The Juliet Spell

“Romeo,” Bobby said like there was no question about it.

“Romeo,” Edmund mused. “It would not be my first thought for ye.”

“Oh? Who would you cast me as?”

“Tybalt, mayhap, if ye can fence well,” Edmund said.

“Tybalt’s not a very big part,” Bobby said.

“Thirty-five lines,” Drew said. “But he’s on a lot.”

“Not a long part,” Edmund agreed. “But a large one. He tries to kill Romeo at old Capulet’s party. Later, he kills Mercutio. Thus Romeo slays him, and must flee Verona. If there were no Tybalt, ye’d have no tragedy and Romeo and Juliet would live to ripe old ages.”

“Well, anyway, I’m up for Romeo.”

Edmund turned to Drew. “Tell me, fellow. When ye went dry onstage when ye were a lad, what happened next?”

“What do you mean, what happened next?” Drew said. “Nothing happened.”

“What nothing?” Edmund persisted.

“I just stood there until I started crying. Then they pulled the curtain.”

“Horrible. D’ye mean no one came to your aid?” Edmund asked. “No fellow-actor came and said, aught like, ‘Will you not give us a song?’ or somewhat like that?”

“We were just kids. Nobody thought to do anything.”

“Would that happen now, d’ye think?” Edmund asked.

“Never,” Bobby said.

“No way,” I said. “We’d be there for each other.”

Drew shrugged. “Look, I’m not being neurotic about something that happened when I was twelve. I’m just not interested anymore. Walking on stage, reciting lines. The same lines every night. It gets old real fast.”

“Is that what ye think acting is?” Edmund said.

“It’s all I know about it,” Drew said. “If you even call it acting.”

“Then ye do well to stay away from it—for ’tis nothing of the kind.”

“I’m always finding new stuff to do,” Bobby said.

“And ye, cousin Miranda,” Edmund said. “What is acting to you?”

“It’s hard to say,” I said. “But it’s the most important thing in my life.”

Edmund scratched his beard and looked up. “For me,” he began, “acting is queen, mother and mistress all in one. And more than a bit of a bitch. But I love her as I love no other thing. But, no. That does not speak to what acting is. Acting is—is finding the truth in the most artificial thing there is. For theater is a metaphor for all of life and all that is truest in it. Acting an endless race through a hall of mirrors seeking the one that shows, not yourself, but the truth of the character you’re playing. The truth in the shadow. And then reflects it, not to yourself, but to the audience at your feet. And when it works, there is nothing finer.”

“Man,” Bobby said. “I mean, word, dude.”

“I do not take your meanin’, friend.”

“He means you really told the truth about it,” I said.

Drew picked up the script and pondered the cover. It showed a balcony with the doors behind it open and light streaming through them. Romeo was in silhouette below, but the balcony was empty. No Juliet. We all had the same copy of the play. I thought it was a really stupid picture. Juliet was supposed to already be on the balcony when Romeo showed up. This cover looked like whoever’d done it hadn’t even read the play.

But now Drew was staring at it like it meant something to him. “I wonder if I could do that,” he said. “You do make a guy want to try.”

“What part do ye favor?” Edmund asked.

“I don’t think it matters,” Drew replied. “As long as I could have some of that feeling you were talking about.”

“’Tis hard to do. ’Tis not to be counted upon. But mayhap I could help ye toward it if ye would like.”

“Yeah. I would.”

Bobby burst into the conversation, excited. “Cool. Drew reads tomorrow, he scores a part, and Ed coaches him. Ruspoli and Jenkins together again, live on stage. Thanks, Ed!”

“Listening to meself, I wish—Cousin Miranda, may I not read tomorrow?”

“Do it, man,” Bobby said. “It’d be so cool to have a real English dude in the play.”

I felt a whoosh of panic. No, no, no, Edmund must not read. Edmund must not be cast. Edmund must be hidden away. But then I thought how stupid that was, and, really, how impossible. For better or worse, Edmund Shakeshaft was living in California, in this century, in my house, and he’d have to find a way to fit in. And maybe being part of the one thing he’d learned how to do in his own time that we were still doing in this time would help him to adjust.

“Yeah,” I said, though still a little weakly. “Tryouts are two-thirty tomorrow after school.”

“I will come then.”

“Okay,” I said, thinking that in one way at least this could end up being the most accurate Romeo and Juliet anybody had done in more than four hundred years.

Bobby and Drew started asking Edmund all kinds of questions about what it was like to be an actor in England. And I was really impressed with how he managed to answer them without giving anything away.

“How long have you been acting?”

“Oh, since I left school.”

“How many shows have you done?”

“I don’t recall for certain. About fifty, I think.”

“Have you done much TV?”

“Television? Nay. I do not think I would like to do it.” I kept thinking I ought to drag him away, but he seemed to be enjoying playing with the guys, and they were definitely interested in what he had to say. Finally, Edmund solved my dilemma for me.

“Cuz,” he said. “I am weary. Can we not go home?”

“Sure,” I said.

“Would you like a lift?” Drew asked.

“We’re close,” I said.

“Come on,” Bobby said. “Drew’s got a new ride.”

“It’s okay. We’ll just walk,” I said.

But Edmund was suddenly alert. “This ride ye speak of, friend Drew. Is it a car?”

“Sure,” Drew said.

“I would like to ride in it.”

I think he was trembling just a little.

“I call shotgun,” Bobby said.

Drew’s new car was an old car. A bug-eyed little thing that looked like clowns might burst out of it at any minute. I’d never seen anything like it.

“What is this?” I asked.

Drew smiled. “A Citroën 2CV. The most flawless meld of engineering requirements ever designed to run on gas. Intended to take French farmers out of the age of the horse and put them behind the wheel. Totally simple, modular construction. If you dent a fender, you unbolt it and slap on a new one. The backseat lifts out for cargo. The same cable that runs the speedometer runs the windshield wiper. And you can carry a bushel of eggs across a plowed field without cracking one. That was part of the design requirement. I love that about it.”

“And it can hit forty-five without even trying,” Bobby said.

“Actually, this is the last model. It’s capable of sixty-two.”

It also had a canvas top that slid along the roofline. Not really a convertible, but the same effect.

“Drop that top!” Bobby demanded, and he and Drew unlatched the canvas and pushed it back.

The little coffee-grinder engine started up and we bounced out of the parking lot and onto the street.

I could sense Edmund tensing up beside me. Being so small ourselves made all the SUVs and vans seem even bigger than they really were, and having the top down made them very, very close. But it was the speed that seemed to bother him most.

Not that Drew was speeding. We were doing thirty-five, which was totally legal on that street, but it did feel faster than it would have in a regular car with the wind in our faces, plus Edmund’s long hair was whipping around.

Edmund was pushing himself back into the seat the way he had when he was watching television, and his face was set like he was a sea captain on an old-time ship staring into the storm. He looked handsome as hell and vulnerable as a little kid all at the same time.

Then his hand grabbed mine and held it like he was never letting go.

“Ah!” I went, because it hurt and I was surprised.

“What?” Bobby said, looking back over his shoulder.

“Nothing. I just like Drew’s ride, that’s all,” I said, and I squeezed Edmund’s hand back.

That squeeze ran all the way up my arm and into my heart.

Uh-oh. This should not be happening, I thought. Must not happen.

But I couldn’t just let go of his hand. I held on to it all the way home.

Chapter Six

Drew pulled into our driveway. Bobby got out and opened the door for us. I crawled out of the back seat, but Edmund unfolded himself and climbed over the side of the car. Then he leaned on it casually, but I was pretty sure his legs were trembling and he needed the support. I walked around and took his arm.

“I thank ye, friend,” he said to Drew. “A most excellent ride.”

“Any time.”

“Well, good night,” I broke in. “See you at tryouts.”

“Cool,” Bobby said, and got back in with Drew.

Edmund and I waved as they took off down our dark street.

When we couldn’t hear the engine of the Citroën any more, Edmund barfed all over the lawn. Then he allowed himself to collapse onto the driveway.

“Dear God, do ye do that all the time?” he asked, looking up at me. “’Twas like being on a mad horse with no reins. Or a plunging ship with a gale blowing. How d’ye stand such a thing?”

“Edmund, it’s okay,” I said, sitting down beside him. “Really. Drew’s a good driver. There was nothing wrong. Cars are the best way anybody’s ever come up with for getting from one place to another.”

“How fast were we going?”

“About thirty-five.”

“Thirty-five what?”

“Miles an hour.”

“Thirty-five miles an hour?” Edmund said. “How is it we’re still alive?”

“Maybe you’ll like riding in our car better,” I said. “It’s bigger and safer.”

“My car riding days are over!”

“They can’t be,” I said. “Everyone takes cars everywhere. You’ll get over being afraid. And I’ll tell you something else. Sooner or later, you’re going to be driving.”

“No! Such a thing…d’ye think I could learn the manage of a car?” Edmund asked.

“I think you could do anything you wanted to.” I said it just to cheer him up. But when I said it, I realized that I meant it.

“I, do such a thing,” Edmund said. “It must be easier than it looks.”

“We’d better go in.”

It was still early, only a little after nine o’clock, but tucking Edmund into bed in the extra room seemed like the best thing to do with him at this point. I needed some private time to sort out a couple of things. Such as how I was going to explain to Mom that we had a new, permanent house-guest. And why my heart was still going thumpity thump.

And Edmund really was tired. “Saint Mary and Joseph, I am weary and ’tis late for a night with no ranging to be done,” he said. “Miranda, where may a poor player lay his head?”

I showed him the bedroom. But then there was another little problem.

“Edmund,” I said. “What do you sleep in?”

He thumped the bed and looked surprised at how much it bounced. “Oh. On such a warm night as this, I’ll need nothing. Thank you, Miranda.”

“Okay,” I said. “But if you have to—go to the jakes in the middle of the night—”

“I will cover myself up. I do have a proper sense of shame.”

“Well, good, then. Good night.”

“Miranda, before we say good-night, will ye pray with me?” Edmund asked.

“Uh…yeah. Okay, I guess,” I said. “What religion are you?”

“Church of England, of course,” he said. “Inclining more toward the old faith than some, as I expect ye’ve noted. What are ye?”

Dad was Jewish, and Mom wasn’t anything. My six-week stint in Sunday school had been because I was curious where some of my friends went on Sunday morning back in the second grade. My curiosity had been satisfied and I hadn’t been back since.

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