“Let’s stay in here so we don’t have to mess with the stage lights. We’re just reading—we don’t need to worry about blocking yet.”
I glance around. The green room is the size of a small classroom, brightly lit and decorated with posters of productions past. A shelf of wig heads stands against one wall, the Styrofoam eyes peering cagily out from under wigs and hats; the accrued detritus of decades of theater kids rests on every surface. Coffee cups and makeup kits, good-luck stuffed animals, vases of long-dried roses. An enormous mason jar filled with multicolored bits of ribbon for reasons unknown. It’s a cluttered, comfortable place—but it feels suddenly, strangely intimate.
Mr. Hunter pats the spot next to him on the trunk. I sit down. There’s no space between us. He smells crisp and outdoorsy, like cedar chips and winter air. I feel the heat of his body radiating toward me.
“I’ve been trying really hard to memorize the lines,” I say. “I think I’m getting there.”
He sets down the clipboard.
“I’m not worried about the lines. You’re doing great. But you know, we do this play so often we take the characters for granted. Juliet’s often played like a generic ingénue. But there’s more to her than that. Otherwise it wouldn’t be a tragedy.”
I frown a little. “I thought it was a tragedy just because it was, you know . . . tragic.”
“Yes, but tragic things happen all the time,” he says. “Sad things, bad things, happen to people every day. Most of them aren’t worth writing a play about. So what is it that’s special about Juliet? What is it that makes it worth memorizing three thousand lines of poetry, just to tell this story?”
I look down, my mind spinning madly. I’ve never been asked a question like this before.
“Well . . . she’s beautiful,” I say.
He shakes his head. “You can do better than that. Come on—it doesn’t have to be in the text of the play. I’m asking you to imagine her internal life. What moves her. What she dreams about.” He looks at me seriously. “What does she have in common with you, Elyse?”
“Nothing,” I blurt. He raises an eyebrow, and I duck my head. “I mean . . . never mind.”
“No. Tell me,” he says. He doesn’t look mad. In fact, he looks curious. I take a deep breath.
“I just mean she’s . . . you know, rich. And pretty. And she has a family that works really hard—too hard, maybe—to protect her. Never mind half the boys in Verona are apparently into her.”
He looks thoughtfully out in space. “So Juliet’s sheltered. She doesn’t know how the world works. And you, Elyse . . . you take care of yourself?”
“I have to,” I say. I hesitate. I don’t want to say too much. In junior high I let slip that my mom hadn’t been home for a week and a half once, and before I knew it I was in foster care for half a year. Mom’s a mess, but I can say with certainty that living with her is better than living in a group home. “I mean . . . it’s not so bad. I’m not, like, abused or neglected or anything. But my mom works a lot, and my dad . . . he’s in prison.”
I watch for some sign of shock, or even disgust. I don’t talk about my dad very often because when I do, inevitably the other person I’m talking to starts treating me like I’m a daytime talk show guest or something. But Mr. Hunter just nods.
“I didn’t see him for a long time before that, so it’s not even like I miss him,” I say.
“That’s got to be hard,” Mr. Hunter says. “You know, my dad . . . my dad was not great, either. He was kind of a survivalist type. He thought we should live off the grid, be ready for some kind of armed insurrection or government meltdown or something. I don’t know. He was pretty unhinged. So I kind of raised myself too.”
“Wow,” I say. I try to imagine it. “Did you live out in the woods?”
“On and off,” he says. “At least until he died.”
His expression is calm and measured, but I see something in his eyes. A quick flash. I’m not sure if it’s anger, or sadness.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“Don’t be. It’s part of what made me who I am.” He leans forward, bracing his forearms against his knees. “I learned a lot from my dad, even if I hated him sometimes. You know, now I know how to start a fire without matches. I know I can survive without central heating or running water. I also know I don’t want to,” he says with a chuckle. “But I know I’m a survivor. I think someday you’ll look back and see the same thing about yourself.”
I look down at my hands in my lap. Will I ever be far enough from this life to be able to look back and see anything with clarity? It’s hard to picture. I realize suddenly that when I imagine my future, it looks exactly the same as my present. I won’t be in high school, of course; but I’ll still be here, on the outskirts of Portland, mopping up spilled Coke in the movie theater every night, going home to see a mother in various states of unconsciousness.
“I think Juliet’s lonely, though,” I say, wanting to get the spotlight off me and my life. “Like, the nurse can barely even remember how old she is. Her mom doesn’t really care if she likes Paris or not. So when Romeo shows up at the party, ready to talk to her directly, she finally feels like someone wants to know who she really is.”
“That’s a great observation.” Mr. Hunter’s voice is gentle. “Can I assume you might know something about that feeling?”
I just laugh.
No, it’s not the same. Juliet is treated like precious property. I take care of a mom too strung out to even notice me. But still—we’re both invisible. We’re both hungry to be seen.
He sets down the script. “Okay. Let’s try this. Let’s do the masquerade scene, between Romeo and Juliet, and I want you to think about that while we go through it. Think about her loneliness—and the idea that someone finally sees her. How’s she feeling? What does she want? No, don’t answer—just channel that. Ready?”
“Don’t you need the script?” I don’t know why, but for some reason I’m nervous. My heart is going too fast, and my cheeks are so warm they feel almost scraped raw.
He grins. “I played Romeo in a college production. I still have it all memorized.”
Of course he did.
“Ready?” He stands up, and I jump up behind him.
“Yeah. Okay.”
He closes his eyes for a few seconds. When he opens them again, his affect has changed. His eyes are soft, his mouth in the slightest pout. He takes my hand, just by the very tips of the fingers. The touch is so light it makes me shiver a little.
“If I profane with my unworthiest hand this holy shrine, the gentle sin is this . . .” he starts. I feel my heart catch, snagged on something in my chest. My breath is short and shallow. “My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand to smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.”
The words spring to my mouth without effort. It surprises me.
“Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, which mannerly devotion shows in this,” I whisper. “For saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch, and palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss.”
“Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?” His voice is so tender it’s like a feather on the skin. It sends a shiver across my body.
“Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer,” I say, teasingly.
We’re speaking softly. The silence of the school all around us seems to pull us closer together.
“O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do. They pray; grant thou, lest faith turn to despair,” he whispers.
“Saints do not move, though grant for prayers’ sake.” My hand drifts up, almost on its own, to lay a single finger on his mouth.
“Then move not, while my prayer’s effect I take. Thus from my lips, by thine, my sin is purged.”
His lips brush mine.