Saving Juliet

  "That's when Benvolio found you."

  "Right. Benvolio." His tone soured. "You've got to be careful with that guy. I know his type."

  "What type is that?"

  "The controlling type."

  "Oh, really?" Like I even cared about his opinion. "Well, I don't find him one bit controlling. I think he's charming." I folded my arms and smirked.

  "Whatever," Troy said, frowning. "Look, we've got to figure out how to get home. I'm supposed to be in the Virgin Islands today. I'm under contract. My producer's going to be pissed." Which brought up the question--where did everyone think we had gone? Both of us missing at the exact same time. Had my mother called the FBI? Probably. I could just see the headlines: Bad-Boy Pop Star Runs Off with Virginal Wallingford Heiress.

  Troy ran his hand along the church bench. "I'm sitting in Friar Laurence's church. No one is going to believe it."

  Maybe a hundred years from now teleporting into stories will be commonplace. Only a century ago it would have been a stretch to believe that human beings would actually walk on the moon. Or that one day we would bounce music off satellites or play three-dimensional computer-generated games. If you still think I'm making all this up, you should read Troy's autobiography, Summer Love: Days of Sand, Surf, and Song, which is due in bookstores next year. He dedicated the last two chapters to this adventure.

  "Friar Laurence's church," he repeated, shaking his head in wonder. "So if this is Shakespeare's story, how come everyone's not talking like the play? Perchance, forsooth, 'tis and 'twas, all that crap?"

  "Because I didn't wish myself into Shakespeare's play. I'm as tired of Shakespeare as you are, Troy. I wished myself some' where else. I was desperate to get away from the Wallingford and, thanks to your comment, Verona was on my mind."

  "Amazing. I'm going to talk to my agent about pitching this as a movie. Wouldn't this make a great movie?"

  "Depends on the ending," I said worriedly. "How are we going to get back without the charm?"

  He shrugged. "Maybe we just need to get to the end of the story. You know, when Romeo and Juliet die. Or maybe we just need to say the last lines. I bet that's all there is to it." He stood and delivered the last lines from Shakespeare's beloved tragedy. "For never was there a story of more woe, than this of Juliet and her Romeo." We waited. I closed my eyes, then opened them.

  I was not surprised to see morning sun streaming through stained-glass windows. I opened the heavy church door just enough to poke my head out. Nothing had changed. Troy repeated the lines again and again. Still nothing.

  Was I relieved? Somewhat. I wanted to see Benvolio again. I wanted to dance with him and maybe even get a kiss. This place was built on fantasy and at some point I would need to go back to the real world. I still had a life to live. A real life. But until then, Benvolio beckoned.

  Troy's face fell. "Don't tell me we have to go through the entire story in order to end it. I'm sick to death of this play and now I have to live it? What act are we in?"

  "Troy, this is not the play."

  "What act are we in?"

  "We're not in an act or a scene," I told him. He scowled at me. No use arguing. He'd figure things out later. "Last night was the Capulet party."

  "Okay, so this is the morning after Romeo meets Juliet. Tybalt obviously hasn't been killed yet, but that should happen soon. Then we shouldn't have much longer to wait for the big suicide scene and, voila..." He clapped his hands. "We're outta here."

  He was clueless.

  "Holy St. Francis," Friar Laurence said as he waddled past the altar. "Where have you two been?"

  "Sightseeing," Troy replied, stepping away from the friar when he tried to inspect his leg.

  "Your wound will need a new dressing. I'll tend to it when I return."

  "Over my dead body. Unless you can convince me that you've read a medical textbook by someone other than the local witch doctor or the Spanish Inquisitor, you're not getting near this leg."

  "Where are you going?" I asked the friar.

  "I have been summoned to Capulet House. There is to be a wedding tomorrow and I'm to officiate."

  "A wedding?" I asked.

  "Yes. Between Lady Juliet and Paris Calchetto IV. Not a love match, I'm afraid to say. And she's so young, poor little flower." The friar stroked his cross. "I understand that there was some confusion at the party last night and that Paris almost called the wedding off. But Lady Capulet was able to sway him."

  The onions and boil-y bottom hadn't worked. Lady Capulet would get her way, after all.

  "Friar, you don't have to pretend with us," Troy assured him. "We know all about Romeo and Juliet. We know that you're going to marry them in secret." Troy was under the assumption that Juliet and Romeo had met, had confided their love to the friar, and that everything was proceeding as originally written. I cleared my throat but the friar spoke.

  "Marry Romeo and Juliet?" Friar Laurence gasped. "Why ever would I do such a thing? They are mortal enemies."

  "Look, we know that they're in love and that they want to get married." Troy returned to the bench, carefully positioning his wounded leg.

  "Troy," I said. "They're not in love. They haven't met yet."

  "But they were supposed to meet at the party."

  "I know, but they didn't."

  "How do you know?" he asked.

  "Because I was there and they never met." He narrowed his eyes, waiting for me to explain. "A bunch of stuff happened and Juliet got sent to her room before she even saw Romeo." I swallowed nervously.

  Troy sighed with frustration. "Let me get this straight. We're stuck in the story of Romeo and Juliet and we can't get home without a magic charm made from Shakespeare's quill, which doesn't exist in this world. However, we might be able to get home when the story ends, but if Romeo and Juliet don't meet, then we don't have a story. More important, we don't have an ending."

  Friar Laurence tsk tsked. He placed his speckled hand on Troy's forehead. "Bless you, my son, but a fever has muddled your mind." He sniffed. "Smells like the wound is festering."

  "Festering?" Troy cried.

  Friar Laurence rubbed his bald spot. "Good gracious, this is a dilemma. Her ladyship will certainly have me exiled if I don't come right away. I shall tend to your leg when I return. Go upstairs, children, and get some rest. Help yourselves to whatever you find." He opened the church door and hurried on his way.

  "Festering?" Troy repeated with alarm. "Fever? Oh my God, I'm going to get gangrene. Mimi, we've got to get home right away. I've got to get to a hospital."

  What if he did get gangrene? What would we do then? There were no antibiotics in sixteenth-century Verona--or sixteenth-century anywhere for that matter. I'm sure none of the surgical instruments had been sterilized and the bandage had been filthy.

  "Mimi, are you listening to me? We've got to end this as soon as possible!"

  "Okay, okay," I agreed halfheartedly. He was right. We were both in serious, mortal danger. But it broke my heart. I had hoped for a happy ending for Juliet.

  Would her death be my only ticket home?

  Seventeen

  ***

  "I have not slept a wink. "

  We helped ourselves to the friar's bread and cheese.

  Actually, we fell upon the food like refugees, which in a strange way was exactly what we were--Reality Refugees. That might make a good title for Troy's movie.

  After eating the last bite, Troy collapsed onto the cot and immediately fell into a deep sleep. I scanned the upstairs for another mattress, but found none. There was a small closet that contained a closestool, which I used, and a room filled with hanging bundles of herbs and all sorts of cutting and measuring implements. A bucket of water sat on the floor and I poured some into a bowl and washed my face as best as I could, using the inside of my skirt as a towel. The water felt refreshing but I longed for a bath. I couldn't find a tub or shower. What did people do in this century?

  Back in the friar's room, Troy slept with an
arm stretched across his forehead. There wasn't much room on that cot. If two people shared it, their bodies would be pressed together. I grimaced. "Troy?" I whispered, trying to wake him up. If he knew that there were no other beds, he might be a gentleman and offer to sleep on the floor. "Troy?" But he didn't budge. I yawned. How long could the human body go without sleep?

  Maybe I could sleep in the friar's chair with my head resting on the desk. I pushed aside some rolls of parchment paper, an inkwell, and a jar of quills. But I couldn't get comfortable and I tipped the ink, staining one of my sleeves. Lady Capulet would probably put me on the rack for ruining her dress. I rested my head in my hands and watched Troy's chest as it rose and fell. He had kicked the blankets off the cot. I thought about Juliet's blankets and how she liked to crawl beneath them to think.

  Juliet. Sweet little Juliet, getting ready to marry a man twice her age.

  Despite my exhaustion, I unrolled one of the parchments and dipped a quill into the inkwell. The friar had said we could help ourselves to whatever we found. The possibility existed that I might never see Juliet again and I wanted to tell her a few things. Like a wiser, older sister. It didn't take long to figure out the quill and soon I was writing a letter to Juliet.

  I told her about my life back in Manhattan. About how I also felt trapped so she would know that she wasn't alone. About how our mothers were kind of alike and how I had always wished for a different life. I told her about the charm and the ashes and that I wasn't really her cousin. But I was her friend. And that even if things go terribly wrong, she should never, ever consider suicide.

  My head fell forward and I couldn't keep my eyes open.

  Troy had rolled onto his side, freeing a narrow slice of cot. I lay next to him, not caring that his butt pressed into my thighs. Not caring about anything at all but getting some rest.

  I slept long and hard and dreamed about kissing Benvolio. The kiss was soft. But then his face morphed into Troy's face and the kiss grew urgent. Troy held me so close that I could feel his heart beating. I pressed closer, wanting to kiss him forever, wanting to ...

  "Mimi, wake up. You're on my hurt leg."

  At first I didn't know where I was. The room was dark except for a single lit candle that sat on a desk--the friar's desk. I was still in Verona, sharing a cot with Troy. What time was it? What day was it? I wiped drool from my chin, hoping Troy hadn't noticed. Much more to my embarrassment, at some time during the nap I had curled into the crook of his arm and had flung my leg across his body, smothering us both with my velvet party dress. I sat up.

  I had just taken a nap with Troy Summer. Clarissa would be so jealous.

  Troy stretched his arms. "Well, we're still in Shakespeare land." He yawned. "I was hoping that you were wrong and that this actually was a dream. Speaking of dreaming, did you know that you talk in your sleep?" He winked at me.

  What had I said in my sleep? Had I called out his name?

  He scooted to the end of the cot. "I have to pee." His limp was more pronounced, as were his curses each time he took a step. "I'm supposed to pee in this bowl?" he hollered when he found the closestool.

  "Yes," I hollered back.

  When he returned, he fell onto the cot. "I feel dizzy," he mumbled. It was difficult to tell by candlelight but his face looked flushed. I lit another candle and placed it on the windowsill above the cot. He closed his eyes. Beads of sweat sat on the bridge of his nose and above his upper lip. His blond hair, usually blown-dry and gelled, lay flat against his forehead. Even so, he was still gorgeous. His white shirt was unbuttoned, exposing a tanned chest speckled with reddish blond hair.

  "See something you like?" When had he opened his eyes? How long had I been looking at his chest?

  My voice rose defensively. "What is that supposed to mean? I suppose you think that just because I'm a girl..." I folded my arms. "You should stop assuming that everyone is in love with you."

  "Whoa," he said, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. "Touched a nerve, did I? Who are you in love with, Mimi? That freak, Benvolio? You like the way he kisses your fingers?"

  As if my feelings were any of his business. "I don't know any freaks, Troy, except for the hundreds that you date."

  He forced a shallow laugh. "Hundreds is a bit of an exaggeration. Besides, I'm expected to date lots of girls. My fans expect me to act a certain way. It's all about appearances-- you should know that. The private person and the public persona are two different things entirely."

  "Oh, please. You expect me to believe that you're forced to date a different girl every week? That you do it just to sell music?"

  His voice grew defensive as well. "I don't expect you to believe anything I say, Mimi. You've hated me from the moment we met. I saw that look on your face the first time we kissed. Total disgust."

  Disgust? He thought his kiss had disgusted me?

  "You've always acted like you're so much better than me," he continued, clearly insulted. "New York society meets California beach bum. You ignore me at the theater because you assume that Troy the pop star is all there is to me. If you think that's who I really am, then you're a hypocrite." He sat up against the wall and pushed the pillow under his wounded thigh.

  I glared at him. "Hypocrite? What are you talking about?"

  "You might think that you're better than me, but we're no different. We're both marketable products and people use us to advance their own careers. But is the product who we really are?" I tried not to turn away from his intense gaze, even though it felt like he could see right through my clothes. "I watched you come to rehearsal every day. I saw the way you nervously fidgeted until the rehearsal started. The way you always stood off to the side, by yourself, until your mother came into the hall. Then you'd turn into Mimi Wallingford, theater princess." He mimicked my mother's voice, surprisingly well. "Turn your left side to the audience, Mimi, it's your best side. Wear the padded bra, Mimi, it will make you look sexier. Stand center stage, Mimi. You are a Wallingford, after all." He raised his eyebrows. "You don't want all that, do you? That's why you're faking the whole stage fright thing."

  I wanted to slap him. I wanted to throw both wooden shoes right at his thick head. How dare he say such mean things to me. Faking the stage fright thing. "I have stage fright. It's very real and it's horrible. Dr. Harmony says it's like post-traumatic stress disorder."

  "Post-traumatic ..." Troy wiped his upper lip. His neck glistened with sweat. "Think about it, Mimi. The stage fright serves a purpose, doesn't it?"

  There was that smirk of his, spread right across his know-it-all face. I felt completely naked. What possible purpose could my stage fright serve besides making me totally miserable? I sat down at the desk, turning my back to him. Who was he to psychoanalyze me? Troy Summer was a bubble-gum musician who knew nothing about the pressures of my life.

  "Good evening, children." Friar Laurence entered the room carrying a tray of food. "You slept the entire day." He set the tray on the bedside table. "I rely on the kindness of my flock for all my meals. Tonight we are very fortunate because Emmaline, the cobbler's wife, brought vegetable soup." He handed me a bowl and a half loaf of bread. I inhaled the soup, not caring that it was badly in need of salt or that I didn't recognize some of the "vegetables." I shoved a chunk of bread into my mouth. The friar offered Troy a bowl. "Eat this, my son, for it will help speed your recovery."

  Troy waved the bowl away. "I'm not hungry," he moaned.

  "What's this?" Friar Laurence set the soup aside and pressed his hand to Troy's forehead. "He is still feverish. Mimi, come and hold the candle while I check the wound." Troy didn't object this time, watching worriedly.

  Clutching the candle, I almost gagged as the friar opened the tear in Troy's tights. The skin around the stitches blazed red. Pus oozed at the edges. I thought I might faint just looking at it. Some doctor I'd make.

  "Oh my God!" Troy exclaimed. "It's totally infected. I'm going to get gangrene."

  I wouldn't wish gangrene on anyone, no
t even Troy. "Do you have any medicine?" I asked.

  "The tainted blood should be cleansed. I'll fetch the leeches."

  "No!" Troy cried. "Not the leeches!"

  "My son, it is possible that the wound will heal and that your fever will pass. But without treatment there is also the possibility that your leg will blacken. The only remedy for a blackened leg is to cut it off."

  Troy clenched his fists and his face turned beet red. A vein bulged in his neck. I thought he might stroke out at that very moment. "This is all your fault," he snarled. "You've infected me with your barbaric surgery. You're looking at a huge malpractice suit, buddy."

  Threatening was not going to help. Something had to be done, but what? If we were in New York, we'd have antibiotic cream and sterile bandages. Then I thought about the cowboy movie where the old drunken doctor pours whiskey onto his patient's gunshot wound. "Friar, what's in that jug?" I pointed to the blue jug on his desk.