by Barbara Dee
“Wakeupwakeupwakeup,” he was chanting.
“Erg. What time is it?”
“Ten thirty.”
“On a Saturday? And you woke me up?”
“Mom says you sleep too much.”
“Too much for what?”
“And Dad made bacon.”
“Woohoo, bacon.”
“Also, someone’s here.”
“Yeah? Like who?”
“I don’t remember. She talks funny. She said she’s in the play with you.”
I bolted upright. “Gemma?”
Kayden nodded. “She’s eating the bacon.”
“Tell her to come up to my room. No—first let me brush my teeth, then tell her to come up. What’s wrong with you, Kayden? Why didn’t you tell me right away?”
“You were sleeping,” he explained.
I shooed him out of my room. Gemma was here? In my house? What for?
I brushed my teeth and splashed cold water on my face. Then I threw on my robe and ran downstairs to the kitchen.
There she was, calmly eating bacon and scrambled eggs. Mom and Dad were drinking coffee and reading the newspaper. Mason was pouring chocolate milk into his cereal.
“Good morning, sleepyhead,” Dad greeted me. “We’ve been chatting with your costar.”
Gemma flashed a smile. “Hullo, Mattie. I’ve eaten all your breakfast, I’m afraid.”
“That’s okay, I never eat breakfast on Saturdays,” I said.
“It’s true, she doesn’t,” Mason said. “She always just sleeps until lunch.”
“Not true, doofus,” I grumbled. I looked at Mom, but she was doing the crossword puzzle. Was somebody going to explain to me what was going on?
Apparently, no.
I poured myself some coffee.
“You drink coffee at breakfast?” Gemma asked me. “Daddy forbids it, but I always have tea, anyway.”
Mom looked up from her puzzle. “Oh, would you like some tea, dear? We have Earl Grey.”
Gemma blushed. “Thank you, Mrs. Monaghan, I’ve already had some at home. I was just saying.”
“Who’s Earl Grey?” Mason demanded.
“Probably nobody,” Dad said. “Although I do think there was an actual Earl of Sandwich. And that’s where we get the word for ‘sandwich.’ ” He smiled at Gemma, as if she, being English, would appreciate this factoid.
“You mean sandwiches are named after some dude named Earl?” Mason guffawed. Chocolate milk dribbled out of the side of his mouth.
This was now officially unbearable.
“Gemma, let’s go upstairs, okay?” I said, pretending there was no rule in my house that hot beverages weren’t allowed outside the kitchen.
Gemma stood. “Well, thank you so much for the delicious breakfast, Mrs. Monaghan.”
“Anytime, dear,” Mom said, smiling sweetly as she filled in a crossword answer.
We walked upstairs, me dripping some coffee on the carpet and not caring. When we got upstairs to my room, I shut the door.
“So what’s up?” I asked, realizing I sounded like Mr. Torres. Except I wasn’t asking what was wrong with Gemma; I was asking why she was here.
“May I sit?” she asked.
I snatched my wool and crochet stuff off my beanbag chair and motioned for her to sit there.
“Cute,” she said, examining the tiny blue dolphin.
“Thanks. It’s just a hobby.” Inwardly, I rolled my eyes. Because of course it was just a hobby. You couldn’t crochet baby animals for a job.
Gemma smiled at my polka-dot curtains and my butterfly mobile. “You have a very pretty room, Mattie. It isn’t how I expected it.”
“How did you expect it?”
“I don’t know. More mysterious.”
“Huh,” I said. “You mean like black walls?”
“Oh, yes.” She laughed. “And fuzzy purple creatures popping out of your desk.”
So she thought of me as freakish. Hey, great.
My hand trembled as I sipped my coffee. “Can I ask why you’re here, Gemma? Not to be rude or anything.”
“Oh, of course. It’s a fair question.” She chewed her lower lip. “Mattie, I wanted to ask you something. In person.”
My heart zoomed. “You do? What?”
“It’s kind of awkward. But . . .” She searched my face. “Okay, I’ll just say it. Do you want to be Romeo?”
“What?” It wasn’t the question I’d been expecting. Or, rather, hoping for. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, Willow thinks you don’t. So she’s been asking Liam to be Romeo again. She’s been asking him nonstop since he broke his arm.”
“Okay,” I said, to show I was listening.
“At first he said no. But lately he’s been feeling terrible about leaving the play. Working on props with Miss Bluestone is ghastly, apparently, and he feels as if everyone’s forgotten about him.”
“So he wants his job back? As Romeo?”
“He says he’s willing to give it a go.”
“But Liam can’t even memorize his phone number!”
“He can tape some lines to his cast, he says. Mr. Torres told him he could when he broke his arm.”
“He can’t tape the whole play! And why is this Willow’s business, anyway?”
Gemma shrugged. “She likes Liam.”
“And she hates me, although I’ve never done anything to deserve it.”
“She doesn’t hate you, Mattie,” Gemma said gently. “She’s just not your friend.”
I sighed. As much as that explanation annoyed me, as much as it made no sense, I could see that it was probably true. “Gemma, what do you want me to say?”
“I want you to say that you do want to be Romeo. Because I want you to be.”
“Really?”
Gemma nodded. “Nothing against Liam. He’s adorable and gorgeous, and it was so sweet how he put that love-poem-y thing under my door. I even asked him to the Valentine’s Dance, as a way of saying thank you for it.”
Oh, perfect. Well played, Mattie.
“However,” she added, “he’s a terrible actor. You’re so much better at it, Mattie.”
“But that’s not true! I keep messing up my lines—”
“Because you get distracted. When you focus, you’re brilliant.”
I blushed. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Although there’s more.”
I stared at her, barely breathing.
“Willow wants me to tell Mr. Torres that I agree with her, that I also think Liam should take back Romeo. From you.”
“And will you?”
“No,” Gemma said. “Not if you want Romeo.”
“I think I do,” I blurted.
Her face colored. She beamed. “Yes! I was hoping you’d say that!”
She got up from the beanbag chair, threw her arms around me, kissed my cheek, and left.
* * *
When Monday rolled around, I went straight to Mr. Torres’s homeroom and announced that I’d decided to keep playing Romeo. He grinned and said he’d never doubted it. I couldn’t tell if Willow had already come to him with her plan to have me replaced, but when I saw Mr. Torres’s reaction to my announcement, I knew he’d never take the role from me.
So I stopped worrying about it. I even told Gemma.
“He’s ace, isn’t he?” she said. But it’s not like it was a question.
35
“Now the two hours’ traffic
of our stage.”
—Romeo and Juliet, Prologue, 12
The next few weeks flew by. Rehearsals lasted from dismissal to dinner, and sometimes beyond when we were getting measured for costumes or adjusting lights, or if the scenery needed repairing. The PTA sent us pizzas when we were running late, and Mom even brought over some home-baked cupcakes for us one evening. Which was really nice of her, especially because she wasn’t a cupcake-baking sort of mom.
As for me, I messed up my lines only a few more times after
Gemma’s visit. It still made me swimmy-headed whenever we had to kiss (five times over the entire play!), but I tried to “use” that feeling the way Mr. Torres suggested, telling myself that Romeo probably felt swimmy-headed too. And somehow, knowing that both Gemma and Mr. Torres believed in me, were rooting for me, helped me to relax a little. Never totally, but enough for me to remember all my lines. And to focus on my character.
Finally, we were down to the last few days before opening night. That Wednesday, Willow’s mom and Isabel’s mom showed up with all of our costumes. We couldn’t all try on our outfits in the bathroom, so Mr. Torres had the boys go to a first-floor classroom, and Miss Bluestone led all the girls to the gym.
“All right, young ladies,” Miss Bluestone said. “Let me explain how the costumes work. All Montagues are in shades of blue, and all Capulets are in shades of red. Most of you will have one outfit. Certain characters, like Benvolio, Mercutio, and Lady Capulet, may have an additional accessory—for example, a scarf or a shawl—to wear in some scenes, so we’re asking you to keep track of all items. Our leads”—she beamed at Gemma and me—“have multiple costumes, and will have assistants backstage to help them dress.”
Gemma, who was standing next to Willow, flashed me a look like, Ooh, posh!
I grinned.
Willow’s mom came over to me. “Mattie, quick question: What were you planning to do with your hair?”
“My hair? You mean, for the play?” Stupidly, I hadn’t given it any thought.
“You really should get a haircut, Mattie,” Willow said. “If you’re playing Romeo.”
“Oh no, you mustn’t,” Gemma exclaimed. “Mattie, you have such gorgeous hair. Don’t you dare trim it one inch!”
“Well, she can’t just wear it like that!” Willow pointed at my hair, which hung messily down my back. “It’s too long and girly. It’ll confuse the audience.”
Charlotte sniggered. “Yeah, Romea and Juliet.”
I froze. I couldn’t look at Gemma, but I could feel her eyes on me.
Then Tessa came to my rescue. “Hey, Mattie, just put it up in a man-bun. That’ll definitely look Shakespearey.”
“They had man-buns then?” Charlotte scrunched her face in disbelief.
Tessa nodded. “Oh, yes. I took a class in theater camp called Shakespeare’s Costumes. Also, the actors wore earrings. And tights!”
When Willow’s mom turned her back to locate my costumes, I asked Tessa if she was sure about the man-bun.
“Nah,” she admitted, grinning. “I just made that up. But Gemma likes your hair, so you can’t cut it, right?”
I hugged her. “Thanks, Tessa.”
“You’re welcome, saucy wench.”
A few minutes later I was wearing my first costume, which was basically just a blue tunic with a wide leather belt, and black leggings. The funny thing was, I felt a twinge of disappointment, because maybe this wasn’t costumey enough.
But Gemma’s costume was amazing, a long scarlet dress with puffy sleeves and a square neckline. Everyone was making a fuss over how beautiful she looked: the teachers, all the girls—and then, when we were back onstage with everyone, the boys.
This was like a kick in the stomach, watching Liam walk over to her and do a joke bow. Followed by Gemma curtsying, and then the two of them pretending to waltz around the stage, until they crashed into Ajay. I wondered if Tessa found this as painful to watch as I did—a reminder that Liam and Gemma were going together to the dance. I hadn’t mentioned this fact to Tessa, but she probably knew, because everyone was keeping a scorecard of dance couples.
Also, I wondered if Liam felt weird seeing Lucy pretend sword-fighting with Elijah in his monk costume. Maybe by now Liam had fallen out of crush with Lucy, the way Romeo had with Rosaline. And the way I had with Elijah. Even if Liam had forgotten about Lucy, I should tell Lucy how he’d wanted to ask her to the dance.
But sometime later, after all this was over.
* * *
If you wait a long time for something, you can start to believe it will never happen. And then when it finally does happen, you’re shocked.
That’s how I felt when opening night arrived. The whole day, I kept thinking: Really? Now we’re actually doing this play, not just practicing? My whole body zinged with electricity, like you could use me for a Christmas decoration. I couldn’t stop jiggling my feet and tapping my fingers. Even Tessa scolded me (“Mattie: Calm down, breathe, focus.”)
She also made me eat a banana (“for energy”) and drink water an hour before curtain, even though I swore I wasn’t hungry or thirsty.
“Mattie, listen to me,” she said. “It’s a looong play, and you’re like an athlete about to run a marathon.”
Which turned out to be the opposite of how it felt. It was like we’d entered another dimension, where time was different. Because all the weeks of practicing had led us to a two-hour performance that somehow was over in a flash.
And yet I can still remember every detail: Benvolio teasing Romeo about his crush on Rosaline. The Nurse teasing Juliet. Tybalt strutting around the costume ball. Mercutio’s Queen Mab speech (which Tessa nailed). Lord Capulet threatening to throw Juliet out of the house when she refused to marry Paris.
There were surprises. Some lines that had never seemed funny in rehearsal got big laughs from the audience, like when Romeo is listening to Juliet on the balcony, and he asks, “Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?” Also, when Tybalt stabs Mercutio, and Mercutio makes stupid jokes—I’d never realized before how angry Mercutio was. But I guess Tessa had saved her anger for the performance, because when she said the line “A plague o’ both your houses,” she actually spat. I mean, with actual spit.
As for me, I messed up only once, at the end of the play. It happened when Juliet awakens in the vault, sees Romeo lying dead beside her, and kisses his lips to get the poison he’d swallowed. In rehearsals, all of my kisses with Gemma were quick little pecks, but this time she took an extra second. And I guess I was thrown by that, because without thinking, I opened my eyes. Not so wide that anyone in the audience laughed, or probably even noticed—but just wide enough that Gemma saw me looking at her.
It wasn’t about me, I knew. But still.
When we finished, there was a standing ovation. People yelled, “Bravo,” and “Brava” and made us come back onstage for extra bows—the whole cast, and then specifically Gemma and me. Just before our curtain call, Gemma reached up to pull all the bobby pins out of my man-bun.
“Let them see you,” she whispered.
So during our final bows, I looked like myself, Mattie Monaghan. And Gemma glowed at me.
Then Mr. Torres joined us onstage. “Hello, parents and friends of the eighth grade! We want to thank you for supporting us as we mounted our most ambitious show ever. In the history of our eighth-grade productions, we’ve never before staged a nearly unabridged Shakespeare play, so I’m beyond proud of our efforts this year. It wasn’t easy, and I have to admit that at times it seemed impossible. But as I told one of our brightest stars here”—he gestured to ME!—“a teacher never bets against his students. So I always knew we were capable of something special tonight—and I think you’ll agree that I was right!”
Booming applause. A pretty dark-haired woman who had to be Mrs. Torres came to the edge of the stage to hand a bouquet to Mr. Torres, who held it to his chest and mouthed, I love you. Everybody went, “Awwww.”
Afterward, in the faculty lounge we’d taken over for our dressing room, Lucy, Tessa, and I had a laughing, crying, sweaty friend-hug. Keisha, Ellie, and Elijah joined us, and Mr. Torres gave the six of us high fives. Then we all joined our families in the audience.
“Little sister, you rocked,” shouted Cara, who’d driven all the way from school for the performance. “Not that I predicted it, or anything!”
“You were absolutely great,” Mom said, beaming through her mom tears. Dad kissed my cheek; his eyes were red, I saw.
“I liked the
fighting with the swords,” Kayden said. “But why did you get in the middle of Tessa and that other girl?”
“I didn’t—Romeo did,” I tried to explain. “He’s not the same as me.”
But this was a kid who thought Star Wars was real. So I left it at that.
“Gemma! Congratulations!” Dad boomed.
I turned. Gemma had joined us, along with her dad and a chic woman wearing too much makeup. Gemma’s mom, I realized immediately. They had the same heart-shaped face.
“Congratulations to Mattie,” Gemma shouted. “My Romeo!”
She kissed my cheek.
Everyone laughed.
Even (and this was the funny part) me. Even though the play we’d just performed was a tragedy. Even though I’d probably never get to hang out with Gemma again. Even though I’d never told her how I felt.
I laughed. And for the rest of that night, I couldn’t stop smiling.
36
“This night I hold an old-accustom’d feast,
Whereto I have invited many a guest,
Such as I love.”
—Romeo and Juliet, I.ii.20–22
Word got out overnight that Willow was hosting a cast party at her house on Saturday evening, and everyone from the play was invited—everyone except Tessa and me.
At seven on Saturday morning, Tessa texted me: RAT-CATCHER! SCURVY KNAVE!! We should totally crash it, Mattie!!!
I was too excited to sleep late, so I texted back: Nope. Just come over tonight, kay?
Tessa: but how can Willow be such a MONSTROUS MALEFACTOR?
Me: It’s her party. Her house. A plague on it :P
Tessa: but everyone from the play will be there!!!
Me: If they want to go, let them. Who cares?
Tessa: me. i care :(
Did I? It was strange to realize that I didn’t. Not even a little. I knew Willow didn’t like me any more than she had before the play, and probably I’d never know the reason why. Maybe she thought I was nerdy or stuck-up. Maybe she thought I was stealing Gemma from her, or had stolen Romeo from Liam. Or maybe she just didn’t like my eyebrows. Or my earlobes, or whatever.
