“You know,” Ms. Pingree says, “Juliet’s a little gentler in this scene. . . .”
Allie rounds on her. “I think you’re wrong. I think Juliet is pretty pissed that Romeo just blew her off. Besides, she didn’t really like Romeo all that much. It was just that he was new and more interesting than the hundreds of other lame guys fawning over her. But what she’s really thinking is that Mercutio is way hotter than Romeo and he’s in college and drives a vintage Mustang!”
I stare at her, speechless. I don’t know if I’m supposed to bow in submission or call the local asylum and have her committed.
“You know what?” Allie shouts. “I can’t work with idiots. I quit.” She hurls her script at a mousy girl wearing a sweatshirt with a glittery cat on it. “Break a leg, losers.” Her high heels click the entire way out of the auditorium as she leaves in a fit of perfume and fury.
Ms. Pingree looks like she’s about to throw up. Her hands flutter at her sides.
“Um, does that mean we can leave?” I ask.
“No, no,” she says after a moment. “The show must go on. . . . Claire, you’ll be our new Juliet.”
The girl with the cat sweatshirt scrambles to her feet, standing too close to me and breathing heavily. Her braces catch the stage lights when she smiles. “Let’s start at the kiss,” she suggests, and she throws her arms around me and plants a wet, slobbery one on my lips.
He justhadto join the drama club, didn’t he.
Last year in school I took a Greek mythology course. There’s a story about Tantalus, a guy who pissed the gods off so much that he was cursed to the deepest level of hell, stuck in a pool of water with a fruit tree hanging overhead. But every time he reached for the fruit, the branch would move out of his grasp. And every time he tried to take a drink, the water receded. So basically, he was surrounded by everything he wanted and needed but couldn’t have.
That’s exactly the hell I’m in on this double date.
I’ve never really been a fan of miniature golf. For some reason the courses always seem to be cracked or sloped weirdly or are full of kids throwing tantrums. Not even Tiger Woods could get a hole in one.
I’m the only person here, though, who even seems to care about the inaccuracies on the course or the fact that the water in the windmill pond at hole number 5 is a frightening, toxic green. Delilah hasn’t smiled once, and is dragging her club around like it’s a ball and chain. Jules, who considers sports to be one of the great downfalls of modern society, is doodling on the scorecard. Chris, on the other hand, seems able to golf below par when he’s not even looking. Which is entirely the case, since his eyes are glued to Jules’s butt.
“I can’t believe we have nine more holes,” Delilah says.
“Your enthusiasm,sweetheart,overwhelms me.” I grab her arm and lower my voice. “You’re the one who said we’re supposed to act like a couple.”
She sighs and holds my hand with about as much romantic intent as a nurse taking a patient’s pulse.
“I think it’s your turn,” Chris says to Jules.
She steps up to the tee, wiggling her hips as she tries to line up her ball. “Ugh,” she says. “I know I’m never going to get it in.”
“Here . . . let me help.” Chris puts down his club and walks over, fitting himself tightly behind her and sliding his hands down to her wrists.
“Ouch,” Delilah says, and I realize I’ve got her hand in a death grip.
“It’s all in the swing,” Chris continues, swaying back and forth with Jules in his arms.
Dammit—she giggles.
I can’t stand here and watch this. It feels like my head is going to explode. And it doesn’t really help matters to know that Jules is doing nothing in her power to stop this.
How come she was all over me when we were inside the book, but here, I’m not good enough? Was I different in there than I am out here?
I used to be, that’s for sure. The old Edgar would have looked at competition like Chris and given up, assuming that he had no chance with Jules.
But I’m not the old Edgar.
I pull Delilah into my arms. “Have I told you how beautiful you are today?”
Delilah looks at me, puzzled.Are you on crack?she mouths.
Chris laughs. “Get a room, you two.”
I can feel the heat of Jules’s gaze as if she could set me on fire through sheer force of will. She turns, faking a stumble so that Chris will catch her. “Wow,” she says, feeling his biceps. “How many push-ups can you do, again?”
