“That’s enough,” Jody interrupts, standing up and walking into the middle of the circle.
She’s right. I’ve completely lost our momentum, not to mention how I reinterpreted the character in a huge, spur-of-the-moment decision. Jody pauses, gathering her thoughts, and I prepare for the worst.
“Megan . . . I like what you brought to Juliet’s dialogue with Romeo,” she finally says, and I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. “But,” she continues before I get too relaxed, “you lost focus, and the whole room felt it.”
I hear a couple chuckles. Great. I guess it’s not just my acting I have to worry about. It’s my propensity to get distracted whenever a hot guy enters the room.
“I’m sorry,” I get out.
Jody waves a heavily ringed hand. “Let’s go again.”
FOUR
ROMEO: There is no world without Verona walls
But purgatory, torture, hell itself.
III.iii.18–9
I FIND ANTHONY OUTSIDE THE DRAMA ROOM when rehearsal’s over. I want nothing more than to get out of Juliet’s head, even if I have to eat terrible pizza in a historically inaccurate restaurant. I didn’t embarrass myself further following the Billy Caine incident, but I wasn’t exactly a Juliet to die for.
“You’re walking to Verona for your shift, right?” I elbow Anthony playfully. “I’m totally rehearsed-out.”
“I don’t know what you’re complaining about,” he says indignantly. “I spent three hours memorizing my Queen Mab monologue, and we didn’t even do my scene today!”
“Um, you didn’t have to suffer the lips of Tyler Dunning,” I reply.
Anthony raises his eyebrow. “I don’t know about suffer . . .” I swat his shoulder. “Yeah, I’m going to Verona,” he says after he’s pinned my hand. “But you sure you don’t want to stick around?” He nods somewhere behind me, and I turn to follow his gaze—to Billy Caine talking intently to Owen.
“You noticed?” I ask dryly.
“Megan. Everyone noticed. I think William Shakespeare himself felt it in the grave.” Now he elbows me. “It’s about time for your next torrid whirlwind romance.”
I take a second to study Billy’s skinny jeans. “I’ll meet you at Verona in twenty minutes.”
I drift over to where Billy and Owen are talking and overhear a snippet of their conversation. It sounds like they’re discussing poetry. Billy’s praising the “forest imagery” but says the internal rhymes need work.
“I love it when guys talk internal rhyme,” I remark, walking up next to them. “Hi, Owen. Hey, Billy.” I smile.
Owen cuts in. “Uh, it’s Will now.”
Billy rolls his eyes, and I look from him to Owen. “I feel like I’m missing something.”
“It’s not a big deal,” Billy—Will—says. “I just decided I prefer to go by Will.”
Yes. Yes. We prefer Will. Everything about him works together perfectly. The blond hair, the fitted clothes, the elegant, understated name. I think I just might die.
“Cool,” I say instead.
Will unleashes a dazzling smile. “Hey, I really liked your original interpretation of Juliet. You nailed that scene.”
“Well”—I try to sound nonchalant—“I had to make her interesting somehow. It’s hard for me to relate to someone so coy and hard to get.” I see Owen’s eyebrows shoot up, but I’m focused on Will’s growing smile.
“It could be worse. You could be trying to get a guy to fall in love with you while pretending to be a man.” He crosses his arms, daring me to get the reference.
“Twelfth Night—or As You Like It. Yeah, I guess it’s better than having my hands cut off by two lunatic brothers,” I say, playing along.
Will raises an eyebrow. “I like Titus Andronicus! You know, it definitely beats having to get it on with a donkey.”
“Well, Tyler is an ass,” I mutter under my breath, knowing he’s referring to A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
“This is really cute,” Owen interjects, “but, Will, did you want to give me your notes on the lyrics?”
“Lyrics?” I turn to Owen. I would be annoyed he interrupted my boldfaced flirting if I weren’t intrigued.
“Owen writes lyrics for my band,” Will says with the studied casualness of a guy who practices telling girls he’s in a band.
My eyes widen. “You’re in a band?” I ask Owen. Will I could believe, but shy Owen . . . ?
His ears go red. “I’m not. I just write the lyrics.”
“I didn’t know you were a writer.” It would explain the ever-present pen and notebook.
“Are you kidding?” Will says, and I look back at him. With his debonair smile and incredible hair, I can’t believe I ever looked away. “This kid does nothing but write. I can barely get through a conversation without him jotting down an idea for one of his plays.”
“Will, the lyrics?” Owen holds out his hand, visibly uncomfortable.
Will hands Owen a folded sheet of paper from his pocket, and I go into conversational desperation mode. I’m not inclined to let Will leave before I procure a phone number. “Hey, you guys want to go to Verona for some undercooked pizza?”
“Alas,” Will says, “I have to go over a scene diagram with Jody. But I’ll see you Wednesday.”
“What’s happening Wednesday?” Not that it matters.
“It’s the first run of your balcony scene. I’m head of the stage crew, so I have to be there. But besides”—he smiles a smile it’s hard to believe occurs in nature—“I wouldn’t miss it.”
I wrinkle my nose. “You don’t want to see—”
“Yes. I do.” He looks me right in the eyes, and I swear my knees might give way. I guess I won’t brainstorm boyfriend prospects tonight. Will could be exactly what I’m looking for. Even if I have to run the balcony scene a thousand times, suddenly Wednesday can’t come soon enough.
Will walks off, treating me to a new perspective on his hotness.
“So, uh . . . pizza?” Owen’s voice returns me to earth.
It takes me a second to realize I invited him, too. “Uh, yeah. Let’s go.”
* * *
The shortest walk from school to Verona is through the woods. It’s not like Stillmont is encircled by trees—it’s more like they intersperse the town, encroaching in surprising stretches. I like walking in the woods. I’m not one for Transcendentalist poetry and Bon Iver and stuff, but I’ve come to crave the quiet. Especially since Erin arrived.
I lead Owen onto a faintly defined path over the thick roots. “I didn’t know you and Will were friends,” I say.
“We’re not,” Owen replies, then corrects himself. “Well, we’re not good friends. I’m friends with Jordan, and he was friends with Jordan. But now Jordan lives in Chicago, and he was—”
“The friend-glue,” I finish the sentence. I know exactly what he’s talking about. I’ve tried hanging out with Anthony’s Math Olympiad friends while he wasn’t present, and it did not go well. They glared when I confused the titles of Star Trek: The Next Generation and Star Wars: A New Hope.
“That’s . . . exactly what it is,” Owen says thoughtfully and with amusement. “But yeah, Will and I, we’re friend-ly. I write him lyrics, and he gives me songwriting credit on their nonexistent recordings.”
I grin. “He seems . . . different,” I venture. “What’s his deal?”
“Different?” I hear a nearly imperceptible edge in Owen’s voice. As much I love the changes in Will, Owen evidently doesn’t. “Billy went to a songwriting camp this summer. It was Will who returned. He kind of redefined himself.”
I pause, hitching my bag up on my shoulder. “He got really hot.”
Owen laughs shortly. “Well, don’t tell him. He’s been insufferable since he got back.”
“I very much intend to tell him!” I glance ove
r my shoulder to find Owen eyeing me skeptically.
“You’re going to go for this guy after one conversation swapping Shakespeare jokes and staring into each other’s eyes?”
“Duh. I just said he was hot.”
I turn back to the path and hear Owen laugh behind me. “I guess if it’s love, one conversation’s all you need. You’ll make a fine Juliet yet.”
“Love?” I snort, kicking a rock off the path. “When did I say love? I just think it’d be fun. I’m not really the love-at-first-sight, long-walks-on-the-beach, balcony-scene type.” Not that I wouldn’t be that type, if I believed those things weren’t just a beautiful fiction. I want them just like everybody else. I’m just not holding my breath.
“What do you mean?” Owen sounds genuinely interested.
I don’t usually talk about my unique pattern of breakups, but there’s something about Owen that has me feeling like he’d understand. “Remember what I told you about Tyler? He dumped me for my best friend, Madeleine, and now they’re, like, the perfect couple. The thing is, that’s not the first time a guy’s left me for the real deal. It’s a perfect trend—everyone I date, it’s right before they find exactly what they’re looking for.”
Owen is silent for a moment. I don’t look back, worrying he’s deciding I’m paranoid and self-pitying. But he only sounds sympathetic when he says, “Getting dumped sucks.”
“I’m not dumped,” I reply quickly, defensiveness creeping into my voice. “Guys don’t leave me because of me. It’s not like I scare them off,” I add, needing to make this clear. “I’m just . . . the girl before.”
“You’re Rosaline,” Owen says, and I stop. He’s standing in the middle of the path, hands in his pockets, looking out into the woods like he’s lost in thought.
“The girl Romeo leaves for Juliet? That’s not the most flattering comparison,” I mutter. But in my head I know it fits.
He looks at me then, no longer contemplating—he’s seeing me, giving me his full attention. I realize it’s something I’ve never had from him in the past couple of days since we started talking. Whenever I’ve encountered Owen, he’s been half-focused on his notebook or lost in thought.
He shakes his head. “I think Rosaline’s really interesting. She’s an underexplored part of the play. In a lot of ways, her story’s probably more interesting than Juliet’s. Or at least I think so.”
The earnestness in his voice and the way he’s looking at me have me turning back to the trail. I can’t help feeling like he’s seeing me for something I’m not. “First you say I’ll make a fine Juliet, now I’m Rosaline”—I laugh, trying to bring the conversation back to casual—“I better be careful. If I keep talking, I’ll turn into Tybalt.”
I wait for Owen’s reply. When I don’t hear his footsteps behind me, I turn back around. He’s climbed onto a rock and is holding his phone up toward the treetops in the universal human display of looking for cell service.
“Why do you need reception?” I ask. “We’re five minutes from the restaurant.”
“Cosima wants to FaceTime me,” he says matter-of-factly.
“Cosima?” I stifle a laugh at Owen’s woodland acrobatics.
“My girlfriend.”
Owen has a girlfriend? Interesting. “What kind of name is that?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“It’s Italian,” he says, clambering down from his rock to find a new spot. “Like, she lives in Italy. We’re in such different time zones, we have to video chat every chance we get.”
An Italian girlfriend? Owen is full of surprises. I do a little mental math. “Isn’t it like the middle of the night there?”
“Yeah, it’s late.” He’s now standing between two giant pines. His expression even, he waves his phone with deliberate, unhurried movements. For someone who stopped suddenly to climb onto a boulder, he seems decidedly untroubled by his lack of success. “I’m trying to catch her before she goes to bed, but there’s no service.”
“We are in the middle of the forest,” I point out unhelpfully. When Owen says nothing, I go on. “Well, I want pizza. Say ciao to Cosima, your Italian girlfriend who lives in Italy.” Before I continue down the path, I catch the hint of a smile on Owen’s lips.
* * *
In Verona, I find Jenna Cho and a couple of noblewomen from today’s scene sitting in a booth by the soda fountain. Mercifully, Tyler and Alyssa are nowhere to be found. I could use a break from his smugness and her constant judgment. I slide into a seat as Anthony sidles up to take our orders.
“Wow, Anthony.” I try not to laugh. “You look ravishing.”
He’s wearing a T-shirt printed to resemble a medieval tunic, and there’s a Robin Hood–esque hat two sizes too small perched on his tight black curls. It’s hideous, and wonderful.
“Megan, nothing you say can take this away from me,” he says defiantly. He searches the room behind me. “Hey, where’s Billy?”
“It’s Will now,” I correct. “He’s not coming, but Owen’s on his way. He’s talking to his girlfriend right now.”
“Cosima?” Jenna asks, something knowing in her smile. The rest of the table chuckles.
I feel like I’m missing the joke. “Yeah, why?”
“You know she’s not real, right?” Courtney Greene answers with a conspiratorial smirk. “Owen’s totally making her up. There’s no proof.”
Anthony clears his throat. “I have other tables, you guys. Would you like to, you know, order?” He pulls a quill out of his pocket. Unable to contain myself, I burst out laughing. We order a couple Benvolio’s Banquets (pepperoni, sausage, and peppers, in what feels like a reach of textual interpretation), and Anthony gives me a final chastising look.
Owen shows up a few minutes later, looking out of sorts. He slides into the booth opposite me. Unhesitatingly, I smile and ask, “How was Cosima?”
“Blurry,” he grumbles. The group exchanges glances. I know Owen notices because he turns to Jenna wearily. “You seriously don’t still think she isn’t real, do you?”
“There’s no proof,” Courtney repeats.
“Is this normal cast behavior?” Owen asks me, half-jokingly exasperated. “They’ve been interrogating me since my first day of drama about my real”—he levels Courtney a look—“genuinely human girlfriend.”
“Better get used to it,” I reply resolutely. The corners of his mouth curve upward. “Does she have a Facebook?” I try to give him a chance. I pull out my phone and open the app.
Owen frowns like he’s heard the question before. “Cosima thinks social media’s frivolous,” he mutters.
Now I have to smile. “Awfully convenient.” But before he can reply, I see I have an unread email. The subject line reads, “Your upcoming Southern Oregon Theater Institute interview!” I lose track of the Cosima discussion as my eyes scan the email. I’ve put off dwelling on the interview, but now it’s in a couple days, and I’m having trouble thinking about anything else. The churning in my stomach only worsens when Anthony drops off the greasy pizzas.
“Hey, um, Megan,” I hear him say quietly beside me. “Could I talk to you for a second?”
Eager for the distraction, I jump up and follow him to the salad bar—overwhelmingly the least crowded part of the restaurant. “What? Do you need me to go get you a change of clothes?” I ask when we’ve stopped.
Anthony cocks his head, not amused. “I’ll have you know, I intend to wear this to your wedding. And your second wedding. And your third wedding.”
I cross my arms, holding back a smile. “That’s okay. It’s the fifth wedding I have a good feeling about.”
He laughs. “But really”—he drops his voice—“I need your wise counsel.”
“Is it about boys?”
“Of course.”
“Then you’ve come to the right place.” I lean into the counter. “What’s up?”
> “Eric invited me to a party,” Anthony explains. “But I’m not sure if the invitation was casual or potentially something more.”
“Well, do you even know if Eric—” I break off when I notice the hostess walk by leading a family of five to a table. Anthony’s hardly in the closet—everyone at school definitely knows he’s gay. He just might not want his personal life publicized to his coworkers and random neighborhood families. “Do you know if Eric . . .” I try again, “enjoys sausage pizza?” I finish, wincing, and Anthony’s eyes widen.
“That was bad,” he admonishes.
“I know.” I grimace. “But . . . does he?”
Anthony takes a deep breath, like he needs to prepare for what he’s about to say. “I don’t know, Megan. I’ve never seen him . . . order it. But I don’t know if he enjoys it in private. If it were served to him, he might partake.” Anthony rolls his eyes, halfway to a grin. “I just want to know what this kind of invitation means to guys. Is it definitely casual? Definitely a date?”
“It depends,” I start. “Both have happened to me. When Charlie invited me to Courtney’s birthday, I knew it was a date because he’d pursued me pretty obsessively for weeks before. When I went to a movie with Chris, I didn’t really know. You know how Chris is. He barely has facial expressions. When Dean—”
“You’re no help.” Anthony sighs, frustrated, then looks behind me. “Hey, Okita, come over here for a second.”
I turn to find Owen standing at the salad bar, understandably dissatisfied with the pizza. He squares his shoulders uneasily, uncomfortable to be singled out.
“I need a straight guy’s perspective,” Anthony continues. “The guy I like invited me to a party. Is it date, or is it just something straight guys do?”
Owen immediately turns endearingly thoughtful. His eyebrows go up, his eyes searching the room, bright like twin light bulbs. “I’ll need to weigh several factors,” he says finally. “How friendly is he? Did he invite other coworkers? What was his tone like?”
Always Never Yours Page 4
