Romeo & What's Her Name

by Shani Petroff

  “She speaks: O, speak again, bright angel! for thou art as glorious to this night, being o’er my head as is a winged messenger of heaven unto the white-upturned wondr’ing eyes of mortals that fall back to gaze on him when he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds, and sails upon the bosom of the air.”

  Ninety percent of that made no sense to me, but I did manage to catch that he called me, or rather Juliet, an angel and glorious, and the rest didn’t matter. That was all I needed.

  “It’s your line,” he said.

  Right. Focus, Emily. You’re supposed to be rehearsing, not staring longingly into Wes’s eyes. But they were such nice eyes. So dark and intense. It was hard to focus. “Sorry,” I said.

  “Don’t be,” he said. “This stuff is hard. I’m kinda wondering what I got myself into.”

  “I don’t even know what most of these lines mean,” I confessed.

  “That’s okay. I didn’t, either. I spent three hours online last night trying to translate them into something I could make sense of. Like, did you know wherefore means ‘why,’ not ‘where’?”

  “Really? Why—or I guess, wherefore—couldn’t Shakespeare just write why? It would be so much easier.”

  “Seriously. But you’ll get it.” He put his hand on my shoulder. And I was pretty sure I was about to melt into a puddle on the ground. “Want to keep going?”

  I nodded.

  Only, someone else had another idea. “Wes,” Amanda said, marching over to us, “I’m having a little bit of a hard time with my monologue. I think it would help if you were up there with me, and I could direct it to you. Would that be okay?”

  He hesitated before standing up. “Yeah, sure.”

  It might have just been my imagination, but it kind of seemed as if he didn’t want to go up there.

  “And, Emily,” Amanda said, “be a doll and give me a hand. I need to make about a dozen signs for the dance. If you can go to the art room for me and bang that out, I’d appreciate it. And make them nice. We want people to actually come to the event.”

  “I’m your understudy, not your gopher,” I told her.

  “Wellllll,” she said, “when I spoke to Jill last night, she did say the reason for the understudy was because the Juliet part was so demanding. I thought that meant you’d help lighten my workload. I wouldn’t want to miss rehearsals to get it all done. Then Jill may not get the winning scene she was hoping for.”

  Amanda was evil. I wanted to call her bluff. There was no way Miss Theater-Is-My-Life would risk not giving a perfect performance. But she could make things extrahard for Jill during rehearsals, and I didn’t want to be the reason for that. I looked over at my best friend, who was biting two nails at once. I had to fix this before she gnawed them all off. “Fine, whatever.”

  “Thank you,” Jill mouthed, and I nodded.

  “Great,” Amanda said. “There’s already one sign made. Just make the others like it. And when you’re done, if you wouldn’t mind hanging them up. Oh, and make a flyer, too, while you’re at it.”

  “Okay.” Jill walked over to us. “Let’s get moving. Another director takes over the room in an hour and a half, and we have a lot to do.”

  “I’ll see you later, Em,” Wes said. “Need a ride home?”

  What?!! Was he really asking me? I was almost too stunned to answer. “I … I … thought you couldn’t…”

  “Yes,” Jill interrupted my stuttering, “she would love one. She’ll meet you outside after rehearsal. Now let’s get going.” She put one hand on Amanda’s back and the other on Wes’s and guided them back to the stage.

  Jill was actually touching Wes Rosenthal. I wondered what his back felt like. A wall, maybe a little softer than that, but still totally toned. She would have to give me a detailed report later. And I was going to have stories of my own! Thanks to Jill, I had accepted a ride home with Romeo.

  7

  Wes was leaning against his car when I went outside. He looked like a hot model in a car advertisement.

  “Sorry I’m late,” I said, trying not to sound too out of breath. I had raced around the school to hang up the posters as fast as I could so I could meet Wes on time. But Amanda’s arts-and-crafts project had taken a lot longer than I’d anticipated.

  “You’re fine,” he said. “How was poster duty?” He hadn’t moved to get into the car, so I wasn’t sure if I should just get into the passenger side or stand in front of him and talk a bit.

  “Not too bad,” I said, staying put. I figured the longer we were outside, the longer I got to spend with him. “A little more glitter than I imagined.”

  “I can see that.” Then he reached toward my face. “Close your eyes.”

  Oh. My. God. What was happening?! Was he going to kiss me?! I did as instructed, and then I felt his hand lightly dust my cheek. There was a good chance I was going to spontaneously combust. But if I had to go, this was definitely the way to do it.

  “Got it,” he said, and I opened my eyes to look. On his finger were a few pieces of glitter. “They were right near your eye.”

  “Thanks,” I said. I wasn’t sure how I was still able to talk. It might not have been a kiss, but it was still Wes touching me. On purpose. My heart was beating faster than one of those crazy tech songs they always played on Friday nights at The Heights—the really cheesy, but still sort of fun, entertainment/student center. I hoped he couldn’t hear it. “If you’re afraid about me getting glitter in your car, it’s okay, I mean, I’d get it, I wouldn’t want that all over my car.” Oh no. The babbling was starting. Calm down, Emily, I instructed myself, but it wasn’t working. “I can have my mom come get me, or my dad, depending on who’s home. Or there’s a good chance Jill’s probably still here going over notes and things. She’s very good with details. I can go look. Maybe I should.”

  “It’s not a problem. Honest.” He walked over to the passenger side of the car and opened the door. “Please,” he said, and gestured inside. “You’re my first nonfamily passenger.”

  I got in, and he shut the door. I really wasn’t kidding about the combusting. I just hoped it wouldn’t be too hard for him to clean up afterward. I wouldn’t want to ruin his new car. “Are you sure it’s okay?” I asked once he was in the driver’s seat. “I thought your parents didn’t want you to drive anyone.”

  “We’re reaching an agreement,” he said. “They’re going to try to back off unless I give them a reason not to. They still don’t want me to become the Shaker Heights chauffeur or anything, but a ride home for a friend is fine.” I’d rather he had used the term love interest, or gorgeous understudy, or future girlfriend, than just friend, but I’d take it. “Besides,” he said, “you live down the street from me. It doesn’t make sense to make your parents come all the way down here when I pass your house anyway.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Any time,” he answered. And he could be sure I planned to take advantage of that offer.

  My nerves were slowly subsiding. He seemed so relaxed and at ease, it was almost calming. “I’m very jealous you have your own car,” I said. My family had only one since my dad primarily worked from home, and my parents didn’t think a second vehicle was necessary. “I’m trying to save up enough to get one, too.”

  “I was kind of surprised my parents let me have it,” Wes said. “But with Neal’s crazy schedule, it helps them not to have to worry about picking me up and dropping me off places.” Neal was Wes’s brother. I didn’t know him very well, but Wes talked about him a lot, and I’d seen a ton of pictures on GroupIt and things. Neal was two years below us in school, but he was younger than most freshmen. He was some sort of math genius and skipped two grades. He even took a college engineering course in the morning, before he headed to Shaker Heights High. He was that crazy smart, and Wes was superprotective of him.

  “Is he doing any better?”

  Wes shrugged. “He says he’s fine, but I don’t know. He never hangs out with anyone. It’s either school, homework, lectures at th
e college, or hanging out with the family. He doesn’t seem to have any friends. I’m worried he’s not fitting in.”

  The concern was warranted. It must have been hard for Neal. Most of the high schoolers had to see him as a lot younger. He had a baby face and was really short. But then again, that was also Wes when he was thirteen. “It’s a hard age, regardless. Must be extrahard for him. I wouldn’t go back.”

  A huge smile spread over his face again. “What would you know about going through a hard age?” Wes said. “You skipped right over the awkward stage.”

  “Did not, and look who’s talking.”

  “Me?!” he asked. “Do you not remember the gargantuan teeth and forehead that were way too big for my face? I was also the smallest kid in class, and people thought I was lying about my age I looked so young.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh. All of that was definitely true, but despite it all—or maybe because of it—I still thought he was the best-looking guy in school, even then. Sure, now he was more than a foot taller, his features perfectly fit his face, his teeth looked human-size, and everyone could pretty much universally agree that he was handsome, but my crush on Wes went back as far as I could remember.

  “See,” he said, laughing with me. “It was bad.”

  “No, it wasn’t. It was cute.”

  “You were the lucky one. I don’t even think you ever got a zit,” he said.

  “That’s not true,” I objected. And then I realized something—this conversation meant Wes thought about me over the years—and thought I looked good. Clearly, he wasn’t superobservant, since I had more than my fair share of pimples and random awkwardness, but he didn’t see any of that. “There was a giant one on my forehead that caused me to get those monster bangs. They were uncontrollable. They wouldn’t lay flat; they wouldn’t curl away. They shot out in multidirections. It took me, like, a can of hairspray a day to get them to do what I wanted, and even then a cowlick would pop up.”

  “That’s nothing,” he argued. “Adorable even. You had it easy.”

  “Okay, now I know you’re just saying that to try to prove your point. Those bangs still give me nightmares. But you don’t think that was bad? How about this? One of my boobs grew faster than the other, and I had to shove tissues into one side of my bra. And they’d sometimes fall out in gym class.” No, no, no, no. Did I just say that to Wes? Was I really talking about my boobs? And stuffing bras? I so needed a chaperone at all times to save me from myself. “They’re even now,” I added, so there wasn’t any confusion. “My boobs, I mean. No more tissues.” I really needed to stop talking.

  But then he just laughed, and it all seemed okay. “You win,” he said, “maybe you didn’t have it all easy. The gym class must have been kind of horrifying for you.”

  It had been. Fortunately, it was all girls, but that didn’t mean they let it go. Amanda was the first to seize on my embarrassment, and for about a year instead of Emily Stein, she called me Emily Stuffs-My-Bra. I was surprised Wes hadn’t heard about it—or more likely he had and was just being polite. “But I survived it. I’m okay, and I know your brother will be, too. I had Kayla and Jill, but Neal has you. He’s lucky.”

  “Thanks,” he said right as we pulled up to my house. “Here we are.”

  “I appreciate the ride.”

  Wes tipped his head in my direction. “See you tomorrow, Juliet.”

  “I’m just an imposter,” I reminded him.

  “Well, then good night whatever your name is.”

  I smiled at him as I got out of the car. “Good night, Romeo.”

  Maybe Shakespeare wasn’t so bad after all.

  8

  “I cannot believe you accepted an early morning shift,” my friend and Northside Grocery partner-in-crime Dhonielle Jackson said as we stacked cans of peas and corn niblets.

  “You and me both.” I had been working at the store for about a year now, primarily weekends, vacations, and an occasional shift during the week, but I always went for the late-afternoon or evening hours. Mornings are not my thing. At all. “I didn’t have a choice if I wanted to work this weekend. Amanda insisted we rehearse yesterday and today because she wanted to have dance committee meetings on Thursday and Friday. So to do everything, I had to come in now.”

  “That’s rough.”

  “Tell me about it,” I said, trying to suppress a yawn.

  Dhonielle slid over another box filled with canned goods, and we both started unpacking. “You could have gotten out of work.”

  “Yeah, but that wouldn’t put me any closer to a car. You know the only way my parents will even think of letting me get one is if I come up with the money on my own and ‘show how responsible I am,’” I said, putting on my best Dad voice.

  “Couldn’t you skip rehearsal? You could survive a couple of days without Wes,” she teased.

  I swatted her arm. “It’s not only about Wes. I couldn’t do that to Jill. I need to be there. I’m struggling to learn these lines. I don’t know how you do it.”

  Dhonielle was in the A Midsummer Night’s Dream scene and loved to perform. Especially comedy. She had even formed an improv troupe at our school. “You’re just overthinking it,” she said. “If you can ace chemistry and geometry the way you do, you should be able to handle Shakespeare.”

  “They are totally different,” I argued. “Math and science have rules and formulas. They are things I will actually use. I am never going to need Shakespeare. I want to do engineering, coding, things like that. I can’t imagine the requirements will include my knowing some ridiculous sonnet. Shakespeare makes up his own words. What is that?” I pulled the script from my pocket. I had been carrying it with me everywhere, trying to study whenever I got a free moment. “Listen to this stuff, ‘Fain would I dwell on form, fain, fain deny.’ I mean, come on.”

  “You know those are real words, right?”

  “Yes, I know they are words. But no sane person would ever put them together. It would be like my saying, “‘Sorry, Dhonielle, you have to stack-eth the rest-eth of these cans, because I fain, fain deny.’ That’s just dumb.”

  “Well, you are using the words totally out of context.”

  I threw my script at her. “You know what I mean.”

  “Do you want help with it? I can run lines with you.”

  “Really?”

  She nodded.

  “Yes!” I said, and pulled her into a hug. Maybe this day at work wouldn’t be so bad after all. “I so need your help. You know Amanda keeps giving me all those stupid things to do so I can’t practice during rehearsals. I seriously think she may be part evil.”

  “You have to do your Amanda impression again,” she pleaded. Dhonielle was also in the I-hate-Amanda camp. The two were friends when we were younger, but then Dhonielle got the lead in the school musical, and Amanda got annoyed and turned their whole group against her.

  “No, I can’t. People are starting to show up to grocery shop.”

  “Then do it quickly. Come on,” she begged. “It’s hysterical.”

  “It’s a little mean,” I objected.

  “No, what she does to you and Jill is mean. This is satire. It’s totally acceptable.”

  I did need to blow off some Amanda steam. After more than a month of Little Miss Shakespeare’s divalike behavior, I was truly ready to scream. Not only was I stuck waking up at an unearthly hour because of her, but she was constantly insulting me at rehearsals. A little satire seemed warranted. “Fine, last time,” I relented, and started pumping my fists and stamping my feet on the ground. “I want to do it my way. Jiilllllllllllll, you need to get Emily out of here. I can’t concentrate when she’s watching me. She has crazy eyes. And she breathes soooo loud.” I did my best Darth Vader impression. “How can anyone think when she’s near them? She really should come with a warning sign. And I don’t like the way Wes talks to her. He should only pay attention to meeee!” Then I got down on the ground and started kicking my feet like a two-year-old having a tantr
um. I will admit, that last part was an embellishment, but Amanda really did say that stuff about my eyes and breathing. Yes, even the Darth Vader part. Which is totally not true, FYI.

  “Emily, are you okay?”

  I looked up. Mr. Martinez was looking down at me. He was one of our regulars, a supernice man in his seventies. I jumped up and saw Dhonielle trying to contain her laughter. I was totally going to kill her. “Yes, I’m fine.” I wondered if my face was bright red. “I was just, ummm, showing Dhonielle, uhhh, something…”

  “Yeah,” Dhonielle piped in. “Something she’s working on for school. She wants my improv group to expand to sketch comedy. She wrote that last bit herself.”

  “Oh,” Mr. Martinez said, “it was very convincing. Keep up the good work.”

  I felt so stupid. “Thanks,” I said as he walked away. That’s what I get for making fun of Amanda. Karma kicking my butt.

  I turned to Dhonielle. “If you get me fired, you are so buying me a car.”

  She waved her hand. “No problem, just as long as you drive me to auditions. Now let’s look at these lines.” She picked up my script off the ground. “Although I don’t know why you are so worried. From what I just saw, you’re not such a bad actress.”

  Sure, maybe at pretending to be Amanda, but Juliet was a whole other matter. At least no one would ever have to see me perform either one in front of an audience ever again.

  9

  “Why are we stopping noooow?” Amanda asked, stretching the last word into a Guinness World Records–holding whine.

  “Lighting needs to mark its cues,” Jill answered. Her voice sounded remarkably calm for someone in the middle of a way-too-long tech/dress rehearsal. I guess, as a director, she needed to act that way, especially with someone like Amanda, who thought she was destined to be America’s next big star and should be treated as such. But I was so over it.