by Barbara Dee
But the truth was, I focused mainly on Gemma Braithwaite, who walked onstage slowly, taking her time. She was wearing a dark blue sweater and a dark red skirt. Her braid had a pink streak in it—was it a ribbon? Her hair? I squinted, but I couldn’t tell.
She cleared her throat, paused, and peered out at the audience. Was she searching for someone? I looked around, wondering who it was.
“Gemma’s so Juliet,” I heard Charlotte say behind me. “She shouldn’t even have to try out.”
“I know, right?” Isabel replied. “WOO! GO, GEMMA!”
I turned around and glared. “Will you please be quiet? She’s trying to concentrate.”
“Well, sor-ree,” Charlotte said.
Lucy glanced at me. I pretended not to notice.
Gemma took a breath and spoke:
“Give me my Romeo; and when he shall die,
Take him and cut him out in little stars,
And he will make the face of heaven so fine
That all the world will be in love with night
And pay no worship to the garish sun.”
I couldn’t believe it. My favorite lines from the play, words I’d memorized, and Gemma had chosen them! It was almost as if we’d had a conversation about it beforehand—or, no, as if we hadn’t needed one. As if we could read each other’s minds. Was that even possible?
And her voice. It was perfect for Juliet—a little whispery, but strong at the same time. She didn’t even lose her breath once, maybe because she’d had experience acting. And when she said “cut him out in little stars” you could hear all the t sounds, one by one, like a pair of scissors snipping.
It was as if Shakespeare had written the part just for her.
“Whoa,” Tessa murmured when Gemma finished.
I watched Gemma take her seat next to Willow, who gave her a high five as if she’d just blocked a ball from scoring. From behind me, Isabel shouted, “WOOHOO, GEMMA, ALL RIGHT,” and Charlotte jabbed my shoulder.
“Okay with you if we talk?” she asked. “Gemma’s done now.”
I shrugged her off. Again, Lucy turned to look at me. Again, I kept my eyes staring straight ahead, pretending to listen as Liam recited a Romeo speech, with hand gestures. When he finished, he bowed to applause from some girls in the front row. Mrs. Dimona and Miss Bluestone, who were sitting onstage behind Mr. Torres, were both beaming. I didn’t even want to know Tessa’s reaction.
Then Mr. Torres called out my name. I was next.
I stood. My heart was banging. I felt cold, and a little dizzy.
“You’ll do great,” Lucy said. Tessa gave my back a sharp pat as I walked past.
I climbed three steps to the stage. Mr. Torres was sitting on a stool, scribbling in a notebook.
He looked up when I was center stage. “So what have you prepared for us today?” he asked, his voice sounding cheery but also tired.
“Um, Paris,” I said softly.
“Excuse me?”
“Paris,” I answered, louder this time. “It’s what he says to Romeo in Act Five, when Romeo comes to Juliet’s tomb, and Paris thinks Juliet died out of grief for her cousin Tybalt, who Romeo killed to get back at Tybalt for killing Mercutio. Also, he thinks Romeo is at Juliet’s tomb to vandalize it, so he wants to kill Romeo. Who shouldn’t even be there, because he’s been banished for killing Tybalt.”
Mr. Torres smiled. “Yes, that’s right, Mattie. How do you know all that?”
“I read the play.”
“The whole thing? On your own?”
I nodded.
“Nice,” Mr. Torres said. “But where’s your book?”
“I don’t need it. I memorized the speech. Paris is my favorite character, and I’d really, really like to play him.”
“Would you?” He scribbled something. “Well, go ahead, then, please.”
I looked out into the auditorium. but I couldn’t see Lucy or Tessa, not even Gemma’s pink braid. Although maybe that was a good thing.
I took a deep breath and said:
“This is that banish’d haughty Montague
That murdered my love’s cousin—with which grief
It is supposed the fair creature died—
And here is come to do some villainous shame
To the dead bodies. I will apprehend him.
Stop thy unhallow’d toil, vile Montague!
Can vengeance be pursu’d further than death?
Condemned villain, I do apprehend thee.
Obey, and go with me; for thou must die.”
When I finished, I cringed a little, because to me the last two lines came out sounding Darth Vader–ish, like I was waving a lightsaber and saying them into the voice thingy. I peeked at Mr. Torres, who was writing again in his notebook.
I waited, my insides squirming. Finally, he looked up at me. “Mattie? Can you hang around afterward for a bit?”
I swallowed. “Sure.”
Then I sat down again. Lucy patted my knee. “You did great,” she murmured. And Tessa leaned across Lucy and whispered, “That was awesome. He wants you to stay after? What for?”
“He didn’t say.”
Charlotte poked me from behind. “Teacher’s pet,” she teased in a singsong voice that was meant to sound babyish, like she was making fun of a kid calling me that. But still, she was calling me that.
And, of course, Tessa heard. “Shut up, you puke-stocking,” she hissed at Charlotte.
“Excuse me?” Charlotte said. “What did you just call me?”
“It’s Shakespeare, but even you can figure it out. So watch what you call my friend, you mildewed ear.” Tessa nodded at me. “Hamlet,” she said, knowing I’d ask where the quote was from.
A few more kids auditioned. When they finished, and tryouts were officially over, Lucy asked if I wanted her to wait. I said no; whatever Mr. Torres wanted to talk to me about sounded private. So Tessa, Lucy, and I hugged each other.
“Sorry for not saying anything about the tryout,” I told them.
My friends waved me away, acting like they’d completely forgotten our fight by now. Then they both took off.
I waited in my seat for Mr. Torres to finish chatting with Mrs. Dimona and Miss Bluestone. The whole time, my stomach was twisting, dreading what he’d say: Mattie, you’re a great reader, and a smart girl, but you aren’t the actor type. How would you like to be the Chorus? Or, better yet, why don’t you paint the scenery?
Finally, the other teachers left, and he jumped off the stage, taking a seat two rows in front of me. “So, here’s a question for you, Mattie,” he said. “Why do you want to play Paris?”
“I’m not sure,” I replied. “I just think he’s kind of cool.”
Mr. Torres scratched his chin. “You know, I’ve been reading, teaching, and directing this play for the past fifteen years, and no student of mine has ever thought Paris was cool. Why not aim higher?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I’d like you to consider a bigger part. How about Friar Lawrence, for example? Or Lord Capulet? Or maybe Benvolio?”
But Benvolio is Lucy’s. “No thanks.”
“How come? You’d be great, Mattie. You read with so much understanding, and memorizing is clearly not an issue.”
“I just don’t want such a big part. I like Paris. I feel sorry for him. I think he loves Juliet, even though she’s not interested.”
Mr. Torres smiled. “Well, you’ll make a terrific Paris. Don’t tell anyone I said that. The cast list’s not official until Monday.”
“Okay,” I said, beaming. “I promise.”
He stood. Just as he took a step toward the stage, I blurted: “Mr. Torres? I really think Gemma Braithwaite should play Juliet.”
He stopped. “Do you?”
“Definitely. She’s the best. She’s done Shakespeare before, so she has experience, and I really just think . . .” I could hear myself repeating. Breathe, Mattie. “I mean, I want this play to be good.”
“Tha
t makes two of us, then.” He winked at me. “Thanks for the input. Anything else?”
“No. Actually, wait: Did you think I sounded like Darth Vader? Especially when I said the last two lines?”
Mr. Torres laughed. “Maybe a bit. But I’m pretty sure the force is with you, so I wouldn’t sweat it too much, Mattie.”
12
“Parting is such sweet sorrow.”
—Romeo and Juliet, II.ii.185
I didn’t see my friends that weekend, because my big sister, Cara, came to visit. She didn’t come home very often, because she went to college three states away—and also, whenever she did show up, she always got into a major argument with Mom. Sometimes Cara brought a few of her college friends home with her, but the extra guests didn’t stop Cara and Mom from arguing—about Cara’s classes, grades, clothing, spending allowance, and Mom’s cooking, work schedule, failure to recycle.
These fights were always loud, full of slammed doors and shouting, but they were even worse back when Cara was in middle school. At least, that’s the way I remember them from when I was a preschooler. I remember once back then they were both shouting so much (after Cara got caught skipping PE class) that I went up to the attic so I wouldn’t have to listen. And as soon as Mom realized she couldn’t find me, she got frantic, yelling my name so loudly as she raced around the house that I thought she was mad at me. She must have heard me rustling something overhead, or walking, because eventually there she was in the attic, bursting into tears and hugging me so tight it was hard to breathe.
The funny thing was that afterward Cara was furious at me. “Why’d you have to scare Mom like that?” she scolded me. “Don’t ever do that to her again!”
But you hate her, I thought. Don’t you?
Anyway, the college visits always ended with Cara taking me out to breakfast at Patsy’s Diner. We would order French toast, Cara would tell me about some professor she thought was a genius (or a monster), gossip about her roommate, and complain about Mom’s “ridiculous standards.” Then she’d drive me over to school, where I’d be late.
Don’t tell Mom, she’d always say.
Don’t worry, I won’t, I’d always promise.
We’d rub noses. Then Cara would drive off, and I wouldn’t see her again for three or four months—sometimes longer if she stayed with her father in California, a guy Mom had married for three years after college and divorced before she met Dad.
This time Cara arrived on her own, without friends to hide behind. For the first half hour of her visit, everything was fine. Then Mom asked a question about a jacket Cara had bought with a credit card, and Cara accused Mom of not trusting her. From there, it all went downhill, and none of the rest of us—Dad, Kayden, Mason, and me—could keep them from sniping at each other.
But on that Monday morning in the diner, as Cara and I finished our French toast, she looked at me with calm, wide eyes. I couldn’t help thinking that once she was outside our house, Cara’s face relaxed, and she almost looked like a different person.
“So what’s up with you these days, little sister?” she asked, as if she really wanted to know.
“With me?” I said.
“Yeah. You seem a little . . . distracted.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. I’m just wondering about you. Everything okay?”
I swirled my French toast in a puddle of syrup. “Everything’s fine. We’re doing Romeo and Juliet as the eighth-grade play this year, and today we’re getting the cast list, so . . .”
“Ah. You’re nervous?”
“Not really. I already know my part.”
“Don’t tell me, let me guess. You’re Juliet.”
I laughed. “Don’t be crazy, Cara.”
“Why is that crazy? You’d make an awesome Juliet. And then that boy you like could be Romeo, and you’d have to kiss—”
“You mean Elijah?”
“Yeah, if that’s his name. That boy you told me about last time—”
“Right. Elijah.” I sipped some OJ. “The thing is, I’m not sure I still like him.”
“Really? What happened?”
“Nothing happened. I just . . .” I looked away.
She reached across the table and stole a piece of my French toast. “You just what?”
“I don’t know. How do you know if you like someone because you really do like that person, or if you like him only because you think you’re supposed to?”
“Huh,” Cara said, sitting back in her seat. “That’s a tough one. With me, I usually like someone if I think I’m not supposed to like him. Like, see that guy with the cream cheese mustache?”
She rolled her eyes in the direction of a fat, bald, old man eating a bagel in the grossest, messiest way possible. “If you told me, Cara, you are under no circumstances supposed to have a crush on that disgusting guy over there; I absolutely forbid it, I would find a way to fall passionately in love with him.” She shuddered. “But why would you think you’re supposed to like somebody?”
“I don’t know. It’s stupid. And maybe I still do like him, anyway. I don’t know.”
“Not that I’m counting, but you said I don’t know three times.”
“I did?”
“Yep. I just think if you really do like a person, it’s not something you worry about. Or wonder about. You just like that person.” She finished her coffee and checked her phone. “Shoot, it’s late. I need to get you over to school.”
We left the diner. She dropped me off at school, rolled down the window of her car so we could rub noses, and then she drove away.
* * *
By the time I arrived at school, homeroom was over, so I had to go to the main office to sign in late. I was supposed to go straight to first-period math, which had started eight minutes earlier, and which was not my best subject. My teacher, Mr. Peltz, was the nightmarish combination of hard and boring; as much as I tried to keep awake in his class, I kept spacing out. Which meant I’d barely passed the first two tests of the year, something my parents weren’t letting me forget.
Even so, I decided to take a detour to the auditorium, just in case Mr. Torres had posted the cast list. Sure enough, there it was, taped to the auditorium doors.
Cast List for Romeo and Juliet
Chorus
Samantha Calabrese
Escalus, Prince of Verona
Bennett Park
Paris, a young nobleman
Matilda Monaghan
Montague, head of one house,
at odds with Capulets
Drea Crawford
Capulet, head of one house,
at odds with Montagues
Ajay Vehta
An old man, of the Capulet family
Emily Packer
Romeo, son to Montague
Liam Harrison
Tybalt, nephew to Lady Capulet
Willow Kaplan
Mercutio, kinsman to the Prince
and friend to Romeo
Tessa Pollack
Benvolio, nephew to Montague
and friend to Romeo
Lucy Yang
Friar Lawrence, a Franciscan
Elijah Simmons
Friar John, a Franciscan
Jake Martinez
Balthasar, servant to Romeo
Callie Brenner
Abram, servant to Montague
Ellie Yamaguchi
Sampson, servant to Capulet
Lexi Barker
Gregory, servant to Capulet
Nicole Rizzi
Peter, servant to Juliet’s Nurse
Molly Cho
Lady Montague, wife to Montague
Isabel Guzman
Lady Capulet, wife to Capulet
Charlotte Pangel
Juliet, daughter to Capulet
Gemma Braithwaite
Nurse to Juliet
Keisha Bromley
I took a few minutes to let the list sink in.
I’m Paris; Gemma is Juliet.
YES! I felt like shouting, or punching the air in victory.
Also, Lucy was Romeo’s trusty cousin Benvolio—and Tessa was Mercutio, which was perfect, considering the hammy way they both acted. And I could totally imagine Ajay as nasty Lord Capulet, Willow as bossy Tybalt, and smiley Keisha as the Nurse. I even had to admit that Elijah would make a decent Friar Lawrence; anyway, there was no one better for that part.
But Liam Harrison as Romeo? Seriously? He just wasn’t dramatic enough. There was no other way to think about it. When he read Romeo’s lines in class, it was like his mind switched channels in the middle. And by the time he got to the end of a speech, he didn’t even care about what he was saying.
And the thought that Gemma would be acting opposite him—Gemma, who at tryouts said Juliet’s words as if she personally meant every syllable, every t sound—it was sickening, really.
How could Mr. Torres have messed up so badly?
13
“Give leave awhile, we must talk in secret.”
—Romeo and Juliet, I.iii.7–8
All day long, people were celebrating, or acting like good sports, or consoling each other, or pretending they didn’t care about being cast as a citizen or a costume ball dancer. Tessa did a pseudo-pout about not getting Juliet, and having to play, as she put it, “a dude,” but I knew her too well not to see that she was thrilled at getting Mercutio, a fun, funny character who even got to die in a jokey way. And Lucy, who was the least show-offy person on the planet, spent the rest of that Monday beaming, accepting congratulations from kids and teachers as if she’d never doubted she’d get Benvolio.
