Crushing on a Capulet

by Tony Abbott

  “The plague?” I said. “Why would you carry one of those around?”

  She shrugged. “From the way they talked, it’s some kind of bad disease.”

  “Eew.”

  “No kidding,” she said. “Me, in my nice purple gown made by PTA moms, carrying something icky? As if. Anyway, they said that if I came from Verona, I must have passed through some sick villages between there and here. They were going to turn me back—but, of course, I did the old flipperoo and—”

  “Wait!” I said. “Something just clicked in my head.”

  “I hope it was your brain turning on, because mine has just about had it.”

  “It was,” I said. “Listen, Frankie. If the guards were turning back all the people from Verona, it means that Romeo probably never got the letter from Friar Laurence’s messenger. I mean, they don’t have E-mail, right? So it’s regular old-fashioned snail mail. And if it came from Verona—fwit!—back it goes!”

  She blinked. “Whoa, Dev, you’re right!”

  “That’s the second time in, like, a day. Pretty cool.”

  “Cool, yeah, but it means we have to find Romeo pronto, or he won’t get the message at all, and the plan goes up like a burger left too long on the grill.”

  I took a moment to think about burgers before getting back to the issue at hand. “Okay, maybe we should just try yelling real loud. Romeo’s gotta appear in this scene sooner or later. When he does, we tell him the deal, swing by Verona, beep twice, Juliet scampers out of the tomb, they zoom off on their honeymoon, and everybody lives happily ever after!”

  Frankie looked at me. “You know, Devin, I’d really like the story to end that way. Let’s make it happen.”

  “We’ll give it our best shot! Romeo! Hey, Romeo!”

  Frankie, because she had been doing most of the reading, had been sort of stung by the Shakespeare bug. “Romeo!” she called out. “Romeo, Romeo, where art thou, Romeo!”

  That’s when we heard it.

  “You there!”

  The voice came from a nearby doorway. We spotted a young man just stepping into the street. “Dost thou seek Romeo of Verona?”

  I gasped. “Frankie, he’s talking Shakespeare!”

  “Yes!” Frankie said to the man. “We do seek Romeo!”

  “We need to tell him something,” I added.

  He nodded. “If you speak of Juliet, I already told him that her body sleeps in the Capulet tomb—”

  “So he knows the plan! This is great!” I cheered.

  “—and that her soul now rests with the angels,” the guy finished.

  I stopped cheering. “Wait. Say that last part again?”

  “I was in Verona to see dear Juliet laid in the Capulet vault. I came here at once to tell Romeo that his beloved Juliet is dead.”

  I staggered back. Frankie staggered forward. Between us, there was a whole lot of staggering going on.

  “WHAT!” I shouted. “Dead? Dead! You told him Juliet is dead!”

  “Of course!” the guy said.

  “But she’s not dead!” I practically shrieked. “She’s just pretending with a sleeping potion that Friar Laurence gave her! We have to tell Romeo the truth before he does something dumb! How did he take the news?”

  “He was sad. If I remember correctly, he said something like, ‘my life is over.’ Maybe not exactly those words, but something like that.…”

  “WHERE IS HE?” Frankie shouted at him

  The guy’s forehead wrinkled and he scratched his chin. “He was going to … going to … someplace.…”

  Frankie gave the guy the sort of brain-piercing look she usually reserves for me when I act like a total doofus. “Define someplace!” she snarled.

  His face showed fear, then suddenly cleared. “I remember now! He was going to find an apothecary.”

  “Is that the camel with one hump or two?” I asked. “And why would he want a camel anyway?”

  Everyone looked at me like I was the doofus again.

  “Never mind,” I whispered.

  “An apothecary is not a camel,” the man said. “He is a maker of medicines and potions—”

  Frankie gasped. “Medicines and potions and—poisons! Devin, you know Romeo. If he’s all bent out of shape thinking Juliet’s dead, he might want to, you know, keep her company—”

  “In other words, make himself dead, too?”

  “Exactly. He might take poison. You know those kids. They’re way into overdoing it. Remember Juliet and that dagger she pulled out at Friar Laurence’s place?”

  I nodded. “Yeah.”

  We pondered that as we took off in search of an apothecary shop.

  The first four places we found were closed. The sign over the fifth one was old and peeling, but it told us that it was the one we wanted. The sign was in English.

  “A dead giveaway,” I said. “The lingo of Shakespeare.”

  We raced up to the door. The place was awesomely seedy. There was a dead turtle hanging in the grimy window, a stuffed alligator on the counter, dusty bottles and rusted boxes all over the floor. The place stank something awful, too. It was like a combo smell of a garbage can and the sharp sting of a doctor’s office, mixed with after-game locker room. Not my favorite smells.

  We pushed our way in and found sitting behind a counter what must have been the thinnest man alive.

  “Um, excuse me, sir,” I said. “Did a guy come in here looking really sad?”

  The man grinned, showing a bunch of teeth not there. “Fellow by the name of Romeo?”

  “That’s him!” said Frankie. “What did he want?”

  “He asked for two things,” the man said, coughing slightly. “But I told him it’s against the law for me to sell him the first thing he wanted.”

  I gulped loudly. “What did he want … exactly?”

  “Poison—”

  “I knew it!” yelped Frankie. “Romeo wanted poison! I hope you didn’t give it to him—”

  “Of course, I didn’t give it to him!” said the man.

  “Great!” I said.

  “I sold it to him.”

  “Oh, no!” we gasped.

  “Strong stuff, it is, too,” the old man said. “Even if you had the strength of twenty men, it would strike you down in an instant.”

  “Yikes!” I cried. “We’re too late!”

  “Maybe not,” said the man. “I just remembered what the second thing he asked for was. But I didn’t have one anyway. So he’s probably still looking for it.…”

  “Well?” said Frankie. “What was it?”

  “An iron bar,” said the man.

  “An iron bar?” I said. “What does he want an iron bar for? Is he changing tires?”

  The old man did what I think was a shrug of his bony old shoulders. “He said he had to move a heavy door.”

  Frankie jumped. “Devin! The tomb! Romeo wants to open the door to Juliet’s tomb! To die with her!”

  The guy opened his mouth slowly to say something else slowwwwwly, but we weren’t there to hear it.

  We were busy flipping the pages of the book—kkkk!—and on our way back to Verona.

  Before it was too late!

  Chapter 17

  It was nearly nighttime when we got tossed back to the next scene in Verona. We tumbled down just outside the city walls, not far from Friar Laurence’s hut.

  We peeked inside, but he was gone.

  “Looks like he left in a hurry,” said Frankie. “His stew is only half eaten.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything,” I said. “Have you actually smelled that stew. I mean … uck! What does he put in there—”

  “Devin? Focus?” said Frankie.

  “Right. Sorry. Okay, let’s see. He probably found out that Romeo never got the letter he sent. Which means that Romeo is on his way to the tomb to use the poison he got. Oh man, it’s all happening too fast. Frankie, we’re losing it!”

  “I’m not giving up!” she said. “Let’s go!”

  We fl
ashed out of there and went straight for the Verona city graveyard. I imagined that even in the full sunlight, it was a spooky place. But now, with night falling on the tombs, and every sound seeming to be the noise of some spooky creature, it was truly frightening.

  Finally, we came to a small square house built of shiny red stone. At the top of a shallow set of wide stairs, was a black iron door set between two columns. Above the door the name CAPULET was carved into the stone.

  “Whoa, do you think … Juliet’s in there?” I said.

  Frankie nodded, her frown growing deeper and deeper by the minute. “Not a nice place to sleep.”

  “None of this place is nice,” I said, looking around at all the other vaults and gravestones, some with weeping angels carved on them. “If I have my way, there will be two less dead folks in this story.”

  “You mean you and me, right?” asked Frankie.

  “Then four,” I said. “I meant Romeo and Juliet.”

  Suddenly, a low moaning sound came from up ahead.

  We dived behind a small hedge of bushes lining the path to the tomb.

  “A ghost!” I gasped. “A ghost? I knew it—”

  “Will you shhh?” Frankie hissed, peeking out through the leaves. “It’s not a ghost. It’s Paris. And a boy. The boy’s carrying a bunch of flowers.”

  I looked. “Okay, he’s not a ghost. And the flowers make sense. Paris was supposed to marry her.”

  We watched Paris walk quietly up to Capulet vault.

  “Give me thy torch, boy,” he said. “And hide here. The night watch is on patrol tonight, for fear of some new trouble between the Montagues and Capulets. If you see anyone, whistle then to me. I want to put these blossoms on Juliet’s grave.”

  The boy gave Paris the bunch of flowers and scurried off into the shadows on the far side of the tomb. Paris stepped up to the cold carved stone of the vault.

  He knelt before the door. “Juliet, sweet flower, with flowers I decorate your resting place, and water them with my tears. Every night shall I do this for you—”

  Eeeeoooeee! The boy whistled loudly.

  Paris jumped to his feet. “Something doth approach!” He ducked around to the back of the tomb.

  “Frankie, I’m scared,” I said.

  “You and me both,” she said.

  As we crouched behind the bushes, another figure approached. We knew right away who it was, and why he was there.

  “Romeo!” said Frankie. “Psst! Watch out!”

  I shook my head. “He can’t hear us. We’d better get closer, without the guards seeing us.”

  The night watch was everywhere, marching around between the tombs. I could see their torches blazing red against the black night. We couldn’t shout at Romeo, in case the guards heard and went after him. And maybe us.

  Romeo looked both ways and then pulled out a long, metal rod. It was the iron bar that the apothecary said Romeo was looking for. He set it under the door, and after lots of groaning and grunting, and bending and lifting, the iron door ground its way across the surface of the stone.

  “Open, jaws of death!” said Romeo as he beheld the darkness within. “I’ll cram thee with more food—”

  Frankie gasped. “He means himself!”

  Paris crept around the side of the tomb. “What?” he said. “This is that banished, haughty Montague, that murdered my love’s cousin. He is come to do some villainous shame to the dead bodies!”

  Paris leaped up from around the vault, pulling out his sword. “Condemned villain, I do apprehend thee! Obey and go with me, for thou must die.”

  Romeo turned to him, his face visible for the first time in Paris’s torchlight. It showed how pale and thin he had become. But his eyes had a strange sort of fire in them.

  “Paris,” he said. “Good gentle youth, tempt not a desperate man. By heaven, I love thee better than myself, for I come hither armed against myself—”

  “Put down that torch and take up thy sword,” said Paris.

  Frankie screamed as Paris jumped at Romeo, his sword drawn. Romeo dodged the swinging blade, sending Paris stumbling forward.

  “A fight?” said Romeo, his eyes blazing. “Then you shall have a fight!” He tossed down the torch and tugged out his blade and the two young men went at it.

  Clang! Clank! Swit! Plink!

  They clashed swords all up and down the front steps of the tomb, the sound of steel against steel echoing across the graveyard.

  “It’s going to bring the night watch!” I said.

  “We have to stop this!” Frankie said, jumping up. “Romeo, Paris—stop!”

  “What?” said Romeo. Paris took the opportunity to lunge suddenly, but Romeo twisted aside, his sword flying up and out of the way.

  Almost.

  Paris stopped suddenly. “I am slain! Oh, I am slain!”

  “No!” said Frankie, stopping, too. “Oh, no!”

  “Romeo,” Paris groaned, “Romeo, if thou be merciful, lay me in the tomb next to my Juliet.…”

  Romeo knelt down to lift him up. “In faith … I will. Oh, Paris, why did it come to this?” He carried him in.

  “We have to tell him before it’s too late,” I said.

  “Maybe it already is,” she said, holding the book up. “Maybe we can’t change it. It’s like a train wreck happening in slow motion. It’s going to happen. I know it is. Our happy ending is crumbling right before our eyes!”

  I looked at her. Then I shook my head. “No, I won’t believe it, Frankie. You and me. We can change things. We can make them good. I know we can. Come on. Come on!”

  I pulled her with me into the darkness of the tomb. Romeo had laid Paris down next to Juliet’s tomb. Then, holding a candle up to Juliet, he looked at her closely.

  “Romeo!” I said. “She’s alive. She’s alive.”

  “Believe us,” said Frankie. “She’s just sleeping.”

  I suddenly had an idea. It was a gamble, a severe gamble, but it just might work. Romeo had a crazy look in his eyes that was all about not listening to people. I had to try to reach him.

  “Romeo,” I said, “we know Juliet’s alive …”

  “Devin,” said Frankie, “are you sure—”

  “We know it … because … take a look at this!”

  I yanked off my tunic and tossed it out the door. Romeo was left staring at my funky Shakespeare T-shirt.

  “This is the guy who wrote the story you’re in,” I said. “That’s right, a story by a guy named Shakespeare! Frankie and I are reading it. Friar Laurence gave Juliet a sleeping potion. It’s all part of the story. In another few minutes—she’ll wake up—”

  “It’s true,” said Frankie, pulling her dress up over her T-shirt and shorts and flinging it to the floor. “Listen to Devin. Juliet is alive!”

  Romeo’s forehead just about wrinkled up into the biggest single wrinkle ever known to man.

  It was cruel to do what we did, but it was our only hope. Maybe we couldn’t change the play, but we could stop it cold.

  Only we couldn’t.

  Taking off our costumes was the biggest mistake ever.

  We could tell just by looking at Romeo, that the instant we were out of costume, we were suddenly out of the play. We were no more than two people in the audience. It was as if Romeo could no longer see or hear us.

  “Romeo, listen!” I said.

  “Romeo!” said Frankie.

  It was no use. It was like shouting at a movie screen.

  Slowly, he moved over to Juliet. She lay silent and unmoving on a slab of cold marble surrounded by candles, still dressed in her white wedding dress.

  Nearby was another stone, with Tybalt laying on that.

  Romeo slid his hand into a pocket and pulled out a small bottle of dark liquid. “Oh, my love, my wife. Death that hath taken thy breath, hath had no power yet upon thy beauty—”

  “Because she’s not dead!” I shouted.

  “—in thy lips, and in thy cheeks, Death’s pale flag is not advanced
there—”

  Frankie started to cry. “There’s a reason for that!”

  Not hearing a word, Romeo opened the bottle and raised it to his lips. “Here will I remain,” he said. “Oh, here will I set up my everlasting rest. Eyes, look your last. Arms, take your last embrace.…”

  He drank the liquid, then shuddered. “Oh, true apothecary, thy drugs are quick! Thus with a kiss … I die.”

  And he fell. He slumped to the ground next to Juliet’s tomb, his hand still clasped in hers.

  “Oh, man!” Frankie wailed. “This is too sad! And we couldn’t do a thing! We couldn’t do a stupid thing!”

  There was a sudden voice calling from outside.

  “If it’s the prince’s guards,” I said, “we’ll never be able to explain this. Let’s hide—”

  We dashed behind Juliet’s stone, scrambled back into our costumes, and crouched there, watching helplessly, in the flickering candlelight, as life quickly left poor Romeo.

  Chapter 18

  The voice called out again.

  But we realized it wasn’t the guard’s voice. It was Friar Laurence’s. He clambered breathlessly up the steps just as we finished putting our costumes back on.

  “Saint Francis, be my speed! Fear comes upon me. I fear some terrible thing has happened. But … who’s there?”

  We crept out from behind the slab.

  “Just us,” I said. “And a whole lot of dead folks.”

  The friar’s face fell nearly to the floor. He blinked in the candlelight. “Romeo? Romeo! Is it your blood that stains the stony entrance to this tomb? Oh, so pale you are! And who is this? Paris? Ohhhh!”

  Juliet stirred on the slab, turned a little, then sat up.

  She looked around. “Dear Devin, Frankie, Friar, where is my Romeo?”

  Clank!

  “The watch!” said Friar Laurence. “Juliet, come away from here. Thy husband, Romeo … lies dead. And Paris, too. Come, my dear. I will take you to a sisterhood of holy nuns, and we shall—”

  More voices shouted outside.

  “Wait,” Juliet whispered. “My Romeo … dead?”