The Juliet Spell (9 page)

I let my new, nervous feelings take me into the role, and I played Juliet, and I was Juliet, for a few fantastic minutes. And Edmund was my Romeo. Oh, yes, he was.

When he said, “But soft! What light through yonder win.dow breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun,” he sounded different than he had with any of the other girls. There was a little catch in his voice, a hesitation that said, I’m not good enough for her.

It gave me a pang, and I wanted to give him something to say, “Don’t worry about it, I’m yours.” But I couldn’t. Juliet doesn’t know he’s there. And she’s feeling the same misery he is. So I took the pang and folded it into the feeling I had to show, and I said “Ay me.” And the way it came out of me was perfect, so full of longing you’d know she was ay-me.ing about a boy if you’d missed every word of the first three scenes of act one.

And it only got better from there. Gillinger read the Nurse’s lines, and we took the scene as far as Bobby had taken it with Vivian the day before. And he and I were working together, building that scene second by second and word by word into something true and fantastic all at once, and I felt so proud of us that when we finished, and some of the people in the auditorium applauded, I wasn’t even sur.prised.

“Thank you,” Gillinger said. “You may sit down.”

Chapter Eight

He kept us all waiting while he shuffled some papers again. Finally he stood up and walked on stage.

“Well,” he said. “I’m glad that some of you went out and scoured your various ’hoods for bodies. I begin to think we may be able to cast this thing after all. My choices will be posted tomorrow afternoon, on the door to my office. If you are not a student of mine, you will receive a call tomorrow evening, if you have been cast. If you do not receive a call from me, you may consider that you are at liberty to seek other opportunities. Thank you all for coming. Good luck.”

I grabbed Edmund’s hand. “You were hot,” I told him.

“And ye were a revelation! Something rough, but that’s to be expected. Ye have a magic way about ye, cuz. Truly.”

“Oh,” I said, glowing inside. “Thank—thee, cuz.”

And then Vivian Brandstedt was on Edmund’s other side, practically rubbing up against him. “I’m so glad you came today,” she said. “I really hope we can work together.”

“Aye, so do I,” Edmund said.

Vivian laughed. “You are so cute. Your accent and every.thing. You’re really English, right?”

“I am a Warwickshireman,” Edmund said. “And ye, where are ye from?”

“I am from right here in Guadalupe,” Vivian said. “But I plan on going to England as soon as I graduate.”

Why wait? I thought. There are planes every day.

“Come on, cousin, we’d better get home,” I said.

“Oh, he’s your cousin?” Vivian said.

I could see she was mentally crossing me off the list of po.tential competition for the English guy.

“Not exactly,” I said. “Not like in this country. It’s a com.plex relationship.”

“Aye, complex,” Edmund agreed.

“Can I give you a lift?” Vivian asked.

“Edmund gets carsick.”

But Edmund said, “I think I will be well, cousin. I did not puke when your mother drove me here. Thank ye, Vivian. We will take your lift, and gladly.”

She grabbed his arm and giggled. “So cute.”

Drew showed up, then. Exactly ten seconds too late to of.fer a ride. I wanted to kick him. “Great working with you,” he said to Edmund.

“I thank ye, Drew, and ye, Bobby. I hope we may all clap parts and clasp hearts.”

Bobby hung back. He nodded, but the look on his face wasn’t friendly. He gave Drew a little tug, and they went off.

“Let’s go,” Vivian said, but before we could leave Gillinger came sliding over from his seat in the third row.

“Very interesting resumé, Shakeshaft,” he said. “Strat.ford Grammar School. And the Lord Admiral’s Men. You’re probably not aware, of course, that the Lord Admiral’s Men haven’t staged a play since 1631.”

“Ye’re right, milord.” Edmund grinned. “I was not aware of it.”

“So where did you actually get the chops I saw just now?” Gillinger wanted to know.

“Chops? Oh, anywhere I could get a part,” Edmund said. “Anywhere at all.”

“I see…. Well, I may have something for you. But don’t lie to me again. You’re good, Shakeshaft, but don’t try to show off. You can’t impress me.”

“But ye will permit me to try, I hope.” Edmund flashed that lethal grin.

“We’ll see,” Gillinger said. “If I cast you, you’ll have to work on that accent. It’s too thick for the kinds of audiences we’ll be getting here.”

“I am master of a dozen accents—Cockney, Welsh, Bor.der Scots, French and Italian are me best. What would ye have?”

Gillinger just “Mmph’d” and walked away.

“What did I say?” Edmund asked.

“He just thought you were trying to impress him again.”

“Can you really do twelve accents?” Vivian asked.

“Well enough. Can ye really drive a car?”

“Well enough,” she said, practically smirking. “Let me show you.”

“I hight—call—shotgun,” Edmund said.

The ride home took about twenty years. Vivian and Ed.mund blathered away in the front seat like a couple of spar.rows. But underneath the chitchat she was coming on to him like sex was going out of style, and he was loving every second of it. I kept hoping he’d barf, but he didn’t, the self.ish pig.

When at long last Vivian dropped us in front of my house, she waved goodbye in a way that said, “Get over here.” And Edmund gave the same low bow he’d given me when he’d

thought I was Helen of Troy.

“Careful, Edmund,” I said. “She eats guys for breakfast.”

“Should I pour milk on meself?” Edmund asked me, and grinned.

“I’m serious, Edmund. She’s bad news. Girls aren’t the way they were the last time you went out on a date or whatever you did in England. They’re a lot tougher and meaner than anything I’ll bet you’re used to.”

Edmund hugged me. “Oh, cuz, ye are so good to me. I know ye mean to keep me safe from harm. But a man can.not keep his heart in a golden box. ’Twas meant to be given away.”

He released me, and I stood there fighting the urge to hug him back. “Just be careful.”

“Ye will help me keep from going wrong,” Edmund said.

If only.

“Come on,” I said. “Let’s eat.”

That was a long night. We waited up for Mom, and she and Edmund talked about everything that had happened at tryouts. I put in here and there, but I wasn’t really in the room with them. I was doing what I did best, obsessing. Even-numbered minutes I obsessed about being Juliet. Odd-numbered minutes I obsessed about Edmund and Vivian. I hardly noticed when, after an hour, Edmund and Mom de.cided they were hungry and made popcorn.

Next day, I headed over to Gillinger’s office as soon as the two-thirty bell rang. There were a bunch of us crowd.ing around the sheet Gillinger had just posted on his door.

I couldn’t look. I stood there with my head down, scared and hopeful. But finally, I forced myself to start reading from the bottom. There was a string of names next to SER.VANTS AND CITIZENS, and mine wasn’t one of them.

Neither was Edmund’s. But Vivian’s was. With my heart ris.ing, I read slowly up the page.

TYBALT—BOBBY RUSPOLI MERCUTIO—DREW JENKINS (And!) JULIET—MIRANDA HOBERMAN (And, at the very top!) ROMEO—EDMUND SHAKE.SHAFT

Edmund would play Romeo. And I was Juliet! He’d get his phone call tonight, but I was going to be the one to tell him. Me, his Juliet. Oh, yes. Life was good. I was so happy, I felt dizzy.

I read it all again and noted the understudies: Bobby for Romeo, Vivan for Juliet—me! I sat down against the office wall.

“Whoa, Miri, you okay?” Drew asked, bending over me. “Just happy,” I said. “Just totally, completely without any holdbacks or footnotes, happy. It’s a weird feeling.”

“Speaking of weird, he gave me Mercutio,” Drew said, joining me on the floor. “I hope Gillinger knows what he’s doing.”

“Stop whining.” I laughed. “You read for the part.” “Like I told you, I can read for anything.” Bobby loomed over us. “Tybalt,” he said. He didn’t even say the word understudy. “You’ll be great,” Drew told him. “Like Edmund said, he

makes the whole play happen.” “Mmm-hmm,” Bobby said. “Whatever. Let’s haul it.” Drew offered me a ride home, but I wanted to walk. I

wanted my wonderful feeling all to myself for a while. So I went slowly away from the theater where I was going to be spending all of my free time for the next six weeks, plus four performances.

The sky was brighter, the air was softer, the shadows on the sidewalks were more vivid. I walked extra-slow and took a long way home so that Mom would get there first and I could walk in and see the question that would be on her face, and answer it with my smile and tell her that I was doing this role for the both of us.

I’m Juliet, I kept saying to myself. I really am.

But when I walked in, Mom was nowhere around. Nei.ther was Edmund.

“Hey, guys?” I called.

My answer was a horrible retching sound from the bath.room.

“In here,” Mom said.

Edmund was curled up on the floor, and Mom was bend.ing over him, looking worried.

“He was like this when I came home. He’s been vomiting all day,” Mom told me.

“I am so ashamed of meself,” Edmund said. “I have not been thus—this—nervous about a part since I was fifteen.”

“Oh, Edmund,” I said, and knelt down by him, too. “You got it. You’re Romeo. Bobby is Tybalt. And your under.study.”

“Bobby is to be Tybalt, and understudy?” Edmund said. “Oh, God bless Bobby and make him the greatest Tybalt ever. And God bless Gillinger for making him play it. And God bless you, dearest cuz, for telling me. I think I will try to stand.”

Mom and I helped him get to his feet. He wavered, grabbed Mom’s shoulder, and staggered out into the hall.

“Bobby is to be Tybalt! Bobby is to be Tybalt! Oh, that is grand.”

Mom and I followed him down the hall to the living room, where he sank onto the sofa.

“And Drew is Mercutio,” I added.

“Aye. I mean, right,” Edmund said. “But tell me, cuz, are you Juliet?”

“Yes! I am!”

Mom screamed and hugged me. Edmund pushed himself up and hugged us both.

“’Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished. Oh, cuz, I prayed we may work together.”

The three of us sat around and waited for the phone to ring. I told Mom and Edmund every bit of trivia I could think of, then they asked me, and I told them again, slightly differently. Then Mom made tea for herself and me, and beef broth for Edmund.

Then we just waited.

And at five minutes after seven, the phone rang.

“Gillinger here,” the voice on the other end said. “May I speak to Mister Shakeshaft, please?”

“It’s for thee,” I said, handing the phone to Edmund.

Mom and I watched his face while Gillinger spoke to him. It was like the sun coming up.

“Yes, yes. I would be very willing to play the role, sir. I—I am in your debt, sir. Tomorrow, aye. I will not fail ye, sir.”

Edmund handed the phone back to me. He stretched his arms as far over his head as they would go. Then he rubbed his stomach.

“All’s well that ends well,” he said. “May we not eat? For I am rare hungry.”

So there it was. I was Juliet. Edmund was Romeo. It looked like the spell I’d cast was working.

The Juliet Spell

But a thought about the off-kilter spell kept entering my head as we ate: was there enough magic in it to make me Edmund’s Juliet forever?

Chapter Nine

There were twenty-two of us in the classroom the next day. There could have been forty, but Gillinger had doubled and tripled a lot of the smaller parts. Besides me, Edmund, Drew and Bobby, all of the kids’ parts were cast with students. But Romeo and Juliet’s parents, the Chorus, the Prince, Friar Lawrence, the Nurse, and some other parts were be.ing played by adults.

We were sitting around some pushed-together tables with our scripts ready and Gillinger at our head. Not only at our head, but sitting on a throne. The throne had been made for a production of Once Upon a Mattress back in the nineties, and Gillinger had been using it as his director’s chair ever since.

“It’s usual at the first read-through for the director to give the cast some idea of how he sees the play,” he said. “But you’ve all been to rehearsals and you know how I see it. I see it as a burden that must be borne. If Romeo and Juliet proves anything, it proves that Shakespeare’s reputation is based, at least in part, on crap. I know, he hadn’t been writing very long when he wrote it. The play was written in 1594 or ’95—”

“Ninety-three,” Edmund muttered to me. “Winter of ninety-three.”

“But I don’t think that excuses him. The play is suppos.edly a tragedy, but structurally it’s a comedy. Nothing that happens in the last two acts would happen if a couple of letters had been delivered when they were supposed to be. Everybody running around, missing each other. Give this play four doors and it would be a French farce.”