Life After Juliet

by Shannon Lee Alexander

  Before we can begin, Kelli rushes onto the stage, her hands flapping, and drags Mr. Owens away to deal with what she calls “a costuming catastrophe.”

  “And you techies say you aren’t into drama.” He rolls his eyes, making the gesture even more melodramatic than Darby, and calls out to us, “At ease, soldiers. Your general shall return.”

  War metaphors? Today we’re doing war metaphors? I catch Darby’s eye before she retreats to the wings, her disgust with Owens’s theatrics clear in her sour expression. She raises a brow and shrugs her shoulder. We haven’t spoken much since Monday. I guess there’s not much to say.

  I shake my head and drop to the stage to sit cross-legged. Thomas joins me, his knee almost brushing mine. He’s studying his script, even though he knows most of the lines by now. He glances at me, and I consider looking away, but I’m already busted, so I hold his gaze.

  “It makes no sense,” he says, holding out the script. “It’s all nonsense.”

  I smile and take the script from him. “You get what they’re doing here, though, right?”

  Thomas looks wistfully at the script I’ve laid out of his reach. He runs a hand through his hair and cups the back of his neck. “No, Becca, I have no idea what they’re doing.”

  “Flirting.”

  “That’s supposed to be flirting.” He flicks a hand at the script.

  I nod.

  “Romeo sucks.” His pink lips pull into a half smile.

  I laugh. “I’ll admit, he needs a little work, but if we forget the words for a moment and focus on the emotion, maybe we can get it right.”

  “You want me to flirt with you?” He moves so he’s sitting cross-legged in front of me, knee to knee.

  “No,” I say, kicking his foot. “I want Romeo to flirt with Juliet.”

  Thomas waggles a brow at me, his blue eyes cat-like in their mischievousness. “Heyyy,” he drawls, “how’s it going?” He’s pointing his fingers, like guns, at me, the epitome of every bad pickup attempt I’ve ever seen in movies.

  “Wow,” I say, chuckling. “No wonder Rosalind ditched you.”

  He tries another line. “Say, can I borrow your phone? I promised to call God when I fell from heaven with an angel.”

  “That makes no sense.”

  Thomas’s brow furrows for a second. “I think I may be confusing my lines.” He grins. “It’s a pickup line medley.”

  “It’s terrible whatever it is.” I’m smiling, too, surprised at how easy it is to talk to him.

  “Wow. That’s the first time you’ve actually smiled at me,” Thomas says, tilting his head while he studies me.

  I squirrel away my smile. There’s a moment of silence before Thomas asks, “Why be stingy with the smiles?” He nudges my knee with his own.

  I study the space between our knees. It’s there, but so small it’s hard to see. It’s like it’s only there because I imagine it that way. Like the lines that separate us all, the angles of our bodies, the skin that holds us in, is all unreal, all an illusion made to make us feel apart. Like my fear of connecting with others is unfounded since we’re already all interconnected.

  “Becca?”

  “I once read this interview with a man who went blind later in life. He noticed that after going blind he stopped smiling, because he felt like an idiot not knowing if anyone was reciprocating the gesture. Smiles are like that, I guess. Maybe I’ve always been afraid I’d be the only one smiling.”

  I glance at Thomas’s face, sure he’s rolling his eyes at my stupidity, but instead he’s looking at me with a goofy smile plastered all over his broad face.

  “What?” I ask.

  He doesn’t answer—just keeps smiling—even his eyes crinkle up at the corners.

  “Seriously, why are you smiling like that? Is this another acting technique like that mirroring thing?” My heart is skipping every third beat now, and I feel my face heating up.

  His smile opens wider, revealing his teeth, straightened to perfection. And something in me snaps. A part of me wants to be angry because he shouldn’t be making fun of me. I opened up. I told him about the blind dude who was scared to smile. That was personal. But from somewhere deep inside, an emotion bubbles to the surface. It feels light.

  It starts as a grin that I try to stifle. Then grows into a smirk. And finally, I feel my own lips parting into a wide, toothy smile, coupled with a laugh.

  “That’s why we smile, Becca. Smiles beget smiles.”

  “Beget?”

  “I thought it sounded very Romeo-ish.”

  The theater door slams, and we squint into the darkness, watching Owens’s figure roll through the shadows to his seat. “Okay, troops. Let’s do this,” he orders, smacking his clipboard on the back of the seat in front of him.

  Thomas stands and offers me his hand. I let him pull me up beside him.

  He holds a palm out for me to place mine against. I am Juliet. Romeo is my life. When we say the lines, we exchange a constant volley of smiles.

  …

  I wait for Max at the stairs to the booth, but he doesn’t come down. When I climb up there, I find only Victor.

  “Where’s Max?”

  “He left a while ago to go work in the shop.”

  I peer out the window at the empty stage.

  “You and Thomas seem to be hitting it off, eh?”

  I purse my lips. “As Romeo and Juliet? I hope so. That’s kind of the point.”

  “Well done, then. You guys were electric down there.” There’s an edge to Victor’s voice that makes my fingers tingle.

  “Max is in the shop?”

  He nods, his eyes studying me like I’m a circling hawk and he’s trying to figure out my next move.

  I turn to leave, but—

  “Becca, wait.” Victor reaches out his hand but doesn’t touch me. “Sit?”

  I sit in Max’s seat, swiveling it around to face Victor as he paces the back of the booth.

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  He stops pacing and clasps his hands behind his back. “I think I want to say something serious.”

  “You love me?”

  Victor blinks. A lot. Rapidly. “What?”

  I smirk. “So,” I drawl. “Not what you wanted to say?”

  He grins, a wary look about his face. He’s not used to being on the other end of a quip. “No.”

  I shrug.

  “I want to say something about Max.” He’s shaking his head while he says this. Maybe only part of him wants to say what he’s about to say. “Max is my best friend.”

  I wait for more, but he just stands there. The silence between us is beginning to scratch at my skin. “I understand.”

  “Do you?”

  But I do. I understand what it feels like to want to protect your friend, to know that you’d lay your own life down for them if it’d save them. “I do. I get it. I’m trying to stay away, you know. Trying to not hurt—”

  “No,” Victor says, the word like a grenade. “Staying away isn’t the answer.”

  My neck breaks out in a sweat.

  He starts pacing again. “I’m treading a fine line here, but I know Max, and he’s so much—” He stops and sits in the chair beside me. “He’s happier when you’re around. Big goofy grins all the time, you know?”

  I nod, thinking of the way Max’s smile feels, like that first warm day after a long winter—like coming alive again.

  “But you have to decide, okay? Don’t drag him along behind you like a plaything.”

  “What?”

  Victor flicks a hand toward the stage. “It kills him to watch you with him.”

  “Thomas isn’t—I don’t—”

  Victor’s hands wave me off. “That’s not my business. Max is. He’s family. Which is why I’m asking you to hurry up with the whole do I like Max or don’t I crap. Either way you choose, you need to let him know. And soon.”

  I study his face, afraid for a moment that this is some elaborate joke. But there�
�s nothing but sincerity in the look on Victor’s face. It’s off-putting to see him so serious.

  It’s not a matter of do I or don’t I have feelings for Max. It’s do I or don’t I dare let myself feel them. And I’ve got to say, even that decision feels like it’s being taken out of my hands with every minute I’m with him. There’s no escaping what I feel. There’s no more hiding in books, ducking into other people’s lives to avoid my own, losing myself in words—because the only words I want to hear are those on Max’s lips. And yet, what happens if those lips ever stop moving? “It’s not as simple as do or don’t,” I tell Victor.

  “Yeah, Becky. It really is.” He stands and claps me on the shoulder like we’re drinking buddies in a pub. “Now go tell him I’m tired of waiting for his sorry, love-sick ass, and I need him to take me home.”

  “He’s in the shop?”

  He nods.

  “Anything for you, Vic.”

  But when we reach the bottom step, Darby is waiting.

  “I’m giving you a ride home, Becca.”

  I shake my head, stepping toward the doors. “No, thanks. I’m off to get Max now.”

  Darby steps in front of me. Victor clears his throat. Darby sneers at him. “I’ll bring her back in one piece. Cross my heart.” She makes an X across her chest with one finger.

  “No good, Queenie,” Victor says, stepping up beside me. “Keep your blackhearted promises for someone who cares.”

  I swear they are about to start pulling each other’s hair and hissing like feral cats. I’m getting tired of everyone around me acting like I’m incapable of taking care of myself or making up my own mind.

  Except the Max thing. I guess it’s fair to say I’m having trouble with that decision. But this, this is easy.

  “Move, Darby,” I say, pushing past her. She grabs my elbow.

  “I don’t think you want to walk away from me, Becca.”

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Because my locker is down the hall from the guidance offices, and I may have overheard Dr. Wallace asking the secretary for your Mom’s cell number.”

  I freeze. I totally forgot about going to see her for my weekly checkin. I helped Max in the shop instead. Darby sees the shock and fear in my eyes.

  “I happen to be really good with parents. Bet I can get you out of this little scrape.”

  “But Max—”

  “Would hate to see you get grounded all weekend, I’m sure.”

  Mom wouldn’t ground me. Would she? Max and I have plans to take Javi to the Natural Science Museum tomorrow.

  Victor is shaking his head, but I can’t risk this. I’ve been looking forward to it all week. “Okay,” I say. I shake off Darby’s hand and stand straighter. “Victor, tell Max I’m not risking missing out on our da”—it’s not actually a date, so I switch gears mid-word—“da-ay together. I’ll call him later.”

  He sighs and recites Friar Laurence’s line. “I’ll go with speed to Mantua.”

  Darby rolls her eyes. “Now who’s being the drama queen?”

  …

  In Darby’s car, I ask, “Why are you doing this? Helping me?”

  Darby hands me her phone. “Text my mom for me.”

  I wait for her dictation, but Darby chews on an eggplant-colored fingernail, staring at the road ahead. “What should I text?”

  “I’m supposed to babysit the littles tonight—again. I need a great excuse to get out of it because Thomas is throwing a drammie party. You’ll be my excuse. That’s why I’m helping.”

  “Rehearsal is running late wouldn’t work?”

  “Ha.” Darby coughs up the laugh like phlegm. “Not exactly. She and Dad already think the play takes up too much of my time—already think theater is a waste of time. Every afternoon I’m at rehearsal is just one more afternoon my mother has to divide her attention between the family business and the family itself.”

  Darby’s voice takes on a strange quality, like she’s repeating lines from another play, bitter lines she’s sick of hearing. “It’s time to be a little less selfish and a little more selfless, Darby.”

  I run my thumb along the teal case on her phone.

  “Plus, Mom has weird superpowers and can smell a lie like a day old dirty diaper in a minivan.”

  I snort. “Day old what?”

  Darby smiles. “You heard me.” Her smile immediately fades, though, and she goes back to peeling the paint off one nail with her teeth.

  I place my thumbs on the screen and type out a message.

  DARBY: Friend in a bad way. Probably shouldn’t leave her alone.

  I hit send without thinking.

  “Hell’d you do?” Darby asks, trying to see my message.

  “I told the truth.”

  The phone chimes in my hand.

  MOM: What friend? How bad?

  DARBY: The one at the house the other day. Becca. Playing Juliet. Taking role too seriously. She missed an appointment w/school counselor today.

  We wait for Darby’s mom to respond as I give Darby directions to my house. We’re just turning on my street when her mom finally texts back.

  MOM: OK but be home tomorrow by 8AM. I’m going w/Dad to job site.

  “You’re free for the night,” I tell Darby. “This is me.” I point to my house, and Darby screeches up to the curb, scraping one wheel alongside it.

  “She let me go?”

  I hand her the phone, and she reads over the messages. I climb out of her car and can’t help but study the way the side of her tire is smashed up against the curb. That’s going to leave a scuff mark. And the old one had just worn away. “So thanks for the ride—”

  “Wait,” Darby calls, getting out, too. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

  “No.” The response is a gut reaction. I can’t let Darby in my house, just like I wouldn’t allow a tiger, badger, or serial killer. Darby’s face flinches, and in that tiny space, I get one of those rare glimpses of the girl behind all the masks, the girl in the blanket fort who does silly voices when she reads. “You really want to come in?”

  She purses her lips. “I couldn’t give a shit, but I said I’d help with your mom. If Dr. Wallace has busted you, you may need my skills.” She’s about to sit back down and drive away.

  “Darby, wait.” What am I doing? “Please come in.”

  She sniffs away a flicker of a smile. “If you insist, but I can’t stay all night. I’ve got a party to get to.”

  I chuckle. “I insist. I really do.”

  Scene Eighteen

  [Becca’s room]

  It seems strange to have Darby in my room, perusing each and every title on my bookshelves, studying the pictures pinned on my wall like works of art in a museum, running her fingers over the clothes hanging in my open closet. She’d make an excellent investigator, I decide, as she sniffs a bottle of perfume I bought because it reminded me of Charlotte.

  Finally, she holds out the picture of Charlotte, Charlie, and me from my birthday. “This is your friend? The reason you stole my role as Juliet?”

  “I didn’t steal anything.”

  Darby raises a brow.

  I sigh. “Yes, that’s Charlotte.”

  “She was in my calculus class last year.”

  I raise my own brow, and with it a glimmer of a long dead feeling—hope. “You knew her?”

  Darby shakes her head. “Just in the same class. I knew she was sick or something. And then one day, she wasn’t there anymore.”

  I swallow my hope and sadness in one gulp. Because, yeah, that’s how it went. One day, she was just gone. Charlie was there in her place.

  I heard the car in the drive and ran out thinking it was Charlotte come to get me before school. Instead of her dented silver Honda, Charlie’s ancient, crumbling car was in the drive, and my brother, sitting behind the wheel, looked older than his seventeen years. His eyes were red and there were these horrible creases in his forehead. His skin was so pale that he looked like a ghost himself. And I k
new. I knew there was only one thing in this world that could make my brother look that way.

  She was gone.

  And so was I.

  I try to staunch the tears and look away from Darby, but they’re coming too fast, and my sleeves are too thin to wipe them all away.

  Darby sits on the floor beside me, pulling up a corner of one of the blankets I’m cushioned in. She doesn’t say anything, just hands it to me to help catch the stream of crappy sadness running down my face.

  “Guess I shouldn’t have missed that appointment with Dr. Wallace, huh?”

  “That was true?”

  I nod. “I was supposed to see her during lunch, but forgot. Helped Max instead.”

  “You like him a lot, huh?”

  I suck in a hissing breath and hold it until my heart slows down a bit before exhaling. “I do, but I don’t want to.”

  “Because of her?” Darby hands me the picture she’s still holding.

  I nod.

  “I get that. I mean, that’s why Juliet—” She pantomimes jabbing a knife in her chest.

  “I would never do that,” I say, heat rushing to my cheeks.

  Darby’s quiet, studying the picture I’ve set in my lap. Finally she looks up at me and says, “There are lots of ways to stop living.”

  More tears slip down my cheeks. “I’m so confused.”

  “Aren’t we all?” She waits without a word while I mop up my face, and then she takes a book from the stack on my floor.

  “Why are you here, Darby? You’re free for the whole night now. Why stay here?”

  She opens the book in her hands. “I already told you. I’m going to smooth things over with your mom for you.”

  “But why? You don’t exactly like me.”

  “You don’t really know anything about me.” She turns to the first chapter and starts to read.

  I find my own book, sliding out the bookmark, but I can’t focus on the words. I fiddle with the pages, stealing glances at Darby. Her whole face looks different, younger and maybe more, I don’t know, free when we’re away from school.