Star-Crossed Page 12

  “Maybe, but—”

  “Try to relax, okay? No one’s expecting you to turn him into Benedict Cumberbatch.” He raised his eyebrows; I could tell he was wondering if I even knew who that was.

  “Mr. Torres, Liam isn’t listening to me! He just acts like he doesn’t want to be there!”

  “You know, Mattie,” Mr. Torres said, “sometimes it’s hard for certain kids to admit they need help. Especially kids who think of themselves as cool, or who are used to being successful. You get what I’m saying?”

  “I do get it. But that’s not the problem!”

  He checked his watch. “Okay, I see we need more time to talk. Can you stop by before homeroom tomorrow?”

  I exhaled. “Definitely.”

  He smiled encouragingly, as if I were the one who was psyched out. “It will be fine, Mattie, I promise. All right, humans, let’s begin,” he shouted. “Act Two, Scene Five.”

  * * *

  Maybe I could have talked to my friends about the Liam situation without spilling the news about his Valentine’s Dance question, but I didn’t want to risk it. So when Tessa texted me that evening asking, what’s up, saucy wench??? I just responded: Need to help Mason with homework now. BOOORING. See you tmrw! :) Usually she didn’t stop texting until it got so late she absolutely had no choice but to start on her homework, but luckily, that evening she left me alone.

  In the morning, Mom and Dad seemed suspicious about my need for an early ride.

  “Mattie, tell us the truth,” Dad said as he drank his coffee. “Did you fail another math test? Are you going in early to get extra help?”

  “No,” I said. “I’m helping one of the actors. But I need to talk to Mr. Torres about it.”

  Mom frowned. “Mattie, I don’t want this play to take over your life.”

  “It isn’t.”

  “You sure you’re passing math this quarter?”

  “Yep.”

  “We could e-mail your math teacher any time,” Dad warned.

  “Fine with me. Can one of you drive me over to school now?”

  “I can,” Mom said. “And I can also come in with you to say hi to the math teacher.”

  “I’m not going to Mr. Peltz! Mom, I told you—I’m going to see Mr. Torres!”

  I could see the lights flashing in Mom’s head: Mattie’s turning into Cara! Here we go again! Fasten your seat belts!

  “Well, maybe I won’t drive you anywhere if you use that tone with me,” she said.

  “Never mind.” I grabbed a bagel. “I’ll walk.”

  “Don’t be silly; it’s raining,” Mom said, sighing. “I’ll drive you. But don’t get crumbs in the car.”

  “And don’t be cutting corners on your math homework,” Dad called after me, as if we’d been discussing math or homework or corners for the last half hour, and he wanted to leave me with an inspiring thought.

  AAARGH, I thought. No wonder Romeo and Juliet couldn’t talk to their parents. They were crazy, all of them.

  I didn’t say anything to Mom the whole car ride, which wasn’t as awkward as it sounds, because she had the radio on. But just as we pulled up to school, she asked if I’d had any more thoughts about the Valentine’s Dance. I told her I hadn’t.

  Mom pursed her lips. “You’re not wearing that Darth Vader costume, you know.”

  “Mom, I said it was a joke!”

  “Well, don’t ask me to go dress shopping the weekend before the dance, that’s all I’m saying, Mattie.”

  “I promise I won’t. If I’m going. And I’m probably not, so . . .” I shrugged. “Thanks for driving.”

  Mom reached over to brush the bangs out of my eyes. Then she kissed my cheek. “You’re welcome, sweetheart. Hurry inside so you don’t get wet. And study for math!”

  25

  “What’s in a name? That which we call a rose

  By any other name would smell as sweet.”

  —Romeo and Juliet, II.ii.43–44

  As soon as I stepped into Mr. Torres’s empty classroom, I could tell something had happened. Something bad.

  He looked awful. Not just tired: pale and pinched. He was sitting at his desk, his head in his hands.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “Liam’s out of the play,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Yep.” Mr. Torres took a sip out of his empty-author-head mug. “I just got off the phone with his parents. Apparently, there was a collision on the rink during ice hockey practice early this morning. They’re at the ER now. Looks like a broken arm.”

  “But that’s not so bad! Liam can still do the part with a cast on his arm—”

  “That’s what I told his parents. He’s insisting he can’t.”

  I sank into a chair. “He’s just making an excuse.”

  Mr. Torres didn’t argue. “I tried to convince him. I even suggested taping his lines to his cast. I know that memorizing was a concern for him.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “One of them. I think he was mostly worried about how he looked to his friends. I’m really sorry.”

  “No need to apologize, Mattie. You worked hard, and I shouldn’t have put you in this position.”

  “It’s okay. I didn’t mind. I love working on the play.” I took a breath. “Mr. Torres, can I ask you a question? Why did you cast Liam as Romeo? I mean, aside from looks.”

  He smiled a little. “Well, I know he was putting on the dumb-athlete act for his friends, but he’s no dummy.”

  “I agree.”

  “Plus, he genuinely wanted the part—at first, anyway. And the thing about being a teacher is, you never bet against your students. You always give them a chance to do their best.” Mr. Torres got up from his desk, pulled a chair over to me, and sat down. “Speaking of which, Mattie, I want to discuss something.”

  My stomach flipped over. What?

  Or maybe I said it aloud: “What?”

  He leaned forward. “The question I’ve been asking myself is: Can we salvage the production if one of our leads drops out three weeks into rehearsal? I would hate to think the answer is no. Wouldn’t you?”

  I nodded.

  “So what I’m wondering is: Is there someone we can substitute for Liam? Someone who not only has good dramatic skills, but who understands the play, learns fast, and memorizes easily. Someone I can rely on. Someone who’s been to almost all of the rehearsals. Know anyone like that?”

  I shook my head.

  “Come on, Mattie,” Mr. Torres said. “It’s you, of course.”

  I kept shaking.

  “Why not?” he asked.

  I can’t play Romeo if Gemma is Juliet. I just can’t.

  “Mattie?” Mr. Torres said gently. “Can you tell me why not?”

  “I’m not an actor,” I blurted. “I’ve only ever been a Narrator. I’m the worst at costumes, I didn’t go to theater camp, I can’t fence—”

  “Neither can anyone else. We’ll teach you some moves.”

  “I can’t do love scenes.”

  “Ditto. They’re awkward for everyone. And we’ll deal with the kissing stuff—don’t worry.”

  Oh, god. The kissing stuff.

  With everyone watching.

  Help.

  “But what about Paris?” I asked desperately.

  “We’ll get someone else to play Paris. That won’t be a problem; it’s a small part. And don’t forget, I wanted you to take a bigger part, anyway.”

  Poor Paris. Always pushed aside by Romeo.

  “Listen, Mattie,” Mr. Torres said, not letting me look away. “I could hold auditions for Romeo, but we simply don’t have time. We’re already behind schedule, and we can’t afford anything that would set us back further—not to mention the disruptiveness of people swapping parts, or taking on new kids who haven’t been rehearsing with us from day one. I know I’m putting you on the spot here, and I know it’s completely unfair, so if you’re not up to it, just say so, and I won’t ask you again.”

  I cou
ldn’t answer; my mouth wouldn’t work.

  “Of course, if you don’t do it, we’ll probably have to cancel the production. I know a lot of people will be disappointed—like Tessa, who’s meant to play Mercutio. And Lucy and Elijah and Keisha and everybody else . . .”

  Gemma. Don’t forget Gemma.

  “Also, if you need more incentive, I guarantee unlimited cookies. Baked for you personally by my wife. Here’s a preview.” He went to his closet and got a small round container, which he handed to me. “Go ahead, take off the lid.”

  Not knowing what else to do, I did.

  I stared at the cookies.

  They were chocolate. Chocolate with chocolate chunks, some of them still gooey.

  “Will you at least think about it, Mattie?” Mr. Torres asked in almost a begging voice.

  As the chocolate molecules entered my nostrils, filling my head with chocolaty warmth and goodness, I realized that I didn’t have a choice. Everything was conspiring against me. Even the cookies.

  And I couldn’t bear to imagine the look on Gemma’s face when she heard the play was being canceled. Because of me. And how she’d think that underneath the Darth Vader costume, I was just a girl talking into a voice thingy. Scared of the spotlight. Scared of everything.

  “All right, I’ll do it,” I said.

  “I knew you would,” Mr. Torres replied, grinning.

  * * *

  Liam must have texted a bunch of people that morning, because word about his hockey accident spread fast. I listened for my name in the middle of the muttering and cursing and whispering, but it seemed that no one knew yet that Mr. Torres had asked me to play Romeo. Which was a good thing, because I needed Lucy and Tessa to know it first.

  I told them at lunch.

  “Dude, that’s awesome!” Tessa shouted. “You’re awesome! You’re like the picture in the dictionary under the word ‘awesome’!” Her forehead puckered. “But is Liam hurt badly?”

  “Nah, his arm is broken, but he’ll be fine,” I said.

  “You’ll be a million times better than him, Mattie,” Lucy said. “And it’ll be so fun; we can practice together, and everything.”

  She did a little happy dance in her seat, then bit into her cheese sandwich. I watched her closely. Lucy didn’t seem the slightest bit disappointed that she wouldn’t be playing Liam’s cousin-slash-best-friend. So apparently the Liam–Lucy crush was a one-way thing. Well, that was a relief, considering I’d turned down Liam’s invitation for her. One less thing to worry about—and sometime, when Tessa wasn’t around, I’d tell Lucy about his crush.

  When Tessa got up from the table to get herself a bag of chips, Lucy turned to me. “So are you going to tell her?” she asked quietly.

  “You mean Tessa? About what?” I asked.

  “Gemma, obviously. You have other secrets?”

  “No!” I took a bite of my taco to steady myself. Then I said, “Lucy, I want to tell her. I just don’t know if I should.”

  “Tessa loves you,” Lucy said. “She’d do anything for you, Mat.”

  “Yeah, I know she would. But—”

  “And I hate being a part of a secret from her. It feels wrong.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “You don’t need to apologize to me. That’s not why I said it.” She sipped her water. “You’re not embarrassed, are you?”

  “About Gemma? Of course not!”

  “So what’s the problem, then?”

  I took a second. “I’m just scared,” I admitted. “What if Tessa says something—not on purpose—and people hear, and are weird about it? What if they start teasing? Or are stupid, or horrible?”

  “Mattie,” Lucy said warmly. “People respect you; they always have. Just keep acting normal, like you have nothing to hide. Which you don’t.”

  I sighed. “I don’t know if I trust people that much, Lucy. Remember when Ajay called Romeo gay?”

  “Yes, and no one let him be a jerk! Look, here comes Tessa,” Lucy added quickly. “Will you please think about it, Mattie?”

  Think about it? No problem. All I ever do is think about it.

  26

  “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.”

  —Romeo and Juliet, I.v.95–98

  In English class later that afternoon, Mr. Torres made the announcement: “Of course, we’re all disappointed that Liam can’t continue as Romeo, but we’re so lucky that Mattie has agreed to step into the role.”

  The class went silent.

  Then Willow exploded. “What? Seriously, Mr. Torres, Mattie?”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “It’ll look wrong! It’ll be distracting. Isn’t there a boy—”

  “Willow, Tybalt’s a boy,” Tessa said. “Should we get a boy to play Tybalt instead of you?”

  “Romeo’s different,” Willow insisted. “He’s the love interest.”

  “And Mattie will have to kiss Gemma,” Charlotte said.

  “So what?” Tessa argued. “You know, in Shakespeare’s production, two boys played Romeo and Juliet, so they had to kiss, right? And Shakespeare didn’t get distracted. He was fine with it!”

  “This is true,” Mr. Torres said. “And the important thing is that Mattie is an excellent actor who deserves our support. It’s very brave of her to step into a challenging role a few weeks into rehearsal. Basically, it’s thanks to her that we still have an eighth-grade production this year.”

  Nobody clapped or anything.

  “Mr. Torres, what if I try talking to Liam?” Willow said. “He listens to me.”

  Tessa made a face at me from across the room.

  “You can if you want, Willow, but I don’t know how much good it’ll do. It sounds like he’s made up his mind,” Mr. Torres said.

  “I’ll go to his house right after school today,” Willow announced. “Maybe if someone talks to him in person, it’ll help.”

  Then she looked at me with narrowed eyes, as if someone had stolen something from Liam, or from her, or from both of them, or from everybody, and I was the prime suspect.

  * * *

  While Willow was off persuading Liam to rejoin the play, Mr. Torres canceled regular rehearsal that afternoon and met with Gemma and me in his classroom.

  “We’re going to need to take it up a notch after Thanksgiving,” he said. “Can you guys come to school early in the mornings for some extra practice?”

  Gemma winced. “I’ll try. I’m not a morning person, really.”

  “Neither am I,” Mr. Torres admitted. “But we’ll need to retrace our steps for a bit.”

  “How long is ‘a bit’?” I asked nervously.

  “That’s really up to you, Mattie,” Mr. Torres answered. “However long it takes for you to feel comfortable with the role. Of course, the sooner the better, but I’m not using a stopwatch. All right, shall we tackle the costume party scene, omitting for now all the kissing stuff?”

  Gemma did her rowdy laugh. “Oh yes, for Mattie’s sake. I had a tuna sandwich for lunch, and it had onions.”

  * * *

  I don’t remember much from that first rehearsal with Gemma. The whole thing was so strange—being inside a scene that I’d only ever read, or watched, from the outside. And at the same time, feeling like I was also in a parallel universe, listening to myself saying loving words to Gemma. Not my words, obviously, and not my exact emotions, but Shakespeare’s beautiful words of love (“Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight! For I ne’er saw true beauty till this night”). And hearing Gemma say beautiful words back at me—without meaning anything by them. Without knowing that I meant anything either.

  Although there was one moment during that rehearsal that I kept thinking about the whole walk home, and at dinner, and all evening, and then all Thanksgiving weekend: when we touched hands. Gemma’s
hands were soft and warm, and mine were cold and damp with nerves, but when we touched she looked right at me. Into my eyes. And she didn’t make a joke about my hand temperature or cringe or tell me to put on gloves. She just said, “Oh.”

  I couldn’t stop wondering what it meant, that “oh.” Maybe it was an “oh” of shock, like: Yeow, your hands are super freezing! Were you frozen in carbonite, Mattie? Or maybe it was something else. An “oh” of understanding. Like: Oh yes, now I get it.

  But that was silly. How much information could you get just from touching someone’s hand? Not much, I told myself. Don’t overanalyze, Mattie.

  Anyhow, it was a long rehearsal. Mr. Torres seemed happy with how it went, although I had the feeling that he mostly wanted to act positive and encouraging. He told us to meet him on Monday morning at seven fifteen, gave us both high fives, then left the room.

  “Good rehearsal,” Gemma said as we were putting on our jackets.

  “You too,” I replied automatically.

  “You’re a bit nervous, yeah?”

  “A bit.”

  Gemma smiled sweetly. “Don’t be. You’ll be an amazing Romeo, I can tell.”

  She gave me a quick, powder-scented hug and ran off.

  Oh, I kept thinking. Oh.

  27

  “Thy head is as full of quarrels

  as an egg is full of meat.”

  —Romeo and Juliet, III.i.23–24

  The following Monday morning, Gemma and I did the costume party scene again, still putting off what Mr. Torres called “the kissing stuff.” I couldn’t tell if he liked my acting or if he just didn’t want to scare me off, but when kids started showing up for homeroom, he flashed a grin, told me I’d done great, and that he’d see me in English. For a second I stood there, confused. But then I remembered that if Liam was out of the play, that meant I was back in class. Which I was happy about, truthfully. I missed going to my favorite subject.

  Although that afternoon, just before Mr. Torres showed up in his classroom, Willow reported that she had bad news. “Liam says he won’t do the play. He’ll be back in school tomorrow, and he doesn’t want anybody pressuring him, okay?”