Life After Juliet

by Shannon Lee Alexander

  Darby’s hair is in a ponytail, pulled away from her face. She has no blush on her sepia cheeks, but is wearing a deep burgundy-colored lipstick that draws attention to her mouth. I can’t do anything about my lack of makeup, but when Darby gets called into the theater, I quickly wrap my mop of brown hair up in a bun.

  One, and then both, of the remaining guys are called in to read lines with Darby, and I’m left alone. My pulse throbs like a bass line in my temples. I stare at the pages of my book for a while, but none of the words are making sense.

  There’s a commotion at the theater doors as Victor comes barreling through. He crashes into the seat next to me, pulling both my hands into his.

  “Are you ready? How are you feeling? Can I get you something?” His questions whiz by like meteors.

  I try to smile when I answer. “No. Nauseous. An escape pod.”

  Victor’s laugh echoes in the emptiness of the hallway. “Darby’s almost done. I just wanted to warn you.”

  “Any advice?”

  “Don’t suck.”

  I nod, feeling like a bobblehead on a dashboard. “Right. That’s good. You’re very helpful.”

  Victor blushes. “It’s why they keep me around.”

  The doors open as Darby steps out. Victor stands, folding his arms over his chest. “Got Owens warmed up for the real deal here, Darby? I hear he’s looking to make a few changes in the drama club.”

  “Shut up, Vic.” She stalks over to him, towering above his short, squatty frame. “We all know Owens won’t actually cast a nobody as Juliet. Not when he’s got local fame and fortune to garner.” She sneers at me, but there is something in her posture—a rigidity in her spine, a tic in her jaw—that says she doesn’t firmly believe it. Turning her attention back to Victor she says, “This is all a formality, techie.” She makes the word “techie” sound like a swear word.

  Victor bristles like a rabid ferret. Darby smiles this magnanimous smile and pats him on the head before she walks away from us. She doesn’t even look back. She doesn’t have to. She knows she’s got a captive audience.

  Once she’s around the corner, I turn on Victor. “What the hell is going on?”

  He grumbles, tapping his foot to no discernible beat. “Just the age-old struggle between the drammies and the techies.” He faces me, placing his hands on my shoulders. “But none of that matters now, because you’re here to shake everything up.”

  My eyes feel like tennis balls, like I have big, shocked Dobby eyes. “Shake what up? I’m not a shaker.” My voice is climbing in octaves. “I’m not even a nudger.” I’m about to bolt when we hear my name being called from the depths of the theater.

  “Becca,” Victor whisper-shouts. He’s still holding my shoulders, and he has to duck his head this way and that to fully capture my attention. “Do not freak out, because if you freak out, then Max will freak out, and if Max freaks out, then he’s going to be so pissed at me for freaking you out.”

  I focus on his small eyes, so dark I almost can’t see where the iris ends and the pupil begins.

  “Now, go get on that stage and break all the legs that ever were. Got it?”

  I nod.

  “Say it.”

  “Break all the legs.”

  “Good.” He gives my shoulders a light shake before turning me and pushing me ahead of him into the theater.

  Victor is a shadow following me down the aisle. A pushy, corporeal shadow that refuses to let me escape. He helps me with the mic and earpiece I’ll use for this audition before giving me a thumbs-up and disappearing into the wings.

  The two Romeos are sitting in folding chairs on the opposite side of the stage. It’s strange, but the stage feels bigger now that I’m sharing it with other people. I’m suddenly lonesome.

  “Welcome, Becca.” Mr. Owens’s voice floats up from his seat in the fourth row. The light on his clipboard reflects off his bald, round head, making me think of the moon. I can’t find my voice.

  Inside my ear, I hear Max’s voice. “Say, ‘Hello’.”

  “Uh, h-hello.”

  Max chuckles and I glance around, but no one else responds to the sound of it. “That’s right,” he says. “Only you.” I suddenly feel less solitary.

  I have so many questions for Max, but Owens starts blathering on about wanting to grow the school’s reputation (“His reputation,” Max mutters) and produce only the finest shows with the freshest talent and on and on and on.

  Max asks, “Doing okay? Still breathing? Tug your ear for ‘yes’.”

  I reach up and scratch my earlobe.

  Finally, Owens instructs me to read with first one boy and then the other. They are both seniors, and I’m pretty sure I’ve never been in class with either of them.

  The first guy is too good-looking. His whole face is symmetrical and perfect and kind of makes me want to color all over it with permanent markers just to make it easier to look at him. I don’t do well reading with him. It’s a little like I’m illiterate and have never seen letters on a page, let alone words.

  When it’s the second guy’s turn to read, he comes to stand beside me and holds out a hand. “Thomas,” he says as we shake. With a jolt, I realize it’s the guy from the cafeteria, the one copying Victor’s homework.

  “Becca,” I mumble.

  “Nice to meet you.”

  I blush and nod and look away.

  “Perfect,” Owens shouts from his seat. “We haven’t even started, and yet it’s perfect chemistry.”

  Reading with Thomas goes much smoother. It’s not that he’s unattractive. He’s as tall as Max, but with amber hair and the broad shoulders of a swimmer. It’s that he reminds me a little of Ron Weasley, and that’s comforting. Plus he’s got this voice that is quiet and yet fills the dark spaces of the theater all at once.

  “Humor me, kids.” Owens says, standing from his seat. “Romeo, put your arms around Juliet.”

  All my muscles stiffen. “Easy, Becca,” Max says in my ear. “Breathe.”

  Thomas closes the space between us and I watch our shadows on the stage floor merge in the light of the spot. He clasps his hands behind my lower back and gently pulls me toward him. His shirt smells like cut grass and chlorine. It’s all so strange to be so close to a boy—I peek up at the booth—and so far away.

  Owens claps his hands and makes a delighted noise, like a kid who’s just caught the ice cream truck. “I give you,” he says, holding up his arms. “Romeo and Juliet.”

  Scene Ten

  [A parking lot outside Sandstone High]

  Max insists he and Victor give me a ride home. I call my dad to let him know as we walk together toward the junior parking lot. As soon as we hit the asphalt, Victor shouts “shotgun,” and sprints for Max’s truck.

  I’m not fluent in the rules of shotgun, but I’m pretty sure the point is that saying it reserves your space in the front seat, so that you don’t have to sprint like a cheetah through the school parking lot.

  When we arrive at Max’s truck, Victor is bouncing on the balls of his feet, shadowboxing like a prizefighter and chanting, “Oh yeah, it’s mine. I’m the shotgun champ. Oh yeah—”

  “Dude, get in the back.”

  The back of the truck cab is a small compartment with these little bitty fold-down seats and questionable seat belts.

  Victor stops, his arms frozen in a V over his head. “Why?”

  “Because that’s the polite thing to do.”

  “Polite? No. As the new girl, Becca needs to learn the curious customs of our little subculture.”

  Max’s cheeks darken, but Victor ignores him and faces me. “If you want to ride in the front, Becca”—his voice lilts like a grandmotherly kindergarten teacher—“you have to—”

  “Shut up, idiot,” Max says, his voice low and rumbling.

  “Dude. It’s the rule. There’s only one exception.” Victor’s sloppy grin is victorious. “And Becca does not meet that exception.”

  “What’s the exception?” I
ask.

  They both look at me. Max licks his lips and shifts his weight away from me. Victor holds one finger up in the air, like he’s quoting a famous speech. “The girlfriend exception.”

  “Well then,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. I fumble with the lever on the front seat until it flips forward. “I’ll just take a seat back here.”

  I’ve got one foot in the car when we hear my name shouted across the parking lot. Darby, dreadlocks flying out behind her, is rushing toward us like a tidal wave. I’m reminded of Ursula from Disney’s The Little Mermaid movie, and I suddenly feel like I’m drowning.

  “You,” she says, stopping inches from me, the toes of her purple boots grazing my sneakers.

  My heart is going nuts, whapping around in my chest. I try to step away from her, but she’s got me backed up to Max’s truck.

  “You backstabbing, poser, whore!”

  “Hey,” Max shouts.

  Victor leans on the truck next to me, smirking at Darby. “Hey, Darby? I’m confused about the poser whore thing. Do you mean that Becca actually is a whore, or that she’s pretending to be a hooker?”

  “Screw you, Vic.”

  “So that makes you the whore?”

  Darby’s whole body is trembling, her gray eyes feral. I’m afraid to speak, afraid my voice will push her over the edge, because it is very clear she is balancing some razor-fine line.

  “You’re going to ruin everything,” she says, and there’s more than anger in her expression. She’s fighting back tears, biting her bottom lip, and I realize with a painful jolt that I’ve just stolen a peek behind the scenes. This Darby before me is no act.

  Max asks, “Don’t you think you’re being a tad melodramatic, Darby? Owens hasn’t posted a cast list.”

  She looks away from me, and the relief is physical, like her stare was a hand to my throat. The air I gulp burns.

  The mask falls back into place on Darby’s face as she fixes Max in her sight. “I just saw Thomas.”

  “Look,” I blurt out, “it’s not like I’m taking the role.”

  Darby recoils from me, like I’ve struck her. “What? Why wouldn’t you?”

  “Well, it’s not like I know what I’m doing. I’d probably screw up.”

  “Oh, you’ll definitely screw up, but that doesn’t mean you walk away from the role of a lifetime.” Darby’s voice is strung out like a tightrope between us. “I don’t want your leftovers.” She whirls around, her hair swishing behind her, and disappears back into the school.

  Victor drapes an arm over my shoulders. I’m breathless, and his arm feels like a life raft in a tempest. He tosses his other over Max’s shoulders and hugs us to his sides. “So to clarify, Becca is going to play Juliet, and I’m riding shotgun?”

  Max, who only a moment ago looked like he wanted to punch something, suddenly laughs. The sound is like a happy ending, making my chest ache in all the right ways.

  …

  A statue of the Virgin Mary looks at me from Max’s dashboard.

  “Mary, this is Becca,” Max says as he slides in.

  I wave at the figurine. Max’s laugh fills the small cab of the truck, pressing the air out of my lungs.

  “This was my cousin’s truck when he was in high school,” he says, by way of explanation. “Beni was always in trouble—too smart for his own good. My aunt superglued Mary in here to keep an eye on him.”

  “Oh, well, she’s lovely.”

  Max’s brow arches.

  “I mean—” but I break off because I don’t know what I mean. The figure has a close-lipped smile, and even though her eyes are painted on, I’d say the smile reaches them. She’s comforting. Maybe that’s the word?

  “Mom and her sisters are old-school Catholic.”

  “I’m not religious.” Why I explained that eludes me, so I tangle a lock of hair and try to keep any more dumb interjections from slipping out.

  Victor turns around in his seat. “You’d better find God and fast if we’re going to get home. Max’s truck runs on miracles.”

  Max nods as he reaches for the keys where they dangle in the ignition. The truck hacks and sputters as the engine turns over and refuses to start. Max licks his lips, and I watch them moving as he silently pleads for the truck to cooperate. He jiggles the key, and the truck’s complaining gets louder. Finally the engine catches with a growl. Max nods to the Mary figurine on the dash.

  Victor mutters an “amen” and then begins fiddling with the radio dials, switching between one static-filled station to another.

  “He does this every time,” Max says. “Even though he knows the antenna is broken.”

  Victor grins. “I’m not looking for music. I’m looking for aliens.”

  They chuckle and talk about classes. I let their conversations and the warm breeze from the open windows roll over me.

  “You okay back there?” Max asks.

  I nod, pushing a stray hair behind my ear. “So what’s Darby’s story?”

  They both look mildly surprised before shrugging. Victor says, “She’s obnoxious,” as Max says, “She’s a natural.”

  “She’s naturally obnoxious?”

  They chuckle, but Max shakes his head. “No. She’s a natural onstage. She’s talented. She definitely wants in at the School of the Arts next year. The bitchiness is just a side effect.”

  “She doesn’t just want in,” Victor adds. He turns in his seat, facing me. “She wants to get out of here. Her dad started a construction company a few years back—the family that works together stays together and all that.”

  “Yeah, her brother was in Beni’s class. He’s working for his dad now.”

  Victor nods. “Darby won’t come near the tech shop when we’re building sets.”

  “Hates the smell of sawdust,” Max says, smiling at me in the rearview mirror.

  Max turns into my neighborhood, and I suddenly take note of the construction trucks outside the third house in. It’s not Darby’s dad or anything, but it makes me wonder about the future and fate and what it’d be like to have a future already picked out for you. My parents have never even asked me about what I might do after graduation—like Charlie sucked that parental zeal out of them with his immense drive.

  But plotting her own future is a priority for Darby. She told me so herself.

  We’re just around the corner from my house when Max pulls into a driveway. Victor’s house looks like many others in our cookie cutter neighborhood, except for the enormous satellite dish in the yard. Victor sees me noticing it and explains in a voice that sounds like he’s explained this a hundred times before that his dad uses it to watch television news programs from his hometown in South Korea.

  “You guys want to come in?”

  I disentangle a finger from my hair and try to smile. “No, thanks, but if you want to stay, Max, I can walk home from here.” I point in the direction of my street.

  “I’ll take you home,” Max says, hopping out and striding around the truck to the passenger side.

  “Aw, dude, you’re so sweet coming to open my door,” Victor says.

  Max flips Victor off before pulling him from the car. “Get out, Vic.”

  Victor grabs at his heart and feigns a swoon. “Ah, how quickly I’ve been replaced.”

  A laugh gurgles in my throat despite myself. Max arches an eyebrow at me. “Don’t encourage him.”

  Victor bolts for his house calling out, “I don’t have to take this from you, you heartless bastard.” He’s cackling like a madman as the front door closes behind him.

  “What do you feed him?” I ask, unfolding from the cramped backseat of the truck.

  “Puppy chow and candy bars.”

  I snort as Max closes the door behind me. When he gets back into the cab, silence wraps around us like fine spider webs. It feels like it should be so easy to break through them, but the words are trapped in my chest.

  Max finally cuts through the quiet. “What are you going to do? About the play?”r />
  “Not sure.” I look away. “I guess I never thought Owens would actually pick me. I thought I could show up at the audition, do my best, feel better about myself, and then go back to my regular life.”

  “What does that look like? Regular life?”

  “Books. It looks like a lot of books.” I tangle a finger in my hair. “My brother thinks doing the play would’ve thrilled Charlotte.”

  Max smiles. “I’m sure.”

  “But if Charlotte were still alive”—I sigh—“I wouldn’t be here right now.”

  Scene Eleven

  [The cafeteria]

  Max and Victor are in the cafeteria when I arrive the next day. It’s still unnerving to see people at my lunch table, and I have to remind myself that there is no reason to run screaming from the room. These are nice people, not threats. They’re not sharpening knives or lighting cigarettes with flamethrowers. They’re studying stacks of drawings, harmless drawings, passing them back and forth, pointing and gesturing with their mouths full of food.

  “What’s all this?” I pick up a stack as I slide into the seat across from Max.

  Victor answers. “Max’s sketches for the sets.”

  My insides feel like they are being wrung out. Max is an artist. I glance at his fingertips, stained with ink today. An artist. Charlotte saw the world as shapes and color and chaos. What does Max see?

  I study the first sketch in the stack. It’s a football field, and it’s raining as the two teams scuffle in the mud for the ball. I trace the pinpricks of rain as they drip off one player’s helmet and into his determined face.

  Before I can escape, I’m slipping in the mud of memories, falling back in time with Charlotte.

  Charlotte’s shoulder presses into mine as we sit side by side on my bedroom floor. She thinks I’ve been reading, but I’ve been watching her work on a sketch of a girl standing in the rain. The girl in the sketch has her back to us but is looking over her shoulder—except she has no face—not yet. Charlotte’s frustrated because she can’t see the girl’s expression.