You must last ten minutes, Alex had said. Or lose her job.
The nurse’s mouth opened to say “What, Juliet!” a third time. Before the words came out, Amy said, “‘Here I am, nurse!’”
More titters from the audience. They were laughing at her. Were they in on this planned humiliation? They must be, or how else could they accept a Juliet played by four different girls: Amy, Violet, Waverly, Lynn.
The woman across the stage said, “‘I called, your mother.’”
“I am here!” Amy said.
Laughter from the audience. Amy blinked back tears.
Lady Capulet said, “‘This is the matter:—Nurse, give leave awhile, we must talk in secret:—nurse, come back again; I have remember’d me, thou’s hear our counsel. Thou know’st my daughter’s of a pretty age.’”
The nurse said, “‘Faith, I can tell her age unto an hour,’” and Lady Capulet answered that Juliet was not yet fourteen. Then the nurse gave a long speech, which Amy desperately tried to follow. The Shakespearean language was difficult, but apparently it was about Juliet’s childhood. Finally the mother told the nurse to “‘hold thy peace,’” which she didn’t. Another long nurse speech.
Keep talking, nurse! The longer she did, the less Amy had to say.
But eventually the nurse turned to Amy. “‘Thou wast the prettiest babe that e’er I nursed. An I might live to see thee married once, I have my wish.’”
“‘Marry,’” Lady Capulet said, “‘that marry is the very theme I came to talk of. Tell me, daughter Juliet, how stands your disposition to be married?’”
Married. That’s right—they wanted her to marry somebody who wasn’t Romeo (who?) and Juliet didn’t want to. Amy tried to look rebellious and said, “I have no disposition to be married.”
More laughter, but not as much. The line wasn’t right but evidently the idea was. How many minutes left?
Another long exchange between the mother and the nurse. Amy tried to decode the flowery language. Paris wanted to marry Juliet. The nurse thought that Paris was hot. Finally Lady Capulet put a hand on Juliet’s shoulder and said, “‘Speak briefly, can you like of Paris’ love?’”
Did she? No, not really, or Shakespeare wouldn’t have had a play. But had Juliet met Romeo yet? Where in the play was this scene? Better play it safe.
Amy said, “I know not. I hardly know valiant Paris.”
More laughter. Amy pressed her lips tightly together. She was growing to hate that sound. A young man entered stage right. Was this Paris? He didn’t look all that hot. But no, he knelt before Lady Capulet and said that the guests had come and dinner was served. Lady Capulet said, “‘We follow thee,’” and left the stage, tossing over her shoulder, “‘Juliet, the county stays.’”
What did that mean? Was Juliet supposed to stay onstage or follow her mother? Then Amy remembered dimly that “the county” referred to Paris, as if he were several square miles instead of a single man. Lady Capulet must mean that she should stay and wait for him.
The nurse said something Amy didn’t catch, and they both left the stage. Amy sat down in the chair that Lady Capulet had vacated and waited, facing the audience.
Nothing happened.
She smiled at the audience.
They laughed.
Juliet must have to do something here. But what? Well, she was waiting for Paris; maybe she primped. Amy took a comb from her pocket and combed her hair. The audience roared. She put the comb away. Where the hell was Paris? Was one of the boys supposed to play this part, Cai or Rafe or Tommy? Had they refused?
She was trapped on a stage with nothing to say.
The audience howled.
Damn them. Didn’t they have any compassion for her? Did they know what was happening? Weren’t the ten minutes up?
She rose from the chair and looked toward the wings. Lady Capulet and the nurse stood there, Lady Capulet with her hand over her mouth to keep her laughter quiet, the older nurse with folded arms and a face creased with pity. Amy started toward them but the nurse shook her head, pointed to her watch, and held up three fingers. Three more minutes onstage.
Damn them all. She would tough it out. Amy turned to the audience.
“Here I stand, with Paris nowhere near
And my heart sore with waiting. He
Is not my own true love, but nonetheless
My mother wishes me to marry. What
Can I do? I am but a woman
And these times are hard—”
In her mind she heard the chanting demonstrators: Times be tough, man.
“So I must do as I am bid. Or maybe
Not. After all, I am neither a borrower nor a lender,
And even a young girl can have
A mind of her own. I am a Capulet. I am Juliet.
Time and tide wait for no man.
We Capulets can make our own destiny. I will
Not trust in the stars, but compel them. And may
it all
turn out well that ends well.”
Did any of that at all make sense? The laughter still continued, but now Amy also heard scattered applause. She sank into a curtsy, wishing that instead she could kick every laughing hyena out there in the audience right in the balls. Even the women.
“Laugh at me, yea,” she cried, raising her eyes to the heavens, “but he who laughs last laughs best!”
The curtain came down.
Amy rushed into the wings. The actress playing Lady Capulet was laughing so hard she sagged against the wall. “Let me see, I counted Julius Caesar in that little speech, and All’s Well That Ends Well, and Hamlet. . . . You’re certainly an unoriginal original, Amy!”
Amy ignored her. She ran up to Alex and said, “How could you . . . made a fool of myself . . .”
“Actually,” he said coolly, “you didn’t do too badly. It’ll make good television.”
“You bastards!”
“You can always quit. For now, come with me. I have to get you in a cab before I fetch Violet for the party scene.”
Amy said fiercely, “Haven’t you ever had the nightmare where you’re forced onstage in something and don’t know your lines?”
“Everyone has that nightmare. Everyone. Which is exactly why you got to live it.” He laughed.
Hating him, Amy let herself be put into a cab back to the TV station, where a guard consulted his tablet and sent her back to her cubicle to move the can into the pan, the ant off the plant, the pup by the cup.
Ten
THURSDAY
“WHAT DID YOU DO?” Violet asked Amy the next day at lunch. “Onstage, I mean?”
“I ad-libbed,” Amy said.
“You ad-libbed Shakespeare?”
Everyone else stopped talking. The seven sat at a cafeteria table. It was the first time they had all been together without Myra or Alex, but each had been sent there from morning duties at the same time so it must be what the producers wanted. Amy didn’t like being manipulated, but she was curious to know the others better. Except for Cai, whose effect on her was so strong that she would have preferred to avoid him. She sat as far away from him as she could.
The cafeteria was large, with plain tables, abundant if bland food, and industrial carpeting to hold down noise. This did not work. Amy had to strain to hear people two seats away, but everyone could hear Violet. She added, “What scene was it?”
“The opening scene,” Amy said. “I think.”
Rafe said, “The opening scene has no women in it. I read the whole play last night.”
Amy said, “Then maybe Juliet’s first scene. Her mother tells her she wants Juliet to get married to Paris.”
Waverly said, “‘I’ll look to like, if looking liking move; but no more deep will I endart mine eye than your consent gives strength to make it fly.’”
Everyone stared at her. Did Cai’s stare hold admiration? Waverly was so very pretty, in her D&G miniskirt and punk jewelry and combat boots. Waverly shrugged disdainfully. “I told you
all that I’m an actress.”
Lynn demanded, “So you just knew the whole play by heart?”
“Juliet’s role, yes. Of course.” She took a dainty bite of her sandwich.
Lynn said, “What scene did you get?”
“The balcony scene.”
“And you just happened to know it all.”
Waverly said, “I killed in the scene.”
Violet did a good imitation of Waverly’s usual eye-rolling. Waverly turned on her. “And what scene did you get?”
Violet said, “Some lame party. It’s when Juliet is supposed to meet Romeo.”
Waverly said, “And of course you knew the lines.”
“Of course I didn’t, bitch. But I know what happens at parties. Romeo came on all smarmy about how hot I am, and I just smiled, grabbed him, and signaled to the musician standing around in the background to play his lute. He did, and I swung Romeo—you never saw such a gay guy in your whole life—into a two-step. When he pulled away, I danced on my own, like Juliet was this narcissistic exhibitionist with great rhythm she wanted to show off.”
“Unlike you,” Lynn said sarcastically.
Violet ignored her. “The musician played along. Well, what else could he do? And I danced the hell out of that scene.”
Amy said, “For ten minutes?”
“And a one and a two and a three,” Violet said.
“Hardly Shakespeare.” Waverly sniffed.
“Hardly matters, bitch.”
Cai said, “Didn’t the audience laugh at you?”
“Sure, at first. So what? By the end they were clapping the rhythm. I did twenty-two fouettés en tournant in a row.”
Amy didn’t know what a fouetté en tournant was, but it sounded impressive.
Rafe said, “I got a scene with Romeo and his friend Mercutio. I didn’t know the lines and I didn’t pretend to know the lines.”
Amy said, “What did you do?”
“I went to the front of the stage, held up my hand, and told the techs to bring up a spotlight on me. They did. For ten minutes I talked about how drama fools us into accepting alternate realities as real, which softens us up to accept alternate realities that authorities want us to believe. Pay your taxes because it’s a civic duty, look both ways before you cross the street because you might get hit by a bus, obey the cops because they’re on your side. It’s all bullshit. The authorities want control because that’s always what authorities want, and they’ll use any means to get it. Drama and fiction and anything else unreal is just one more subtle way of keeping us under someone else’s thumb.”
Amy said, “Bravo. However, looking both ways before you cross the street . . . You could get hit by a bus. The bus is real enough.”
“You’d hear it coming,” Rafe said. “Anyway, that’s what I did. You asked and I told you.”
“And Alex let you?” Amy said. “He didn’t bring down the curtain or anything?”
“Of course not. I could have stripped naked and danced a tarantella and that curtain would have stayed up. They wanted a unique response to a humiliating situation, so I gave them one. Without acting humiliated. I’m going to get another cookie. Anybody else want one?”
No one did. Violet said, “Watch out, Rafe, chocolate chips could be a means of government control.”
Rafe ignored her. Cai and Lynn declined to say how they reacted to the scenario. Cai merely said wryly, “Let’s just say I don’t have Rafe’s presence of mind. Or his politics.” When Violet asked Tommy what he did onstage, he just hung his head and said nothing.
Lynn said, “Well, two more days until the show airs. Then we’ll all see who did what, or maybe not in this particular scenario. Does anybody know which episode airs first?” She looked hard at Waverly, who shrugged.
“No idea.”
“Really.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Waverly said.
“Just that I saw you hanging around Mark Meyer, looking flirtatious. Trying to exchange information for your cold flesh, Waverly?”
“Actually,” Waverly said with poisonous sweetness, “I think you’re more his type, and you’re probably more used to that exchange. Casting couch and all. Bye, all you sad toads.” She took her tray to the bussing table.
On their way out, Amy said to Violet, “Who’s Mark Meyer?”
“Techie genius who does their special effects. Wasn’t he at your first interview? Young, geeky, leather jacket, tablet always in his hand?”
“He was there, yeah. But how did you know his—”
“Googled the TV station and read all I could. Really, One Two Three, you gotta keep up. Your tablet is your extra brain.”
Amy had no tablet. But she nodded, resolving to learn what she could at the library. She was obviously far behind the others.
So was this a competition, like Gran said? If so, who was winning so far? Probably she would find out Saturday night.
* * *
Thursday afternoon Amy was “promoted” to production assistant for a soap opera. At first this sounded exciting, but she quickly discovered that it mostly meant fetching coffee from the Starbucks across the street (“I just can’t drink that awful stuff they have here”), fetching things from other rooms (“My red scarf, I think I left it either in Makeup or my dressing room or maybe the ladies’, the one nearest the green room, or—”), and watching actors emote through overwrought plots (“But . . . Stone . . . Emily swore that Cliff was the father of Madison’s twins!”). Amy crossed “television production” off the list of careers she might want someday if she never got to college to study neurology.
Waiting for the unknown, Amy discovered, was worse than facing it. No scenarios occurred on Thursday. But she remained constantly on edge, poised for action she couldn’t predict. When an actor came up behind her to complain that she’d gotten his coffee order wrong, she jumped so hard that the coffee sloshed onto his costume. Amy apologized so profusely that finally the actor told her to knock it off, he’d drink the damn coffee the way it was.
When would the next scenario happen? What would it be?
In the evening Amy couldn’t concentrate well enough to play decent chess with Paul, who resented it. “That was a really dumb move.”
Amy tipped over her king. “Your game.”
“I can’t believe you had a rating of 1900. Were you lying?”
“No!”
“Then I don’t know what’s happened to you. It’s hardly worth playing you at all.”
Amy scowled, but she had no real answer.
The only bright spot was, surprisingly, Kaylie. She had gone to school every day that week, and as she and Amy prepared for bed, Kaylie said abruptly, “I know I’ve been a bitch lately. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
“It’s just that I’m so keyed up about All-City tomorrow night. This is going to be it, Amy. The band’s big break. Tomorrow is the last day I have to sit in that stupid school and listen to stupid teachers drone on about the Council of Trent.”
Amy couldn’t remember what the Council of Trent was, if she’d ever known. She said, “School is more than that.”
“You’d like to go back, wouldn’t you?” Kaylie said shrewdly. “Do that summer bridge course to take the college-admit exams. Fuck, I can’t imagine anything worse. But when Orange Decision is rich and famous, I’ll get it for you. You won’t have to work at the boring job anymore. I’ll take care of you and Gran both.”
“Kaylie,” Amy said, because it looked like this might be her only chance, “about my job at the TV station. It isn’t exactly . . . I mean, on Saturday night there will be a—”
“Gotta get to sleep,” Kaylie said. “I can’t be late tomorrow for my last day in hell. But on Saturday there’ll be what?”
“Nothing,” Amy said. She didn’t want to spoil Kaylie’s mood. She was glad she hadn’t mentioned the show debut when all at once Kaylie flung her arms around Amy, something she hadn’t done for at least two years. Into Amy’s ear
she whispered, “It means the world to me that you and Gran will be there tomorrow night. Really.” She whirled away and into the bathroom, singing.
Kaylie really thought her band would win. She really thought this evening would change her life. She really expected to rescue Amy, who at only one year older already had given up such expectations. There was no rescue. There was only what you could scrounge for yourself and yours, through putting up with Myra Townsend and Waverly Balter-Wells. Through yearning for someone not interested in her. Through muscles knotted by tension and a heart clenched against humiliation.
Through not knowing when the next scenario would come.
Eleven
FRIDAY
ON FRIDAY, SHE and Violet sat at a table by themselves. Instantly Lynn Demaris stood by the table. “Myra says we have to all lunch together over there.” She pointed to the table where Cai and Tommy already sat.
Violet said, “She didn’t tell me that.”
“Well, she told me. So come on.” Lynn stalked off.
Amy said, “What’s her problem? She wasn’t like that at lunch yesterday. In fact, she hardly said a word.”
Violet shrugged. “Probably screwed up something and is taking it out on us. Stay here, One Two Three, I want to talk to you. How about a shopping expedition sometime after you get paid? No offense, but I think you could use some Violet help with your wardrobe.”
Amy smiled. There was no attack mode in Violet’s speech, and as always, her exuberance lifted Amy’s spirits. With Gran weak, Kaylie often sullen, and Amy’s job boring when it wasn’t terrifying, Violet was like a bracing wind. It didn’t even embarrass her to answer Violet in the way she must.
“Violet, I haven’t got any money for clothes. I mean, none. I support my grandmother, who’s old and sick, and my little sister. I’m hoping to scrounge enough from this paycheck to get a TV from the pawnshop so I can see our show on Saturday. God, that sounds weird—I can’t believe I’d ever be saying a sentence like that!”
“Yeah, I know. But about the clothes—I’m not talking couture. Just, you know, jeans that fit, which yours don’t because it looks like you’ve dropped weight, and tops that don’t date from the early Jurassic.”