Playing Juliet Read online

  Then Zandy blurted out what was worrying her: “Chuck Peterson said no one can work backstage if they don’t turn up for the ten a.m. crew meeting on Saturday.”

  “Why?”

  I’d never heard of anyone who volunteered to crew being turned down. You might not get the job you wanted most, but they always found something that needed doing. I was sure I could get around that one and I said so.

  Zandy looked down at the peppercorns in her hand. “There’s so many kids working backstage, we’re tripping over each other. Everyone wants to be part of this play because it’s the last one.”

  I felt a rush of jealousy. Zandy wouldn’t be working on the play if I hadn’t taken all the blame, but I pushed the thought to the back of my mind. The important thing I needed to concentrate on was finding a job, any job. There was no way I wasn’t going to be a part of this production.

  “If I can’t crew, I’ll just usher every night.”

  Zandy plucked a peppercorn out of her palm and threw it at the tree. “All the usher slots filled Wednesday.”

  That night, my mom wandered into my room with a copy of the San Francisco Chronicle in her hand.

  “Look what I found,” she said. “A picture of . . .” She stopped and read the caption again. “Marguerite Fredericks. She was at the theater last week. Mrs. Mac introduced her before the play began. She’s related to Lucille Bow somehow.”

  Mom looked at me to see if I knew who she was talking about.

  I knew who she was talking about all right.

  “Mrs. Fredericks must really like theater,” she said. “This picture was taken at a reception for a very famous director, Quinn Whitaker.”

  I made my face go blank.

  My mother started to explain, as if I didn’t know who she meant. “He was the director of that Winter Shakespeare Festival in Canada. The one that was written up in the papers.”

  When I still didn’t react, her voice became insistent. “Beth, I know you’ve heard of Quinn Whitaker.”

  “Didn’t his theater burn down recently?” It hurt to ask.

  “Right! Even losing his theater made international news.” She sounded pleased that I had made the connection. “You can read about it yourself.”

  She put the newspaper down on my bed as she left. I stared at it as though she had just left a live cobra in my room. Finally, I reached over and picked it up. There was a picture of Mrs. Fredericks and a man with a shock of dark curls standing together and talking. I read the caption under the picture very carefully:

  Quinn Whitaker and Marguerite Fredericks chat at a reception honoring outstanding accomplishments in the arts. Whitaker was named Most Innovative Director for his outdoor staging of Shakespeare’s The Winter’s Tale on a frozen lake after his theater was destroyed by fire. Whitaker is looking for a new facility and, when questioned, said he might consider moving his award-winning theater company to the United States if the right location became available.

  I threw the paper in the wastebasket and flopped down on my bed. I picked up Romeo and Juliet and put it right back down. I couldn’t read.

  What else could she do with a 248-seat theater in a public park?

  That would make a good vocal exercise. By accenting different words, how many different meanings would you give that phrase?

  The second Saturday I was grounded was the worst day of my life. No school, no church, nothing but the desolation of my room. When my clock flashed 10:00 a.m., I knew the mandatory crew meeting had started. My last chance to be part of a production at the Oakfield Children’s Theater was gone. I couldn’t imagine what my life would be like without it.

  The hours crawled by. I was lying on my bed, bored with everything, most of all with my own company, when I heard a faint scratching sound near my door. I went to investigate and found a small plastic army man lying on the floor. As I reached down to pick it up, another slid slowly under the door to join him.

  R. J. had sent his army men on a mission to make me feel better. We spent an hour talking through the crack beneath my door.

  “Is the theater really going to close?” he asked.

  “Looks like it.”

  “What will you do?”

  I wanted to make him feel better so I answered as positively as I could.

  “I’ll be in high school in a year and a half. I can act in plays there.”

  “A year’s a really long time.”

  Eight-year-olds are not good at waiting. Who am I kidding? Twelve-year-olds think a year’s a really long time, too, especially if it’s a year without acting.

  “While I’m waiting, I’ll become a triple threat.”

  Both R. J. and the army men liked the sound of that. I heard a soft laugh and three more green plastic figures appeared under the door.

  “Here comes a triple threat,” he said. Then there was a long pause, followed by, “What’s a triple threat?”

  “Someone who can act and sing and dance. I’ll start taking dance classes and vocal lessons and you’ll be stuck coming to recitals instead of plays.”

  The exaggerated groans that came from the other side of the door were just what I hoped to hear.

  The funny thing about trying to make someone else feel better is you start feeling better yourself.

  After the Children’s Theater closed, I would keep on training. There were dance studios and vocal coaches in town. I would take the train to San Francisco and study there. When I turned sixteen, I would drive to rehearsals.

  I kept thinking of what Mrs. Mac said: “What’s silly is to worry about something without doing anything about it.”

  I couldn’t use the Internet, but I got out the phone book and made a list of who to call about lessons when I could finally use the phone again.

  I stared at my list, biting the end of my pen, and then started another one. There were only two items on the second list.

  When my two weeks were finally up, I headed straight from school to the theater. It was the first task on that second list. I wanted to work on Romeo and Juliet and the only way I could figure out how to do it was to get special permission from Mrs. Mac.

  I didn’t ask Zandy to come with me; this time I had to see Mrs. Mac alone.

  Her door was open, but so much depended on the next few minutes it was hard to find the courage to knock on it. The only thing harder would be to give up and go home.

  I knocked.

  “Beth, how can I help you?” Mrs. Mac asked, looking up from the costume sketches she was studying,

  “I’d like to crew for Romeo and Juliet,” I said. “But since I’ve been grounded for the last two weeks I missed the crew meeting on Saturday. Is there any way I can still help backstage?”

  It sounded good. Okay, I had written it out, memorized it in school that day, and rehearsed it all the way to the theater. I was proud I got up the nerve to say it.

  Mrs. Mac frowned. “I’m sorry,” she said. “But you know the rules. If you miss a rehearsal or a crew meeting for any reason but illness, you can’t work on the play.”

  “There’s nothing I can do?” My voice slowed down with each word.

  “Come and see the play. The audience is a vital part of the theater, too. You know that.”

  I bit my lip and looked down at the floor, trying to think of something else to say. A muffled yell and the sudden sound of clashing metal sounded through the room. My head jerked up, and I bit down so hard I could taste blood.

  “What’s that?” I asked as the metallic clash, accompanied by heart-wrenching shrieks and snarls, rang out again and again.

  Mrs. Mac looked back down at the sketches on her desk and sighed. “Swords. The specialist in stage fighting is going to be working in the rehearsal room every afternoon until they’re ready to go onstage. And I’m going to need to work with the door closed with all that going on. Would you . . . ?”

  She left the request unspoken but it was a clear signal that it was time for me to go.

  “Shut the door?” I
asked, and she nodded.

  I was shutting off part of my life with the closing of that door. I’d never be in another play at the Children’s Theater. The sound of the swords clanging against each other was much louder near the hallway, certainly loud enough to cover my voice as I reached for the handle.

  “‘O, shut the door, and when thou hast done so, Come weep with me; past hope, past cure, past help!’” Just as I started speaking, there was a muffled shout and all the noise stopped. My voice came out much louder than I expected.

  “What?” Mrs. Mac’s head popped up and her voice was startled. “What did you say?”

  “It’s just one of Juliet’s lines,” I said, leaning on the doorknob. “I read Romeo and Juliet about ten times when I was grounded.”

  Mrs. Mac was staring at me so hard that I felt I had to explain more.

  “Two weeks is a very long time to be. . . ‘stifled in the vault, To whose foul mouth no healthsome air breathes in.’”

  “And you spent that time . . . ?” Mrs. Mac was using the same brisk tone that she uses when she directs, when she’s trying to get someone to do more with a line, to try a different direction.

  “I memorized a lot of Juliet’s speeches.”

  “Why?”

  How could I answer a question like that? “It comforted me.”

  “How much?”

  “‘Marvelous much.’”

  We were playing a word game but I didn’t know the rules. I thought I was giving the right answers by quoting Juliet’s lines, but Mrs. Mac suddenly changed the playing field. She glanced down at the costume sketches in front of her.

  “How tall are you?”

  “Five-foot-two.”

  She looked up, staring like she was running through everything she knew about me.

  “Emily Chang is playing Juliet,” she said. “I’m having a problem casting her understudy because Emily’s so petite and her understudy needs to be able to wear her costume.”

  I nodded. I was afraid to say anything. What if Mrs. Mac’s thoughts weren’t going where mine were?

  “Scheduling is an even bigger concern,” she went on. “Since I moved up the dates for this play, our rehearsals conflict with the high school’s SAT exams. I’m having trouble finding an actor who wants to take the time from her studies to learn a major Shakespearean part for a role as an understudy. Especially since Emily is playing Juliet . . .”

  Mrs. Mac didn’t have to say any more. Everyone knew that Emily would be onstage for every performance unless she really did break a leg. And even then she’d probably find a pair of crutches in the prop room and go on anyway.

  Mrs. Mac pulled a pencil out of her hair and tapped the eraser lightly on her desk, still staring at me. “It seems your parents gave you a gift of time and you used it well.” She gave a final decisive tap and smiled. “Would you like to understudy Juliet?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  Would I like to be a part of the last play at the Oakfield Children’s Theater?

  Yes.

  Would I like to play Juliet? Would I like to have my biggest dream come true?

  Yes. Yes. Yes.

  “You’ve just been given the part, so technically you haven’t missed any rehearsals,” said Mrs. Mac. “Sit in the house and watch whenever you can and try to learn her blocking.”

  I finally thought of something else to say. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

  She pulled a pencil out of her hair and glanced at the costume sketches again, but she had one more thing to say. “Emily is seventeen now, and you’re . . . ?” She paused for me to answer.

  “Almost twelve and three-quarters.”

  Mrs. Mac smiled again. “Almost thirteen. Juliet’s age. It will be very interesting to see the difference in how you and Emily play the character. You’ve grown as an actress in the last year. I’m looking forward to working with you on this role, even if it’s just at the one understudy rehearsal.”

  We both knew there wasn’t a chance I’d get onstage for anything else, but I didn’t care. I was a going to be part of the last play at my theater. I was playing Juliet. What more could I ask for?

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Like a dull actor now,

  I have forgot my part

  Shakespeare’s Coriolanus

  I flew down the street, pumping my bicycle harder than I ever had before. I was playing Juliet!

  What if I hadn’t gotten up the courage to ask Mrs. Mac to be part of the play? My bike jerked to the side. Just thinking about it made me lose my balance.

  Now I had to find enough courage to talk to my parents.

  The second item on my list. And the hardest.

  I’d been trying to figure out why Juliet didn’t tell her parents she was already married when her father ordered her to marry someone else. And I think I understood.

  Juliet knew her father would be angry and disappointed. She didn’t want to face hurting him so badly. But she died because she kept her marriage a secret. And she hurt him even more. Her poor parents were left to find her lifeless body in the family tomb. Wouldn’t they rather have learned the truth than lost their daughter?

  It was time to tell my father the truth—time to tell him I wanted to become an actor.

  I slowed my bike and coasted for a while, planning how to explain my decision. I’d wait till after dinner, just before we left the dining room table. I’d tell my parents I was going to understudy Juliet. I would be clear and businesslike. My dad would like that.

  But when I got home and saw my mom through the kitchen window, I threw my bike down on the ground and ran into the house screaming, “I got in! I got in! I got in!”

  She’d heard it before.

  “So the grounding didn’t matter after all?” Mom asked. She sounded genuinely happy for me.

  “It did matter,” I said. “I only got in because I’m good.”

  “Elizabeth, that sounds very conceited,” said my dad.

  He was on the other side of the kitchen, chopping broccoli with his Chinese cleaver.

  “I had to know I’m good before I could tell you this,” I said and took a deep breath. “I want to be an actor when I grow up.”

  Thownk! went the cleaver.

  “Actors don’t make enough money to live on,” said my father.

  “Some do,” I said.

  “Really, Beth?” said my mother, “Just because Mrs. Mac was kind enough to add in a part for you, you suddenly decide to make acting your career?”

  “I’m understudying Juliet,” I said.

  Thwonk! went the cleaver.

  We talked in the kitchen and we talked during dinner. We sat around the table long after R. J. got up to play in his room.

  And we struck a deal. If the theater closed, my parents would let me study acting in San Francisco when I turned sixteen.

  “If you’re still interested then,” my father kept repeating.

  In the meantime, they would pay half for vocal lessons and half for dance lessons, but only if I looked into other professions, as well.

  “Acting is such a gamble,” said my mother. “You have to have some other way to earn enough money to buy food.”

  “And to pay your rent,” added my father, brushing a few stray grains of salt into a neat pile on the tablecloth. “I suppose you know that I’ve always hoped you’d become a lawyer.”

  My mother and I both smiled at each other.

  “You tell me almost every day,” I said, still smiling.

  He looked up from the salt pile. “It’s a job you can support yourself with. What do you think about working at my office after school? You could earn the money you’ll need for your lessons and you’d also learn something about the law.”

  “I’d really like that,” I said.

  I would. That experience could be very useful. I might play Portia someday. And there are all those TV shows about lawyers.

  I loved working on the role of Juliet. Since Mrs. Mac had told me she didn’t expect me to
copy what Emily was doing, I felt free to create my own version of the character.

  On Sunday, Zandy came over and helped me work on the blocking in my bedroom. She read all the parts—except Juliet—as I walked through the role and tried to remember where to move and when.

  I held up my pencil jar and said, “Romeo, I come! This do I drink to thee,” and almost stabbed myself in the eye as I mimed taking a drink of poison.

  I walked three steps to my bed and fell on it, losing a pencil or two in the process.

  “No,” said Zandy. “The blocking’s been changed. Now you hold up the vial, walk the three steps, then drink and fall.” She eyed my pencil jar. “An obvious victim of lead poisoning.”

  Zandy knew the blocking better than I did. She was working the followspot and had a bird’s eye view of the stage from the lighting booth at the back of the house. She’d watched the play from there all last week so she could learn where the actors were when she needed to follow them with the spotlight.

  When we finished running through all the scenes I was in, we went to the kitchen for a glass of milk. I was scouting around to see if I could find any junk food to go with it when Zandy said, “I like your Juliet more than Emily’s.”

  “You’re a good friend, Zan,” I said, feeling a little embarrassed and really pleased.

  “Your Juliet is much dumber.”

  “You’re a good friend, Zan,” I said, feeling more embarrassed and a lot less pleased.

  “You know what I mean. You’re doing it deliberately. Your Juliet just rushes into dumb things,” she said. “Emily’s Juliet sounds very mature, like she’s thinking things through, so I forget how stupid she is.”

  “You think Juliet’s stupid?” I stopped rummaging for food and turned around to look at Zandy.

  “Really, really dumb. And so’s Romeo. They’ve known each other one day and they run off and get married. That’s not smart.”

  “Well, no.”

  “Then, when Juliet’s parents want to marry her to another guy, does she tell them she’s married already?” Zandy was leaning against the counter, her hands on her hips. I was going to agree with her but she didn’t wait for me to answer. “Not our Juliet. She turns to drugs.”