Star-Crossed

by Jo Cotterill

  It read: Bad luck, Anderson. If you’re anything like your old man you’d better watch your back. ’Cause I’ll be firing stuff at it.

  You didn’t recognize the handwriting, which made you scowl. Somebody knows me… you thought, as you stood up to look over the girls to the corner of the room. Sitting at the back was a blonde boy with bright blue eyes, and a sneer on his face.

  Anger swelled inside you. You sat back down and scribbled a new note to the boy in the corner on another bit of paper: I’m a lot like my dad, and he’s got great aim – so you’d better watch your face, ’cause it’s in MY firing line. You screwed up the note, but it didn’t seem heavy enough to travel across the length of the room. You looked to the front of the class, and your eyes landed on an object on the desk.

  A small plastic paperweight was on top of a bunch of papers in the centre of the desk. It was in the shape of a book that said “For the World’s Best English Teacher” on it. You reached over and picked it up. It was perfect. You wrapped the note around it and stood up. Chris looked at you, then said something to his circle of friends, who all looked at you and laughed. You curled your fingers around the paperweight and threw it with all your might at Chris. It hit him in the head, and he shouted out in pain and surprise. You gasped, shocked at yourself. His hands were up at his head, and when he brought them down you saw blood on his forehead. Then Mr Bowden walked in. All the class were staring at you, mouths open and silent. Mr Bowden looked first to you, then to the bleeding Chris, put two and two together and took you both to the Head Teacher’s office. You both spent the week in detention, and the whole of Year Seven talked about it for the next month. Ever since, everyone knew that Jen Anderson and Chris Banner were not to be mixed.

  Miss Phillips should have known.

  All that anger is still flowing strongly through your veins. You still hate Chris with all your might. And it doesn’t help that—

  Oh my God, there he freaking well is!

  While you were lost in thought, people have been gradually arriving, and now, who but Chris Banner should saunter into the room. Your pulse soars about twenty blood-pressure points. Looking like Action Man from his years of Army Cadet training, Chris sweeps the classroom with those penetrating blue eyes until they land on you. He arches an eyebrow and smiles cockily, turning to his mates and nodding in your direction. You’re leaving. You shove your folder into your bag and look up – straight into his scarily bright blue eyes. He stares straight back, the eyebrow still raised and his hands leaning on your table – on the strap of your bag.

  “Good morning, my Juliet…”

  His mocking voice makes your stomach knot with suppressed rage, but your face stays emotionless. You won’t let him know that you hate him with the fire of a thousand suns – although he already knows that, because he hates you just as much, too.

  You give him your best “Don’t-Even-Bother” look, but he just smirks even more. The two guys behind him laugh too. The rest of the class who have arrived are silent now, watching the two of you. They’re like a bunch of scavengers, just waiting for something juicy to go down so they can start spreading it around the year. You can sense it happening, but you maintain eye contact with Chris. You are trying to stay calm, but the audience is getting on your last nerve.

  “You OK, Jen?” The way he says your name makes you want to take his perfect face and tell him where to shove it. “’Cause you look kinda” – he leans in close, so that your faces are centimetres apart, and whispers – “irritated?”

  He must die… you think. He MUST die…

  You smile at him with as much sarcasm as you can muster, and let your voice ooze with fake concern, laced with loathing.

  “No, Christopher, there’s nothing wrong with me, but thanks for caring. Although you look a little red… Hey, what are you going to do for a face when that baboon wants its butt back?”

  The class sniggers. A flash of annoyance flickers across Chris’s face, but then the smarmy mask comes out again and he ignores the laughter from behind him.

  His eyes narrow as he speaks, sarcasm dripping off every word he says.

  “Witty, Anderson, very witty, but I know you’re really just a pussy cat … just like Daddy.”

  You flinch and make to swat him, but his reflexes, heightened by his military training, are quicker and so he catches your wrist and bends it back slightly. Pain shoots through your arm and you wrench your hand away, glaring at Chris. You grab your bag from under his hands, making him lose his balance and fall backwards on to the desk behind him. Pulling your bag over your shoulder, you give your enemy a look that could turn the Sahara desert into an ice-rink.

  “Touch me again, Banner, and you’ll have a black eye to deal with. Now your daddy wouldn’t want his precious son to have been hit by a girl, now, would he?” you hiss.

  Chris straightens himself up and stands in front of you. He opens his mouth to speak, just as your form tutor, Mr Bowden, walks into the room. Everybody looks round, giving you the chance to dodge Chris and practically sprint out of the room, skidding to a halt by Mr Bowden at the door. You smile the smile that you reserve for teachers only – like when you want to go somewhere or you’ve not done your coursework. He surveys you edgily.

  “Good morning, Jennifer. Are you—”

  “OK?” you butt in speedily. “Yeah, yeah, fine! But I gotta go, OK? But I’m here. Yep. OK? Good!”

  You say all of this very fast, and run out of the door and down the corridor towards the drama studio. You stop abruptly again at the notice board and scan it quickly, knowing that people will be out of their rooms in a second. You spot what you are looking for and fish out a blue biro from your bag.

  The paper pinned to the board reads:

  Cast List: Romeo and Juliet

  Romeo – Christopher Banner

  Juliet – Jen Anderson

  Nurse – Misha Reeves

  Mercutio – Reuben Lucan

  Tybalt – Danny Jupp

  It goes on listing the rest of the cast. You think back to the films that you have watched, and a particular title springs to mind. You scribble a message on to the notice and move off to art just as the bell rings.

  As you stride down the corridor, you pull out your phone and press speed-dial two. It starts to ring, but then clicks into the voicemail. Your face is determined as you leave your message.

  “Hey, Rubes, it’s me. I’m gonna do it. I’m gonna do the play. And you know what? I’m gonna make sure that I’m the best damn Juliet there ever was. See you later.”

  You click your phone shut and shove it into your bag with a smile on your face. He’s going to wish he’d never met me. . .

  The note you wrote next to Chris’s name shines slightly as it dries. You were seething with anger as you wrote it, so the handwriting is a little wobbly, but it doesn’t matter. It’ll still freak him out. You smile wickedly as you walk into your class, imagining the look on Chris’s face. I’ll show him “irritated”.

  The three blue words sink into the paper:

  Romeo Must Die…

  “Bang! Bang bang! Get down!”

  A small blonde boy sprints through the shady woods, darting between trees and jumping over rocks as fast as his legs can carry him. Ethan can’t be any more than eight, but he’s already tall and has an air about him that makes him seem older than he is. With his strength built up from training every day after school, combined with all the energy that young children have, his legs can run at top speed until dinner.

  Hurtling through the shade, he shouts out orders to the trees as he whips past, brandishing his weapon – a long, thick stick – to shoot at the enemy trees before him.

  “Reload your weapons! We need you in the front!”

  The path is blocked about fifteen metres ahead by a large fallen trunk, the biggest enemy of all. He picks up speed, legs and arms pumpin
g as he prepares to launch himself over the dead tree.

  “Soldiers out! Go! Go! G—”

  A figure suddenly darts out of the shadows on the left, straight into the sprinting boy. They smash into each other and collapse in a struggling heap on the earthy forest floor.

  “What? Argh, get off me! What were you doing? Ow!”

  The dark-haired boy untangles himself and moves to run off, but Ethan stops him.

  “Oi, who are you?”

  The new boy keeps glancing over his shoulder. He replies quickly, “Will Anderson. I-I didn’t mean to knock into you, I-I’m sorry, I’ve got to keep on running, I’ve got to get away, let me go!”

  “Why?” Ethan asks, cocking his head with curiosity and not releasing his grip. “Where are you going?”

  For the first time, he realizes that Will looks scared. Below his shorts his knees are scraped, not from the fall on the soil but possibly from a fall on tarmac, and his light T-shirt is ripped. His skinny, small frame is shaking slightly, and his elbow is bleeding.

  “Who are you running away from?”

  Will stops struggling, and looks at this stranger. His blonde hair is bright, even in the shade, and he has an ordinary face, which at the same time has something different about it, something that makes him seem older than he is.

  “Older boys…” he mutters. “They’ve been chasing me for ages…”

  The blonde boy nods. “Here,” he says, pointing to the fallen trunk. “Get inside.”

  Will hesitates for a second, but then a shout echoes through the forest. He runs around the side of the trunk and dodges into its hollow centre. A second later, four boys come thundering into the small clearing, shouting and jeering. They stop when they see the boy leaning nonchalantly on a nearby tree.

  They look about ten, all tall and much larger than Ethan or Will.

  The gang leader, a big ginger-haired loudmouth called Ted, steps forward. “You seen anuvva kid, short an’ skinny? Did ’e run frew ’ere?”

  The boy shrugs and doesn’t say a word. The group exchange looks, then all glare back at him. Ted speaks again.

  “Oi! You ’ear? Did you see this kid or not?”

  Again, the boy shakes his head solemnly and taps his right ear, then points to himself, shakes his index finger and points back at them. They look bewildered. Then he pulls himself away from the tree and opens his mouth.

  “I … defff…” He speaks in a voice that sounds like you’re hearing it through ear muffs.

  Realization dawns on the boys’ faces.

  “Oh, right, ’e’s deaf, innee?” says Ted, and the others nod. “Right,” he says. “’e can’t ’elp, ’e’s a retard. Less go back.”

  The boys turn and leave the clearing, and the blonde boy rolls his eyes. He goes over to the tree trunk and ducks his head inside. “You can come out now, they’ve gone.”

  Will crawls out of his hiding space and stares at the stranger.

  “Thank you,” he says, brushing the soil off his shirt. “What’s your name? And how did you do that?”

  “I’m Ethan. My cousin is deaf, and he speaks like that and everyone ignores him. I can understand him, but a lot of other boys can’t.”

  He pauses, as if he is judging Will for something. The next second his expression clears, and he’s made up his mind. “When I’m older,” he declares, “I’m going to be in the army.”

  “My father wants me to be in the army. He shouts at me and makes me do exercises to toughen me up but—”

  “But what?”

  Will looks at the ground. “I hate it.”

  “You want to stay with me. I’ll show you. My dad was in the army too. I want to be just like him. That’s what I’m doing – playing War. You want to play?” He pauses, eyeing Will’s elbow. “You’re injured.”

  Will looks at his elbow, and shrugs. “Just a scratch.” He takes a stick from the ground too and holds it like a rifle. He smiles. Ethan is the first boy who has spoken to him in a friendly way all summer. There’s no way he’s going to let a cut, no matter how bloody, get in the way of that.

  “Let’s play.”

  It’s the end of lunch on Thursday afternoon, and you are hurrying through the art department to get to your physics lesson.

  If I’m late again Westler is going to put me in detention for the rest of my life, you think as you dodge through the tables over to the far doors. You try to pass one table that has a pile of Year Eight work on it, but you brush too close and a pile of watercolours drifts to the floor. You sigh with frustration and bend down to pick them all up as fast as you can. You straighten up and dump the work back on to the table, pushing your hair behind your ears. Then you jump out of your skin.

  “Did I scare you?”

  You let go a long breath and put one hand on your heart. “What are you doing? You shouldn’t just sneak up on people like that, Steve, you’ll give someone a heart attack!”

  Steve Watts doesn’t look quite himself. He isn’t smiling like he usually would, so his face looks darker than usual.

  “Sorry, Jen, but I needed to see you alone. You never listen to me when there are other people about.”

  You’re already walking towards the doors, past Steve, talking as you walk. “Sorry, Steve, I’ve gotta go. I can’t be late for physics again. You know what Westler is like.”

  Steve sticks out his hand and takes your arm, stopping you from going any further. “No, wait. I have to talk to you about tomorrow. We need to make arrangements.”

  You yank your arm away from his grip. “I’m not going out with you, Steve! I’m leaving now.”

  You make a grab for the door handle, but Steve darts in front of you and leans against the door. “Listen to me, Jen. You just need to listen—”

  You step back. Something is wrong here, you can feel it. He is acting so weirdly, so un-Steve-like, that you are starting to feel scared. His eyes are a bit too wide, and he’s still not smiling. You look around the room, but there is no one else there. The two of you are quite alone.

  Steve steps forward so that he is only a couple of centimetres from your face. Now he’s smiling, but there’s nothing reassuring about his body language. You feel your heart rate increase with fright.

  “I’m listening,” you say, staring at the floor. “But do you think you could stand a little further away? ’Cause I’m … claustrophobic…”

  He carries on staring at you like he didn’t hear what you said. “I’ll meet you at the club tomorrow at nine … my shift finishes at eleven, so we can have some fun then…”

  He leans in closer to you. You shrink back against the wall and turn your face away, starting to panic.

  “Can you stop now, Steve? Just back off. I said stop—”

  “Hey, wassup, Watts?” As you hear a voice from across the room, you realize that you are shaking, and you can’t move. Steve pulls away and his charming smile is back on. Your breath is catching in your throat, shallow and quick. The panic inside you is rising. I need to calm down … calm down…

  The voice carries on speaking. You look up and see that it’s Chris. You shut your eyes and try to slow down your breathing. Breathe in … breathe out … breathe in … breathe out…

  “I thought I heard your voice,” he’s saying. “Do you reckon you could sort me out for the club for tomorrow night?”

  Steve nods and makes for the door. “Yeah. Meet me outside, no worries.” He turns to you. “See you tomorrow…” He walks out of the door.

  It’s just you and Chris now. You are willing yourself to be calm, but it’s not working. You can feel your breath quickening. You squeeze your eyes tight and ball your fists. A memory of the last time you had an asthma attack like this flashes in your head. You had been playing with the neighbour’s dog, when it jumped on you and knocked you over. You couldn’t breathe. You thought you were go
ing to die. The same thing is happening now.

  “Watts doesn’t know what he’s getting himself into. You’re more trouble than you’re worth.”

  You shake your head.

  The last thing I need is you having a go at me when I’m like this, you think. Just go. Go. For God’s sake, just go…

  Chris remains where he is, oblivious to your mental messages. Just go … go…

  “Yes, you are, Anderson. Hell, I’m wasting my time even…”

  You stop hearing what Chris is saying and collapse to the floor. Your lungs have closed up now and there is nothing you can do to stop it. Why don’t I have my inhaler? Why?!

  “JEN!” you hear someone say. The person seems very far away; their voice is echoing in your head, playing very slowly. You open an eye and see someone vaulting tables, then they fall to your side.

  “Jen?” the voice says again. “Jen? Can you hear me?”

  The voice is reaching you slowly, bit by bit. Hear him? Yes. What does he want? You nod your head slightly. Chris pulls you up so you are sitting.

  “Where’s your inhaler? Jen? Where’s your inhaler?”

  Inhaler? Don’t know. Have no … no… You shake your head. No, no inhaler, you think. I forgot it … I forgot it … help me, please…

  Chris groans in frustration and hauls you on to his lap. Delicately, he puts one hand on your stomach, and one below your throat, pulling you towards him. You can feel his ribcage expand and relax, feel his steady breathing and his warm embrace.

  “Breathe with me, OK?” he whispers gently into your ear. “Feel my ribcage and relax into me. Breathe in … breathe out…”

  Your arms are pinned to your sides by Chris’s arms, so there is nothing you can do apart from try to follow his breathing. You lean back into him and let his strength calm you down. Slowly, your breathing starts to deepen, and your head stops spinning. Your lungs are opening back up and you can breathe again. Your chest rises and falls in time to Chris’s, and you relax.