She nods like I’ve finally done something right. “Next time you’re onstage and you see Thomas step into the light as Romeo, imagine how you’d feel if it were your friend, the girl from last year, walking out on that stage. Your heart would explode, right?”
My eyes fill instantly with tears, and I turn away from Darby, hoping she won’t notice. I blink and focus on the glowing constellation of lights on stage. “It’d make me happier than anything.”
“Exactly,” Darby says. “That’s exactly how Juliet would feel every time she sees Romeo. He is her everything. Her reason to exist.”
We’re quiet for another moment. “Why are you being nice to me?” I ask.
Darby leans back in Max’s chair, and it squeaks in protest as she rocks. She’s grinning a bit when she answers. “Just trying to butter you up before I eat you.”
I laugh and Darby keeps grinning and it’s like the universe is shifting and realigning all the planets in my galaxy. For a moment it does feel like I’m the master of the universe.
Scene Eleven
[The theater]
Owens glows with praise for my performance at rehearsal this afternoon, remarking how I was beginning to look like a natural on the stage.
“Which is a good thing, since I’m not staging a production of The Bride of Frankenstein,” he says, laughing at his own joke. We’re all sitting in the first few rows, waiting for notes and announcements. Owens snaps impatiently at his student director, who I’ve realized is really not allowed to do any directing, but is just a glorified gopher, and she hops up to pass out photocopies of a revised rehearsal schedule.
The first thing I notice when I glance over the new calendar is that we’ll have three days off in the next few weeks due to “directorial personal commitments.” I wonder briefly what that means, but don’t have time to worry about it before I notice the next, and more important, change.
I have to kiss a boy. Onstage. Tomorrow.
I suddenly wish I could be a super strong, reanimated corpse, so I could smash through the cinderblock wall backstage and run and run and run.
I’m quiet on the way home. Maybe Victor and Max notice, but no one says anything. Instead, Victor plays a guessing game he calls, “Name that Directorial Personal Commitment.” He and Max keep up a volley of ideas from fittings for a new Technicolor Dreamcoat to classes on clipboard smashing and being your own diva.
Once we drop off Victor, Max asks if I want to do homework at his house. Our balcony is essentially finished.
I shake my head, feeling a wave of anxiety pulling at my stomach. “I can’t.”
Max’s brows dance up in surprise. I can’t blame him. I never have anything to do. His expression is asking all sorts of questions, but I’m too embarrassed to answer. What am I supposed to say?
I’ve never kissed a guy, and Owens expects me to do it onstage tomorrow, so I’m going to try to cram for it like my brother might cram for a math exam. Don’t suppose you’d like to be my study buddy?
Um. No.
Max licks his lips, and I can’t sit here anymore with the crazy whirlwind of doubt and embarrassment swirling around in my head. “I’ll see you in the morning?”
“Of course.” His eyes flick over my face like he’s trying to read me. “And if you need any help?”
Gah! No. Don’t ask to help me. Not with this.
“Tomorrow,” I say, loud and shrill like a fire alarm. I wave just before dashing off. “Thanks.”
To prepare for my doom, I watch a lot of kissing. That sounds pervy. But since I’ve never kissed anyone, tomorrow will be like stepping on the moon for me. I’ve got no past experiences to hold me down; floating off into space is a real possibility, albeit an enticing one, since I’d implode in space and therefore wouldn’t have to actually kiss Thomas in front of a theater full of people.
But even after studying a bunch of romantic movies, I can’t figure out how the kisser and kissee know which way to tilt their faces, how hard to press their lips together, or what to do with their hands.
Patterns emerged from all the romantic scenes. Hands in hair, tilt face right, smash faces together like wrecking balls. Hands on face, barely tilt face at all, gentle brush of the lips. Hands on hips, tilt face left, open mouth, and—holy crap. I’m doomed.
…
I’m hiding in the stairwell down the hall from the theater after a sleepless night and trying to remember why I agreed to do this play. Could it really have been because of a list in a picture book? Because of fate? Fate, which I may or may not believe in? To say my stomach is in knots is an understatement. My stomach is crocheted into a heavy afghan that is making me want to vomit a rainbow of yarn. I pull out my phone and call Charlie for backup.
“Charlie, help,” I whine before he can even say hello.
“A T-shirt and jeans is fine for a party, although some girls wear other, uh, fancier, types of clothes, but I think you should stick to the T-shirt and jeans look.”
“What?”
“I asked around after your last call.”
“That was weeks ago.”
“I’m too late?”
“Yes.”
“What did you wear?”
“Bustier and pleather miniskirt.”
Silence.
“Kidding,” I say, a smile unraveling a few rows of the anxiety afghan.
“Not funny.”
“I have a bigger problem,” I tell him. “I have to kiss a boy.”
“Ew.”
“I know, right?”
Charlie laughs. “No, I mean, ew, I’m your brother. I don’t think it’s legal for us to have this conversation.”
“And I have to kiss him onstage.”
“Pardon?”
“At rehearsal. Romeo and Juliet? Hello?”
“Oh,” he says, exhaling with relief. “But it’s a stage kiss, right? You guys aren’t a couple or anything?”
“I’m invisible to him unless the spotlight is on me.”
“Got it.”
“What do I do? What did you do? How’d you figure it all out with Charlotte?”
Charlie sighs, and I feel bad for asking him to remember—for asking him to share those memories, but Charlotte was always very careful to keep her relationship with Charlie separate from our friendship, so I didn’t get a lot of details—details I maybe could have used to figure out what I’m supposed to be doing here.
Charlie’s quiet for a moment before answering. “I don’t know, Bec. It was different because it was real. You’re just pretending. So pretend you know what you’re doing.”
“I watched all the kissing scenes in all the romance movies I could find last night.”
“And?”
“It was a lot of kissing.”
“Close your eyes, pucker up, and let him do the work, then.”
“Right. Good advice.”
“Really?” He sounds so proud of himself.
“No. It’s the worst advice ever—this isn’t the 1950s—but I love you anyway.”
I pocket my phone and take a shaky breath before pulling open the door to the theater. The shadows of the darkened seats surround me. Mr. Owens and Thomas are waiting onstage.
Close my eyes, pucker up, and let him do the work.
“Break a leg, Bec.” Max’s voice sneaks out of the darkness.
The ride to school this morning was, um, let’s go with uncomfortable. Pulling my eyelashes out one by one would have been more comfortable. I guess Max spent a little time studying the new schedule last night and figured out my dilemma. Neither of us knew exactly what to say. Victor, on the other hand, slapped me on the back and told me to “Woman up and enjoy the ride.”
Before Owens notices me, I slip into the seat next to Max.
“Any advice?”
He licks his bottom lip—a gesture I now know means he’s nervous. Why is he nervous? It’s not like he has to kiss a boy onstage. It’s not like he has to embarrass himself in front of the drammies. Not like he�
�ll have twenty sets of eyes critiquing his first kiss. Not like—my panic has just about crushed all of my reason when he finally says, “Remember it isn’t real.”
I fill my panicked lungs with a deep honey-and cedar-scented breath. Max. I feel a little more grounded. “That’s what my brother said.”
Max’s eyebrow quirks. I want to run my finger along the high arched line of it. “He sounds like a wise brother.”
“Well, he is a genius.”
Max’s smile lights up the small space between us. Onstage, Owens stamps his foot impatiently.
“Better not keep him waiting,” Max says, patting my hand on the armrest between us. When I stand, my legs feel like they are made from overstretched rubber bands. I take a deep breath before making my way to the main aisle.
Close my eyes, pucker up, and let him do the work, because none of this is real. I repeat it to myself the whole walk down the darkened aisle to the stage. Once on the proscenium, I glance at the booth and see Max has taken his place there.
In the wings, Victor waves to get my attention and then pantomimes this weird and slightly obscene make-out session with an invisible partner. His tongue is waggling, and he’s shaking his hips like the little dashboard hula girls for sale in gas stations. I use my middle finger to wipe an imaginary eyelash from my cheek. Victor cackles as he disappears backstage.
Thomas takes his mark beside me. Max centers the spot on us. I take a calming breath and look up at Thomas’s face. I blink in shock. Thomas is nervous? His blue eyes are tight, his jaw even tighter. He is not comfortably leaning on anything right now. His spine is as rigid as one of Dezi’s sculptures.
Thomas is nervous! Surely he’s kissed girls before—loads of them if the drammie rumor mill runs true.
“Let us begin,” Owens says, pausing dramatically between each word. Thomas and I run our lines a few times with Owens interrupting to place Thomas’s hand on my face, or my hand at the back of Thomas’s neck, or to entwine our fingers around each other. My whole body feels like my veins have been injected with shards of ice, making my motions stiff. When rehearsal comes to the kiss, I squeeze my eyes shut, pucker, and let Thomas do the work.
“No, no, no,” Owens says, his sonorous voice huffing out each small word.
Thomas and I step apart.
“With feeling.” Owens circles us. “You love him, Juliet. You want him.” His voice is all around us. “You would die for him.” He backs away, demanding, “Again, but with feeling.”
Thomas sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Could you maybe try to act like you like me?” he asks, two flushed circles blooming on his cheeks. “Or, I mean, like Juliet likes Romeo?”
My brow furrows. The afghan inside me wraps itself around all my internal organs and squeezes. “I—”
“Again,” Owens says, his voice a feral howl. “The kiss is everything.”
This time when Thomas touches my face and says his line as Romeo, he leans in, his eyes wavering like a summer sky before a storm. I close my eyes and try to relax, try to call up some feeling I can use, like Darby said. Only Darby said to use my emotions about Charlotte, and while I loved Charlotte, I never wanted to make out with her, so that’s not helping.
But then I remember the way Max’s hands felt as he held my hand that first night at his house—the night we stood so close and he leaned even closer to brush my cheeks with his honey soft lips—but the calluses on Thomas’s fingertips scratch along my cheeks, and his lips are hard and unyielding. Instead of melting together, I can feel my whole body tensing, from the pit of my rocky stomach to the tips of my wooden fingers, lying like dried twigs against his collarbone.
“Wrong. It’s all wrong,” Owens says, his voice a low-pitched moan. He points a finger in my face. “I didn’t pull you from a life of obscurity to watch you screw up my entire play.” He looks over his shoulder into the dark theater. “Darby?”
Darby steps out from the wings. Her jaw is tight as she looks from me to Owens.
“There you are.” He waves his arms at Thomas and me, his voice imploring. “Fix this.” He leaves the stage, muttering about ibuprofen for his headache. “I’ll be back in five,” he calls just before pushing his way through the side door.
Darby rolls her eyes in what I’m becoming to understand is a very Darby-esque way. She grabs my elbow and pulls me toward the back wall. She’s not happy about having to help me, and I can see why. If Owens knows she can do this, why the hell didn’t he just cast her?
Once we’re at the back wall, partially hidden by a half-painted set piece, Darby faces me. “I thought we went over this. You’ve been making progress.” She huffs and crosses her arms. “Regrettably.” The word grates through her clenched teeth.
“This is different, though. This is kissing. You said draw on experience and—” I break off, too embarrassed to continue.
Darby groans. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” She shakes her head at me like I’m in kindergarten and I’ve been caught eating crayons. “The moment your techie boyfriend turns that spot on you, you’re no longer little miss I’m-so-pathetic-because-my-friend-died-so-I-have-an-excuse-to-be-a-loser, you’re Juliet.”
I flinch, and she scoffs. “What? It’s true. You act like we should just excuse you for being this social oddity, but why should we? You could at least try to connect with people.”
“But I am trying.”
“Then try harder.” Darby takes a breath to calm down. “Look, I get that you don’t know Thomas. If Owens were doing his job, he’d have spent some time helping us all get to know one another and build, like, camaraderie or whatever.”
She paces in front of me as she continues. “The truth is Thomas is a great guy. Nearly everyone in drama has a crush on him—girls and guys alike—because he’s nice and mostly decent and not a pompous ass.” She stops pacing and faces me. “So get over yourself and kiss him already.”
She turns me around so I’m facing the stage, standing behind me with her hands on my shoulders. I can see Thomas, standing center stage, hands shoved in pockets, studying his shoes while he waits. Darby leans forward to speak into my ear. “You need to remember that on this stage, you are Juliet and Thomas is Romeo. And Juliet wants to make out with Romeo. As soon as the spot goes out, you can go back to your sad life, but when it’s on, you are the star, and being the star comes with some responsibility.”
She whirls me back around to face her. We stare at each other a moment. “Get it?”
I nod.
“You have to forget who you are on the stage.”
“That why you love it?”
Darby narrows her eyes, sizing me up. “No. I like who I am. I like acting because I get to create my character’s reality, instead of other people choosing it for me.”
I step back, her honesty taking me by surprise.
Darby shoves me toward center stage. “Let’s get this over with.”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” I say, the words springing painfully from my chest as we cross the stage. “Max is just a friend.”
Darby brushes past me. “Save the acting for the stage.” She grabs Kelli’s headset from her before joining Thomas and me center stage. She doesn’t bother to put the headset on properly, but loops it around her neck and speaks into the mic. “Techie, I’m going to signal you when I want the spot on and off.”
She positions me at center stage, and when Max speaks, I can hear his voice through the earphones. “What’s the signal?”
Darby raises her middle finger. “On.” She drops her hand. “And off.”
Max’s laugh sounds metallic through the headset.
“Let’s go, Thomas.” She snaps her fingers at him and he hustles to stand in front of me. “So right now we have Thomas and Loser onstage—”
“Hey,” I interject.
“Whatever,” Darby says, waving me off. “But now,” she pauses and flips Max off. The spot blinds me as I look up toward the booth. Darby straightens my head so I’m looking at Thomas.
“Now we have Romeo and Juliet.”
She drops her hand. The spot goes out.
“Thomas and Becca,” Darby says, drawing my name out. “Shake hands,” she demands. We do as we’re told.
The spot comes on.
“Romeo and Juliet.” She repositions our handshake so we’re holding hands. “Got it, kids?”
Thomas and I both nod. I stifle a smile. Thomas looks worried he may be about to lose his head to the Queen of Hearts. The spot goes out just as Mr. Owens comes banging back into the theater.
“Good. Now do the scene.” Darby takes three giant steps back before flipping Max off again.
When the spot comes up, I close my eyes for a moment. I’m Juliet, I tell myself. I take a deep breath. I’m Juliet and this boy, holding my hand, is my sole reason for existing. There is nothing about my life that is good without him. Despite the warmth of the spotlight, a chill runs down my spine. I’m Juliet, and this is my Romeo.
I open my eyes and study the boy before me, his curious eyes, the strong line of his jaw, the curve of his shoulders. This is my Romeo.
I part my lips—and speak. “Then, window, let day in, and let life out.”
The boy steps closer, his hips pressing against mine, his breath in my face. “One kiss,” he begs, “and I’ll descend.”
It’s a plea, isn’t it? Because Romeo can’t live without Juliet, either. He needs the kiss like air to breathe.
I reach out and brush his wavy hair off his forehead. He cups my face.
He can’t live without me.
The idea is intoxicating. I trace a finger across Thomas’s lips. They are thinner than Max’s. This is my Romeo. I am Juliet. These lips are the only lips I want. Thomas’s eyes close, enjoying the sensation, as my fingers travel from his lips, across his jaw, and down his neck. It’s a powerful feeling to make someone else feel good. I choose this, I think just before I raise myself up onto my toes and press our lips together. I want this with Max.
I break away from Thomas’s lips to the sound of applause. Instantly, I’m back in my own skin—my own hot, blushing skin. I did it. I kissed a boy. I glance at Owens clapping in the audience with the other actors. I peek over my shoulder at Darby, not clapping, but shaking her head with the smallest grin I’ve ever seen.
Life After Juliet Page 12