Juliet Immortal

  “Where’s my wine, woman?” Gemma booms as she stumbles to the table with a load of brown bags and paper cups. The smell of warm meat and cheese, pickles and onions, drifts through the air, making my mouth water. Cheeseburgers. I’m fairly certain they’re the most wonderful food invented by modern man.

  “Hope you don’t mind a plastic cup.” I grab one from the cabinet before reaching into the fridge. “Is Viognier okay? The chardonnay’s not open.”

  “Oh yes. Viognier pairs well with anything, dahling,” she drawls. While I pour her drink, Gemma dumps cheeseburgers onto the table and settles into a chair with her sandwich. “I’m starving. That singing and dancing crap works up a fracking appetite. Which reminds me—” She squeals and turns, grabbing the plastic cup from my hand before I can set it down. “Thank you! Most awesome friend! You snuck out before I could tell you thank you, thank you, a thousand times thank you!”

  I smile. Gemma’s not so bad when she’s happy. She’s actually … charming, and I can see why Ariel enjoys spending time with her.

  “You’re welcome.” I settle in across from her and reach for my burger. “Thanks so much, I was dying for some real food.”

  “No, thank you. The grease feast was the least I could do after you saved my life.”

  “It’s not a big deal.”

  “It is a big deal. Especially for you.” Gemma takes a gulp of her wine. “I know you’re probably scared out of your mind, but we’ll go through all the songs tonight and you’ll learn the choreography super fast. You killed at Dance Dance Revolution when we were little, and this isn’t much harder. Hannah has everyone changing lines and running around a lot, but the steps are easy. I wanted to do something harder, but buzzkill Mike said the boys look dumb if the girls’ steps are too complicated. As if anything can make those losers look good.”

  “Mike?” I mumble around a mouthful of burger.

  “You know, Mr. Stark’s student teacher, the one with all the tats?”

  “Oh right.”

  “You’d think with all the body art, he’d be cooler,” she says. “But still, he’s kind of hot, right? In a weird sort of way?”

  “Gemma, he’s practically a teacher.” I don’t bother to hide my distaste. She’s in love with Ben; she shouldn’t be considering the hotness of other guys. “That’s gross.”

  She smiles. “Not as gross as crushing on Mr. Stark. I swear Hannah would lick his shiny bald head if she could.” I make a face and Gemma laughs. “For real. She’s such a kiss-ass. And all her little dancer friends are professionally lame.” She shakes her head and throws a fry back into its box. “People here suck. I can’t wait to graduate.”

  “But Ben seems cool,” I say, watching her reaction. “He helped me with the sets today. He said he was going to ask you to go out for coffee after—”

  “He did,” she says, suddenly very interested in the bottom of her cup. “We went to the Windmill, but it was closed early, so we just sat in my car and talked. It was … good. I think we understand each other.”

  “That’s great!” It’s also a huge relief. Maybe this mission won’t be as hard as I thought. “He’s so nice.”

  “He really is. It’s hard to believe he ever—” Gemma breaks off with a guilty look and takes another drink of her wine. “This is pretty good. Your mother’s taste is improving.”

  “Hard to believe he ever what?” I ask, waiting for a second before pushing harder. “I thought we were going to talk.”

  “Do we have to?” Gemma whines, stuffing more fries in her mouth. “Can’t we just sing about how the Sharks rock and how we’re going to pound Jet face at the school dance? That song is fun. Let’s sing.”

  “I’m still eating, and you’re not supposed to sing within thirty minutes of eating.”

  “That’s swimming, dork.”

  “No, it’s singing, doofus.”

  Gemma cocks her head. “Well, well, aren’t we sassy today.”

  I swallow and remind myself not to overdo it with the confidence. I shrug and reach for my milk shake. “My best friend has been holding out on me. It makes me sassy.”

  “Understandable.” Gemma sighs as she mops ketchup off her fingers with a napkin. “It’s mostly my dad. He’s been making my life hell. Did you hear that he’s thinking of running for the Senate?”

  “No. I haven’t really—”

  “Of course you haven’t.” She rolls her eyes. “Who has? Who cares? I mean, the entire government is corrupt anyway. It’s beyond saving. We might as well burn Washington, blow up Fox News, and start over.”

  “But your dad doesn’t agree.”

  “Of course not. He wants to be a Super-Important Big-Shot Douche, and doesn’t care how miserable he has to make me to do it. He’s gone completely over the edge.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, getting on my Facebook to check for ‘content’ and stealing my cell phone every few days is no longer enough to entertain him,” she says, the bitterness in her voice making me feel for her. “I think he read my diary.”

  “What!” I can’t imagine anything more embarrassing than having someone else read your private thoughts. Especially a parent. “That’s repulsive.”

  “That’s Bob Sloop,” Gemma says. “Anyway, something he read made him think I was doing drugs. He started looking around and he found some pot, the stuff I got from Niles a few months ago?”

  “Niles …” The name doesn’t ring any bells. I don’t think Ariel met him.

  “You know? The priv-ass school loser I was dating before Christmas? The one with the breath that smelled like dog food?” She waves her hand in the air before starting to stuff empty wrappers back into paper bags. “Whatever. It doesn’t matter. Niles gave me some BC Bud before we broke up, as some kind of Christmas present or something. I had it in one of my old makeup bags and forgot about it. Dad found it and went crazy. I told him I’d only smoked a couple times and it wasn’t a big deal, but he kept freaking out.”

  “What about your mom?” I ask. “She’s let you drink wine since you were sixteen. Didn’t she think—”

  “I know, right? You’d think she’d be cool, but she’s completely up Dad’s butt about this Senate thing.” Gemma crosses to the trash can and shoves the bags in with too much force. “She totally wants to move to Washington and socialize with a wider variety of snotty, ass-faced people. She didn’t say anything, even when Dad made me go to this rehab group for ‘troubled teens.’ They both know I don’t have a problem, they’re just … assholes.” She rolls her eyes again and flops back into her chair. “So yeah, that’s where I’ve been every Monday and Wednesday morning. And why I stopped picking you up. Sorry.”

  “Oh, Gemma. You should have told me.” I’m starting to feel for this girl. With a family like hers, it’s amazing she’s not more of a mess.

  “I know.” She shrugs. “It’s just so stupid and I was so mad. I swear, I thought about running away from home and becoming a woman of the night or something just to ruin Dad’s chances of getting elected.” She tips her drink back, emptying the cup, and sets it back on the table with a sigh. “But then … I met Ben, and he made it bearable, you know? He started coming to the group about a month ago. He drove in from Lompoc until his brother made him move.”

  The news surprises me. “But Ben doesn’t seem like he’s got a drug problem. Not that you do, but—”

  “No, he doesn’t. He just got arrested.”

  My eyebrows shoot up. Ben? Arrested?

  “He lost his temper and smashed some guy’s face in.”

  “What?”

  “And broke his nose,” she says casually, as if it’s no big deal. “And knocked out a couple of teeth.”

  “What!” I can’t imagine Ben hitting someone, especially hard enough to break a bone. He seems so … gentle.

  But what about that first moment in the car? What about the look on his face when Romeo called him his brother?

  It’s true. I don’t know him as w
ell as I think. Maybe I’m wrong about him. Maybe it’s Ben’s violence that’s keeping him and Gemma apart, not anything to do with her at all.

  “I know that sounds bad, but he’d never done anything like that before. It was just a horrible random night. He’s a really decent guy, and I’ve never even seen him angry. At least, not angry like that …” She trails off, goes for a drink, and finds her cup empty. “Can I get more? Do you think your mom will notice?”

  “She probably won’t. And if she does …” I shrug.

  Gemma smiles as she heads to the fridge. “Aren’t you turning into a rebel? Maybe I can finally convince you to come raid the casks in the barn with me. It’s fun. And I figured out how to turn off the security cameras so we won’t get caught.”

  “Maybe,” I say, dying to get back to the real story. “So … are you sure you feel safe? You know, with Ben?”

  Gemma spins, wine bottle in hand. “Totally! And you should too. Please, don’t think anything bad about him. This is why I didn’t want to say anything about how we met until you saw how nice he is.”

  “No, I agree, he seems really—”

  “He really is,” she says, but something in her voice still doesn’t sit well. “I was going to introduce you guys after he settled in with his brother, but we had that dumb fight.” She lifts her right hand, as if to ward off any impending criticism. “But it wasn’t because of him. It’s me.”

  “Gemma, it can’t be all—”

  “No, it is. And I shouldn’t have kissed him this morning. I knew it would piss him off.” She sticks the wine back in the fridge and chucks her plastic cup into the sink, apparently rethinking her second glass of wine. “I don’t even know why I did it,” she says, voice softer. “Sometimes I think I’m crazy, you know? I just can’t stop myself from doing the opposite of what I know I should do.” She stares down at her feet, looking so young, so at odds with herself. Ben’s right; Gemma isn’t a bad person, she’s just confusing, just—

  A train wreck.

  Romeo’s words float through my mind, making me angry. Gemma might be troubled, but she isn’t a wreck. There’s still hope for her. And for Ben.

  “You’re not crazy.”

  “No, I probably am.” She crosses her arms and leans against the kitchen counter. “I introduced Ben to my dad last week.”

  “That’s not crazy. Why shouldn’t you—”

  “Ariel, wake up from happily-ever-after land. My dad had a heart attack, even before he did the background check and found out Ben’s been arrested. It was awful. You know he’s convinced Mexicans are taking over the ‘real’ America. Remember how he freaked out when they started having translators at parent-teacher night?”

  “But doesn’t your dad hire Mexican workers for the vineyards?”

  “Of course he does, because he wants cheap labor. But that doesn’t mean he can’t also hate Mexicans living in the United States. Bob is a selfish paradox wrapped in an evil burrito, Ree.” Gemma picks at one of the plumber magnets on the side of the fridge, peeling it off and then smashing it back on again. “I’ve shielded you from his loathsomeness, but I thought you knew that by now. Anyway, as soon as I got back from taking Ben home, Dad told me I couldn’t see him again. And the sick thing is … I knew he would. But I brought Ben over anyway.” She turns to me, dark eyes glittering. “I really am crazy.”

  “You’re not crazy. Your dad is crazy, and wrong,” I say. “Everyone here was from a different country at some point, and everyone makes mistakes.”

  I wish I could take a stronger stand for Ben, but I need to know what really happened first. Why did he break someone’s nose? It’s so strange to imagine him hurting anyone or anything, troubling in a way that goes beyond my usual concern about my soul mates.

  “I know,” Gemma says. “But I don’t want to have that fight right now. I’m so close to going to college and getting away from him. And it would be pointless, anyway. Bob never listens or changes his mind. About anything.” She crosses the room to steal the rest of my unfinished milk shake. “You should have seen how I begged him to let me skip his stupid rally Saturday night. But he didn’t care because my life is never going to be as important as his life.”

  “But what about Ben? He really likes you.” He doesn’t just like her, he loves her, and Gemma seems more worried about her dad than the boy who’s her soul mate. Ben is Gemma’s One. She has to wake up and fight for him. Now.

  “You think?” Gemma swallows, her face pale in the glare of the overhead lights. “But how do I know any guy is worth fighting my family and … everything else for? It’s just scary. You know?”

  Her words help me breathe easier. There’s nothing that can strangle the life out of love faster than fear. If she’s this afraid, no wonder she and Ben are having problems. She needs to get past her fear and concentrate on loving him, and I have to help her do it. No matter how much it hurts.

  “I guess it’s scary, but I bet it’s also amazing. Meeting Ben could be the best thing that ever happened to you.”

  “Maybe, maybe not …” Gemma narrows her eyes. “But you can’t be trusted. You’ve only known him for a day and a half. I can’t believe he’s the one who gave you a ride. How crazy is that? And how crazy are you for hitchhiking?” She chucks me on the arm. “You’re just lucky Ben stopped instead of some psycho. But then, I guess you were in the car with a psycho already, so …”

  “Ben and I had a good talk last night,” I say, trying not to think about how good it was. “I think he’s special. He’d be worth—”

  “Okay, fine,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I’ll call him and invite him over to my place after school tomorrow.”

  “Great!”

  “But I’m not going to tell Dad,” she warns, pointing an accusing finger at me. “We’ll sneak in the back gate after play practice. We can hit the barrels in the barn and celebrate your success as an understudy.”

  “We?”

  “You’re coming too, my lovely.” Gemma grabs my hand and pulls me into the living room.

  “But—”

  “No buts. I’ve decided, and you know I’m the boss,” she says, putting an end to the discussion. “Okay, so I’ve got the entire sound track for West Side Story with and without vocals. You want to sing with other people first or just go straight into it hard-core?”

  “With the voices first.” I watch her plug the phone into the sound system beneath the television, and try to tamp down the anxiety rising in my throat. It’s just a little singing; how horrible can I be?

  “Oh, come on, be hard-core, Ree!” Gemma turns back to me with a smile as music swells through the room. “Let’s do it without the voices. You know all the words!”

  “I know, but—”

  “Sing!”

  “But—”

  “Sing!”

  And so I do. And Gemma laughs, and finally I do too, giggling as my voice fights its way up and down. It cracks when I try to hold a note for too long but finds its way if I keep moving. I could be worse. At least I don’t think I’ll scar the audience for life.

  By the time we finish going over some of the choreography and Gemma heads for her car, I’ve decided the night hasn’t gone too badly. Gemma and Ariel are reconnecting, I’m making headway convincing Gemma to take her relationship with Ben seriously, and I have plans to spend time with both of them tomorrow.

  And there are worse ways to spend time than with a friend, fried food, and singing and dancing like a fool. Sometimes it’s easy to forget that fighting for love isn’t all angst and despair and trying not to get killed. Sometimes it’s an amazing job.

  And sometimes it’s not. Later, I lie in the dark, staring at the ceiling, doubt creeping in beneath the rhythm of the rain.

  What if Romeo’s right? What if this is your last shift? What if the next time you go to the mist you never come back? Or what if there’s something worse than the mist … something unknown …?

  I close my eyes and pull the covers over my he
ad, trying not to worry, determined not to dream.

  TWELVE

  Get down, you two! Under the blanket!” Gemma hisses from the front seat as we pull up to the imposing back gate of the Sloop home the next afternoon.

  The family compound is so large we can’t even see the mansion from here. We’d have to drive miles to get to the house on the hill, through rolling vineyards and stands of fruit trees wilting in the never-ending rain. It’s beginning to feel like the world will be swept away. Or at least Central California.

  “Do we really have to do this?” Ben eyes the ratty Navajo blanket Gemma throws into the backseat. “I didn’t hide under a blanket last time.”

  I shoot Gemma a questioning look that she avoids. So she hasn’t told him that she’s been forbidden to see him. I don’t know whether that’s a good sign or bad one.

  “Last time we weren’t invading my father’s turf,” she says. “If anyone notices we’ve been in the cellars, I don’t want my dad to find out you two were here this afternoon.”

  “A camera records everyone who comes through the gate,” I say, forcing a smile as I lift the edge of the blanket. “Gemma’s dad is kind of crazy about trespassers.”

  Ben lifts an eyebrow. “Okay, but if he’s going to get so pissed, then—”

  “He won’t get pissed because we won’t get caught,” Gemma says.

  “But—”

  “Ben, are you going to play super-secret spy nicely? Or am I going to have to pull this car over and show you my ninja moves?”

  “Don’t make her show you the ninja moves.” I try to keep the moment light. “They’re scary, and I think my singing has traumatized everyone enough for one day.”

  Gemma snorts in agreement.

  My voice didn’t improve much during rehearsal this afternoon. Mr. Stark gave away most of my singing lines and urged me to talk my way through my one unavoidable solo. Thankfully, my feet proved nimbler than my tongue. I remembered all the choreography Gemma taught me, and put such passion into the fight scene with Tony that even Hannah agreed I’d make a decent Bernadette. At least for one night.