“We did not ‘get into it!’” Sally said, raising her voice. “I just asked him what we should do if we didn’t know what to write.”
“Wow,” Brian said. “The way I heard it, you were all like ‘this contest isn’t fair because the eighth-graders know more about the school than we do.’”
“That’s not what I meant,” Sally whined. “I just said that it would be hard for us sixth-graders to do the contest because we don’t know a lot about the school. Who’s been saying all this stuff?”
“They,” Brad said.
“They talk a lot, don’t they?” Alison remarked.
“Yes, They do,” Brian said with a smile.
“But they’re totally blowing it out of proportion!” Sally complained.
“Relax, Sally,” Alison said. “There’s nothing you can do about it, and it’s the least of your worries.”
“Oh, totally,” Brad agreed. “Everybody’s talking about how cool you are for taking on a teacher.”
“They are?” Sally asked, her eyes getting wide.
“Totally,” Brian said. “Everybody thinks you’re way brave.”
Sally was stunned. She’d never done a cool thing in her life. Now she was the talk of Roosevelt Middle School because she’d asked an obvious question in class? She didn’t understand how such things worked.
Brian thought she was cool. Those big, brown eyes looked on her with admiration and respect. Her heart fluttered. She couldn’t wait for rehearsal to get here.
***
Sally was further surprised to have Brian plop into a seat next to her before rehearsal and start chatting.
“So I’m thinking of growing my hair out,” he said with no preamble. “What do you say – yea or nay?”
“Um,” Sally said.
“Oh, well that settles it then,” he joked.
“I don’t know,” she said.
The whole conversation felt weird. No one ever asked her for grooming advice, especially not a boy. Plus, Brian was acting like they were besties. The world Sally understood was crumbling away at an alarming rate.
“How long were you thinking of growing it,” she asked.
“I’m not sure,” he said. “I don’t know what kind of style I want. Should I go for dreads? Or maybe I could go Old School with a big ol’ Afro.”
“That would be different,” Sally said, giggling.
“How so?”
He didn’t look offended, but Sally was worried she’d said the wrong thing. She didn’t want to make fun of him for being different.
“Well, I’m just not sure that’s the traditional look for Romeo,” she said.
“Oh, I gotcha,” he said. He broke into one of his signature all-teeth smiles. “It’d be all disco, like in the Seventies. It’d be Romey-fro and Juliet!”
Sally laughed out loud at that. God, Brian wasn’t just beautiful; he was funny and clever too.
“Or Fromeo and Juliet,” she said, giggling.
“Oh, that’s even better!” he said. “That’s it! I’m gonna tell Mr. Pipich we’re switchin’ the play to Fromeo and Juliet, and we’ll do it up like one of those Blaxploitation films!”
“What’s a Blaxploitation film,” Sally asked.
“You know! Movies like Shaft, where there’s a badass black dude as the hero,” he said.
“I’ve never seen any movies like that,” she said.
“My mom doesn’t let me watch ’em either,” he said. “But sometimes my brother Chuck and I will sneak out of bed late at night on the weekend and watch movies on cable. You’d be surprised what you can find on TNT and BET after eleven.”
Mr. Pipich interrupted their fantasy, when he came in looking harried. He checked his watch.
“Sorry, I’m late everyone,” he said as he tossed his briefcase into a seat in the front row of the auditorium. “Had a meeting that went longer than I expected. I broke my own rules. I apologize.
“Okay,” he said, shifting gears, “I want to go back to where we left off yesterday. As you’ll recall, we’re in Act III, Scene v. Juliet has just told her mother that she intends to marry Romeo, so she can’t marry Paris. Let’s have everyone on stage. That’s Juliet, Lady Capulet, Capulet, and the Nurse. We’ll start a little before Capulet’s and the Nurse’s entrance.”
“See ya,” Sally said. “Gotta go piss off my parents.”
“See? I don’t need to practice that,” Brian joked.
Sally laughed as she got out of her seat. She and the others climbed the steps to the stage. Sally took her place center-stage with Marisa Vogel, who was playing Lady Capulet. Jeremy Wiggins and Shelly Green drifted onto the stage and then looked to Mr. Pipich for direction.
Jeremy, Sally had discovered, was quite good. He wasn’t as sharp as Brian and Brad, but he had a booming voice and decent delivery. He was larger than the other boys too, which helped give him that older, fatherly look.
“Jeremy and Shelly, we’ll have you two enter from stage right on Lady Capulet’s cue,” Mr. Pipich said. The two actors moved offstage. “Okay, Sally, why don’t you pick it up from line 117?”
Sally nodded. She glanced at her script, took a deep breath, and started reading.
“Now, by Saint Peter’s Church, and Peter too, / He shall not make me there a joyful bride,” she began.
“Louder,” Mr. Pipich called out. “Remember people in the back of the house have to hear you too. Turn a little towards the audience and throw the lines all the way to the back.”
Sally nodded again. She cleared her throat so that she could speak more clearly.
“Now, by Saint Peter’s Church, and Peter too, / He shall not make me there a joyful bride.”
“Better,” Mr. Pipich commented.
“I wonder at this haste, that I must wed / Ere he that should be my husband comes to woo.”
“No, no,” Mr. Pipich interrupted. “You’re putting the wrong emphasis on ‘should.’ It’s not ‘he that should be my husband.’ It’s just ‘he that should be my husband.’ More Elizabethan English, I’m afraid. Juliet’s saying that Lady Capulet wants her to marry Paris before he’s even attempted to woo her.”
Sally nodded yet again and made a note in her script. She had little difficulty pronouncing the language. It came naturally to her, and she liked the way it sounded. However, the meaning of the words sometimes eluded her. She had been embarrassed the first few times Mr. Pipich had corrected her, but he did it to everyone else too, so she learned to just take it as part of the process.
The rehearsal went on for a few more minutes in this fashion, with Mr. Pipich stopping the action to give notes to the actors. Sometimes he corrected their pronunciation. Sometimes he told them to project more. Sometimes, he gave them blocking instructions.
Eventually, they reached the scene where Capulet rebukes Juliet. Jeremy stumbled at first over the alliteration of some of the phrases, and Mr. Pipich had to stop him a few times so that he would get the insults right. After a once-through, though, Jeremy had it down.
“How, how! How, how!” Jeremy boomed, his voice echoing off the walls. “Chop-logic! What is this? / ‘Proud,’ and ‘I thank you,’ and ‘I thank you not,’ / And yet ‘not proud.’ Mistress minion, you, / Thank me for no thankings, nor proud me no prouds, / But fettle your fine joints ’gainst Thursday next, / To go with Paris to Saint Peter’s Church, Or I will drag thee on a hurdle thither. Out, you green-sickness carrion! Out, you baggage! / You tallow-face!”
“Good Father, I beseech you on my knees,” Sally read. “Hear me with patience but to speak a word.”
“Hang thee, young baggage!” Jeremy roared. “Disobedient wretch! / I tell thee what. Get thee to church o’ Thursday Or never after look me in the face. Speak not, reply not, do not answer me. My fingers itch. Wife, we scarce thought us blest, That God had lent us but this only child, But now I see this is one too much, And that we have a curse in having her.”
Sally looked up from her script. Jeremy was gone. Shakir stood before her.
Her eyes glowed with malicious, red light that matched her cloak and hood. Drool fell from her enormous teeth. She leaned towards Sally.
“Out on her, hilding!” she roared, finishing Jeremy’s line. “And give me the key if you want to live!”
Sally screamed and fell back on the stage. She flung up her hands to defend herself.
“Sally, are you okay?” Jeremy said.
She looked up. Shakir was gone. Jeremy and Shelly looked freaked.
Mr. Pipich sprang onto the stage. He came over and knelt by her.
“What happened?” he said. “Are you hurt?”
She didn’t know what to say or think. Mr. Pipich had a hand on her shoulder. His expression was full of concern. He was actually worried about her.
“Um,” she said.
“Sally, are you injured?” he said.
“No, I . . .” She couldn’t say what really happened. No would understand. No one would believe her. They would think she was crazy. “I . . . he just scared me.”
She wasn’t sure it was a good lie. Mr. Pipich looked at her skeptically. But it was out there now, and she had to sell it.
“Are you sure?” Mr. Pipich said. He sounded very concerned. “That was all?”
She nodded at him. Over his shoulder, Jeremy stared at her incredulously. Mr. Pipich frowned.
“Okay,” he said. “Jeremy, let’s dial it back just a shade for the moment. We’ll build up to a real blowup.”
“Okay,” Jeremy said, sounding confused.
“Sally, why don’t you take a break?” Mr. Pipich said. “We’ll move on to something else, while you get yourself together.”
She nodded. She wasn’t sure what else to do.
“Sorry, Jeremy,” she said.
“It’s okay,” he replied, obviously weirded out.
She got herself up and walked off stage, trying not to look at anyone. She could feel their stares, and she didn’t want to make it worse. Brian was out there. She couldn’t imagine what he must think of her now.
She entered the girls’ bathroom and went to wash her face. She caught a look of herself in the mirror. She looked pale, washed out, haunted.
Sally started crying. She couldn’t help it. Why was this happening to her? She was just trying to survive the sixth grade. Hell, she was just trying to survive, period. Life at home wasn’t exactly a picnic, she was stuck in prepubescence, and Molly Richards had it in for her. Romeo and Juliet was the one good thing that had happened to her. Who was Shakir, and why was she trying to take it and everything else away?
After a few minutes, she got her crying under control. She turned on the faucet and spent a few minutes washing her face. The cold water reduced the swelling around her eyes and shocked her back into some sense of composure. She looked at her reflection in the mirror. It was still obvious she had been crying.
“Shit,” she said.
She washed her face again. There was little noticeable improvement. She sighed softly, and turned to leave. What was she going to say to the others?
When she came out, Mr. Pipich was leaning against the opposite wall with his arms folded. He looked casual, but his face showed concern.
“Hey, there,” he said. “Want to tell me what happened?”
No. She absolutely did not want to tell him what happened. He wouldn’t believe her anyway.
“I just,” she began, but she couldn’t finish. “I just looked up, and Jeremy was shouting, and it was really scary. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
Mr. Pipich stared at her. He hadn’t moved since she came out. She couldn’t look at him any longer.
“I don’t believe you,” he said.
Sally looked up, amazed. It didn’t surprise her that Mr. Pipich didn’t believe her. She knew it was a flimsy lie, that it would be very difficult to convince a teacher. But she was stunned he actually told her he didn’t believe her.
Her blood ran cold. What would she tell him? What could she tell him? She stood transfixed.
“Jeremy’s a decent actor for a sixth-grade boy, but he’s not ready to win an Oscar,” Mr. Pipich said. “I find it hard to believe he scared you that badly.”
Sally began to cry again. She couldn’t tell Mr. Pipich why she’d been frightened, and she couldn’t make him understand why she couldn’t tell him. He’d think she was crazy.
And wasn’t she? This couldn’t be real, could it? Monsters from your dreams didn’t magically appear in the real world.
Mr. Pipich pushed off the wall and came over. He stood over her for a minute. Then he bent down, put his hands on his knees, and looked her in the eyes.
“Sally, is everything okay at home?” he said.
Her mind screamed at her to get out of there. Her heart thudded in her chest. He was probing in directions she didn’t want him to. He was asking questions – dangerous questions – she couldn’t answer. If he knew how much her father drank, if he knew she had to take care of everyone . . .
She didn’t know how to extricate herself, though. First, he was a teacher. She couldn’t just run away from him. Second, he was directing the play. He would be going back to the auditorium with her.
“Yeah,” she said weakly. “They’re fine.”
Mr. Pipich frowned. She prayed for him to let it go.
“You know, Sally,” he said, “one of the things about drama is that it often speaks to us in ways we don’t expect. Sometimes we’ll see a movie or a play, and we think, ‘Wow, that’s just like my life.’ Or maybe it’s a character with whom we identify or a certain scene that reminds us of something that happened to us, whether it was last week or a long time ago. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Sally nodded, although she didn’t want to. She could feel the trap closing on her.
“Good,” he said. “Now, one more time: Is everything okay at home?”
“Yes,” she said, trying to sound both confident and insistent. She wasn’t certain she pulled either off.
“You’re sure?” Mr. Pipich asked. She gave him a weak smile and nodded.
“Promise,” she said.
Mr. Pipich continued to look doubtfully at her, but she had defeated him. She hadn’t given him anything to go on, so he had no way to press the issue. For the moment, she was safe.
“All right,” he said. “C’mon, we better get back. We’ve already moved on.”
They went back to the auditorium. Everyone looked at her worriedly, but she tried to pass herself off as though nothing had happened. True to his word, Mr. Pipich went into Act IV. Sally found, though, that the lines didn’t come easily to her for the rest of rehearsal. She was guarded, and it showed in her performance. She was thankful when Mr. Pipich finally released them.
Ten
As soon as Mr. Pipich said everyone could go home, Sally dashed to her locker to get her things. She wanted out of the school as quickly as possible.
But when she got to her bike, she found Brian waiting for her. He smiled when he saw her.
Shit, she thought.
“Hey, Sal,” he said.
“Hey, Brian,” she replied.
She went straight to the bicycle and started unlocking it without looking at him. She hoped brushing him off like that would dissuade him.
“Soooo,” he said. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” she said as she got the lock off.
“Cuz you didn’t look too fine,” he said. He paused for a moment as she wound the chain around her bike frame. “You still don’t.”
That stopped her. God, why did she have to screw up like that? First Mr. Pipich was prying, and now Brian? She couldn’t say anything to him any more than she could to Mr. Pipich. A teacher would have thought she was crazy and maybe called a doctor or her dad. Brian? He would probably tell everyone at school. Then her life would be over.
“Look, I just got scared is all,” she said. “I don’t know why. I looked up, and Jeremy was shouting, and it freaked me out for a second. I’m fine now.”
She pul
led her bike out of the stand, and turned away from him. She began wheeling it off.
“Hey, wait up!” he said.
She tried to ignore him, to keep going. But he wasn’t having any. He raced around and got in front of her. She stopped.
“What do you want, Brian?”
“Whoa, what’s the matter, girl?”
She glared at him, trying to push him away. Why did he have to be so nice to her?
“Look, I have to get home,” she said. “It’s getting late.”
“I’ll walk you,” he offered.
“Uh, I’ve kind of got my bike?” she said, her tone unfriendly.
“Well, you could walk too,” he said. “That way, I wouldn’t have to run to keep up.”
“Brian,” she said, exasperated. “It’s a long way.”
“I don’t mind,” he said, smiling. “Gotta get my exercise in somehow.”
Sally’s heart rate quickened. He was leaving her little choice. If he kept up at this, she was going to have to be mean and ride off on him.
“Please, Brian,” she said. “I don’t want you to walk me home. Okay?”
“Oh,” he said. “Oh, okay.”
He cast his eyes down at his feet as he shouldered his backpack. Sally felt intensely sorrowful. She couldn’t understand why, but she had disappointed him.
“Hey,” she said, punching him lightly on the arm. “Don’t be so sad. It doesn’t mean anything.”
He looked up. His brown eyes still gazed on her morosely. Why was he so upset?
“I don’t want anyone to walk me home,” she added.
A look of dawning comprehension came over him.
“Your mom or your dad?” he asked. Sally cocked her head quizzically.
“What do you mean?”
“Is it your mom or your dad that you don’t want to see me?” he clarified.
Sally could have leaped for joy. He had gotten the wrong idea, but it was one she could work with, one he would understand.
“My dad,” she said.
“Yeah,” Brian said, nodding. “For me it’s my mom. Ever since I started middle school, she’s been all like, ‘Don’t let any of those young harlots distract you from your studies. There’ll be plenty of time for that sort of thing later.’”
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