I didn’t know at the time that it would be my last message. It’s a miracle I still have it. I probably shouldn’t listen to it as much as I do.
I scroll back to my contacts and text Charlie.
Me: Met a boy. Put my face in his crotch.
I glance at the clock and hope he’s back from his last lab of the day. He can’t have the phone out during labs and—my phone rings.
“Explain,” Charlie says without waiting for my greeting. “What is going on?”
I chuckle and feel my face flush remembering it all. Telling Charlie makes it seem less horrifying—more hilarious. “I tripped.”
“You have Dad to thank for that clumsiness. Genetics are a bitch.”
“He was cute, too.” I push the image of Max away, straightening a dog-eared crease in the Romeo and Juliet flyer I’m still holding.
“Nope. I’m not talking about this with you.”
My whole body sighs with the relief of knowing I’m not really in this alone. Charlie is still here for me. Even if he’s far away.
It wasn’t always like this between us. We were like books on a shelf, each closed and self-contained. Charlotte opened us up, helped us learn to read each other.
“But this boy, Charlie, he was awfully cute. Tall, dark, and handsome.”
“Please, stop. This is me changing the subject. Tell me about your physics class.”
I smirk. “He’s got these long eyelashes and lithe muscles.”
“Lithe? Is he a jaguar?”
I snarl into the phone. “Ass.”
“He’s a lithe jackass?”
“Moving on,” I prompt. “My turn to change the subject. Tell me about your super smart school stuff.” Charlie tells me about his week, and I relax into the sound of his voice. I glance over the flyer, noticing that the auditions start tomorrow. My finger taps the little box in the bottom corner that reads, Sign up for the backstage crew by Friday.
“So do you have a plan, Bec?”
“Plan for what?” I ask, realizing I’d stopped listening to Charlie when he’d started going into detail about quantum something or another.
“A plan to keep Mom off your back,” Charlie grumbles. “Exactly how long ago did you stop listening to me? What are you reading?”
“Nothing,” I say, feeling like I should hide the flyer I’m holding.
“Becca Hanson, you are the worst liar.”
“It’s a flyer.” I stand and stretch as I talk, walking toward my bookcase. “Sandstone is doing Romeo and Juliet for the winter play.”
“You going to audition?”
I laugh, a mean snort like a bull.
“Fair enough,” he says, returning the laugh. “But what about signing up to paint scenery or something? It’ll give Mom hope that you aren’t in fact going to waste away in your room. You’ve got to get out there again. Meet people.”
“It’s not that easy.”
“I know.” He sighs.
“No, you don’t.” My voice sounds too high, like when I was six. “You have Greta and James. You have MIT and classes that challenge you. You have—”
“A gaping hole where Charlotte used to be in my life.” He pauses, and I hear him take a long, shaky breath. And I feel like a terrible, terrible person, but it makes me feel better knowing that I’m not the only one whose heart’s been torn out. “It’s not easy, but I keep trying because I’m pretty damn sure Charlotte would kick me in the balls if she thought I was giving in.”
“I don’t have balls.”
Charlie chuckles and, despite my foul mood, a small smile tugs at my lips. “True,” he says, “but she’d hate to see you like this.”
“I don’t know. A play?”
“It’s not just any play. It’s Romeo and Juliet. Charlotte loved that stupid play. It’s got to be fate or something.”
I wrinkle my nose. Hadn’t I been feeling the same way? It’s Romeo and Juliet.
“Think about it?” Charlie asks.
I agree to consider it. Mom did ask me to see Dr. Wallace at school. And, yeah, Charlotte said she was nice, but she also said she hated having to pour out her feelings for yet another doctor to analyze. I don’t think I can handle anyone looking too closely at me right now. I don’t want to be told what I already know—I’m less than whole without Charlotte. Maybe if I sign up for the backstage crew, Mom’ll forget about my promise.
We say our good-byes. I take my copy of Romeo and Juliet from the bookshelf and snuggle into my nest of blankets to read it. I haven’t read it since my freshman year, when we studied it in English.
Before going to bed I text Charlie.
Me: I look good in black, don’t I?
Charlie: I hear it’s very slimming. What’s your point?
Me: I’ll need to wear black if I’m working backstage.
There’s a slight pause before he texts back. When he does, it’s an image of a curtain rising.
Me: Love you.
Charlie: You too.
He texts again a minute later.
Charlie: Keep your head up!
Me: Dork.
Scene Four
[Sandstone High]
On my way to my first class the next morning, I make myself go down the theater hall. There’s a big poster above a desk with a metal basket full of forms. I slow my gait as I pass it to read the sign.
Want to make the stars shine?
Join the Sandstone Theater technical crew.
Sign up today!
I stop and stare at the forms, my palms sweating. Just reach out and take one, Bec. It’s not like they’re laced with anthrax. I shake my head once and walk away.
I get halfway down the hallway before I work up the nerve to turn around. I fight my way upstream and snatch a form before the tide of students pushes me back down the hall. I’m still not sure if I’ll fill it out, but when I get to class I snap a photo of it with my phone and send it to Charlie. He’s got enough to worry about without adding me to the list.
At lunch, I slide the sign-up form out of my novel and set it beside me on the cafeteria table. If nothing else, it’s made a good bookmark today. I munch on trail mix and try to focus on my book. I can usually read at least twenty pages during lunch period.
I’ve just started reading when the light on the page before me darkens, and a hand grazes my shoulder. I yelp and jerk in my seat. Someone is squeezing behind me to sit in the vacant seat to my left—to sit in Charlotte’s seat.
This is bad.
“Sorry,” Max says, plopping down in the seat next to me. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
I can feel my whole face explode red. “I don’t like the cafeteria.” My words tumble on the table like quarters and dimes.
Max smiles. His chapped lips are healing, and I can tell he’s wearing lip balm. Beeswax, I bet. “No one likes the cafeteria.”
I realize I’m staring at his mouth. I look away and nod at the rows of talking students. “They seem all right.”
“They’re faking it.”
I hadn’t thought of that. I study them again, careful not to look in any direction for too long.
“See how Kelli tugs her ponytail when she’s listening to Amber?”
I don’t know Kelli and Amber, but I follow his gaze and watch a bespectacled girl yank on her curly hair like she’s ringing a church bell, while she pretends to listen to her table mate.
Max leans his head toward the left. “Notice Victor—he’s my best friend—see his thumb?”
I look left. A boy with thick black hair is tapping his thumb in a staccato rhythm on his thigh. Another boy, with a broad back and reddish hair, is bent over a notebook, copying something.
“Is he copying his notes?”
“Homework.”
“Oh.” I watch as a teacher walks by a row away from Victor. His thumb beats double time. “Why doesn’t he tell him to do his own work?”
Max laughs. “Because it’s never that simple.” He purses his lips and I want to touch th
em. I grab a lock of hair and twist it around my fingers to keep them still. His eyes dart to my book, open in front of me. He taps the page, saying, “Real stories are more complicated than stories in books.”
I smile. It feels strange, but good. “Yeah, books are definitely easier for me.”
Max grins. “Everyone has a tell. You know, like a nervous tic,” he says, untangling my finger from my hair. “People’s insides rarely match the outsides.”
My stomach ties itself into a nice bow at the feel of his fingers on mine. “How do you know all this?” I fold my hands in my lap.
“I get bored in church.” He shrugs and shifts to read the paper I had laid on the table. “Hey, tech crew.” His voice sounds like he’s wishing me a happy birthday or something. “I’m tech crew. So are Victor and Kelli. It’s great.” He taps the paper like it’s a snare drum. “Does this mean you’re signing up?”
I shrug and concentrate on keeping my hands trapped. They itch to tangle themselves in my hair, but I don’t want to give myself away now that I know Max can read me like I’d read a book. “I told my brother I’d think about it.”
Max nods at the crowd. “Brother, eh? Which one is he?”
“Oh, he’s not here. He’s in college. MIT,” I say with my normal amount of pride.
“Fancy. My cousin went to Stanford.”
“Greta’s at Stanford. She’s my brother Charlie’s friend.”
“It’d be hard to be so far away from your girlfriend.”
I sit up straighter. “Greta’s not his girlfriend,” I say, the words clipped and cold-sounding.
Max leans back. He licks his lips. “Sorry, I—”
“No, it’s not your fault,” I say, feeling hopelessly stupid. Memories of Charlotte sitting where Max is now—humming as she sketched the people in the cafeteria—crowd around me, squeezing my chest and prickling my eyes. I snatch the crew form from the table, cramming it in my book before slamming it shut.
“Becca?”
I stand, gathering my things. “I need to go.” My voice is too loud, and Max looks worried, and I should apologize, but instead I walk away as fast as I can.
I have to pull myself together. Why do I keep walking away from the only person at this school who’s nice to me?
On the other hand, why is he being nice to me? How can he even see me? Has my dead girl’s friend invisibility started to wear off?
I go directly to the girls’ bathroom after leaving the cafeteria. I study myself in the smudged mirror. It’s chipped in one corner. Someone’s written “Mr. Dupree sucks!” in purple eyeliner across the bottom. But I can still see the redness rimming my eyes in the filmy reflection looking back at me. I will not cry.
Charlotte would be so pissed at me. She didn’t have many friends at Sandstone, not once everyone found out about her cancer. She closed up like a pearl, hidden away from all the pitying looks and prying questions. Which was fine by me because I get the feeling that if it weren’t for the cancer, Charlotte would have been the kind of girl everyone would want to hang out with. I’m just lucky she chose me.
She’d hate to see me like this. Haunting the girls’ bathroom. Wanting to have a life, but afraid of living. It’s not like I have cancer as an excuse to hide. I have to do one thing right this week. I don’t want Charlotte kicking me in the balls.
I dig through my bag and find a pen.
I slink into English later that afternoon and sit behind Max. He’s got his head down, reading the short story we’re discussing today. I shift in my seat, scraping the feet of the chair against the tiles. His head twitches, but he doesn’t look up. I clear my throat. He turns the page.
Ugh.
I fold my completed tech crew form and scribble on the outside.
Open me.
Then I draw an arrow down to the corner and immediately wish I’d used a pencil so I could erase it, because how old am I? This looks like the note of a ten-year-old. I consider tossing the whole thing in the trash, but it took all of my resolve just to pick up the form this morning, and then any I had in reserve to fill it out. There’s no way I’d do it again. This is it. This is my chance.
I lean over my desk and poke him. His head jerks, his eyes wide but guarded.
I mouth, sorry, and pass him the note. My lungs feel like someone is pulling the strings of a girdle tight, tight, tight.
“To begin today,” Mrs. Jonah says, taking her place at the front of the class. Max covers the note I’ve given him with one long-fingered hand. I might pass out from lack of oxygen. Mrs. Jonah continues. “I need to ask you all for a do-over.”
There’s shifting around me. Teachers don’t often admit to making mistakes. The ones who do are a rare species, studied by students with intense scrutiny, like we’re convinced we’re being duped somehow.
“Yesterday, I asked you to get to know your critique partners, thinking that was a self-explanatory assignment.” She pauses, pressing her perfectly lined lips together as she studies us, stopping a little too long on Darby’s sulking face. Mrs. Jonah continues, “That was lazy of me.”
Oh. I guess Mrs. Jonah is being real.
“So today, I’d like to try the assignment again, only this time, I’d like you to play a game of Would You Rather.” The room hums with snickers and mumbling. She picks up a stack of papers from her desk. “I’ll call one partner to come collect your prompts. Today, you’ll go through the list of prompts together. Don’t think too much. Instead, answer from your gut. You’ll record your partner’s response on your own sheet.”
Mrs. Jonah walks toward her desk, opening up her planner to her list of critique pairs. “Okay, here we go.” She looks up from her list at us. “Oh, and as incentive, the pair who gets through the most questions in eight minutes will earn free homework passes.”
I peek at Darby and swallow the gross sludge of fear that’s creeping up my throat. Her face looks like it’s been carved from cold, hard marble.
Mrs. Jonah makes her way through the critique pairs. When she calls Max’s name, he stands, smoothly palming my note—my possible future backstage—in one hand and shoving it in his back pocket. He sits with his critique partner, Brian, who has a new backpack today.
Just like yesterday, I’m left waiting until the very end. But Mrs. Jonah doesn’t call my name to come collect the Would You Rather worksheets. Probably an astute move, since I can’t be allowed to ruin any more personal property (or introduce my face to any more personal property, either). Instead, she calls Darby Jones.
Darby stands, rolling her shoulders back and tipping her chin ever so slightly upward. She’ll never beat Mrs. Jonah in height, but as she takes her first step forward with all eyes on her, I swear she grows taller.
Mrs. Jonah hands her the papers, holding on to them a beat longer than necessary as she and Darby stare each other down, each holding her ground. “Good luck,” Mrs. Jonah finally says.
Darby turns away from Mrs. Jonah before rolling her eyes. Meggie snickers. Max shifts in his seat and watches as Darby walks, her boots clipping along the tile floor slowly, heel-toe, heel-toe, heel-toe. With each step closer, that imaginary girdle around my waist pulls tighter and tighter.
Darby drops our worksheets on my desk and sits in Max’s vacated seat.
“Let’s begin,” Mrs. Jonah calls to the class.
Darby’s whole body heaves with the weight of a colossal sigh. She turns to face me. “I don’t give a crap about whether you’d rather have lobster claws for hands or beaver teeth, but I could use that homework pass, so let’s go.”
She snatches my pen from me. “So which is it?”
The edge of my vision is beginning to blur, and it’s awfully hard to talk when you can’t breathe, but I manage to sneak out a “what?”
“Lobster claws or beaver teeth.” She points to her worksheet. “Which will it be?”
I glance around the room. Max is watching me out of the corner of his eye. “Uh…”
“Don’t think. Just answer.�
� She crosses her legs, and one boot starts to bob up and down.
Lobster claws would make turning a book page very difficult. “Beaver teeth?” Except as soon as I say it, I peek at Max again and wonder what things beaver teeth would make difficult.
“Lobster claws,” Darby snaps at me. “Write it down.”
I dig in my bag for another pen and scribble her answer as she reads the next question. “Would you rather eat breakfast for every meal or dinner?”
“Breakf—”
“Dinner.” Darby looks like she’s playing a game, like a cat toying with a mouse before it kills the poor little guy.
“Are you just picking the opposite of everything I say to prove some sort of point?” I wish I wouldn’t do that, blurt out whatever’s in my head. I blame my nerves. When I get nervous I ramble. “Because I already know you’re not like me. You don’t have to prove that.”
Darby’s boot stops swinging. Her nostrils flare just a bit, and I can tell she’s fighting to keep her temper.
I look down at my worksheet and mumble, “Sorry. Dinner it is.” I write her answer.
“Would you rather”—her jaw is stiff as she reads the next prompt—“change the past or design the future?”
It’s like I’ve been punched in the gut, but the punch has thankfully loosened the strings on that blasted girdle, and when I recover I can breathe normally.
“Change the past.” Then I wouldn’t have to have lost Charlotte. Then I wouldn’t be lost myself.
Darby looks me right in the eye, her gray eyes clear and flat like the horizon beyond the ocean. “Design my future.”
We didn’t get the homework passes. Meggie and her partner did, proving again that Mrs. Jonah hates me.
When Max finally reclaims his seat, I’m feeling like there is no way I’ll make it through the rest of today. There’s nothing I want to do right now more than open my book, fall into the pages, and quiet the chaos in my mind with a singular storyline that I’m not expected to control.
Life After Juliet Page 3