The Juliet Club (20 page)

“But you don't,” Benno said again, feeling more cheerful as Silvia got more aggravated. “Stab, stab, stab, die, die, die—”

“Yes, I die, I understand,” Silvia snapped. She added haughtily, “But I die beautifully.
And
I have the best lines in the play.”

Dan grinned. “Spoken like a true actor. So. Let's begin.”

Act IV
Scene I

Time slipped by, as it always does. The members of the Juliet Club answered letters, and danced, and rehearsed, and fenced.

Kate and Giacomo found many chances to sneak away from the others. After a while, they stopped noticing whether anyone was still spying on them.

Benno continued to teach Lucy how to play football. Lucy learned to dribble, do head shots, and kick goals in record speed, and discovered that she didn't mind exercising after all.

Tom humbly asked Silvia to help him practice his Italian. Silvia scornfully agreed, then spent hours disdainfully correcting his pronunciation, grammar, and imperfect grasp of the masculine versus feminine.

Francesca Marchese had an espresso every afternoon, reflecting with great self-satisfaction that the Shakespeare Seminar was progressing marvelously well.

Kate's father found himself humming to himself and staring out the window when he should have been talking in a learned manner about verse and meter in Shakespeare's poetry.

Giacomo's grandmother went to church every evening and chuckled throughout the service, much to the displeasure of the people sitting in the pew in front of her.

And gradually, the golden days dwindled until, finally, there was only one week left before the final party that would mark the end of the first annual Shakespeare Seminar.

On her last week in Italy, Kate found herself feeling oddly at loose ends one evening after dinner. The air had cooled off and a slight breeze had stirred up, bringing the scent of roses and damp earth. Kate felt too happy, and the world was too luminous, to stay inside; she couldn't share the cause of her happiness with others and she was too restless to be by herself. Finally, after ricocheting purposelessly around her room for twenty minutes, she pulled on shorts and a T-shirt and set off on a run.

She started at an easy pace, jogging on the path that ran along the river. The willows on the bank swayed in the breeze, their leaves trembling over the swift water. She quickened her pace as she ran across the bridge and turned right onto the path that followed the other shore. Birds darted across the sky, the setting sun glinted on the river, her strides lengthened until she was flying, and her mind was empty of everything. All she felt was the joy of movement.

Kate followed the river for a while, then looped back toward the bridge. After thirty minutes, she had reached the old part of town. She decided to walk through the narrow streets as she cooled down, since there was always something interesting to see there. She walked past houses painted gold, orange, and bluish green, their windows opened to the night air, glowing golden in the dusk as lamps were turned on. The scent of tomato sauce, baking bread, and fresh coffee wafted out as people fixed their dinners; occasionally she could hear the murmur of conversation and low laughter.

The streets were quiet now. She turned a corner and found herself alone. Then, above her head, she heard the sweet, reedy sound of someone practicing the clarinet.

She stopped to listen, enjoying the tired exhilaration that followed a run. And suddenly, between one note and the next, everything around Kate—the soft shadows, the glowing windows, the faded stucco buildings, the smell of coffee and bread, and that thin thread of music—became so intensely real and vivid that it felt as if she had stepped into another, richer world where every sense was more acute and every feeling more concentrated.

Then a car horn honked. The spell was broken. Kate blinked and realized that she was standing in the middle of the street. She moved over to let the car pass, then began to walk slowly back to the villa. The moment faded, but the feeling lingered. By the time she got to the river, she realized that she had been smiling for a long time without even realizing it.

Lucy stretched out on her bed and held a letter above her, reading it for the fifteenth time.

“Dear Juliet,” it said.

My name is Martha and I'm a junior in high school. My problem is that I've never been in love. I've never even had a boyfriend! My friend Merry is dating the quarterback, my friend Debbie is dating the captain of the basketball team, and my friend Clare is dating a senior! But no guy in this stupid high school will look twice at me. So how am I supposed to find a boyfriend? What should I do?

Yours sincerely,

Martha P.

Lucy sighed. She felt sorry for this Martha, she truly did. Not that Lucy had ever had a problem with dating. Boys loved her, they always had.

She lowered the letter and stared unseeingly at the canopy over her bed. Everyone had loved her. Until she came to Italy.

Maybe this was a sign. Maybe her best days were behind her. Maybe she was doomed to a long, lonely, loveless life. Maybe she never would have known what a terrible future awaited her if she hadn't won this contest and traveled to Verona and flung herself into Italy, which she now realized was an utterly hateful country.

This was such a horrible thought that she sat up in bed. “Now you are being just totally ridiculous!” she scolded herself, shaking the letter out so that she could read it again. The thing to do, she told herself, was to write an extremely sensible answer, then wash her face and brush her teeth in a sensible way, and go to bed at a sensible hour. Surely, after all that sensible behavior, she would wake up tomorrow morning, fresh and bright and eager. Just like the Lucy she used to be, before coming to hateful, hateful Italy.

As she picked up her pen, there was a quick knock on the door, then Kate stuck her head in. “Hey, Lucy. I just got back from my run.” Her face was glowing.

Lucy turned to get a better look. “What happened to you?” she asked, a trace of suspicion in her voice.

“Nothing.” Kate looked surprised, then laughed. “It was a good run. Anyway, I wanted to take a shower. Do you need the bathroom for anything?”

She looked so radiant that Lucy fell back on her pillow in despair. “No, that's all right. You go ahead.”

Kate looked her over, raising her eyebrows as she took in Lucy's appearance. Lucy knew exactly what she looked like: sweaty, hair disheveled, no makeup . . . and what was more, she didn't care. She met Kate's astonished gaze with a defiant one of her own.

“I thought you didn't like getting sweaty?” Kate asked.

“I don't,” Lucy said. “But Benno's teaching me corner kicks.”

“Lucy Atwell, soccer star,” Kate said, teasing.

Lucy's mouth twitched into a small smile. “Well, it is fun,” she admitted. “But you know what's really crazy? I'm kind of good at it! Me! You know, I'm the only person in the history of Littlefield High School who actually failed gym
twice
.”

“I guess you just needed the right coach,” Kate said blandly.

But Lucy was frowning again. Was that what her time in Italy was going to come down to? Learning to play
soccer
?

Kate walked over to sit down on the edge of the bed. “Lucy? Are you all right?”

“Perfectly.” Lucy's chin was trembling.

“Really? Because you don't seem—”

“Look at this!” Lucy thrust the letter at Kate.

Kate read the letter quickly. “Are you upset about this?”

“Yes!” Lucy cried.

Kate waited. Finally she asked, “Why?”

Lucy jumped up and began pacing around the room.

“Because this poor girl!” She reached the bathroom door and wheeled around.

“Is going to live her whole life!” Over to the window, and another turn.

“Without ever experiencing true love!” She finished on a wail, then flung herself down on her bed and stared mulishly at Kate. “I know you probably think I'm overreacting.”

Kate bit back a smile. “Maybe just a little.”

“You see why I'm so upset, don't you?” Lucy rushed on. “And I can't think of a single thing to say that will help her!”

“Well,” Kate said.

Lucy sniffed. “Yes?”

“She seems to be focusing a lot on the guys her friends are dating,” Kate said, somewhat tentatively. “You know, the quarterback, the captain of the basketball team, seniors . . . the top guys in the school, in other words.”

“Right.” Lucy stared at Kate, who seemed to be making some kind of point although, for the life of her, Lucy couldn't figure out what it was.

“Well, all I'm saying is”—Kate gave an apologetic shrug—“maybe you should tell Martha to open her eyes. There are probably plenty of guys who would like her a lot if she would bother to notice they exist.”

“Oh.” Lucy held the letter up in front of her eyes, as if trying to read between the lines. “You think so?”

“I do,” Kate said, quite firmly.

So when Kate went off to take her shower, Lucy sat down at her small desk, pulled out a sheet of Juliet Club stationery, and after staring off into space for some time, began to write.

Dear Martha,

I'm sure there are many boys in your school who like you, but I think the problem is that you don't see them. Because sometimes very worthy people are totally ignored by everybody for no good reason. My advice would be for you to open your eyes and look around. Maybe you'll find that your true love is right in front of you and you don't even know it!

Sincerely,

Juliet

Lucy reread her letter several times. She still wasn't quite sure that this was good advice, but she had to admit, she had nothing else to offer. And so, satisfied that she had done her very best, she folded her letter, put it in an envelope, and set it aside to mail the next day.

Act IV
Scene II

Tom entered Juliet's House as furtively as a spy, although most spies would have known not to glance over their shoulders every two seconds to see if they were being followed, or to jump when the woman selling tickets asked for money, or to dart past her as if they were making a run for the border. Heart pounding, he crept up two flights of stairs, afraid at every moment that he would be caught and his mission revealed to all the world.

Sure enough, he had just walked over to the bright red mailbox where people could drop letters to Juliet, had just glanced around to make sure that no one he knew was nearby, had just reached into his pocket to pull out the envelope that had been tucked away there all morning, when—

“
Buon giorno,
Signora Marchi!” Benno's voice echoed through the room as he climbed the staircase to the second floor.

Tom dashed upstairs and hovered in a corner of the large, bare room that offered, as he now realized to his dismay, absolutely no cover at all.

Fortunately he heard Benno chatting with Signora Marchi as he opened the mailbox and gathered the letters. Then he could hear both their voices drift away as they walked downstairs.

Tom counted to one hundred, just to be safe, then walked back down the steps to the room where the mailbox was. He stood there for a long moment, staring at it glumly. True, he hadn't been caught. However, his carefully laid plot had been ruined. Everything depended on his letter being picked up today, and he had come too late. The mail had been collected. His grand plan had been dashed to pieces.

He pulled the letter out of his pocket, where he had stuffed it when he had heard Benno coming, and took another look. He had worked hard on this letter. It was a good letter. He was almost tempted to put it in the mailbox anyway, even though it was, by now, pointless. Then he sighed, crumpled it up in his fist, and turned to leave Juliet's House.

If the letter couldn't serve its purpose, he thought, he might as well keep it, a painful reminder of what might have been, a bittersweet souvenir from his trip to Italy.

Head bowed, he walked down the stairs and out the door, oblivious to the laughter and swirling activity in the courtyard. He turned to trudge down the street, intending to head back to the villa, when someone leaped out at him, grabbed him, and dragged him into a side street.

“What the—” He stopped, his heart pounding, and glared at Benno, who was looking pleased with himself. “What are you
doing
?”

Benno shrugged. “I always wanted to try that,” he explained. “Just like in the movies, you know, when someone's doing something sneaky and they think they've gotten away with it so they're just walking along and then—
bam!
The hero grabs him!”

Tom shook his head, confused. “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“Is that so?” Benno said in the cynical tone of a man who has heard every excuse and knows not to believe any. “Then why were you lurking in Juliet's House? And why did you duck out of sight so that I wouldn't see you? And what do you have in that pocket?”

He pointed an accusing finger at Tom's pocket. Tom looked down and realized that he had automatically reached for the letter, unnerved by Benno's interrogation. He looked back into Benno's triumphant face.

“Nothing.” Tom sighed, surrendering to the inevitable. He handed the letter over. “Just this.”

“Oh, Tom.” Benno lowered the letter and stared at his friend in dismay. “This is not good.”

“I know.” They were sitting on a bench overlooking the river. Tom was resting his elbows on his knees and had his head in his hands. “It's terrible.” He raised his head to look beseechingly into Benno's face. “Silvia makes me nervous.”

“Only nervous?” Benno said. “She makes me fear for my life.”

This made Tom smile slightly, but then his smile disappeared. “I know. But still, I kind of, you know . . . like her.”

Benno stared at him, horrified realization dawning. “Perhaps my English is not as good as I thought. You like her? As in—”

“As in, I
like
her!” Tom said, exasperated. “I'm sorry, I don't know how else to say it!”

He stood up and began pacing back and forth in front of the bench. “I know it's crazy,” he said, running his hands through his hair.

“Insane,” Benno agreed. “Mad, nutty, bonkers, completely barmy.”

“Your English seems to be getting better.” Tom had stopped his pacing long enough to give Benno a cold look.

“I'm sorry, those are words I've had reason to look up,” Benno replied, injured.

Tom sat back down. “No, I'm sorry, I shouldn't take it out on you. I just . . . I don't know why I feel this way when I really don't want to feel this way, you know?”

Actually, Benno couldn't quite follow this sentence—he had a feeling even his English teacher might have struggled with it—but he nodded sympathetically. “Yes,” he said, “I understand.” He thought for a moment, then came to a decision. “Actually, I do not understand this at all, but you are my friend. If Silvia is the girl you want, what can I do but help you get her?”