Star-Crossed Read online

  “Hey, how was the party last night?” asked my dad. He was in his Sunday neon green bicycling clothes, which always looked so dorky I had to turn away.

  “Fine,” I said, slamming the directory shut.

  “That’s your full report?”

  “Yeah. It was . . . you know. A party.”

  “Thanks for the in-depth analysis.” Dad tied his sneakers. “Hey, isn’t it early for you to be dressed on a weekend? Are you going somewhere?”

  “Just to a friend’s.”

  “Boy or girl?” He smiled mischievously.

  Oh, great. Mom had told him about Elijah.

  “Girl,” I said. “I just left something at the party last night. I’ll be right back.”

  “Take your phone. Mom’s out shopping, and she’ll want to know your whereabouts.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain,” I said, saluting.

  He gave me a look. But I’d only saluted and called him “captain” because he’d said “whereabouts.” By now, Dad should have realized that I noticed words.

  The morning was chilly, so I grabbed my fleece jacket and started walking toward the train station. On my phone were three texts—two from Tessa (you ok? you looked baaad last nite! call me! and Why haven’t you called, you canker blossom? if you dont call by noon, I’m coming over!!), one from Lucy (Hey, are you awake yet? I’ve been worried about you). I wanted to answer, but I hated texting while walking—and, to be honest, I didn’t feel like sharing the Gemma business with them yet. Besides, if I got to Gemma’s apartment, took the cape, said, You’re welcome, when she said, Thank you, and kept on moving, I could be back in my bedroom in an hour. Then I could talk to my friends in privacy.

  By the time I reached Gemma’s building, Mom had called (Feeling better? Want me to buy you anything at the grocery store?), Tessa had texted again (Where art thou?), and Lucy had left me a voice mail (Mattie? Why aren’t you answering?). I put all of them on hold in my mind as I hit the small black button next to the name BRAITHWAITE.

  “Yes, hullo?” said a polite male voice. It was funny how you could pick up an English accent even from such a small test sample.

  I swallowed. “Hi, it’s a friend of Gemma’s from school? Mattie Monaghan?”

  “I’m sorry, who?”

  Erg. Of course she hadn’t mentioned me. “Mattie—Matilda—Monaghan? I was at the Halloween party last night? At Willow Kaplan’s house?”

  Stop squeaking, I scolded myself.

  “Oh, yes,” said the voice. “Is Gemma expecting you?”

  “No. Although maybe yes. She has something of mine. Well, technically it’s my brother’s—”

  Gemma’s father, or whoever it was, buzzed me in. I guess he wasn’t interested in all the details.

  The Braithwaites’ apartment was on the third floor. I could have taken the elevator, but closed spaces make me claustrophobic, so I went up the stairs. By the time I reached their door, I was breathless, and not just from nerves.

  “Good morning,” said a man who looked like Gemma (with stubble) and smelled like eggs. “Won’t you come in?”

  I took a step inside. “Thanks. I’m just here to pick up my little brother’s—”

  “Mattie! Good morning,” said Gemma, walking toward the door. She was wearing a red plaid flannel robe, and her hair was wet, as if she’d just stepped out of the shower. If she was embarrassed to see me, it didn’t show; she was smiling, but I detected question marks in her eyes.

  “I came for the cape,” I explained. “My little brother—”

  “Oh, of course! The cape! So sorry! I should have rung you this morning!”

  “No, it’s fine. I wasn’t answering my phone, anyway.”

  “Would you like a coffee? Or a cup of tea?” Gemma’s dad asked.

  “No thanks. Really, just the cape—”

  “Gems, I believe your friend would like her cape,” Gemma’s dad said. He was smiling ironically. Was that British, or was he making fun of me?

  “Right,” Gemma said briskly. “Please come out to the balcony, Mattie. Don’t mind the mess; Daddy and I are not much for housekeeping.”

  I followed her through their narrow living room, not much more than a beige tweed sofa littered with newspaper sections, a small blue rug, a bookshelf crammed with hardcovers, and a single brown leather chair. A dad’s apartment: There were probably jars of pickles in the fridge, and maybe some bacon.

  Gemma opened the door to the balcony, motioning me to step outside.

  “I put the cape out here overnight so it would dry. I’m afraid there was a spill. What I mean is, I spilled orange soda. But I rinsed it out.” She frowned as she sniffed the black fabric. “Still smells a bit orangey, but it’s not sticky anymore, so that’s progress, I suppose. I’m not the best at cleaning things.”

  “I’m sure it’s fine.”

  “Anyway, sorry.”

  “For what?” I said. “I should be apologizing to you.”

  “For what?” She wrung her wet hair over one shoulder, looking at me with wide eyes and wet eyelashes.

  I inhaled the chilly air. “I don’t know. Not telling you who I was. In the kitchen.”

  “Mattie,” Gemma said, smiling, “what’s the point of wearing a costume if you go around explaining to everyone who you are?”

  “Yes, but I didn’t mean to trick anybody.”

  “You mean Willow? Well, serves her right for not inviting you!”

  I caught my breath. So Gemma hadn’t felt tricked—which meant she hadn’t thought I was a boy. Hadn’t been flirting with me, either. Well, that was a huge relief.

  But why had I thought she was? I must have been delirious with nerves and thirst. Or light-headed from wearing that heavy, sweaty mask.

  “Anyway,” Gemma was saying, “I’m very sorry you had to sneak in. Can I ask you something? Why didn’t Willow invite you?”

  “I don’t know. She hardly talks to us, except when there’s a fight about something.”

  “Who’s ‘us’?”

  “Lucy, Tessa, and me. Although for some reason she invited them.”

  “But not you? That’s odd,” Gemma said. “Did you offend her?”

  “No. I don’t think so. Truthfully, I’m not the offender type.”

  “I didn’t think you were.” She paused. “You know, Willow’s not a bad person, really. She just likes being captain.”

  “You mean she likes excluding people.”

  “Oh, but that’s not fair. She couldn’t include everyone in her basement, could she? And I suppose she doesn’t like surprises. You did surprise her, you know.” Gemma laughed a little. “Anyhow, try not to mind her reaction. I’m sure it wasn’t personal.”

  “How come everyone keeps saying that?” I said. “They’d think it was personal if it happened to them.”

  “I’m sure you’re right about that,” Gemma admitted.

  “Gems!” Gemma’s dad called from somewhere inside the apartment. “Time to ring your mum!”

  “Bollocks,” Gemma muttered. “It’s the weekly phone call with Mummy. She’s always furious if I’m five minutes late for it. You’d better go now.” She handed me the cape. “Thanks again for letting me borrow it, Mattie. You saved my life.”

  “No problem,” I said.

  For a second I thought she might hug me again, the way some girls do. But she didn’t. I turned and we walked back into the apartment, and then I was out the door and down the stairs, the cape feeling slightly sticky in my hands.

  8

  “For never was a story of more woe

  Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.”

  —Romeo and Juliet, V.iii.310–311

  I dreaded going to school on Monday, sure I was in for a day of teasing—plenty of Star Wars references, at the absolute least. Somehow I managed to convince Mom to drive me there as late as possible, just in time for the end of homeroom. As soon as I walked in, I could tell that everyone was buzzing—but not about me. About something else.

  �
�What’s going on?” I asked Tessa, who was practically bouncing in her seat.

  “Eighth-grade play gets announced today,” she answered.

  “Really? How do you know?”

  “Mr. Torres was just in here talking it up. You shouldn’t have missed it. Why were you late? And guess what, Mattie? He’s directing!”

  He was? That was great news. Mr. Torres was our English teacher, and everyone agreed that he was the best. Lucy had Mrs. Dimona, who’d so far spent the entire semester on the first four chapters of Animal Farm, and gave weekly spelling tests, like they were second graders. The other class had Miss Bluestone, who was ancient and crazy, and talked about authors as if they were her former boyfriends. She never assigned any women writers except Emily Dickinson, who she referred to as just “Emily”—as if Emily Dickinson were some poetry-writing friend of hers who’d never been published.

  But Mr. Torres was incredibly cool. And not just that: He got me. Whenever I raised my hand to ask a question, or to comment about some passage we were reading, Mr. Torres would smile at me in a special way that said: Keep going. You’re onto something. You’re good at this, Mattie. And I’d smile back—but behind my book, so no one could see it and accuse me of sucking up.

  When the end-of-homeroom bell rang, I asked Tessa if Mr. Torres had mentioned which play.

  She shook her head. “He said he’ll tell us today in class. Tryouts are end of the week. But I can’t wait that long; I’m so excited I think I may barf.”

  “Well, please don’t, okay?”

  She studied my face. “Speaking of barf . . . You’re over the Halloween party thing?”

  “I guess.”

  She groaned. “I guess, I guess. That’s like your theme song lately.”

  “Well, sorry, Tessa. I just need time to think things out.”

  “No, you don’t,” Tessa said. “You only think you need to think. Just act, for once!”

  “What are you talking about?” I scowled at her. “My costume disasters? Because you’re right, I definitely overthought those. I admit it, okay? But I act! I came to Willow’s party, didn’t I?”

  She squeezed my arm. “Sheesh, Mattie. Chill, all right? I’m talking about Elijah. Stop analyzing how you feel about him and decide. Crush or no crush? Thumbs up or thumbs down?”

  “Why do you care? And anyway, why do I need to choose?”

  “Because everybody needs to choose something. To be or not to be; that is the question.”

  “I really don’t think that’s what Hamlet was talking about.”

  “Maybe not, but it’s what I’m talking about.” Tessa stepped into her math room. “See you in English,” she said, kissing her fingers and waving bye-bye.

  * * *

  All day long, I thought about what Tessa had said—not about Elijah, but about the play. All the eighth graders had to participate, even if that meant painting scenery or running props. So what if I asked to be Mr. Torres’s assistant? Maybe I could take notes while he rehearsed the actors, or help kids who’d messed up their lines.

  Anyway, thinking about the play was a good distraction as I spent the day avoiding Willow and all her many teammates. I also avoided Elijah as much as I could—which wasn’t easy, because he was in most of my classes. As for Gemma, it was funny how completely she’d vanished into her circle of friends. Not that I thought she’d leave a note in my locker (Wanna sit together at lunch?)—but on the balcony, it almost seemed as if she wanted to get to know me, or at least to understand why we couldn’t be friends. Today, I’d seen her shiny brown braid a few times, and heard her laughing, but she was always at the center of a large group of kids. Team Willow, which I wasn’t about to take on.

  At lunch, Lucy and Tessa couldn’t stop making predictions about the play. According to Tessa, the pattern went: musical, nonmusical, musical, non. Last year the eighth grade did Grease; the year before was Our Town; three years ago, West Side Story. So this year, it was time for a nonmusical, and wouldn’t it be awesome if we did Shakespeare?

  “Awesome for you,” Lucy said. “Not for everyone else.”

  “How come?” Tessa demanded.

  “Tessa, you’re a Shakespeare geek. You do theater camp. You memorize insults—”

  “Because they’re hilarious! Shakespeare’s hilarious! Can you think of a better choice?”

  “Any musical,” Lucy declared. “With choreography.”

  “That’s because you’re a dancer! So it’s awesome for you!”

  I let them argue while I ate an apple. But then Lucy asked what play I was rooting for. I answered that I didn’t have one specifically in mind.

  Tessa snorted. “There she goes again. I guess. I can’t decide. I’m staying neutral.”

  “Shut up,” I told her, swatting her arm. “I don’t know. Maybe a love story. Or something weird, like The Bald Soprano.”

  “The who? Mattie, you’re weird.”

  I shrugged. The truth was, I knew that whatever play Mr. Torres chose would be perfect. He’d never waste our time on something boring or brainless. Also, I knew Tessa was picking on me only because she was nervous. But I still wished she’d stop.

  Finally, it was time for English class. Mr. Torres took slow, casual steps into the classroom and grinned at us, as if he knew we were all waiting for his entrance, and he wanted to tease us a little first.

  “Good afternoon, humans,” he said. That’s what he always called us: humans.

  “Mr. Torres?” Tessa said. “We’re going crazy. Please tell us what play we’re doing, I beg you.” She clasped her hands together and made her voice sound desperate. Already she’s auditioning, I thought.

  “Well, here’s the thing,” Mr. Torres said, leaning against his desk and folding his arms. “This year, I’m playing a dual role: teacher and director. But notice I put teacher first. So what I’ve done is pick a play I can teach and direct at the same time. We’ll discuss it in class as great literature and rehearse it onstage as great drama. The other eighth-grade English classes will too, by the way.”

  From across the room, I could feel Tessa vibrating.

  “Are you going to tell us the name of the play, or should we guess?” Keisha asked. “I’m guessing Wicked.”

  “Ooh, I love that play!” Charlotte squealed.

  Mr. Torres smiled. “It’s Romeo and Juliet, by William Shakespeare.”

  Tessa slapped her desk in victory.

  Some kids, mostly boys, groaned.

  “Aw, come on, Mr. Torres,” Ajay said. “The eighth-grade play is supposed to be fun!”

  “Romeo and Juliet is fun,” Mr. Torres said. “Plenty of swordplay and jokes. And, of course, dare I say it, romance.”

  Ajay snorted.

  “But it’s really saaaad,” Keisha wailed. “Because they both die at the end, right?”

  “Right,” Mr. Torres said. “It’s a tragedy. Although it’s also very funny.”

  “Yeah, if you like jokes from a thousand years ago,” Liam said.

  “More like four hundred, actually.”

  More groans.

  “Humans, I have to say you’re disappointing me,” Mr. Torres said. “I thought you’d all be excited!”

  “It’s just really hard to get excited about a play we’re not even going to understand,” Willow said.

  “Yeah,” Charlotte said. “It’s not even modern English.”

  “You know,” Mr. Torres said, “I don’t believe in telling students they’re wrong—but seriously, folks, that’s just wrong. First of all, Shakespeare pretty much invented modern English. Lots of words we use today—‘eyeball,’ ‘gossip,’ ‘cold-blooded,’ ‘rant,’ ‘fashionable,’ ‘obscene,’—he used first. Second of all, you’ll get this play better than your parents will. Better than your teachers will, including me. You know why? Because it’s about an eighth grader in love.”

  Willow made a skeptical face. “It is?”

  “Yep. Juliet is just thirteen years old, and her parents want to marry her of
f to some rich guy she doesn’t even know.”

  “That’s so weird,” Liam said.

  “But it wasn’t weird for the times, right?” Tessa said.

  Mr. Torres nodded. “But then she meets Romeo at a dance—actually, it’s a costume party at her house, and Romeo sneaks in, disguised, and—thunderbolt!—they fall madly in love.”

  “How old is Romeo?” Elijah asked.

  “Good question. Shakespeare doesn’t say, but he’s a teenager who hangs out with his friends and lives with his parents. Who, by the way, don’t approve of Juliet’s family. And vice versa.”

  “Is that why they die?” Keisha asked. She looked worried. “Because of their parents?”

  “Well, that’s basically the reason,” Mr. Torres answered. “Romeo’s family and Juliet’s family hate each other, so, with the help of Friar Lawrence, the lovers come up with a secret plan to be together. Tragically, the plan backfires.”

  “How?” Keisha asked.

  “Okay, let me back up a little. Romeo’s friends Mercutio and Benvolio get into a sword fight with Juliet’s cousin Tybalt, who’s a hotheaded bully. Tybalt kills Mercutio when Romeo gets in the way trying to stop it. Then Romeo kills Tybalt in revenge, and as a punishment gets banished from Verona.”

  “What about Juliet?” Keisha pressed. “Does she go with him?”

  “No, but Friar Lawrence marries them in secret just before Romeo leaves. And when Juliet’s parents try to force her to marry the rich guy, Paris, she goes to Friar Lawrence, who gives her a poison that will make her seem dead for forty-two hours. His idea is, if Juliet is ‘dead,’ she doesn’t have to marry Paris. Everybody with me?”

  The class nodded.

  “Okay.” Mr. Torres sat on the edge of his desk. “So Friar Lawrence sends a note to Romeo explaining the plan, but unfortunately, there’s a mix-up, and the note never arrives. So Romeo thinks Juliet really is dead and kills himself at her tomb. And when Juliet wakes up and sees Romeo is dead for real, she kills herself too.”

  “Fun times,” Ajay grumbled.

  “Well, as I said, there’s plenty of humor. Mercutio is a lot of fun, and Juliet’s Nurse—not a registered nurse, but a nursemaid, sort of like a nanny—is hilarious.”