Star-Crossed

by Jo Cotterill

  You are walking over to the last stack of chairs, when the heavy door at the end of the hall gives a loud creak. It’s bound to be a member of the cast coming for the rehearsal… You stop dead in mid-step. But wait, nobody should be out of lessons yet.

  Well, you are… you think. The door is semi-open, but no one comes through.

  “Hello?” Your voice echoes around the hall and into the eerie silence. You try again.

  “Hi… Anyone there?”

  Again, you are met with silence. You scowl.

  “Damn wind…”

  You start to walk back towards the chairs when the door groans again. That wasn’t the wind. You stride to the edge of the stage; hands on hips.

  “Yo! You! Behind the door? Get the hell lost, OK? Cast of Romeo and Juliet only.”

  You wait for an answer, but you are only met by another squeak from the old door. You sigh and get down from the stage to stop the damn creaking before it drives you insane.

  “Look,” you say as you get nearer to the door. “I said—”

  You yank the door fully open and glare at Chris’s grinning face behind it.

  “I know what you said, Anderson, but I thought that I would continue to piss you off to see if liddle-widdle Jenny would have another asthma attack.”

  His stupid blue eyes are sparkling at you, but your own green ones are flashing with annoyance.

  “I’m not gonna hurt you, Chris, or threaten your pathetic little life again. I would slap you senseless but unfortunately I can’t spare three seconds.”

  Chris follows you into the hall and laughs hollowly, leaning against the stage. “And I suppose that’s due to your blistering social schedule of doing the play? And, erm…” He frowns, and taps his head as if he’s thinking, then snaps his fingers. “Oh, yeah, that’s right, you have no life! Maybe you should hit the town and learn how we party-people actually have fun.”

  You go back to the chairs, and try to tune out Chris’s self-centred ranting.

  “But just so you know, I wouldn’t party with you even if it was the only way to save the whole of England from a deadly plague of scorpions that will kill everyone in sight. Including me.”

  You look at his cocky stance, leaning on the stage with a huge smirk on his face, and take a deep breath.

  “Oh, no!” you sigh, pressing the back of your hand against your forehead in a dramatic gesture. “What will I do? You know I can’t live without you! I can’t believe I’m that transparent…” You roll your eyes and turn away.

  “Don’t worry, Anderson, it’s not your fault. Anyone else with the IQ of a fence post wouldn’t have realized it either.”

  You turn back and glare at him. “How would you like to lose a limb?”

  “That’s not good anger management, Jen. Aren’t you supposed to be toning down the violence? Your dad will be disappointed.”

  Anger boils in your stomach and you feel like throwing a chair at him, but make do with a sharp insult of your own.

  “So will your dear old dad when he finds out that his military baboon son was beaten by a girl – and a cowardly Anderson girl at that. So you know what? Just save him the disappointment – go shave your head, put on your shiny uniform and scream ‘Yes, SIR!’ at some other baboon at a military school far, far away!”

  Mrs Walker strides through the door and sees you both with murder in your eyes. She sighs as she puts her things down on the stage.

  “Can’t you two get along for just one minute?”

  You and Chris start to speak at the same time, but Walker holds up her hand for silence.

  “Even enemies can show a bit of respect.” She looks at Chris. “Remember what I said at the beginning. No disruption.” You start to smile, but then Walker turns to you. “From either of you.”

  You glare at the floor. She knows what the deal is with Chris. She knows about your families hating each other, and she knows that you think that Chris is an arrogant git and Chris thinks that you’re the biggest bitch in the world. So why is she making you do something impossible?

  “Can you do that, Jen?”

  You nod reluctantly.

  “Good.” She smiles. “Maybe the two of you could use your fiery relationship to liven up the stage, spice the play up a bit…”

  You laugh out loud, then suddenly realize that she is serious, and stop. Walker looks at you with a strange expression on her face, then claps her hands.

  “All right! Let’s go over what we’re going to do today…”

  Ten minutes later, the entire cast is in the hall, either in small groups on the floor or practising their individual parts. You and Chris have just been told by Walker and Phillips (she arrives late for every rehearsal) to get up on the stage to go over the ball scene.

  “OK!” Walker rubs her hand together. “I want Romeo to go from ‘If I profane with my unworthiest hand,’ and I want to feel the chemistry – so don’t skip out the kiss.”

  Chris nods unwillingly and moves towards you. You are silently sending hate vibes over in Walker’s direction. This is the scene where Romeo and Juliet first meet – and have their first kiss. And you have to kiss him. Chris. You shiver, but tune into Juliet as Chris starts to speak.

  “If I profane with my unworthiest hand

  This holy shrine, the gentle fine is this:

  My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand

  To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.”

  It’s your line.

  “Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,

  Which mannerly devotion shows in this;

  For saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch,

  And palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss.”

  He brings up his hand, and you do the same, so that your palms connect. The sensation of his skin on yours tingles. This feeling is different. Your breath shallows as you come closer together, looking deep into each other’s eyes. Chris speaks again.

  “Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?”

  Then you:

  “Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer.”

  You are getting close enough now that you can smell Chris’s faint smell – slightly like Hugo Boss, but slightly like fresh coffee. The words start to flow through you. You feel excited – the electricity of meeting someone new. The boy in front of you isn’t Chris Banner, Git and Bastard extraordinaire; he’s a handsome stranger that you are meeting for the first time at a party. You get closer still, unaware that you are still talking.

  “Saints do not move, though grant for prayers’ sake.”

  Then Chris speaks, so gently, and looks so deep into your eyes that you forget to breathe.

  “Then move not, while my prayer’s effect I take.”

  You move nearer; so near that you can feel his warmth and almost hear his racing heartbeat. You look up and he takes your cheek in his hand, bringing it closer to his face. You shut your eyes, waiting for contact with his smooth, perfect lips—

  What the hell am I doing!?

  You and Chris pull away simultaneously before your lips meet, jerking backwards and getting as far away from each other as possible.

  “What was that?” Walker asks incredulously. “If you two can’t do as I ask then I will have to cast another pair as your parts. Don’t waste my time.”

  You shift your weight and rub the back of your neck agitatedly.

  “Sorry, Miss, I just got … er … nervous, ’cause everyone was watching … and, er…” You trail off helplessly, but Chris backs you up for the first time, well, ever.

  “Yeah, Miss, you know, maybe we should practise somewhere else?”

  Walker looks at both of you and shakes her head in despair.

  “OK,” she says, and points to the left. “Through there is an empty classroom. Go and practise these scenes u
ntil I send someone to come and get you. And you’d better not fight,” she adds quickly.

  You both nod, climb off the stage and slope into the classroom. Chris comes in after you and shuts the door. You sit at different ends of the room, awkwardly. So many confused thoughts are rushing through your head.

  What just happened? Do I like him? I can’t like him – it’s Chris. I hate Chris. I hate him. Hate him. Walker’s voice echoes through your head. “What is that fine line between love and hate?” You groan and clutch your head. This can’t be happening. Can’t. Falling for my enemy? Why is this happening?

  As you think, you don’t see Chris walk over to you. He sits by you quietly and takes your hands away from your face. You look into his eyes for the second time, but this time you don’t look into them as if you are Juliet and he is Romeo. You look at Chris like he is Chris, and you are Jen. But instead of seeing the ugliness that your hate was always forcing you to see, you see the beauty of his face, all the delicate shades of blue in his eyes, the way that his forehead crinkles slightly as he looks at you. He draws a breath and whispers something.

  “While my prayer’s effect I take…”

  You lean forward and kiss him deeply. He kisses you back gently, touching your face and pulling you close into him. You have never felt anything like this before. It’s the most magical emotion that you have ever had. Shivers run up and down your spine, as you get lost in his kiss.

  But the door opens.

  “Hey, you guys.” Misha strides in. “Miss told me to come and see that you weren’t—”

  She sees the two of you, together, locked in a tight embrace that’s joined at the lips. She stops dead and you spring apart. Misha stands there, totally confused.

  “We were, um, rehearsing…” you trail off, convincing no one.

  “You?” She points at you. “And … and you?” She stares at Chris. “Together?”

  She knows she’s on to something, and her face lights up with that Cheshire Cat smile that can only lead to trouble.

  You turn numbly to Chris. His face reads the same confusion, shock and embarrassment that you are starting to feel.

  What have I done?

  Misha spins around and dashes out of the room. Panic, frustration, anger, hate, passion – they wash over you like a tsunami, soaking you to the bone.

  This is too much…

  You grab your bag from the table and run for the door, but Chris reaches out for you.

  “Jen, wait—”

  But you pull free and sprint out of the school as fast as you can, not stopping until you are in the park far from your school. You slump on to a bench and cry your heart out. You’re having feelings for your worst enemy.

  Why is life so damn complicated?

  “Do we seriously have to?” Will whispers.

  It is five years to the day since they first met, and Ethan is staying round at Will’s house. Over the years, Ethan’s military dedication has impressed Will’s father as a good influence for his son – but they’d still be dead if they got caught out of their beds in the middle of the night.

  Will strikes a match, watches it glow brightly for a second, then lights the candle in the middle of the table.

  “This was your idea in the first place,” Ethan says, sitting opposite Will, and holding the needle over the flame to let it sterilize. “But if you’re too chicken…”

  “Shut up. Let’s just get this over with.” Will grins.

  They both watch the flame dance around the needle for a second, then Ethan pushes the candle gently away. He looks across at his best friend, asking a silent question.

  Will, though rather pale, gives his right hand to Ethan and nods.

  “Do it.”

  Ethan holds Will’s right hand in his left. He pushes the needle into the skin of Will’s thumb.

  “Ah!” he cries out. Ethan looks at the door and raises his eyebrows in alarm, at which Will covers his mouth and bites his lip. “Ow…” he whispers more quietly, watching the blood ooze slowly out of the pinprick.

  “Now you do mine,” murmurs Ethan, handing his friend the needle and extending his right hand and thumb.

  Will takes the needle in his left hand and repeats the process on Ethan’s thumb. He doesn’t even flinch.

  “Now,” Ethan says, rolling up his sleeve. “Clasp my hand.”

  Will reaches across and grasps his friend’s palm, and the boys place their thumbs together so that the blood mixes.

  Will looks up, and Ethan is smiling. He smiles back.

  “Brothers,” Ethan states, still gripping Will’s hand in a tight lock.

  “Brothers,” Will echoes, feeling happier than he has ever been in his whole life. With a friend like Ethan, no one can touch him.

  Your face is nearing Chris’s. You smile at the thought of his lips meeting yours for the first time, exploring the sensations that the new touch will bring. You shiver with excitement. His hands are stroking your face. Your heart is beating so fast you think it might get exhausted and quit beating, but it doesn’t, and you suddenly push your lips against Chris’s and close your eyes, drinking in his luxurious kiss. You’re in bliss…

  You shoot up in your bed with a jolt, covered in a cold sweat and feeling slightly sick. You run your hands through your sleep-crumpled hair, and lie back down slowly.

  You groan.

  Your head is filled with endless thoughts and emotions, and you feel too dizzy and sick to deal with them now. Do I like him? I did in that dream. I liked him a lot. But I hate him! How can I kiss him one moment, but hope he gets run over by a bus the next? You sigh. Things are too complicated right now. And you are not in the mood for facing a day at school. Or rehearsal. With Chris. But at the thought of Chris’s name you feel the power of that kiss and your self-loathing and guilt double in the space of a split second.

  Nope, you think. No school for me today.

  You turn over in your bed and stare at your clock. The letters glow in the dim morning light: 7.13 a.m. Reuben will be here in five minutes. You snuggle back into your duvet and wrap yourself up in it, hoping to hide from the world. No such luck.

  Your mum taps softly on your door. Mum … Dad … feud … oh God… The guilt comes back again and you begin to get a headache. You need some time off. Time to be ill, you think. So you relax instantly and pretend to be asleep. She opens the door and walks over to your bed.

  “Jen…?” she whispers, stroking your hair tenderly. “Jen, honey. It’s time to get up. Reuben will be here in five.”

  She’s so good to you. Even though she rushes around every morning to get ready for work, she still comes and gives you a calm, loving wake-up call if you haven’t hauled yourself out of bed by seven thirty. Your stomach contracts with guilt and you feel sick. The dream and the reality of the kiss are still fresh in your mind and you feel like you have told a whopping lie to both of your parents for not mentioning anything. When you came home last night you were in a bit of a state, and they both tried to come and talk to you, but you wouldn’t speak to either of them. You couldn’t. What would you have said? “I’m fine! I’m only crying because I have just kissed my biggest enemy, who by the way happens to be the son of the man who you hate most, and I’m confused as to whether I like him or not! No big deal!”

  You decided to stay quiet. However, the silence has only made your guilt double, and since realizing how great your mum is has now trebled it, you know that you will never get out of bed again.

  You stir slightly and turn, sleepy-eyed, to face your mother.

  “I don’t feel too good, Mum,” you murmur with a (faked) catch in your throat that sounds like the start of the flu. Your mum stares into your eyes worriedly, because you’re not ill very often. She places a hand on your forehead, which is hot and a little sweaty from your dream, and her frown deepens.

  “OK, honey. I’
ll ring the school. Try to go back to sleep, yeah? I’ll tell Reuben for you.”

  You hate lying to your mum, but internally you sigh with relief. You can’t deal with school. You need to stay in bed. Warm, comforting bed.

  “Thank you,” you whisper hoarsely, as she leaves the room.

  As soon as the door shuts you feel guilty, confused tears well up, but you squeeze your eyes tight to make them go away. You force yourself to think a little more rationally about the situation and go over the facts.

  I hate him. I hate Chris Banner, you think. But I also think that he is a good kisser. A great kisser. But my family, his family, they hate each other, we hate each other… don’t we? And I think I felt something in that kiss. Did I? Did he? God, this is a mess!

  You decide not to think about it any more. All you want is a big bar of chocolate and to watch Friends DVDs all day. Is that too much to ask?

  The doorbell interrupts your plans and you hear your mum answer it, telling Rubes that you are ill. He says something that you can’t quite hear and then you hear soft footsteps on the stairs. For the second time in ten minutes, your door opens quietly. You pretend to be asleep. Reuben sighs and sits on the end of your bed.

  “Jen, babe, give me some credit. I know you better than you know yourself. I know when you’re doing your fake-sleep thing.”

  Dammit.

  He carries on. “Look, your eye is twitching slightly. There. See? I know you’re awake. Talk to me, Jen. Tell me what’s going on or I’ll peel off your covers and you will freeze to death.”

  You don’t see the point in hiding any more from your best buddy, and you don’t have any socks on, so without your cover it’s going to be cold. You untangle yourself from the thick duvet and prop yourself up with your pillows. You decide to stick with the “I’m sick!” story. There’s no way you’re gonna tell anyone what happened yesterday.

  “I’m sick,” you croak, with a snuffle at the end for effect. “I can’t go to school today.”