I can hear Max calling my name, and just as I pull myself up to the top of the dumpster, his face appears there. For a second we’re inches apart. His eyes are huge, his mouth open even wider. “Holy shit,” he swears, grabbing my shoulder and hauling me over the edge. Unfortunately, the monster on my back comes over with us.
“Hey,” shouts a man’s voice, and it’s accompanied by the low howl of a dog. “What’s going on over there?”
Max and I lie in a tangled pile on the ground by the dumpster. My hood has fallen up over my head, which is probably good, or the crazy animal would have its paws all tangled in my hair. “What is it, Max? Is it rabid?”
“Cat,” he says, ducking his head away as a white-footed paw strikes out at his face from over my shoulder. “Very pissed cat.”
“Get it off,” I scream.
The dog howls again, deep and raspy, and I can hear the chain of his leash clinking as he pulls to get away from his master.
“Heel, Harry,” the man calls, but he is no match for the huge dog, and it pulls away. The cat must see the dog coming, because it screams in my ear before using my head as a springboard and dashing away. As soon as it flees, I roll off Max, pulling him up with me, and we light out for the car. Darby’s already in the driver’s seat, and the engine roars to life as Max and I dive into the backseat together.
She pulls away from the curb like an Indy driver on the final turn.
“Did he see the car? Did he get the license?” Max asks, holding me close to his chest with his good arm.
“Naw,” says Victor. “Too busy chasing his dog.”
“Are you okay?” I ask, hoping our fall didn’t damage any of Max’s healing bruises.
“Fine,” he says and then swears under his breath. He loosens his grip on me so I can slide off his lap and into the middle space between Victor and him. The car is filled for a moment with four sets of lungs trying to remember how to breathe properly as the shock wears off.
“Crazy cat,” I huff.
A snicker whistles out of Darby’s nose.
I glare at her.
She glares back, hers a mockery of my own expression.
I giggle. “I was attacked by a cat.”
She giggles. “Yes. You were wearing an angry cat hat.”
My whole car is filled to overflowing with laughter. Perhaps Charlotte was right. Distraction feels good.
Scene Six
[The Actors’ Studio]
Kelli and Thomas are leading everyone else to The Actors’ Studio once they’ve gathered the rest of our supplies from the workshop at school. Miles and Greg were already here when we arrived. They said Kelli had sent them early to scout the place which, for the gregarious Greg, meant walking straight in and making friends with all the people staying late to finish painting sets. When we showed up, Miles directed us to a back door and knocked five times quickly.
“Finally,” Greg says, pushing open the door. “I thought you guys’d never sh—” He pauses and looks me over. “Becca, dear, what the hell is wrong with your hair?”
Darby starts giggling beside me, and I glare at her. “It’s a long story, how ’bout I tell you when we’re all done?”
Greg raises a brow at me, but helps me prop the door open anyway. The rest of the cast and crew arrives, and we all carry in armfuls of materials. Miles leads us to a door with a brass nameplate that reads:
Anthony W. Owens
Director
I open Owens’s office door and the techies and drammies flow into the office around me like floodwater from a damaged levy. There’s no other way to describe the focused frenzy with which they all work except as organized chaos.
Within minutes, Greg, Kelli, and three of Darby’s minions move Owens’s desk, chair, and the two wingback chairs out of the office, depositing them down the hall in a storage closet. Next, Marcus Zimmerman and a few techies bring in a four by six foot platform they’d hastily built back at the shop at school. Behind the installed stage, more people drape the walls of Owens’s office with yards of musty red velvet. A few of the curtains in the wings had recently been replaced, but the fabric had been saved for making sets and costumes. I help Darby hang a large canvas banner that reads, All hail the king. Bowel before him. It’s lit with a string of round lights like a marquee. The paint is still damp.
Finally, Victor and Thomas bring in the discarded toilet, setting it up on the platform. We plug in the lights and stand back to admire our handiwork—snapping off a few pictures for posterity, taking turns sitting on the throne and wearing a paper crown someone made back at school.
When Miles gives a warning whistle, we all take off running for the back door, scrambling into cars.
“I’d give anything to see Owens’s face tomorrow morning.” Darby yawns. She leans her head against the window in the back of my car and looks up at the stars flying by as we make our way back to school.
“Bet it’ll look like this,” Victor says, pulling his face into a wide-eyed gape.
Max chuckles. “My guess is more like this.” He presses his lips together, puffing out his cheeks, and draws his brow down in a scowl. “I swear he’ll have steam coming out of his ears.”
We all laugh, and then the car gets quiet, each of us imagining our own victory over Mr. Owens.
It’s late when we get back to school, and everyone is tired, but they are also content. More importantly, techies and drammies are no longer tripping over one another backstage, dropping cues, and snapping at each other like turtles in a fishbowl. We pull off the rest of our dress rehearsal with few problems, which may fly in the face of theater traditions, but that seems to be what we’re all about. We’re making our own history now.
Scene Seven
[The theater]
The theater is packed for opening night. Kelli prances backstage, her glossy curls whipping from side to side. “Guys, guys, guys,” she’s saying, her voice leaping in time with her feet. “I saw her. I saw the scout.”
Thomas grabs her elbow, steadying her beside him. “She came?”
“Miles seated her. Recognized her from that staff photo you guys showed us.”
It looks to me like Thomas is attempting to swallow an entire school bus. All around me, the words “she’s here” spread like a disease through the crowd backstage. Smiles evaporate into grimaces. Already filled with fidgety nerves, the wings shiver like a fever patient with chills.
“This is good news, right?” I ask.
Thomas finally swallows the last wheel on his bus and croaks a “yes,” but I can tell things are coming unglued, and we don’t have time to find all the pieces and put them back together before the curtain rises. I don’t care what Reid says about superglue. Sometimes it’s best to hold things together rather than let them fall apart.
“Max,” I hiss into my headset. “They’re losing it back here.”
“Owens normally gives a speech right about now that bores everyone enough to calm them.”
“So you want me to do some extemporaneous speaking? Have you met me?”
Max is silent.
“I’m getting Darby.”
Darby is sitting alone with earbuds in, listening to music. She’s leaning against the wall, hidden between a set piece and a bucket of swords. Her eyes are closed, her head lolling a bit to one side. She looks peaceful. Too bad.
I nudge her shoe with my foot. “Help.”
Her eyes open slowly, her head straightening. “What?”
“Everyone’s freaking out because the scout is here and Owens isn’t here to do the boring speech thing.”
A soft smile curls Darby’s lips. “She came.”
I nod and hold out a hand to help pull Darby off the floor. She reaches up, and I yank her to her feet. She threads her arm through mine, but I stop her before we join the others. “Hey, Darby?”
“Yes.”
“I just wanted to say thanks—for everything.”
“Don’t thank me yet.” There’s a saccharine-sweet glimmer
in her eye that makes my insides bunch up with a cramp of worry. We reach the milling group of energy, and Darby pushes us through to the center, calling out, “People, please, calm down.”
Around us everyone quiets and struggles to keep their nervous tics in check. Darby waits until she has everyone’s attention. She squeezes my arm, and I squeeze back.
“I just want to say,” Darby says, stalling to be sure everyone is listening. “Becca has something to say.”
At the sound of my name, my whole body goes rigid. All eyes swivel to me, including Darby’s traitorous ones. In my headset, I can even hear Max chuckling. He’s been listening in.
“Uh.” I dig my fingernails into the crook of Darby’s arm where my fingers are resting. She pats my hand before disentangling herself and stepping away into the ring of people around me. I’m suddenly center stage in their attentions. I have no idea what they want to hear. No idea what they need to hear.
“Well, I guess, I want to say…” I hate you, Darby Jones. Yes. That’s what I want to say.
But it wouldn’t be the truth because when I look at her, she’s watching me, not in the way she used to, like a predator waiting for me to screw up so she can pounce. She’s watching me, waiting to see if I’m up to the challenge. Waiting to see me.
“What I want to say is thank you. You’re all talented and tenacious and are seriously going to kick ass out there.”
I blink to clear my vision and catch sight of their faces—smiling, nodding, hopeful faces.
“The School of the Arts would be lucky to have any of you. So, as a friend of mine once said to me,” I pause and find Victor at the fringe of the crowd. “Let’s go break all the legs that ever were.”
There’s applause and laughter and suddenly hands and arms and faces crushing me from all sides in a beastly group hug.
Goodness, these theater folks sure are emotional.
Act Fifth
Scene One
[The theater]
We’ve made it to act five of opening night. Romeo and Paris are dead and all that’s left is for Juliet to kill herself. Then all the living characters will feel like crap and forgive one another, and those new relationships will help them carry the weight of all that shared grief.
Because that’s how it works for those of us left behind. We have to feel like shit for a long while, and then we have to move forward. And that doesn’t mean that we ever get over the loss. No, because Charlie is right. We don’t set down our grief and walk away from it. We carry it always, and thank goodness for that, because I’d hate to lose my Charlotte again.
From the stage, I hear Darby as Juliet. “I’ll be brief.” There are tears on my face as Darby jabs the prop dagger under her breastbone, saying, “O happy dagger! This is your home.”
I peek at the scout, sitting in the audience, and my heart feels like a balloon about to burst as she wipes her eyes with a wilted tissue. Darby’s done it. That scout is going to snatch her up as the brightest jewel in The School of the Arts crown. I just know it.
Seems like fate is trying to take away yet another friend, but this time at least I can visit, as long as my piece-of-shit car will make the hour-long drive to The School of the Arts.
Max’s hand, warm and steady, reaches out to cover mine in the darkness.
Poor Juliet. Tybalt was dead. Paris was dead. Romeo was dead. She was alone. But alone isn’t a permanent condition.
Alone doesn’t have to be forever.
Yes, Juliet. You should have stayed longer. Who knows what else you could have done and seen.
The lights on the stage go down as the curtain closes. When it opens for the curtain call, the house lights come up. They remain dim, but there’s enough light that I can make out faces in the crowd.
Everyone is here tonight. Charlie and his friends Greta and James are home for winter break and sitting together in the row behind Mom and Dad there in the center section. Mrs. Jonah is in the front row. Dr. Wallace is near the back. Even Darby’s three wriggling little siblings are sitting sandwiched between her mom and dad and big brother. They take up almost an entire row on the right side of the theater.
And everyone is clapping. The whole place is applauding, the sound like distant rolling thunder.
“We did it,” I whisper, standing to take in the whole view—the audience, the actors onstage, the techies coming out to take bows with them.
Max stands beside me. “Yes, we did.”
He’s looking at me. I can feel the weight and balance of his eyes on me. I feel like a boat finding its center after a storm. I step into his arms, my insides tingling when his eyes drop to my lips. I cup his face in my hand, running my thumb across the pink scars from his accident. His arms envelop me, the scent of cedar making me dizzy. And those lips, those beautiful lips—those are mine. All mine.
He lowers his head, our lips are inches, now centimeters, now only a whisper away from meeting, and then there’s nothing separating us.
I know this kiss will end. But that’s okay. Because if it never ended, I’d never have the pleasure of waiting for the next one. And the next one. And the next.
We’re pulled apart by catcalling and loud whistles.
Max’s eyes widen, holding mine in his gaze, before he turns us both to face the booth window. Everyone onstage and in the audience is clapping for us.
“Take a bow,” Max says, grinning in the wide way that shows off that beloved crooked canine.
Onstage, Darby has her fingers in her mouth, whistling loudly. Kelli, Greg, and Miles are off to the side, holding hands and laughing. I spot Charlie, clapping and shaking his head with a silly smile. I give him a quick wave before I bow.
“’Scuse me,” Victor says, barging into the booth and pushing us to the side. He flicks a lever up, and we can all suddenly hear Darby.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she says. She meets Kelli, who is holding a large bouquet of roses, at center stage. “We’d like to take a moment to thank a new friend to the drama club this year. Without her, this production of Romeo and Juliet wouldn’t have been nearly as special.”
Darby shields her eyes as she looks up at me. “Will the real Juliet please join me onstage?”
I shake my head. Nope. Not going to happen.
But Victor and Max are pushing me out of the booth. Just before he shuts the door in my face, Max gives me a quick kiss on the lips and a devilish grin.
I take a few deep breaths at the top of the steps, listening to the applause from the crowd. Slowly, careful not to trip and fall in front of everyone, I make my way down the aisle and up to the stage.
Kelli meets me at the edge and drags me the rest of the way to the center. Darby gives me the bouquet of flowers, the scent immediately intoxicating me, and whispers in my ear, “Would you like to say a few words?”
Would I? I’m suddenly transported back to the church with the too-still body of my best friend. I look out into the audience and immediately spot my brother, sitting too tall in his seat, waiting to finally hear what I have to say.
I do have something to say. Something important. I touch the petals of the roses in my arms, taking a deep breath.
I will say the things.
I am brave.
I am.
“Thank you, Charlotte.”
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Acknowledgments
This is it! This is my curtain call for Life after Juliet! It’s my chance to applaud all the beautiful people that helped bring this story to the stage.
Thank you, reader. Thank you for your time and for giving yourself up to possibility and story. I’ve loved hearing from readers and meeting you at bookish events over the past year. There have been many moments in the writing of this story, that a kind note or hug from a reader was exactly what I needed to keep going. Becca and the gang thank you for helping me
bring their story to light.
Thank you, Heather Howland, for planting the seed of this story in my heart. I hadn’t considered giving Charlie’s little sister a chance to grow until you asked, “What happens to Becca?” Knowing you, Heather, has changed my life.
Thanks to everyone at Entangled Publishing. You all deserve a standing ovation for helping to put this book together. Jenn Mishler, you have been a wonder to work with. Thank you for always making time for me, for your enthusiasm, and your earnest guidance through the revising process. Thank you Nancy Cantor for your keen eye. Liz Pelletier and Stacy Cantor Abrams, thanks for giving Becca a chance to share her story. Big hugs to the entire Entangled publicity team. You are all so talented, creative, and driven, and we authors are blessed to have you on our team.
To Jessica Sinsheimer, my lovely agent, thank you for all your tireless backstage work. It is incredibly empowering to know I have someone as smart, kind, and talented as you walking beside me on this writing journey. Continued thanks to everyone at Sarah Jane Freymann Literary Agency for your support.
Cheers to the YA Cannibals, my beloved writing group, who has been there for me during every stage of the writing process. You are more than a critique group. You are family.
For my friends, Charlie’s Angels, hugs, kisses, and coffee for all!
When it comes to thanking my family, I feel a bit like Becca. I’ve read hundreds of thousands of words in my lifetime, but I still can’t find the right ones to tell you all how much I love you. Thank you for always supporting me. Thank you for the pep talks and candy. Thanks for believing in me, even when I can’t find the will to believe in myself. You are the best family in all of ever.
I’d love to have my own high school drama family join me onstage for one last bow. Janice Schreiber, my drama mama, you taught us with heart, passion, and professionalism. You made the stage feel like home. Thank you.
Before the last curtain falls on this story, I have one thing more to say. Thank you, Em.
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