Meant to Be (25 page)

OMG—I think u might be right about ur MTB! It’s F8.
We need 2 talk ASAP. Skype? —P

T
he bus speeds down the M40, passing towns with names that sound like they’ve come straight out of a Harry Potter novel, like Boltmore End and Tiddington. Mile after mile of vivid green rolls by. I can barely sit still in my seat. I even have to put my book back in my bag. For the first time in my life, I can’t concentrate on
Pride and Prejudice
. Every time Mr. Darcy goes and says something smarmy, my memory flashes to Jason, then to the moment high over the Thames when Jason and I shared … what? A long gaze? An almost kiss?

Jason hasn’t acknowledged me, other than to hip-check me out of the buffet line this morning to get a second slice of French toast. Despite Mrs. Tennison’s directions to sit with our buddies on the bus, Jason skipped my seat and instead sat down in the row behind me, next to Sarah. Which means I’m stuck with Evie instead. Jason and Sarah have been tossing notes back and forth, giggling to each other and otherwise being obnoxious.

“No freakin’ way!” Sarah exclaims with another explosive giggle.

“I wish they would just get back together already,” Evie mutters into her copy of British
Cosmo
. “I mean, holy sexual tension!”

“Wait, what?” I can’t tell what’s more confusing: that Evie is talking to me (or
at
me), or what she just said. “What do you mean, ‘get back together’?”

“Hello? Catch up, jeez. They used to date. Freshman year, remember?” Evie says, rolling her eyes with a “you don’t know anything” scowl. She throws her feet up on the back of the seat in front of her and lazily flips a page. “And from the looks of things, a reunion is in the cards.”

No wonder Sarah has been sending snarky texts all week! She wants Jason back and thinks I’m in the way. I’m
so not
, though. I am in no one’s way when it comes to Jason.

Sure, sometimes Jason is nice, like when he sings Beatles songs in the park or dances in the aisles of a bookstore. But that’s only about 10 percent of the time. The other 90 percent, he’s making fun of me or—even worse—pretending I don’t exist.

Still, the idea of Sarah and Jason together makes my stomach churn.

And that 10 percent … I mean, Jason was singing
to me
and dancing
with me
. Right?

I spend the rest of the bus ride with my thoughts careering over the past few days of our trip. Even though Jason and I have been searching for Chris and I know that Mark is my MTB, I can’t stop thinking about Jason and Sarah together.

I close my eyes and command myself to think about Mark and his golden smile or even Chris, sitting in the café and casually pushing up his glasses as he pages through his pocket Shakespeare, but I’ve lost total control of my brain. I feel like I’m watching a movie of the last few days with Jason while someone holds the fast-forward button. The flashing images are starting to make me feel ill.

Thank God the bus soon shudders to a stop. One deep breath of fresh country air and a look around me, and it’s hard to stay stressed.
The town is absolutely beautiful in that quaint, British-countryside kind of way, and I’m not going to let Jason (or anyone else, for that matter) stop me from enjoying it.

The bus has let us off near the Royal Shakespeare Theater, which is surrounded by cute little shops and gorgeous views of the River Avon. Unlike during most of our time in London, which has been stereotypically gray, the sun is shining brightly today, and the feeling of excitement I had when we left London this morning returns.

We make our way to Henley Street, where we find ourselves in front of an old half-timbered dwelling, surrounded by bright bursts of pretty wildflowers and lush gardens.

Shakespeare’s home. It’s what I’ve been waiting to see since the trip was announced, and now I’m so excited I seriously might wet my pants.

Unfortunately (and unsurprisingly), Shakespeare’s birthplace appears to be a pretty popular tourist destination. Throngs of people crowd every path through the gardens and spill out onto the street. A family of five are having their picture taken near the door to the house, and a large on-deck area is packed with people holding cameras, waiting to do the same.

Mrs. Tennison waves us in the direction of the entrance, where yet another tour guide is waiting for us. I race to the front of the group. I’ve visited plenty of old historic sites in my life, and I know they tend to be pretty small and cramped. I’m not going to be the schmuck stuck in the back of the room straining to see and hear. I whip my notepad and a newly sharpened pencil out of my bag.

Our guide is a tall, thin man who looks to be in his midfifties. When he speaks, an odd tremor creeps into his voice, as though he is overtaken by nerves.

“Hullo,” he says, clearing his throat. “My name is Bertrand. Welcome to the birthplace of William Shakespeare. I’m delighted to be giving you this tour today, as it’s my first ever.” He’s trying his best to seem dignified, but he keeps giggling nervously.

My classmates start to snicker, but I resolutely ignore them. I’ve been obsessed with Shakespeare since I found my mother’s heavy, dusty gilded copy of his collected works in sixth grade. I flipped straight to
Romeo and Juliet
. I’d heard of Shakespeare before, of course, but never read a single line of his plays.

I knew even then that writing like his was somehow important. I remember stumbling through the lines, having to read and reread them to make sense out of the language. Still, it took my breath away. I wanted to devour the play over and over again, followed by everything else he’d ever written.

Bertrand gestures for us to follow him inside, where he launches into a brief history of Shakespeare’s life. Our guide might have appeared nervous at first, but as soon as he begins his speech, he becomes a different man. It’s almost like Shakespeare himself, clad in an argyle sweater-vest, is leading us through his own home. Bertrand spouts stories about Shakespeare’s lost year, gossips about his marriage to Anne Hathaway (maybe a shotgun wedding?), and peppers his presentation with quotes from some of Shakespeare’s greatest works.

I’m in absolute heaven. I scribble so hard and so fast my pencil breaks and I have to quickly fish for another before I miss a single word. Let’s be honest: Bertrand had me at “hullo,” so my intricate system of check marks, asterisks, boxes, and bullets flows out onto the page. I find it easy to ignore everything else, Jason included. Especially Jason.

Okay, maybe that’s a slight overstatement. Maybe, when I turn for a second to make sure that he hasn’t gotten lost or, I don’t know, arrested, and I see him chatting with Sarah and not even pretending to pay attention, maybe I feel a teensy nudge of disappointment.

Maybe I even feel a teensy bit jealous.

But I quickly squash it.
Stupid. You don’t even like Jason. And of course he’s with Sarah, because he’s not your MTB, and he doesn’t even care about Shakespeare. Mark. Marrrrk
. He
would get this. I know he would
.

“Now, students, if you’ll follow me, we’re going to take the short walk to Holy Trinity Church, where we’ll be visiting Shakespeare’s grave,” Bertrand says, and with a slight flick of his hand directs us back out onto the street. “I don’t have to tell you that the proper respect is required.”

As if on cue, Jason and Ryan race to be the first through the door and end up wedged in the frame, shoulder to shoulder. Neither can budge until Susan comes up behind them and gives Ryan a shove, sending them both tumbling through the doorway. They end up sprawled on the walk, hysterically laughing. Mrs. Tennison rushes toward them, and as I pass, I hear her threatening them with extra essays.

That is one essay I will
not
be writing. I leave them to their scolding and hurry after our tour guide.

Bertrand leads the way down Henley Street. Mrs. Tennison and I march right on his heels; the rest of our class trudges behind us. The road is lined with old half-timbered cottages that look like if you blew on them too hard, they’d tip over and collapse. We reach the end of the road, wind around a little roundabout, and are dumped out at the top of High Street. The narrow road is crowded with shops, colorful awnings, and cafés with tables spilling out onto the sidewalk. Everything is called Something-or-Other Cottage or Ye Olde Whatever. It’s touristy as all get out, but I don’t care. I love it.

As we walk, I peer down side streets, hoping I might catch a glimpse of the tiny antique shop my mom has been describing to me forever. I must have heard the story a million times. Mom and Dad didn’t get rings when they first got married, since Dad had just joined the marines and they were dirt-poor. They were wandering around the tiny town, no maps, playing “which way does this road go?” on the twisty streets. They came upon a tiny secondhand shop, where they found matching gold bands. Mom said it was a sign that they were on the right path. Neither ring needed to be sized a bit; they fit perfectly. They look like the gold was hand-molded, with little bumps and imperfections all around.
Dad always liked to show me how Mom’s ring fit right down into his. Now both rings live in my mom’s jewelry box, nestled in the blue velvet, her ring tucked inside his.

After a few blocks, the shops give way to little town houses and brick offices. The sidewalk narrows and we have to march down the road in a straight line, one after the other. We walk along quietly for a few minutes; then the lane widens and the trees grow dense. A church spire pokes up in the distance. We’re standing at a wrought iron gate. A low stone wall surrounds a tree-lined property.

Bertrand signals for us to gather around, and once again I press myself practically under his nose, notebook poised and pencil prepped. We’re about to visit Shakespeare’s grave. If I knew how to genuflect, I would.

“Welcome to Holy Trinity Church, often referred to simply as Shakespeare’s Church,” Bertrand says after taking a deep breath and clearing his throat. “William Shakespeare was baptized here in 1564, and fifty-two years later he was interred here at a depth of twenty feet to prevent theft of his body.”

“Oh, that’s just gross,” Evie says, and there are several soft snickers.

Quentin says, in his perpetual stoner’s voice, “
Romeo-and-Juliet-
meets-zombie-killer. All right!”

“Braaaaiiiiinnnnnssss!” Ryan raises his arms toward Evie’s head and lurches at her, his tongue lolling out to one side. She giggles and skips away, ducking behind Jason. Susan stands off to the side, pouting.

So much for respect. I inch away from my classmates and offer my most sympathetic look to Bertrand. I want him to know I’m on his side.

Once inside the church, everyone scatters. Susan drags Ryan up the center aisle toward the altar, looking like she’s about to burst from happiness. He, on the other hand, looks like he’d rather be taking the SATs in Latin than standing at the altar with her. I don’t blame him.

I make a beeline for Shakespeare’s grave. A bust of him stands over
the altar, a blue silk cord that marks his grave lining the stone floor. A plaque above it reads:

GOOD FREND FOR JESUS SAKE FORBEARE TO
DIGG THE DUST ENCLOASED HEARE.
BLEST BE YE MAN YT SPARES THES STONES AND
CURST BE HE YT MOVES MY BONES

I read the words again and again to myself. I imagine my parents standing here, barely twenty-two years old, newly married, Dad’s arm draped over Mom’s shoulder, Mom leaning into his chest. And once again, I’m struck by how much I want that. This time, when I close my eyes, I have no problem imagining Mark here with me, standing beside me, his arms around my waist. I lean back into the imaginary embrace—maybe a little too hard, because I actually start to fall backward.

“Whoa, Book Licker!” Jason’s hand lands right on my back and shoves me upright. “Been sipping off the Communion wine?”

“Very funny,” I say. I hate that when I open my eyes,
he’s
the one standing behind me. I want to see Mark and his perfect crooked smile and his dark wavy hair, not Jason’s smirk and his messy, shaggy red hair.

“Students, gather around!” Mrs. Tennison’s nasally voice bounces off every surface of the church, driving daggers into our ears. I’m grateful to have a reason to escape Jason in this moment. Her itinerary is in her hand, and she is simultaneously studying it and using it to fan herself. She waves us out of the church and into the churchyard, which is shockingly green. The grass looks so full and fluffy I want to lie down in it, and looking around, I notice a few of my classmates already are. Sarah and Evie have taken residence under a willow tree and are whispering about something. (Please, oh please, don’t let it be me.)

“Well, class, it appears I’ve miscalculated our itinerary today,” Mrs. Tennison says, creases of worry forming around her eyes. Her hands are
quivering, but that may be more attributable to the tea she’s been mainlining since we stepped foot on British soil. This trip has definitely taken at least a decade off her life. I know from looking at the itinerary, oh, twelve or thirteen thousand times that we’ve got at least an hour before we can check into our hostel for the night. She is clearly not prepared to entertain twenty seventeen-year-olds for an hour. Mrs. Tennison eventually folds her stack of papers, crams it back into her carpetbag, and takes a deep, cleansing breath. “Looks like we’ll be having an unexpected cultural hour.”

People begin giving each other fist pumps and high fives. Ryan Lynch shouts, “Shakespeare rules!”

“
With
your partners!” Mrs. Tennison calls as we begin breaking up. “I mean it … 
cultural
hour! I expect to see mention of what you’ve done in your reflection paper!”

Everyone starts pairing off and heading in different directions. I know I should go over to Jason, who is standing with Evie and Sarah, but I hate feeling like a little tagalong. I hear Sarah say something to them about shopping. Jason shakes his head, and Evie and Sarah scurry up the road back toward High Street.