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Life After Juliet

Page 9

by Shannon Lee Alexander


  “I need advice.”

  “Want Greta’s number?” Charlie laughs.

  “This is serious.”

  “So am I. I suck at advice.”

  I’m silent while Charlie chuckles again. I imagine reaching through the phone and smacking him with it. Finally, he asks, “Okay, what’s up?”

  “Remember the play?”

  “Romeo and Juliet.”

  “Yep. Well I signed up for the technical crew that does the sets and lights and stuff, but accidentally auditioned for the role of Juliet. The director is insane, so he cast me—”

  “As Juliet?” Charlie’s voice jumps an octave in surprise.

  “Yes.”

  “Whoa.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s not why I’m calling. See, I’m sort of friends with some of the techies—”

  “Trekkies?”

  “No. Techies.”

  “What’s a techie?”

  “Someone on the backstage crew of a play. May I continue?”

  Charlie grunts and I go on. “So one techie asked me to this get-together thing tonight, and I don’t know what I’m supposed to wear.”

  There is silence on the line.

  “Charlie?”

  “Out of everything you just told me, you’re worried about what you’re wearing?”

  “Yes.”

  More silence.

  “My advice is to find a girlfriend, STAT.”

  “That’s not helpful,” I shriek.

  “Yes, but I warned you before we began that I suck at advice. So my advice is to find a friend who’s good at it. Preferably before the party.”

  “Bye, Charlie.”

  “Don’t be mad, Bec.”

  I sigh. “Love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  By the time Mom and Dad finally get home, I’ve declared my closet a useless waste of space. There is neither anything cool to wear nor a portal to Narnia inside it.

  “Becca?” Mom calls.

  “Coming,” I shout back. I slam my closet doors. I should just toss out everything and fill the space with more bookshelves.

  When I get downstairs, I find Mom and Dad are in rare spirits. Mom is humming while she takes raw chicken out of the package. She normally makes gagging sounds when she handles raw anything.

  Dad bows before me and presents me with a bouquet of yellow daisies. “For you, Sunshine.” He hasn’t called me Sunshine since I was very small. It makes me feel like time is folding over itself, layering the past over the present.

  “Th-thanks.” I know my smile is a silly, lopsided thing, but I’m too stunned to straighten it. His mustache tickles when he kisses me on the forehead.

  “Mom, look.” I hold the flowers up to show her. “Aren’t they pretty?”

  “Not as pretty as my girl,” Dad says as he pulls spices out from the cabinet. He shoos Mom away from the chicken so he can take over.

  Mom holds her hands away from herself like they are radioactive. “So, tell us about tonight,” she says as she washes up.

  I find a vase as I tell them about Victor’s invitation. I reassure them he lives close by—“Just around the corner, and Max said he’d pick me up at eight on his way over.”

  “Max is the one who asked you to help backstage?” Dad asks.

  I nod, arranging the flowers in the vase.

  “Looking forward to meeting him, then. I’d like to shake the hand of the young man who coaxed my Sunshine to come out.”

  Mom grimaces. “I love you, dear, but that was horrible.”

  “Too sappy?”

  Mom shrugs, and Dad chuckles. “Good thing I’m so handsome.”

  I take the flowers up to my room, feeling a little like I’m walking on a foreign planet. It’s been a long time since my parents have been so happy, so carefree. Probably since before they found out about Charlotte’s diagnosis. They were absolutely giddy about my new friend last year until they saw the intense amount of baggage she carried.

  I slide a stack of novels over on my desk to make room for the vase. I pick up the picture there of Charlie and Charlotte and me from my birthday last year. My stomach feels like it’s floating up into my chest cavity, crowding everything. The gravity on my new planet is seriously messed up.

  Scene Five

  [A party]

  I wear a pair of black pants and a soft gray shirt Charlie got me for Christmas that says I read. I’m not sure if it’s the right choice, but at least I feel comfortable. Everyone is in some shade of black or gray when I get to Victor’s. The only real color to be seen is the electric blue of Kelli’s Pumas. I fit right in.

  The lunchtime gang is all here, plus a few others whose names I’ll need to ask Max to help me remember. After a while, people drift off. Miles and Greg are at the kitchen table discussing a movie they saw last weekend. Kelli and Victor are in the TV room with everyone else playing video games. Max and I are left at the kitchen island.

  “I like your shirt,” Max says. His own shirt says Hyperboles are the best ever!

  “Yeah, well, I’ll take that as a major compliment coming from a guy with the world’s coolest T-shirt collection.”

  Max’s face flushes as his dark eyes glance down at what he’s wearing. He looks back up with a grin. “You like them?”

  “It’s one of the first things I noticed about you.”

  “Yeah?”

  I nod.

  “What else?”

  My pulse ratchets up, and I feel my own face get hot. “Uh…” Your lips, I think, but the thought chokes me, and I sputter.

  “I like your smile,” Max says. “I noticed it last year. You don’t do it all that often, but when you do”—my whole body is alight, sending alarms coursing through my veins—“it’s like greatness is not just possible, but probable.”

  I blink, like I might start crying (please don’t let me start crying). “I like your hair,” I say, the words fighting their way out, the wrong ones winning and tumbling over one another.

  Max blinks and runs a hand through his black hair.

  “It’s very shiny.” Oh my God. That’s not what I wanted to say, but I can’t make myself stop saying stupid stuff.

  “It’s because I use conditioner. My aunt is a beautician. She gets the stuff by the gallon for us.”

  This is officially the lamest conversation ever, and it’s all my fault. He said my smile makes him feel like good things are going to happen, and I compliment his shiny hair? Like he’s a prize-winning shepherd in a dog show? I want to know all about him. Important stuff. Not what kind of conditioner he uses.

  I take a deep breath, feeling it hitch on all the jagged pieces inside me. Max pushes a broken chip around on the counter.

  “How long have you been drawing?”

  He looks up from the chip. “Long as I can remember. My dad’s an artist.”

  “What kind?”

  “Kind of a Renaissance man. He draws, paints, and sculpts.”

  “Sculpts?”

  “Metal works mostly. Cool stuff. You want to see?”

  I swallow the lump in my throat and nod.

  Max holds up a finger and leans toward the TV room. “Victor,” he shouts. “Becca and I are leaving.”

  “Okay, but remember to use protection.” Victor cackles, and then he swears. “You shot me. You freaking shot me, Kelli.”

  My face feels warm, but Max’s looks volcanic. “I’m going to murder that little jackhole one day.”

  From the other room we hear video gunfire. “Not again, Kelli,” Victor cries out.

  “Looks like Kelli beat you to it.”

  …

  Max only lives a few miles from our neighborhood, but he’s far enough into the surrounding countryside that there is plenty of open land between houses. I sneak glimpses of him as we drive.

  It is true. He does have shiny hair—so black it looks silver in the moonlight. But over and again, I’m drawn to his lips, their perfect shape and color. I’m sure if I pressed mine to them the
y would feel soft and taste so good.

  I grab a lock of hair and begin to twist.

  Max turns onto a long gravel drive, framed by pines. In the dark, they loom like shadowy sentinels, guarding the path to his home. Behind the pines, there is open land and then woods. But every so often, in the wide space between the trees, my eyes catch sight of creatures in the dark. I lean out the open window a little, squinting into the darkness. There on the right is an enormous silver tree, its limbs adorned with elaborate scrollwork.

  “What’s that?” I point.

  Max’s eyes flick over the metal tree. “Sculpture.”

  “Can we see it?”

  Max nods. “There’s more. We’ll take a walk.”

  The sound of the truck on the gravel attracts attention from inside the small, neat, ranch-style house. The side door bursts open as a lively boy with a wide smile barrels out.

  “Max,” the boy calls breathlessly before flinging himself at Max.

  Max introduces us. “Javi, this is my friend Becca. Becca, my little brother Javier.”

  Javier rolls his shoulders back and steps forward with his hand out. “Nice to meet you.” He’s got Max’s eyes, but his build and face are much thicker than Max’s, like he’ll grow to be a football player.

  “You, too,” I say, shaking the boy’s hand.

  “Javi, tell Mom I’m going to show Becca the sculptures, okay?”

  “Yep,” he says, beaming as Max rubs his hand on Javier’s cropped hair.

  “And then, I think it’s past your bedtime.”

  “I know, I know,” Javier says, rolling his eyes at his big brother.

  Max watches protectively as Javier goes back inside. “He’s eight.”

  “He’s adorable.”

  “Don’t let him hear you say that,” Max says, leading me toward a barn off to the side of the house. “You’ll never shake him off.”

  The oversized barn door screeches on its rusty track as Max slides it open. “Alarm system,” Max jokes. He flips a switch on the side, and the barn fills with the hum of fluorescent light.

  “This is Dad’s workshop.”

  In the center of the swept barn is a half-finished sculpture of a large horse. It is made from intricate scrolls of iron. Most of its ribcage is finished, but there are a few spots I imagine I could crawl inside like the Trojans of old, hiding away while I wait for the command to attack.

  “This is a commissioned piece, so he has to stick within certain parameters. I like the ones he pulls out of his imagination the best.” Max rummages in a box under a workbench, finding a flashlight. “I’ll show you,” he says, turning off the overhead lights.

  For a moment we are lost in darkness. Max’s hand finds mine. Surprisingly, I don’t jump or flinch away. It’d be like trying to shrug out of my own skin.

  The fragile beam of light from the flashlight illuminates a footpath through the fields around the barn. There are devils fighting dragons in these fields, a princess standing in the middle of a ring of great eagles, and a statue of a tall man, who reminds me of the grim reaper. When the wind blows, this last statue makes a faint whistling sound.

  “Your dad has quite an imagination.”

  “He’s a collector of stories,” Max says as we stop at the base of the tree I’d glimpsed driving in, iron birds bursting into flight from its branches. “He likes to mix the old with the new.”

  I can see from here that there is a clockface in the trunk of the tree just under the spot where the branches split. The hands of the clock are both at twelve.

  “Reminds me of Cinderella,” I say, pointing at the clock.

  Max nods, looking pleased. “My favorite.”

  “Princess?”

  Max chuckles. “Sculpture.”

  It is beautiful, but it makes me wonder—what will happen to me at midnight? I’ll probably turn into a pumpkin. Then everyone will realize what a mistake they made thinking I could be anything other than a…uh, a well-read pumpkin.

  “My dad keeps saying he’s going to turn this into a working clock one day.”

  “But?”

  “Well, time doesn’t exactly stop and wait around for us.” Max points the flashlight up at the clockface.

  I think of Charlotte and those last months when we waited for something to happen while pretending nothing was about to happen. I think of how I prayed for time to stand still, or at least slow down a little, so we could all be together longer.

  We walk back toward the barn. My hand is warm in Max’s, and by some crazy miracle it isn’t sweating like a damp fish. Do fish sweat? I don’t know. This all feels unreal. Like I’m a character in a book, one of those cute romance books where no one dies and everyone lives happily ever after. I never pictured myself as a happily ever after kind of girl.

  Max stops walking, tugging on the hand he’s holding so that we’re standing face-to-face. I try to keep my eyes off his lips, which I imagine would meld to fit perfectly against mine. Not helping. I look up at the night sky and take a deep breath. There’s panic clambering up my spine, like a kid struggling up the rope in gym class. Could I deserve a happy ending?

  “Maximo?” A voice cuts through the darkness, liquid, musical, accented in a way that tastes like hot cocoa and cinnamon. I didn’t know sounds could have a taste, but there it is, sliding down my throat, soothing the rough edges.

  Max looks over his shoulder, back toward the house. “My mother.”

  “Max?” his mother calls out again.

  “Coming,” he calls back, and I’m surprised to hear that same cocoa and cinnamon accent in his voice. His thick lips tug up into a warm smile as he turns and guides me back through the forest of his father’s iron creations.

  “Mom, meet Becca,” Max says, as we step into the pool of light beside their home.

  Max’s mother is dressed in medical scrubs, her inky black hair braided down her back. She’s shorter than me, but feels so much larger as she sweeps her own dark eyes over me.

  “Evening, Mrs. Herrera,” I say, impressed the words have found a way to work themselves around the knot of nerves in my throat.

  Her dark face breaks into a bright, wide smile, showing off two dimples. She waves off my formality. “Esperanza will do.” She comes forward and greets me with a quick, firm hug before turning to Max and wrapping him completely in her arms. “I’m off to the hospital and Papi is sketching, so would you mind checking on Javi one more time before you take Becca home?”

  She lets him go, holding him at arm’s length, awaiting her answer.

  “Of course,” Max says. “Anything for the lady of the house.”

  Esperanza’s dimples deepen as she squeezes Max’s arms once before slipping her purse straps back onto her shoulder. She winks at us before getting in her car.

  Max nods toward the house. “Do you mind?”

  I’m still feeling dazed from the brief interaction with his mom. She hugged me. “Why did she hug me?”

  Max chuckles. “She hugs everyone.”

  I’m not sure if that makes me feel better or worse.

  “My dad, on the other hand…” Max says, trailing off. “I’m guessing you’ve never been to Venezuela.”

  I snort. And then I blush and wonder exactly how far it’d be if I decided to run home right this second.

  “Okay,” Max says, laughing now. “It’s customary to greet people a certain way.” He steps toward me. The smell of cedar and honey makes my head spin. “Like this.” Max brushes his cheek, rough like fine sandpaper, against mine, turning so his lips barely brush my skin, two soft kisses on one side, then the other.

  I touch Max’s shoulder, a feeble attempt to regain some balance.

  “Sorry,” Max whispers.

  “No,” I say, too forcefully, too loud for the small space we’ve made. “I can’t wait to meet him.”

  …

  Max’s dad is buried in sketches when we walk into his studio at the back of the ranch house. He sits at an old drafting table with a
crooked light clamped onto one side. There are charcoal sketches everywhere. He tells me to call him Dezi, and then he does indeed kiss me on both cheeks as a greeting.

  I notice Max grinning as Dezi holds me at arm’s length to study me. His deep-set eyes are heavily crinkled at the corners, his hair more salt than pepper. He points at a chair and pulls out a fresh piece of paper.

  “Please?” He waves a charcoal pencil at the paper like a wand.

  “Dad, no,” Max says, but I wave him off. I’m excellent at sitting still.

  So Max has gone to check on Javier as Dezi sketches me with fervor. I like the silence between us. He draws, and I breathe the familiar smell of the paper (and roses? Where are the—I spot a vase of flowers set up like a still life in one corner—roses), and I listen to the soothing scratching sound of the charcoal. The familiar smells pull me back in time. I close my eyes and imagine Charlotte beside me. I take a deep breath, and I’m back in a beautiful rose garden, Charlotte sketching at my side.

  “Can I ask a personal question?” Charlotte asks, looking up from her sketchbook.

  I mark my place in my book with the leathery leaf of a rose. “Of course.” I peek at her sketch. It’s the same girl she keeps drawing over and over again, but this time she has the beginnings of a face.

  “Why don’t you have friends? I mean other than me? Not that I’m complaining. I am a lot of work—high maintenance diva here.” Charlotte pulls her sunglasses down from where she’d rested them on her head and tosses her short, black curls like a movie star.

  I laugh. “I’m a teenage recluse. What can I say?”

  “But why?”

  I can’t hold her intense stare, so I look down into the blue-green water of the fountain. The color changes as it ripples, reminding me of pictures of the Northern Lights. Finally, I answer.

  “I don’t know. I don’t have some terrible trauma from my past or anything. I’ve just always felt strange, like an isolated species that didn’t evolve quite like everyone else.” I touch the water in the fountain, letting it lap at my fingertips like kittens.

  “Mom and Dad used to try to do play dates and stuff for me, and one time it kind of stuck with this girl Trena, but then she moved and I was like well, damn, I put all that effort into it and then poof—gone. I mean I was like eight, so I didn’t really swear or anything. But you get the point.”

 

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