I’m in absolute heaven. I scribble so hard and so fast my pencil breaks and I have to quickly fish for another before I miss a single word. Let’s be honest: Bertrand had me at “hullo,” so my intricate system of check marks, asterisks, boxes, and bullets flows out onto the page. I find it easy to ignore everything else, Jason included. Especially Jason.
Okay, maybe that’s a slight overstatement. Maybe, when I turn for a second to make sure that he hasn’t gotten lost or, I don’t know, arrested, and I see him chatting with Sarah and not even pretending to pay attention, maybe I feel a teensy nudge of disappointment.
Maybe I even feel a teensy bit jealous.
But I quickly squash it. Stupid. You don’t even like Jason. And of course he’s with Sarah, because he’s not your MTB, and he doesn’t even care about Shakespeare. Mark. Marrrrk. He would get this. I know he would.
“Now, students, if you’ll follow me, we’re going to take the short walk to Holy Trinity Church, where we’ll be visiting Shakespeare’s grave,” Bertrand says, and with a slight flick of his hand directs us back out onto the street. “I don’t have to tell you that the proper respect is required.”
As if on cue, Jason and Ryan race to be the first through the door and end up wedged in the frame, shoulder to shoulder. Neither can budge until Susan comes up behind them and gives Ryan a shove, sending them both tumbling through the doorway. They end up sprawled on the walk, hysterically laughing. Mrs. Tennison rushes toward them, and as I pass, I hear her threatening them with extra essays.
That is one essay I will not be writing. I leave them to their scolding and hurry after our tour guide.
Bertrand leads the way down Henley Street. Mrs. Tennison and I march right on his heels; the rest of our class trudges behind us. The road is lined with old half-timbered cottages that look like if you blew on them too hard, they’d tip over and collapse. We reach the end of the road, wind around a little roundabout, and are dumped out at the top of High Street. The narrow road is crowded with shops, colorful awnings, and cafés with tables spilling out onto the sidewalk. Everything is called Something-or-Other Cottage or Ye Olde Whatever. It’s touristy as all get out, but I don’t care. I love it.
As we walk, I peer down side streets, hoping I might catch a glimpse of the tiny antique shop my mom has been describing to me forever. I must have heard the story a million times. Mom and Dad didn’t get rings when they first got married, since Dad had just joined the marines and they were dirt-poor. They were wandering around the tiny town, no maps, playing “which way does this road go?” on the twisty streets. They came upon a tiny secondhand shop, where they found matching gold bands. Mom said it was a sign that they were on the right path. Neither ring needed to be sized a bit; they fit perfectly. They look like the gold was hand-molded, with little bumps and imperfections all around. Dad always liked to show me how Mom’s ring fit right down into his. Now both rings live in my mom’s jewelry box, nestled in the blue velvet, her ring tucked inside his.
After a few blocks, the shops give way to little town houses and brick offices. The sidewalk narrows and we have to march down the road in a straight line, one after the other. We walk along quietly for a few minutes; then the lane widens and the trees grow dense. A church spire pokes up in the distance. We’re standing at a wrought iron gate. A low stone wall surrounds a tree-lined property.
Bertrand signals for us to gather around, and once again I press myself practically under his nose, notebook poised and pencil prepped. We’re about to visit Shakespeare’s grave. If I knew how to genuflect, I would.
“Welcome to Holy Trinity Church, often referred to simply as Shakespeare’s Church,” Bertrand says after taking a deep breath and clearing his throat. “William Shakespeare was baptized here in 1564, and fifty-two years later he was interred here at a depth of twenty feet to prevent theft of his body.”
“Oh, that’s just gross,” Evie says, and there are several soft snickers.
Quentin says, in his perpetual stoner’s voice, “Romeo-and-Juliet-meets-zombie-killer. All right!”
“Braaaaiiiiinnnnnssss!” Ryan raises his arms toward Evie’s head and lurches at her, his tongue lolling out to one side. She giggles and skips away, ducking behind Jason. Susan stands off to the side, pouting.
So much for respect. I inch away from my classmates and offer my most sympathetic look to Bertrand. I want him to know I’m on his side.
Once inside the church, everyone scatters. Susan drags Ryan up the center aisle toward the altar, looking like she’s about to burst from happiness. He, on the other hand, looks like he’d rather be taking the SATs in Latin than standing at the altar with her. I don’t blame him.
I make a beeline for Shakespeare’s grave. A bust of him stands over the altar, a blue silk cord that marks his grave lining the stone floor. A plaque above it reads:
GOOD FREND FOR JESUS SAKE FORBEARE TO
DIGG THE DUST ENCLOASED HEARE.
BLEST BE YE MAN YT SPARES THES STONES AND
CURST BE HE YT MOVES MY BONES
I read the words again and again to myself. I imagine my parents standing here, barely twenty-two years old, newly married, Dad’s arm draped over Mom’s shoulder, Mom leaning into his chest. And once again, I’m struck by how much I want that. This time, when I close my eyes, I have no problem imagining Mark here with me, standing beside me, his arms around my waist. I lean back into the imaginary embrace—maybe a little too hard, because I actually start to fall backward.
“Whoa, Book Licker!” Jason’s hand lands right on my back and shoves me upright. “Been sipping off the Communion wine?”
“Very funny,” I say. I hate that when I open my eyes, he’s the one standing behind me. I want to see Mark and his perfect crooked smile and his dark wavy hair, not Jason’s smirk and his messy, shaggy red hair.
“Students, gather around!” Mrs. Tennison’s nasally voice bounces off every surface of the church, driving daggers into our ears. I’m grateful to have a reason to escape Jason in this moment. Her itinerary is in her hand, and she is simultaneously studying it and using it to fan herself. She waves us out of the church and into the churchyard, which is shockingly green. The grass looks so full and fluffy I want to lie down in it, and looking around, I notice a few of my classmates already are. Sarah and Evie have taken residence under a willow tree and are whispering about something. (Please, oh please, don’t let it be me.)
“Well, class, it appears I’ve miscalculated our itinerary today,” Mrs. Tennison says, creases of worry forming around her eyes. Her hands are quivering, but that may be more attributable to the tea she’s been mainlining since we stepped foot on British soil. This trip has definitely taken at least a decade off her life. I know from looking at the itinerary, oh, twelve or thirteen thousand times that we’ve got at least an hour before we can check into our hostel for the night. She is clearly not prepared to entertain twenty seventeen-year-olds for an hour. Mrs. Tennison eventually folds her stack of papers, crams it back into her carpetbag, and takes a deep, cleansing breath. “Looks like we’ll be having an unexpected cultural hour.”
People begin giving each other fist pumps and high fives. Ryan Lynch shouts, “Shakespeare rules!”
“With your partners!” Mrs. Tennison calls as we begin breaking up. “I mean it … cultural hour! I expect to see mention of what you’ve done in your reflection paper!”
Everyone starts pairing off and heading in different directions. I know I should go over to Jason, who is standing with Evie and Sarah, but I hate feeling like a little tagalong. I hear Sarah say something to them about shopping. Jason shakes his head, and Evie and Sarah scurry up the road back toward High Street.
Pretty soon Jason and I are the only ones left other than Mrs. Tennison, who sags onto a bench under a willow tree across the yard. Clearly, she needs a Zen moment.
We stand across the grass from each other for a few moments, Jason kicking at something invisible on the ground. After a torturous minute of silence,
I can’t take it anymore.
“Well, I guess we could go make rubbings of some of the gravestones, then write about the people buried there,” I say.
“Graves? Dead people? Wow, you’re a real ray of sunshine, J,” Jason says. He unwraps a piece of gum, biting off half of it and then wrapping up the other piece. He shoves the remaining half back in his pocket, for later, I guess. Ick.
“Do you have any bright ideas?” All I want to do is ignore Jason. He has, after all, been ignoring me all day. Then I’ll have time to look for my parents’ antique shop, or daydream about Chris. I mean, Mark. I mean … well, both.
“Want to wander?” he asks.
“Wander?” I ask. I feel something in my messenger bag digging into my back. I heave it over my head and flip it open to see what’s out of place.
“Yes! No guidebooks, no historical facts, just taking off in a random direction, without any specific reasons.”
I find the source of the jab. It’s my pencil case, which should go in front of my notebook, not behind it. I quickly rearrange things, then reposition my bag. Much better.
“I know what ‘wander’ means, thankyouverymuch.” I don’t mention that the only place I wander around in is the library. Hey, Google Maps was invented for a reason!
Jason fake-bows and gestures down the road in the opposite direction of Henley Street and the rest of our class. We fall into step in silence. He stuffs his hands deep into his pockets. His legs are long and his bobbing stride wide, and I have to work double time to keep up.
“So. Anything in particular you want to see?” he asks.
“I thought we were wandering,” I say.
Jason holds up both hands. “Listen, you were the one getting all hot and bothered about coming here. I just want to make sure your literary fantasies come true.”
“Well, I was hoping to find this little antique shop—” I start, but Jason doesn’t let me finish.
“Oh, hell no,” he says, stopping in his tracks. “If I wanted to go shopping, I would have followed Evie and Sarah.”
I consider letting him know that this is nothing like shopping, but that would mean telling him about my parents. “Where do you want to go?”
“Nowhere in particular,” he says. “I’m a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants kinda guy. You know. Carpe diem and all that. Never know what’s going to happen next.” I roll my eyes at him, but he has picked up his pace and doesn’t see me. I sigh and follow him.
We take off down the road, away from our classmates, past a series of gardens. We stroll past the Royal Shakespeare Company but don’t stop, because it’s choked with tourists and children and cameras and backpacks. We “wander” along the river, where ducks paddle lazily and people in rented boats glide along the water. Jason and I have lapsed into silence, but it doesn’t feel awkward. The scenery is so breathtaking that there really is no need for words, although I definitely see how Shakespeare produced such beautiful sonnets here. The grass smells freshly cut and sparkles under a layer of dew. There is a heavily sweet smell of flowers suspended over everything. Birds are chirping and frogs croak throatily underneath them, and I start to feel like if I sat down with my notebook and pencil, I might produce something great and beautiful, too. Everything is like a dream—until the sun gets eaten up by increasingly ominous-looking clouds, and it looks like any moment it may start to pour.
Jason leads us across a bridge to the other side, where the houses and shops give way to fields and paddocks, the roads getting narrow and the grass getting high. I don’t want to ask, but as we get further and further away from town and deeper and deeper into who knows where, I can’t help myself.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“I said, ‘wandering,’ ” he repeats, as if that’s a proper destination.
We stumble across the Stratford Butterfly Garden and an old graveyard. It is getting darker by the second. I’ve never seen clouds move so fast before. I don’t know why I ever think following Jason is a good idea. Even if he did know where he was going—which he obviously doesn’t—he would still lead us straight toward trouble. I will never learn.
Jason starts trotting down the road as the sky opens up and sheets of rain begin driving down, hard.
“Do you know where you’re going?” I call over the sound of thunder. We hardly need to hurry now; within thirty seconds, we’re already soaked to the bone. Jagged lightning tears across the sky. Thunder booms and I jump.
“I think we can make it back to High Street quicker if we cut through Bancroft Gardens,” Jason says, surveying the scenery.
“I don’t know about that,” I reply, mentally trying to conjure up the maps I’d pored over before the trip. What I wouldn’t give to have my iPhone … “Besides, aren’t you supposed to avoid open fields during lightning storms? I don’t want to get electrocuted.”
“Well, either you stand here in this rainstorm, or you take a chance with me,” he says, and as if on cue, a clap of thunder echoes through the trees.
We hop the wet fence and set off through the tall grass. It’s not a difficult walk for Jason, whose long legs stride effortlessly through the terrain, but my wee little legs are not as quick. It probably doesn’t help that every time I hear thunder, I crouch down into the lightning-safe position we learned in fourth grade. What? I’m not taking any chances with my life! I have to incorporate little hops into my gait as I try to keep up with Jason. My sweater clings heavily to my skin, and my jeans are making suction-y sounds with every step. As we cross the field, the rain slows down to something more like a heavy mist. I’ve got my eyes on the ground, making sure I don’t step into any puddles or holes, when I hear a noise that makes me stop short.
Jason charges ahead a few steps but quickly realizes I’ve fallen behind. “What’s going on?”
“Did you hear that?” I ask. Sure enough, it happens again: like a horn honking, if the horn was thirty years old and covered in sawdust.
“What, the geese?”
“What?” I shriek, my eyes darting around. “Where?”
“Chill out,” he says, chuckling. “They’re not going to attack you.”
“Are you sure?” I cross my arms. “I am not taking a single step unless you can swear to me—”
“There are no geese, you wuss,” he interrupts, patting me on the top of my head like I’m a five-year-old. “No need to have a meltdown. What’s your problem with geese, anyway?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I mutter, and take off ahead of him. I get about six or seven strides ahead when the ground levels out and I find myself face to beak with a flock of about nine geese, their beady eyes trained on me, mouths—or bills—curled up into demonic smiles.
I let out a loud, long bloodcurdling scream. I whirl around and take off at a sprint, no longer paying attention to how much work my short legs have to do to get me through the mud and the grass or how I could get struck by lightning at any second. I hear the heavy stomp of Jason’s footsteps behind me.
“Slow down!” he manages to choke out. “Julia, wait!” He runs a little farther before doubling over and starting to laugh hysterically. I pull back, running straight toward him.
“You jerk!” I give him a hard punch in the arm, which I doubt he feels, what with all the hiccupping and chortling. “You said there were no geese!”
“I didn’t see them!” he says through wild gasps. “That was an incredible scream. I thought you’d seen a dead body! Holy wow!”
“Can we please get out of here before—” I start, but I’m too late. Thunder booms again while lightning zigzags across the sky. The mist turns all at once to liquid, and it begins to pour again. Jason seems not to have noticed, as he’s still laughing hysterically. No doubt we could both be electrocuted and he would still be laughing. I don’t know why I’ve trusted this stupid “wandering” plan for this long. I dig for my phone, then find Mrs. Tennison’s number in the address book. I’ve been in the United Kingdom a week, and I’ve yet to use my phone f
or any legitimate reason.
But when I hit the green button to call for directions, my phone beeps and a message appears on the screen.
0 Minutes Remaining
“What!” I shout, literally stomping my foot in the puddle that has formed around me.
“What’s your problem?” Jason asks, finally pulling himself together.
“Well, besides standing in a field, lost, in the pouring rain, about to get attacked by disease-carrying birds or possibly electrocuted by lightning,” I snap, “my phone is out of minutes.”
“Wow,” Jason says, looking at the blank screen. “I would have thought someone like you would have planned ahead enough to reload it before we left the hotel.”
“I probably would have,” I snap, tightening my grip on the phone so I don’t throw it at his stupid head, “but I think your immaturity is rubbing off on me.”
“I know you are but what am I?” he retorts, crossing his eyes and poking me in the ribs.
“Please shut up and give me your phone,” I say, holding my hand out. Damp strands of hair keep getting glued to my lips.
Jason abruptly stops laughing. He gives me a strange look. “My what?”
“Your. Phone,” I say, enunciating each word slowly. “We’re lost, and I want to get us out of here as fast as possible. I can call Mrs. Tennison for directions. Or you can call.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he says, turning away from me.
“Why not? She’s not going to be mad,” I say, following after him. “I mean, not if you give her one of those silly Boy Scout salutes that seems to get you out of so much trouble.”
“Look, if we call her, she’s going to know we weren’t experiencing the culture of Stratford-upon-Wherever-We-Are. Besides, we don’t need directions. If we keep walking, we’ll get there eventually,” he says, picking up the pace through the field. I have to accelerate to a jog to keep up.
“I don’t want to stomp through the mud and rain any longer than I have to,” I say. “Either you make the call, or I’ll make it for you.”
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