Life After Juliet

by Shannon Lee Alexander

  They should have a name for that kind of look. I scan my memory, going over the thousands of words I’ve read in my life, looking for the right one, but I can’t find it. It’s almost a smirk, but not quite, because it’s less I told you so and more I made you so.

  Thomas is still holding me around the waist, and the spot is still on us, burning like an alien sun on a roasted planet. I can’t make myself look up at the booth. Thomas clears his throat softly, and I glance up at him. “That was really good,” he says.

  I didn’t think it was possible, but I’m about twelve degrees more embarrassed now. “Oh, uh, thanks.” I squirm a bit, and he drops his arms.

  “Sorry.”

  “No, I mean, Darby didn’t tell us to move, so it’s a risk.”

  He smiles, and it makes his blue eyes crinkle. “Well,” he says, grabbing the back of his neck with one hand. “My middle name is Danger.”

  “Mine’s Jane.”

  Thomas’s mouth twists into a grin, but before he can say anything else, Owens swoops in, putting his arms around our shoulders.

  “Brilliant. I knew it. I knew you two had something special.” He squeezes us once and then drops us. “Now, do it again.”

  My stomach plummets. Again?

  After rehearsal, Thomas touches my elbow as I’m leaving the stage. “I was thinking that maybe we should have lunch together sometime, you know, to get to know each other better. Maybe then the making out in front of a crowd thing would be a little easier.”

  A wave of self-consciousness washes over me. “Oh, well, I”—don’t see how anything could make obligatory public displays of affection any easier—“Yeah, sure. Sometime.”

  He smiles and nods, running a hand through his hair. He seriously is adorable. But my whole body is aching to get away, to hide out in the comfort and safety of the booth, to see Max.

  “Sometime,” he says, waving at me as I turn away.

  Scene Twelve

  [The technical booth in the theater]

  Up in the booth, I slide into the seat next to Max. We sit in the silent darkness watching the theater below. I feel like a bookshelf that’s been overturned in an earthquake, like all my insides have been spilled across the stage for everyone to see, which is terrifying, but not as frightening as the powerful desire to choose my own fate that impaled me just before I kissed Thomas.

  There’s a tugging inside my chest, like I’m being pulled in too many directions. I want to step out of my books and explore, but I’m afraid. And it isn’t just that I’m worried about death robbing me of another important person in my life. I’m petrified of losing my way—of losing myself in the midst of all these very real and terrifying emotions.

  I can’t let myself get too close to anyone. Not Max. Not anyone. Not again. And I don’t care if that makes me a quitter. Real people are not dependable. They have annoying habits, like smiling with crooked canines, wearing cool Tshirts, and contracting deadly diseases that take them away in the middle of the night. That last one is a real bitch.

  Max finally breaks the silence. “How’re you doing?”

  I shake my head, unable to piece together the answer. He sucks on his top lip, and my heart feels like it’s groaning in my chest. Finally he says, “You did a great job for a first kiss.”

  Instantly, my body is buzzing with frustration. “Oh my God,” I moan, hiding my face in my hands.

  “No,” Max says, swiveling to face me. “I didn’t mean—”

  “But you’re right.” I look up. “That was my first kiss, and I wasted it.” My voice is too loud, and I want it to quiet the hell down, but it keeps rising instead. “And I wasted it on him,” I flick my hand toward the stage. But Thomas has already left. Victor is standing center stage now, finishing setting up chairs at a long banquet table for tomorrow’s rehearsal.

  Max grins. “That would be a waste,” he says, looking down at Victor.

  Despite the ickiness inside me, I have to laugh. I lean back in my chair and grab a chunk of hair, tangling my finger until the tip feels numb. I glance at Max out of the corner of my eye and watch an internal conversation play across his facial expressions. He swivels our seats so we’re facing each other, our knees woven together.

  “That wasn’t a first kiss,” he says, “and I can prove it to you.”

  My fingers, even the numb one, are suddenly electric. “How?”

  “When you kissed him, did your heart race?”

  “It was racing before I kissed him, but mostly because Darby was looking kind of pissed and there were twenty sets of eyes watching me humiliate myself.”

  Max nods. “Okay, but when you kissed him, did your stomach feel swoopy? Were you consumed by it, by the kiss?”

  I shake my head. I didn’t do any of that. I thought of Max.

  “Then that wasn’t a real first kiss.”

  Max reaches out to unwind my finger from my hair and pushes the strand behind my ear. When he licks his lips, my skin erupts like a solar flare. I want to be the one licking those lips. A tremor slides down my spine.

  Our breathing is too fast. His eyes flick from my eyes to my lips and back again. We’re leaning toward each other, so close that I can see the light stubble across his jawline, even in the darkened booth. And I want to get closer, so much closer, but then the door to the booth flies open, flooding us with the light from the stairwell.

  “Dude. Ride. Home.”

  Max and I fly apart like we’ve been shocked with an electrical current.

  “Sorry,” Victor says, swearing softly under his breath, as he backs into the hall again. “Sorry, man. I’ll go hitchhike.” He closes the door, and we’re wrapped in darkness again.

  I blink, resetting my eyes. And although our lips never touched, my stomach is swoopy, and I feel absolutely consumed by the sudden distance between us.

  Max slumps over in his seat, his head in his hands, growling something about “Victor” and “murder” and “for the love of Pete,” which makes me chuckle in a hysterical holy-shit-did-I-almost-kiss-Max? kind of way.

  “Pete?” I ask, joking—trying to regain my balance around him.

  Max looks up from between his fingers. His eyes are dark, but a smile twinges around his mouth. I want to capture his mouth with mine, but now that the moment has passed, and adrenaline is rocketing through my veins, I realize that may not be the best idea. It may be the worst idea. It may be the idea that destroys me. I hop up and reach for the door.

  “Want me to go get Victor?”

  “No.” Max rubs his hands through his hair.

  “We can’t have him hitchhiking.” My hand rests on the door lever. “He’s liable to get kidnapped that way.”

  Max sighs, his fingers still scratching his head, buried in that inky black hair. “Becca, I—”

  “There’s nothing. It was nothing. Meet us outside, okay?” I open the door and back out of the booth. Max looks up at me, his dark eyes so full of everything I need— hope and want and life. His nod is microscopic, but I’ll take it. “Okay,” I say before I gallop down the stairs, running from the onslaught of emotions towering over me, ready to topple with the slightest touch.

  I should stay the hell away from Max because he makes my stomach feel swoopy. Swoopy stomachs are the kinds of stomachs that get annihilated when trouble comes. And trouble always comes.

  Scene Thirteen

  [The cafeteria]

  At lunch the next day, Victor and I debate the existence of love at first sight. Lately, lunch is filled with conversations sprung from Romeo and Juliet. Victor is surprisingly pro love at first sight. I say it takes more than three days to fall in love, which makes this play more farce than tragedy. Kelli chimes in on my side whenever I nudge her with my elbow, but she’s more involved in finishing chemistry homework before next period than anything else.

  Max is late—something about a meeting with Owens.

  “Cynics,” Victor cries, slapping his palm on the table with a laugh.

  I nudge Kell
i. “Two against one.”

  She looks up from her lab notes to reply, but the words get stuck in her mouth. She ends up spluttering and gulping like a carp in the shallows.

  Thomas Harrison is standing behind Victor, a wide smile dimpling his cheeks and crinkling his blue eyes.

  “Mind if I join you guys?”

  Victor whirls around in his seat. His whole face flushes for a second. He swallows with some difficulty before clearing his throat and growling, “Lost?” He hitches his thumb in the direction of the table at which Thomas usually sits—the table from which Darby is flinging invisible arrows at me. “This is the techie table. Drammies sit over there.”

  Victor turns back toward us, rolling his eyes, but his whole face looks like he’s broken out in hives.

  Thomas’s smile wavers. “But Becca’s not a techie.”

  It was a simple statement. Thomas couldn’t have known what he was saying. Not really. He couldn’t have known he was pointing out the one thing I’d been hoping no one would notice. I don’t fit, not really.

  All eyes are on me. I decide to join Kelli, gulping wordlessly instead of speaking.

  “Whatever,” Thomas says, his voice strung tight with frustration. “Becca, if you ever want to sit with your own kind, you know where to find me.” He turns quickly, his messenger bag swinging out and nicking Victor in the head.

  “Asshole,” Victor grumbles, fixing his hair where the bag grazed him. He stabs viciously at his mushy broccoli.

  “Why can’t Thomas sit here?”

  They look at me like I just suggested we run through the cafeteria naked.

  “He’s not that bad. Is he? Darby said he was nice.”

  “No, you’re right, he’s not that bad,” Kelli says quietly; she looks pointedly at Victor from behind her glasses.

  Victor tosses down his fork, which ends up not being very dramatic since it’s plastic and makes no noise when it hits the Styrofoam tray. “Yes, Becca. He’s that bad. They all are.”

  “Why? What’d he do to you? What’d any of them do?”

  “What’d he—?” Victor straightens to his full height in his seat. “They use us, Becca. They think they’re better than us. They think the entire success of the play is due to their stupid acting and completely disregard all the work we do behind the scenes. We make them into gods, Becca, and they shit on us.”

  “But you think you’re better than them, so how is that different?”

  “No,” Victor says, crossing his arms over his chest. “I know I’m better than them—smarter, more talented, harder working, and loyal.”

  Kelli snickers. “You sound like a Boy Scout.”

  Victor shoots her an evil look. “Look, Becca, you’re new to our club, so we’ve made concessions.” Kelli shakes her head, her mouth a stern line, but Victor continues. “Do us a favor and just follow the damn protocol. Drammies and techies do not mix.”

  “So why do you put up with me?”

  Victor shrugs.

  I’m not hungry. In fact, I’m regretting eating at all because it feels a little like my lunch is crawling up my throat. I stand, tossing my stuff in my bag, screaming obscenities in my head to keep myself from crying.

  “Becca,” Kelli says, putting her hand on my arm. “We are your friends. We all are. Victor just has this thing”—Victor slams his hand on the table and Kelli redirects—“Victor’s just in a bad mood. Isn’t that right?” She glares at Victor, but instead of looking at me, Victor stabs the piece of wilted broccoli that just slid off his plastic fork and studies it like it’s alive.

  I shake Kelli off. “Thanks, but I’m just…it’s nothing. I’ve got to go.” It’s worse than I feared. It’s pity. I’m their pro bono pity friend.

  Kelli kicks Victor under the table. Victor yelps and stands. “Becca, wait.”

  “No,” I shout. “And for your information, that is my table. I was happily sitting here—ALONE—before you came and sat with me.” My voice rises above the cafeteria din. I wave a choice finger in Victor’s direction, as I weave through the tables toward the door. When I pass Thomas, he reaches out and takes my wrist.

  “You okay?”

  “Fuck okay.” The ugly word ricochets around the cavernous cafeteria.

  Thomas lets go, like his fingers have been singed. Darby sits back like she’s watching her favorite show. Her expression is one part surprise and one part challenge. I can see a few teachers moving closer to the commotion I’m causing.

  I know I should quietly slink away. I should go hide in the library—hide in the pages of a book. But there’s something about the silent challenge in Darby’s face. Like this is a test.

  Walk away and disappear forever or stand up to be counted.

  I guess I figure, what the hell, because I let it all go, and turn to scream, “Fuck you, too, Victor, you mewling, priggish maw.” I cringe at the Shakespearean slant to my insult.

  There’s enormous pressure behind my eyes, and I just can’t cry here in front of all these strangers. I turn to flee, but Mr. Dupree, the school disciplinary officer, holds up his hands to halt my progress.

  “Let’s take a walk to my office, shall we?” He ushers me away from the crowd.

  When I glance back at the wake of my destruction, Kelli is gathering her things and muttering at Victor, who sits with his back to me, his head bent low over his stupid, soggy broccoli. Poor Thomas is looking completely bewildered. But Darby? I may have just won a few points with the Queen of Hearts.

  Scene Fourteen

  [The counselor’s office]

  Mr. Dupree’s office is decorated in shades of white. From the scuffed tile floor to the painted cinderblock walls to the shelves full of books, and I wonder at how many of those even have white covers. The nameplate on his desk is white with black letters—Mr. Bradley Dupree, Discipline Officer.

  For some reason, I keep picturing him as the Lone Ranger. I’m expecting him to stride back in here wearing white chaps, spurs a-jingle-jangling, and tip a gigantic cowboy hat at me before locking me in jail forever.

  The red hands of his clock tick around, counting out endless minutes since he dumped me in here to cool down, but he still doesn’t arrive. The whiteness of the room hurts my head. I close my eyes and lean forward, resting my forehead on the edge of his white desk.

  I should not have lost it like that. All those eyes on me. All the whispering and pointing. That was no stage performance. That was lunch. I’m supposed to blend in at lunch. I’m supposed to blend in wherever I go. How have I let myself get so sucked in to all of this? I rock my head from side to side, using the pressure of the hard, cool desk to massage my forehead.

  “Miss Hanson,” Mr. Dupree asks, pulling out his white desk chair, “are you okay?”

  I can’t even bear to look up at him.

  Okay?

  No. I’m not okay. I begin to cry. It’s been so long. I’m not sure I know how to make it stop.

  Mr. Dupree dumps a box of tissues in my lap and holds up a finger for me to wait here. He walks as quickly as he can, while still remaining impassively casual, out of his office. In other words, he’s just shy of breaking the school’s one-hundred-meter-dash record.

  Five tissues later, he returns, ushering into the room a small woman with a long wispy skirt and dozens of bracelets clicking together on her wrists. I recognize her from last year. It’s Dr. Wallace, the school counselor I’d promised my mother I’d go see. Looks like I can stop feeling crappy about breaking that promise.

  Dr. Wallace is a few inches shorter than me, but she manages to pull me to my feet. Slinging her arm around my shoulders, she walks me down the hall to her office, where she sits me on a slouchy couch covered with jewel-toned pillows.

  She murmurs shushing sounds as I shred tissue after tissue. There are only a few left in the box when I finally take a deep breath to staunch the flow of tears and snot and misery.

  I look around Dr. Wallace’s office. It’s like she’s trying to apologize for the sterile atm
osphere of her colleague’s room by cramming every color in the spectrum into her own space. Where Mr. Dupree’s desk was clean, straight lines, hers is thick, with rounded edges and bulging stacks of papers on top. The shelves are crammed not only with books, but also with odd trinkets, pieces of driftwood, a collection of old bottles, a basket with wooden spools of thread.

  Dr. Wallace is perched beside me on the couch, her head tilted as she studies me with dark, curious eyes. I’m reminded of a magpie, and for some reason, all the clutter relaxes me. Charlie’s room felt like this. At least, it did before he moved out.

  “I’m ready to listen whenever you feel ready to talk,” Dr. Wallace says, her voice deeper than I’d expected from such a petite person.

  I nod and wipe my eyes one more time. “I’m not sure what I’d talk about. I’m not sure exactly why I lost it.”

  Dr. Wallace pushes her bushy black curls behind her ear. “I remember you.”

  I sniffle.

  “We’ve never really met, but I know you. Charlotte spoke of you all the time.”

  At the sound of her name, another sob lodges in my throat, but I’m just too tired to let it out. I dig my fingernails into my palm, focusing on the pinpricks of pain I can create there.

  We sit in silence. Dr. Wallace’s keen eyes are scanning me, collecting and categorizing information. She notices me squeezing my fist. I stuff my hands between my knees.

  The silence swallows us. I begin to wonder why she’s not asking me about my explosion in the cafeteria. “Am I in trouble?”

  “No. Not trouble. Not this time.” Her hands flutter around the hem of her embroidered tunic. “Not as long as you to come see me next Friday. Same time. Same place. Just to check in.” She catches my eye to be sure I’ve heard her before continuing. “And it’d be wise to refrain from using such vulgar language in school.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She chuckles. “At the very least, don’t shout it.”

  My mouth twitches in a grin, and the sob gripping my throat lets go. At least I don’t have to tell Owens I can’t make it to practice for a week because of detention. I imagine how red the top of his bald head would be.