities.”
Another girl giggled. She fell silent when the teacher looked at her as if she had insulted someone’s mother.
“You don’t have to wear make-up,” Ms. Capulet said. “We try to accommodate everyone. In fact, no one will wear make-up. This is a high school production, after all.”
“How can you be an actor if you can’t wear stage make-up?”
Kevin asked.
“I don’t expect to be a professional actor,” Amelia said. “But acting in high school would be fun.”
Beth couldn’t picture Amelia as Olivia. Shouldn’t Olivia be a little harsher, more self-absorbed? Amelia had such a soft voice.
“Who will try out for Malvolio?” Ms. Capulet asked.
“I will.” Frank Wilson, a heavy black junior, stepped forward.
“This is a sophomore play,” the teacher told him.
“I know, but you put on the best plays. The registrar let me sign up for your class.” Frank grinned.
Beth could hardly admit how uncomfortable she was at having a black guy play an unsympathetic part, let alone that of a servant, even a steward. Not to mention a character whom the other characters hated and abused.
She could see from the other kids’ faces that they also were uneasy at this casting. Including Sita, Asian American though she was.
Frank looked around the room and smiled. “I guess you’d all rather I played Sir Toby Belch. No thanks. I don’t like the way Malvolio is treated in the play, and having me play the part will heighten the audience’s discomfort—as well as yours. That’s a good thing. People should be uncomfortable about Malvolio. That’s what makes this play more than a story of love and mistaken identities.”
“I want to try out for Maria,” said Lupe Gomez, a new girl in school.
Beth squirmed. She could see that Kevin squirmed also.
“Wouldn’t you rather try out for Olivia?” he asked. “You’re so pretty.”
“Olivia is a wuss. I’ve always wanted to play Maria. She’s tough, and she’s funny.” Lupe rolled her eyes. “Two people of color playing the servants. How terrible. How too much like real life.”
“Enough discussion,” Ms. Capulet said. “It’s time to audition.” She passed out copies of the script. “You first, Sita.”
“When that I was and a little tiny boy, with a hey, ho, the wind and the rain . . . .” Sita sang. Her singing voice was better than Beth had guessed, and appropriately androgynous for this part.
When the auditions ended, Ms. Capulet said, “You have all judged your skills well. You have the parts you wanted. Now learn your lines and try to develop your character’s perspective. As actors, you have a perspective on the role, but you need to feel the character’s perspective, not just yours.”
Several kids shifted in their chairs.
“That’s Stanislavski’s terminology,” the teacher said. “I’ll explain it to you individually if you need more discussion. Just try to figure out your character from the inside out. What is your character feeling, regardless of what he or she is saying?
“There’s something else you need to do,” Ms. Capulet added. “If you’re in any scenes with Amelia, please do not wear cologne or any other product with a strong scent. That includes not using scented soap or shampoo.”
Beth almost never wore perfume, so that didn’t sound difficult. She’d have to ask her mother to buy something besides lavender soap.
Beth corralled her teacher after the other students had left. “I’ve never played a man before, except in class exercises. Then you told us not to worry about seeming like men, just to think about what the character wants and what the character’s social position is. But I’m going to be playing a woman posing as a man, so shouldn’t she make some obvious attempts at trying to look like a man, maybe more obvious than if I were playing a male character?”
Ms. Capulet nodded. “You’ve got the right idea. She’s playing a young man, so she wouldn’t act like a dominant male, but she would probably exaggerate some gestures just a little.”
“Thank you,” Beth said. In other words, Viola as Cesario would be more subdued than Mercutio.
BETH SAT IN HER bedroom, memorizing Viola’s lines and trying to imagine pretending to be a guy. She wondered whether she could visit Twelfth Night to better understand the play.
With that thought, she spun through gleaming lights and incense. Her head ached. She knew she had landed in the place where she least wanted to be: Richard’s great hall. She looked like Mercutio, but she still felt just like Beth.
Richard III was as alive as ever. Why didn’t someone else have to die to bring him back? Beth wondered. She seethed at the thought that he was alive while Mercutio was dead.
Richard sat on his golden throne, his boar pennant hanging behind him. The hundred and some torches reflected in his walls of many mirrors almost blinded her. As usual, he had incense burning as if he were a god. And as usual, Beth choked on it. She disliked the smell of incense, especially his. Just hearing his name was enough to nauseate her, and his incense only worsened the nausea. Amelia must feel that way often. It was a good thing that she wasn’t the one who had to be with Richard.
Beth remembered that Merlin had said Richard had used her memories to make his hall look like the one in Kenneth Branagh’s movie of Hamlet, only grander. She wanted to get Richard out of her mind.
Richard was still handsome. One shoulder was slightly higher than the other, but that did nothing to mar his looks. He wore an ermine-trimmed purple robe that brought out the color in his blue eyes.
“I can’t be killed so easily. Doesn’t that delight you, dear Beth?” he said, leering at her.
“I’m thrilled.” So he could see that she was Beth, though she looked like Mercutio.
This was the first time Beth had seen Richard since he had ordered Tybalt to kill Mercutio again. Hatred flashed through her body as it never had before. She shook with rage. She steeled herself not to rush at him and strike him. She knew she could not do him physical damage, because he was a different kind of being, a character. It was against her principles anyway, but she wasn’t sure she could have held on to her principles if she had been certain she could kill him. Could she kill him as Mercutio? No, Richard might just spring up again as he had this time. Could he kill her now that she was wearing Mercutio? She wasn’t ready to die as Mercutio yet.
“Pardon me for not addressing you as Mercutio, but I know that he is far deader than I am. But if you are going to play his part, won’t you drink some wine?” The king picked up a golden goblet and offered it to her.
“Mercutio wouldn’t drink with you if he came back knowing that you killed him,” Beth said, her voice almost a snarl.
“If you were truly Mercutio, you would lunge at me with your sword.” Richard laughed. His laughter reminded her of a hyena’s. “But you are wiser than he was. You have a greater instinct for self-preservation. And because you aren’t really a character, you probably cannot kill me either.”
“That’s too bad,” Beth said. Why pretend to be polite?
“Nonsense. You don’t have the stomach for killing. We both know that. Here’s to your petty morality!” Richard raised a goblet to her and drank.
“I guess you’re alive because Lady Macbeth just killed Richard, not Mordred,” Beth said. The heat in Richard’s sauna-like hall made her sweat.
“Congratulations. You have deduced the correct answer.” Richard smiled his worse-than-wolfish smile. “I am two characters combined, one more ancient and powerful than the other. That is why I am stronger than any other character.”
“And more evil,” she said.
“If you wish to call my strength evil, I give you permission to do so,” he said with a magnanimous gesture. “You must know that I am still seeking to persuade friend Shakespeare to write a play about King Arthur in which Mordred kills Arthur but survives and becomes king. Mordred Rex.” He spoke those words as if they were the sweetest in the world. “Unfortunately, you are the only person I know who can help me by summoning Shakespeare. So I must be polite to you and offer you another opportunity to work with me. A strange alliance, true, but alliances often are.”
All Beth’s muscles tightened with anger. “You know I’ll never work for you. Don’t pretend
that your henchmen are allies. You are always in control and kill them on a whim.”
“If you won’t help me, others will. But you might be less than pleased with that result,” Richard chortled.
“I can’t imagine who would be fool enough to help you,” she said.
“That’s exactly it. You can’t imagine. But it is some person or persons known to you.” Richard rose from his throne and walked towards the gilded door.
Beth gasped. She almost called after him, “Tell me who?” But who could believe Richard? Would any of her friends help him? She must not have such thoughts. He wanted to disconcert her. Her life was difficult enough without him. She must concentrate on trying to bring back Mercutio, not on other matters. She saw herself in the many mirrors. It was like seeing a hundred Mercutios, but knowing they were all false. She tried to stop looking at the reflections.
She hadn’t expected to miss the real Mercutio so much. What was he but a jester, a delightful fool? Yes, Mercutio should have been a fool, should have renounced violence, Beth thought. He had failed to see his true vocation. He had wanted to be a warrior in a history play, but he was born, or created, or whatever he had been, for a mixture of comedy and tragedy, with the emphasis on the comedy.
Richard turned back to her and paused. “You refuse to take my hint? You won’t help me, but I will help you. And as you help Mercutio, who helped me in the past, you may find that you must help the one who is helping me now.” Richard paused to laugh at her confusion. “Beth, the always cheerful helper. You’re such a helper that you can’t help yourself.” His eerie laughter resounded as he sauntered away.
Beth wished herself to be anywhere else in Shakespeare’s world. She spun away from the moist, incense-filled air through a bracing wind.
Beth stood in the world’s bleakest garden, which she recognized as the Macbeths’. A raven perching in one of the bare trees croaked at her.
The air chilled her and the gray sky depressed her, but not as much as Richard’s ostentatious hall. No flowers bloomed. Beth shivered. She wondered if it ever was summer in this garden. Did flowers ever bloom here?
The Mercutio Problem Page 3
