Life After Juliet

by Shannon Lee Alexander

  I nod and touch the bruises on his face. “You’re the boy who lived.” It’s cheesy. I know it. Instantly, I’m blushing. I toss him a smile so he knows I know I’m nuts.

  Max’s laughter, not my fear, is what floods my car, and it’s beautiful.

  Inside the office, Reid, tall and skinny, just like his name suggests, shakes Max’s hand and nods at me as I linger by the door pretending to read the J & R Salvage Yard policies hanging crookedly on the back wall.

  “I emptied out the glove box for ya,” Reid says, holding out a rumpled plastic Walmart bag. “The dashboard figurine you wanted was busted, but I put all the pieces I could find in here. You oughtta be able to glue her back together. You’d be surprised by what superglue can fix.”

  Max opens the bag, and I inch closer to peek over his shoulder. Mary’s broken at the waist. One of her outstretched hands is gone. And it looks like there’s a chunk of her mantle missing, too. But she’s still smiling.

  She reminds me of the one-winged angel sitting by Charlotte’s side.

  Max thanks Reid, closing the bag, and we’re about to go when—“Wait.”

  “You okay?” Max asks. He takes my hand and squeezes.

  “I want to see the truck.”

  “That’s not a great idea, Bec. I don’t remember much, but it can’t be a pretty sight.”

  But I look at Reid. “May I see the truck?”

  Reid looks between us a few times before shrugging. “Sure, but he’s right. It ain’t pretty. Think you can handle it?”

  Something’s missing, and seeing the truck may be the last piece I need to finish the puzzle. I can’t quit now. “I need to see the truck.”

  “She’s not far.” Reid ducks his head as he goes through the door. Max and I follow. I have to take two steps for each of Reid’s long strides, and Max is still slower than normal, so we fall behind quickly.

  The sun is setting behind the tall pines that border the salvage yard, turning the sky into a watercolor palette of pinks, reds, and oranges. I zip up my hoodie to keep out the slight chill that is creeping in with the shadows.

  “Why are we doing this?” Max asks.

  It’s a fair question. I don’t have an answer, though. Not one that I can put into words. Instead I lace my fingers with his and pull myself closer so that our elbows and shoulders bump each other as we walk.

  We catch up to Reid, who’s standing in a posture similar to one seen at art museums, but instead of studying the Mona Lisa, he’s looking at the half-mangled hunk of metal that was once Max’s truck. The darkening shadows of the early evening drip from the twisted frame like blood pooling under a corpse.

  “You were in there?”

  Max nods. His face is suddenly ashen, like he’s back inside that wreck. His shoulder is now firmly pressing against mine. He’s leaning on me like his bad leg is about to give out.

  “And you survived.” I squeeze his hand.

  He survived. He really shouldn’t have. The driver’s side is completely concave. It looks a little like a giant hauled off and punched the side of his car. Where the emergency officers used the Jaws of Life to pry him out, the metal is torn and twisted, the door hanging off at a crazy angle.

  I look at Max, and I just know my face looks ridiculous—my eyes are bugging out and my lips are pursed like a duck’s bill—but I can’t contain the tidal wave of amazement that is knocking me on my ass. “Whoa.”

  One of Max’s dark brows rises, along with a corner of his mouth. “Whoa?” He straightens up, his legs regaining their strength. He presses his lips together, trying not to laugh at me.

  “You survived. In that. And that’s… I mean, I don’t know, but that’s a miracle or something. Right?” Max keeps grinning. I look to Reid for confirmation. “I mean, right?”

  Reid opens his arms and turns this way and that, taking in all the wreckage around us. “Miracles as far as the eye can see.”

  My knees feel like they’re made of rubber bands. “Whoa,” I whisper, and plunk myself down on the gravel.

  Reid shoves his hands in the back pockets of his faded jeans and starts down the path back to the office. “I’ll just give y’all a minute.”

  Max thanks Reid as he slowly lowers himself down next to me. “I didn’t think I wanted to see the truck again. I’m glad we did, though.”

  I rest my head on his shoulder. “Me, too.”

  We watch the shadows slide along the truck’s bruised side, creeping toward us as the sun continues to set. I reach into the bag at Max’s feet and pull out broken Mary’s torso. “I have a confession.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “I was angry at her.” I squeeze the little figurine and feel the broken edge dig into my palm. “I had all these crazy emotions, and it was simpler to just be mad, except I didn’t know who to necessarily be pissed with, and she was an easy target, you know? I mean she had one job. Protect you. And she pretty much sucked at it.”

  I scoot so I’m facing Max. “But I was looking at it all wrong. Wasn’t I?”

  “How’s that?”

  “She did protect you.”

  “Well, she did have a few tons of steel helping her.”

  I roll my eyes like the drammie I am. Max’s mouth twitches into a giant smile. “But you’re here. With me.”

  His fingers push a tangle of hair behind my ear and then trace the line of my cheek down to my chin. “I’m here. With you.”

  “Then I’d say she did her job.” I open my hand and hold out the Mary figurine. “Will you fix her?”

  Max studies her in my hand for a while before he answers. “No.” He takes her from me and runs a thumb over her face. “I think it’s time to let her go.”

  Maybe Dr. Wallace would say that’s progress for Max. He doesn’t have to hold on to a physical representation of Beni any longer, because he’s realized Beni will always be a part of him. Like every time he looks in the mirror and sees the scar along his left cheekbone, he’ll remember how he survived the irresistible forces at work against us, even if Beni succumbed.

  And that’s all well and good, but I’ve only just made my peace with this Mary here, and I’d like to see her stick around a little longer. “Have I ever told you about the time I fixed an angel’s wing?”

  Max blinks, his smile widening. “Excuse me?”

  “Yep.” I laugh. “My brother ran her over.”

  “He ran over an angel?”

  “Oh, yeah.” I stand and hold out a hand to help Max up, too. “Tore her wing clean off.”

  “So what you’re saying is that you have experience with celestial healing.”

  “I’m a real miracle worker.” I lean into him and touch his scarred cheek with my fingertips.

  Max opens my hand and places a kiss and then the Mary figurine in my waiting palm. “Save us, Becca Hanson.”

  I tilt my face up and rock onto the balls of my feet to press my lips to his. His arms encircle my waist, and I’m enveloped by his woodsy scent, the warm softness of his flannel shirt, and the sound of his steady heartbeat. And all I can think is whoa.

  Scene Four

  [The theater]

  Marcus Zimmerman and I are probably the only people in this theater right now who are not hoping to pursue a career in the arts. Well that’s not entirely true, because what is bird calling if not an art, and Marcus Zimmerman wants to be a professional bird caller. I don’t even know if that’s a thing, but it’s what he’s just confessed to me as we wait backstage for Max and Victor to fix yet another missed light cue in the sequence.

  “The toughest for me is the nightingale,” Marcus says, cupping his hands around his mouth and making a screeching sound that is more of a cross between a train squealing to a stop and a microwave timer going crazy. It sounds like nothing that could ever exist in the natural world. Ever. He’s convinced it’s his ticket to the big show, though.

  “Wow,” I say, shielding my eyes and looking up at the catwalk, where Miles and Kelli are repositioning a light. Nothin
g has gone right this entire dress rehearsal. Darby actually tripped and impaled herself on Romeo’s weapon at their first meeting. From then, it’s all gone downhill, like a snowball set loose on the top of Everest.

  “Okay,” Max says in my earpiece. “Tell them to try from the top of the scene.”

  Beside me, Marcus is bobbing his head and making cooing sounds. “Dove?” I ask.

  “Yesss,” he hisses, extending a hand for a high five.

  My head is throbbing, and I want to smack Marcus between his eyes rather than on his well-padded palm. “Max says you guys should try again.”

  Marcus looks confused for a beat and then recovers. He takes his place next to Darby onstage. By the time Thomas enters as Romeo, they’ve messed up every third line.

  When we reach the end of act four, I’m beyond the end of my rope. I crumple in a seat in the audience next to Darby. “Why is this sucking so hard?”

  “Theater tradition.”

  I glare at her. If I could stab her with my corneas, I’d do it right now. Why is she so calm?

  “The more disastrous the dress rehearsal, the better the opening night.”

  “Really?”

  She nods, but the muscles of her neck are so tight, they look like thick cords just under her skin.

  “Besides that, we’ve only had four weeks to pull this together.”

  “We need more duct tape.”

  It’s true that we’ve redone all the set pieces, reconstructed costumes, and refurbished props, but it felt like a whirlwind. Everyone has been working together, and no one has killed anyone else, so that’s a plus. Still, it feels like something is missing. Like we’re all playacting at being a team.

  I wish I could just wave a magic wand and make it all work out. I hate being a Muggle. What we need is something that will truly pull us together.

  Help me, Charlotte. What can I do?

  Thomas flops down in the seat behind us. “We’re going to be here all night, aren’t we?” It isn’t a question, though. He rests his head in his hands.

  It’s true. We need to trudge through this disaster at least one more time. We need to prove we can do one freaking scene without messing up. Yet when I look around at everyone with exhausted, mannequin expressions, I can tell we need a big break.

  You need a distraction, Charlotte answers.

  She always claimed that distractions were a good thing. I don’t know that you can categorize them as good or bad, but sometimes they are necessary.

  “Think Owens is all moved in and comfy in his cushy new office?”

  Darby thunks her head back on her chair, puffing out her cheeks and then letting the air leak from her pursed lips like a punctured balloon. “Who gives a shit? Not me.” Her voice is thick bitterness, with a side of rage.

  “You said your dad is busy with a bathroom remodel, right?”

  She opens one eye and looks at me like I’m Hamlet’s Ophelia.

  “What’d he do with the old toilet?”

  “Ew, why?”

  “Because I think we should help Mr. Owens decorate his fancy office at his fancy job over at The Actors’ Studio.” I make sure to infuse my voice with the appropriate amount of snootiness as I say the community theater’s name.

  Thomas looks up from his hands and leans forward, gripping the back of my seat. “What do you have in mind?”

  “Well, it seems like such a king of a man deserves a real throne of his own.”

  Darby laughs, an explosive sound that ends in a snort. The snorting sound makes her laugh even more. We’re all just a hair shy of delirious.

  “Yes,” she says, jumping to her feet and punching a fist in the air. She jogs to the stage, grabbing a broadsword from the prop table and pointing it out at all of us. “We’ve got a mission. A mission so important the entire success of the play may just lie in its completion.”

  Thomas and I chuckle from our seats. He puts a hand on my shoulder. With a gentle squeeze, he whispers, “Thanks.”

  Scene Five

  [A dumpster]

  Max, Victor, Darby, and I head to the jobsite where her dad’s been working. My piece-of-shit car may not be much of a looker, but it’s got a giant trunk. I pull up to the curb and cut the lights as Darby instructed. Outside the beautiful old home, its porch decorated with twinkling lights that look like icicles, there sits an ugly brown dumpster.

  “It’ll be in there,” Darby says, leaning up into the front seats to point at it as we pull up. “The Jamisons are staying in the house during the reno. We’ve got to keep it down.”

  “Who’s gonna care if we take an old toilet off their hands?” Victor asks.

  “It’s called trespassing,” Darby says, looking over her shoulder at him.

  We sit in silence, making sure we haven’t been spotted. All the houses on the quiet street are dark, except for the house with a million Christmas lights still blazing three doors down. We’ve got the windows cracked open so that I can hear the night sounds of a distant neighbor’s dog barking out a staccato rhythm. The winter air is finally getting the barest tinge of chill in it, and a finger stroke of that coolness works its way into the car, brushing along my cheeks. It makes me shiver.

  Max glances my way, drawn by my sudden movement. His dark eyes pick up the soft reflection of the yellow streetlight. My mind reels with what I’d like to do with him in a dark car, that is, until Darby thumps the headrest of my seat.

  “Let’s go,” she says. “This place is a graveyard.”

  Since Max’s still got the cast on his arm, he’ll wait by the car as lookout. He opens the trunk, and the old metal squeals in protest. We all freeze. My skin is electric as I wait, expecting Mr. Jamison to come out shooting. Not that someone in a neighborhood like this would come out with a shotgun acting like the dude from The Beverly Hillbillies, but still, when breaking laws, my mind tends to run to the extreme. Not that I break a lot of them, but if I did, my imagination would get in the way.

  No one moves for a minute, which is an awfully long time to have your system overflowing with adrenaline. By the time Darby gives the all clear, my hands are shaking and my legs feel like they are on fire.

  We pick our way over to the dumpster.

  “How’re we supposed to get in there?” I ask.

  Darby puts her hands together to boost me over. “Ladies first.”

  “What?”

  “This was your idea. Let’s go,” she says, a ghost of her evil grin flitting across her face. I wonder for a second if she’s setting me up. Maybe I’m wrong about us. Maybe she still hates me. Maybe she’s going to toss me in the trash can and the three of them are going to pull away laughing their asses off. Maybe my face has gone completely pale because Victor steps up beside me, thumping me on the shoulder, before he jumps and catches hold of the top of the dumpster. He pulls himself up.

  “Come on, Becky dearest,” he says before dropping down on the other side. “I’ll catch you.”

  When I look back at Darby, she chuckles. “Trust me?”

  “No,” I laugh, but I put my foot in her hands and reach for the rim of the bin. It’s not graceful, but I manage to wriggle my way up and over the top. I wave Victor off, determined to stick the landing on my own. Darby drops down next to us.

  “Over here,” Darby calls in a whisper. “Help me move these boards.”

  Victor high-steps his way through the rubbish to help her shift some boards that were tossed on top of the toilet we need. Together they heft the two pieces, the bowl and the water tank, over toward the edge, and I wonder for a moment, what the hell am I doing in this trash if they don’t even need my help?

  “Uh, guys?” Max calls.

  Victor pulls himself up to peek over the rim. “What?”

  “Late-night dog walker.”

  He must point because Victor turns his head to the left and sucks in a curse. I scrabble up some debris so I can glimpse the dog and walker. They are far enough away that they appear only as moving shadows.

 
“Who walks their dog in the middle of the night?” Victor asks, his voice hitching up a few octaves.

  But I knew a certain girl who loved to take late-night walks with her dog and my brother. Loved them because she couldn’t sleep and walking was doing something, whereas lying in her bed waiting for the end wasn’t doing enough. I’m mesmerized watching the shadows, wishing without real hope that when the walker approaches I’ll see those short black curls. And then I realize I don’t have time for some existential dilemma right now because—“They’re coming this way.”

  “What do we do?” Victor asks.

  “We move our asses,” Darby says.

  Victor heaves himself over the side, and Darby stands on the toilet bowl to boost herself up to straddle the rim of the dumpster. For a second I think, I knew it! They’re leaving me here. But Darby looks back at me and leans down with her arms outstretched. “Hand me the bowl.”

  I was already reaching up for her to pull me out, so I freeze with my arms in the air like I’m surrendering. “What?”

  “The toilet,” she says, pointing. “Can you lift it?”

  I can. Darby grabs it from me and heaves it over the top, lowering it to Victor on the other side. I grab the water tank and pass that up as well.

  “Go,” I say, eyeing the debris all around me. “I can push this over and get out. Get it all loaded.”

  “You sure?”

  I try to mimic one of Darby’s don’t-question-the-queen looks. She chuckles and disappears on the other side. I quickly move a few boards, stacking things near the edge so I can climb up. I move a piece of plywood and think I hear a funny hiss somewhere close by. What the hell is that?

  Darby’s voice, a shade below panic, calls out. “Move it, Becca. He’s almost here.”

  I ignore the sound and reach for another board, but just as I’m moving it, there’s another hiss, followed by an insane yowl. I yelp and pull my hands away just as a huge mass of fur comes barreling out from under the wood I’ve moved, claws gleaming, aiming all its fury right at my face.

  I scream and turn my back on the attacking beast, scrabbling up the wobbly boards I’ve stacked so far, clawing and leaping for the top of the dumpster. My fingers connect with the rim and I hold on as the beast digs its claws into my sweatshirt and spits fury in my ear.