by Barbara Dee
Besides, part of me felt mad that I needed to hide my feelings at all. Why should I have to? Everyone else I knew was allowed to have a crush. Even a stupid one.
All right, I’ll do it, I told myself. I’ll make a decision, and take action!
But what to say? The words needed to be perfect.
I went to bed that night still trying to come up with something, and woke up the next morning with an empty head. All day I chatted with cousins and uncles and walked their dogs, telling myself, Come on, Mattie. Here’s your chance to tell Gemma something. What should she know?
That your mind’s a complete and utter BLANK?
Fifteen minutes before I was supposed to meet Lucy, and still desperate for a message, I found myself flipping through Romeo and Juliet.
And there they were. The perfect words that captured exactly how I felt:
Heaven is here,
Where Juliet lives; and every cat and dog,
And little mouse, every unworthy thing,
Live here in heaven and may look on her;
But Romeo may not.
But was this speech too much? Did it give too much away?
Stop overthinking, I scolded myself. It’s what you feel, right? So just SAY it, for once.
I typed it, printed it, and sealed the paper in a plain white envelope.
I didn’t tell Lucy what I’d written, and she didn’t ask. And before I could stop myself, we slipped the envelope under Gemma’s door.
* * *
The last day of vacation, Cara put her arm around me.
“French toast?” she asked, raising her eyebrows as if we had a conspiracy.
“You mean now?” I asked. It was four in the afternoon, but she’d just woken up at two, so her time zone was off. Like Gemma’s mom, I thought, who didn’t believe in them.
“Absolutely now,” Cara replied. “There’s nothing to eat around here, anyway.” She grabbed a few Christmas cookies from the kitchen counter and led me to her car.
We drove to Patsy’s Diner blaring her car stereo. As soon as we got there and placed our orders, Cara leaned across the sticky table and grabbed my hands. “So, little sister,” she said, “what’s been going on with you? How’s Paris?”
“You mean the city?” I said.
“I mean the character. In your play.”
“Oh, Paris.” It felt like years ago that I was Paris. Although the funny thing was I’d only played him in one rehearsal, and that was only for one line.
“Actually, that’s changed,” I said. “Mom didn’t tell you?”
“Mom never tells me anything about you. I think she’s afraid I’ll control you from afar.” She wiggled her fingers at me in a mad-scientist sort of way.
I decided to ignore that. “My teacher switched me. I’m Romeo now.”
“Seriously? Are you kidding?”
“Nope.”
“Omigod, that’s incredible! Congratulations, you little rock star!”
“Stop calling me ‘little.’ ”
“Sorry. You big rock star. Wow. So . . . how does it feel?”
I thought about it. “Pretty good, actually. I was really scared at first. But I’ve had extra rehearsals in the mornings. And now I feel okay about it. But . . .”
“Ah. A ‘but.’ ”
“I have to kiss Juliet starting tomorrow.”
“I see. And that’s awkward?”
I nodded.
“Well, it’s probably awkward for her, too,” Cara said.
“Yeah. Except in a different way, maybe.”
“What do you mean?”
My heart was racing. Should I tell her? Suddenly, I needed to know my big sister’s reaction. “I don’t think she cares, actually. Not like I do.”
I waited for Cara to nod, or act surprised, or at least ask a follow-up question. But she didn’t. She just sat there pouring sugar into her coffee, then adding half-and-half, as if I’d said something perfectly obvious about the weather. Had she even heard what I’d just said? Did she get it? Should I repeat it? Maybe she thought I was too young to mean anything. And really, I hadn’t been all that specific, had I?
“All right, so you like this girl,” she said matter-of-factly, as if I’d just told her that I had a pebble in my shoe. “And you don’t know if she likes you back?”
I ran my finger over some spilled sugar. “She likes me as a friend; I’m sure about that. But that’s all I’m sure about.”
Okay. She had to get it now.
I waited, my heart thumping.
Cara sipped her coffee. “Let me ask you something, Mattie. Have you ever kissed a boy?”
“No.”
“Too bad. Because kissing a girl works the same way.”
Our French toast arrived. Cara took an enormous bite drippy with syrup. “So,” she said. “Tell me about Juliet. The girl playing her.”
“Her name is Gemma. She’s English. Really smart. And really beautiful.”
“Huh.” Cara thought it over as she chewed. “She’s probably kissed someone before, is my bet.”
“Where’d you get that from?”
“Vibes. They never fail me. So my big-sisterly advice to you is: Follow her lead.”
“Okay,” I said. “Thanks.”
I had no idea what that even meant. But now I desperately needed to talk about anything but kissing Gemma, so I asked Cara if she wanted to complain about Mom instead.
30
“Hence from Verona art thou banished:
Be patient, for the world is broad and wide.”
—Romeo and Juliet, III.iii.15–16
Sunday night, before school started, sleeping was hopeless. I just kept picturing Gemma’s dad handing her the envelope. Or Gemma discovering it when she walked in the door. And then bending down, picking it up, opening it. And reading it.
What have I done?
I’ve made a terrible, no-backsies mistake.
I am a moron.
Why did I let Lucy talk me into it?
And why did I choose that passage? It was as good as signing my name. At least, if I had signed my name, I could feel as if I wasn’t holding back. Getting it all out there, whatever happens next.
But using that passage and not signing my name was just stupid. It was like a love note from Romeo but not Mattie. Which makes me look immature and unbrave.
Of course Gemma wouldn’t like me back! Why should she? I’m as reckless as Romeo, but also a total wimp. A reckless wimp: How oxymoronic.
Not knowing what else to do, I got out of bed and practiced Romeo’s lines until the sun came up.
* * *
On Monday, Mr. Torres was buzzing with energy, like he’d eaten too many of his wife’s cookies over winter break.
“Welcome back, humans,” he said at the start of English class. “I hope you’ve all had a restful break, except for the time you’ve spent memorizing lines.”
The class groaned.
He ignored it. “Starting today, we are in phase two of rehearsals, which will last for the next three weeks. I expect all actors to be off-book. That means I don’t want to see any scripts in any hands onstage. Your lines should now reside up here.” He pointed to his head.
“That should be easy for you, Ajay,” Tessa said. “Considering the amount of spare room in your cranium.”
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” Mr. Torres said, not smiling. “Miss Bluestone will be attending rehearsals from now on to cue actors if they miss a line—but you should not use her as your crutch. If you don’t have your lines down, get busy! Study your lines at breakfast, while you’re brushing your teeth, while you’re walking your dog! You’ll see on the new schedules I’m handing out that we’ll be picking up the pace. Unless a scene is unusually long or complicated, we’ll be rehearsing two or three scenes every afternoon. Many of you will also be practicing dance steps and sword-fight moves with our wonderful gym teacher, Ms. Selden. Tech crew people: you’ll be working every afternoon in the gym with Mrs.
Dimona until we reach phase three.”
“What’s phase three?” Keisha asked, looking worried.
“Our final two weeks of rehearsal. That’s when we put up the set and the lights, fine-tune all scenes, fit the costumes, have our dress rehearsal. Short of an emergency of nuclear proportions, no one will be allowed to miss a single second of phase three.”
Liam raised the arm that wasn’t in a cast. “What about me?” he asked.
Everyone looked at him.
Mr. Torres sipped some water out of his empty-author-head mug. He didn’t seem to be in any hurry to swallow it. “You’ll be running props with Miss Bluestone,” he said.
I glanced at Tessa. Mr. Torres was not just a great teacher, he was a nice person—but “running props with Miss Bluestone” sounded like a punishment, like Liam was being banished from the play. And it seemed Liam agreed, the way he slumped in his seat. But, of course, he had no right to protest, and everyone knew it.
We spent the rest of that period talking about Romeo’s banishment in Act Three. Ajay said he thought it was a pretty lenient sentence, considering that Romeo had killed Tybalt on purpose. Charlotte said she couldn’t figure out why Juliet didn’t just run off with Romeo. Keisha reminded her that Juliet was still only thirteen. And Willow couldn’t stop talking about how horribly Lord Capulet behaved, insisting that Juliet marry Paris immediately, or “hang, beg, starve, die in the streets.”
It was an interesting discussion, but I couldn’t stay with it. I was thinking about the new rehearsal schedule, specifically the next time I’d be with Gemma. Juliet wasn’t due up until tomorrow, so probably I wouldn’t see her at all until then. Which meant I wouldn’t know if she’d read my note or had figured out who’d sent it. Not that I had any doubts. But if I could just look into her eyes—
“Mattie?” Mr. Torres was standing in front of me with a questioning expression. “Will you begin reading for us?”
I swallowed. “I’m sorry. Starting where?”
Now he frowned at me. “You’re not with us today, are you? Please pay attention; we need everyone’s complete focus going forward. Willow, will you read for us, please?”
I could feel a slow blush creeping up my neck. As much as I hated being called “teacher’s pet,” Mr. Torres’s approval meant a lot to me. He’d never scolded me before, not even when I’d been giggling with Gemma at rehearsal.
“Ooh, teacher’s pet’s in time-out,” Charlotte whispered. “Naughty, naughty.”
“Shut up, Charlotte,” I muttered.
You okay? Tessa was mouthing at me from across the room.
I shrugged and stared blindly at my book.
* * *
At rehearsal that afternoon, we were back to Act One, Scene One—which was a good thing, because it gave me a chance to act with Lucy. Everything about her was sane and reassuring; she always made me feel as if things were under control.
But as we did our scene as Romeo and Benvolio, I couldn’t help noticing that Lucy seemed a little off. I knew from practicing with her over vacation that she had her lines perfectly memorized, but that first off-book rehearsal, she needed several prompts from Miss Bluestone.
“Everything all right?” I asked her when we’d finished for the day.
“Yeah, I guess,” she said. “Wanna go get some fro-yo?”
I didn’t. Fro-yo in January seemed like a terrible idea, truthfully. But I could tell Lucy had something on her mind, because she was twisting her hair and not talking. So I agreed.
At Verona’s I got a small cup of caramel with hot fudge sauce, and Lucy got a cup of mango with blackberries. By the way she poked at it with her spoon, I could see she wasn’t in the mood for fro-yo any more than I was.
“What’s up?” I asked. “Something’s bothering you, I can tell.”
“Yeah,” she admitted. “But I’m afraid you’ll be mad at me.”
“Why would I be?”
“Because I did something crazy today.”
“You?” I didn’t mean to make it sound like Perfect Lucy made a mistake? Heavens! But that’s what it came out like. “Sorry. What happened?”
She started shredding her napkin. “Somehow Liam got the idea that I’d asked Elijah to the Valentine’s Dance. And he said something to Elijah about it—you know, to tease him.”
I almost choked on my fro-yo. “How do you know that?”
“Because Elijah told me.”
“Huh. Really. And what did you say?”
“Well, Elijah looked confused. You know that thing he does with his eyebrows?” Lucy imitated Elijah’s confused-eyebrow expression. “And I felt bad for him. He seemed humiliated—I didn’t know what else to do!”
“So you asked Elijah to the dance?”
“I don’t know even know how it happened; it just came out of my mouth!” Lucy wailed. “But I’ll un-ask him if you want.”
“Why would I?”
“Oh, Mattie, because he was your crush for an entire year! And Tessa and I said all those horrible things about him—”
“Wait,” I said. “Tessa was the one who called him a dirtbag, not you. And anyway, I don’t care about him anymore. I promise.”
“Well, I wasn’t sure if you . . . ,” Lucy said. She stopped.
“If I still liked boys?”
She nodded.
“Yeah, I think I do. Just because I’m over Elijah doesn’t mean I can’t crush on a boy.” I took a breath and blurted: “I think I might have blown it with Gemma.”
“Why? How?”
I told her which speech I’d put in the envelope, how it had to be obvious who’d sent it.
Lucy didn’t argue. She was too good a friend to make up some lame, supportive lie about how Gemma wouldn’t assume Romeo = Mattie. “But so what if Gemma knows it was you? That’s not the worst thing, right?”
I winced. “Maybe it is. I don’t know!”
“Well, try not to worry about what you don’t know.” She paused. “So you’re okay with me going with Elijah? To the dance?”
“Yes,” I said firmly. “Yes, I am sure about that.”
Lucy exhaled. “Phew. But please don’t tell Tessa about Elijah and me yet. She’ll freak when she hears.”
I nodded.
Just another item on the list of Secrets We’re Keeping from Tessa.
31
“You kiss by the book.”
—Romeo and Juliet, I.v.112
You know that feeling when you’re on an elevator, and your stomach arrives at the floor an entire second after you do? That’s how I felt at school all Tuesday, thinking about seeing Gemma at rehearsal.
But when I got there, everything was fine between us. Weirdly fine. Gemma gave me a Happy New Year hug and asked if I’d had a good winter break. She complained about how much memorizing she’d had to do. She asked if I’d seen a movie I hadn’t; we talked about it as if I had. I looked straight into her eyes; she looked right back at me. And that was it.
So I even started not-dreading Thursday, which was when we’d do the costume ball scene again—this time without scripts. But with kissing.
I mean, I was still paralyzed with nerves. But if Gemma hadn’t realized I’d written that note—or if, by some miracle, she hadn’t read it, possibly because her dad had tossed it, assuming it was junk mail or something—then the kissing might not be unbearable. Might even be nice, potentially. If I could do what Cara suggested: Just follow Gemma’s lead.
So I wasn’t even freaking extra hard when I got to the auditorium Thursday afternoon and saw that she was already onstage, waiting.
As soon as she saw me, she turned her back to put something on her face. It was a pair of red plastic glasses with goo-goo eyes, the kind that bounce around on springs.
“O Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?” she said in a squeaky falsetto.
I giggled. “Wrong speech. Today we meet at the costume ball and do the hand thing.”
“Oh, bollocks. Well, I suppose this will do for my costu
me, then. Wouldn’t you fall in love with me dressed like this?”
I didn’t answer.
“Let me see you in these, Mattie.” Gemma took off the goo-goo glasses and put them on my face.
I breathed in her Gemma smell as she straightened the frames at my temples.
“Ooh yes, thunderbolts! I’d be smitten with you instantly.” She giggled. “You’re so much googly-er than that horrible Liam. Do you know what that dimwit did?”
“No,” I said.
“When I was back in the UK during Christmas, he came round my flat, apparently, and put a love-poem-y thing under my door.”
“What?” I stared at her through the goo-goo eyes. “What sort of a love-poem-y thing?”
“Oh, a few lines from the play.”
“How do you know it was from Liam? I mean, did he sign his name?”
“No, but it was Romeo talking about being banished. Which Liam is, poor muppet. Willow says he’s doing props with Miss Bluestone now. How awful. I should probably reach out to him.”
“No,” I said too fast. “I mean, what for?”
“Because he’s obviously pining for me, the dimwit. Ooh, there’s Mr. Torres. Give me back the glasses, quick!”
I handed her the glasses; she put them on crooked. “Hullo, Mr. Torres. Can this be my costume ball mask, please?”
He guffawed. “Yes, but only for today.”
The other cast members streamed into the auditorium—Willow, Ajay, Keisha, Lucy, and a bunch of kids who were servants and dancers. The costume party was such a big and complicated scene that Mr. Torres had brought three Tupperwares of cookies that day, which everyone attacked as if they hadn’t tasted chocolate chips since preschool.
But not me. My brain was spinning. Gemma didn’t think I’d written the note: That was good. But now I’d sent her to “reach out” to Liam: That was bad.
And what if she mentioned the love-poem-y note, and he swore he hadn’t written it? She’d immediately know it was me, the other Romeo—and just now I’d pretended it wasn’t, thereby making the whole thing even WORSE.
Of course, I couldn’t have told her the truth, anyway, not if she thought Liam was stupid for sending her a “love-poem-y thing.” What was so stupid about it, anyway? It bothered me that she thought it was, considering I’d spent forever finding the perfect words.
