“You don’t seem to agree.”
“I don’t know.” Maybe if I give bland answers, she’ll let me go back to blending in with the class. Why is everyone staring at me? Please go back to texting, writing notes, staring out the window. Anything else.
“Are you sure, Becca?”
I shake my head yes. I choose to risk my participation grade and keep my mouth shut. They don’t want a second opinion. They prefer the first one.
“It’s okay, Rebecca,” Huxley says to me, in her friendliest tone. It’s incredible how easily she turns it on. “I think it’d be interesting to hear how someone who’s never had a boyfriend interprets the play.”
The girls around me snicker softly. I grit my teeth into a smile. My thoughts override my nerves, and before I know it, I’m turning in my chair to face Huxley. “Romeo and Juliet were not in love. They were full-on crazy.”
The class remains silent, giving me weird looks instead.
“Crazy? That seems kind of extreme,” Ms. Hardwick says, tossing objectivity out the window.
“But meeting, allegedly ‘falling in love’ and dying for each other in less than a week isn’t?”
“It only takes a few seconds to know you’ve found your soul mate. When you know, you know. That’s how I felt with Steve,” Huxley says. The class swoons, and I’m ready to go out the window. “That’s love.”
I won’t let Huxley have the satisfaction. She always has the satisfaction. “That’s not love. That’s poor decision-making skills. Romeo and Juliet were two very repressed and unhappy people. Being forced to stay apart made them want to be together more. It’s like when a parent tells their child not to go into the attic—where is the one place they want to go? It’s not because they love the attic.” Greg Baylor nods his bulky head. Getting through to the class makes me push harder.
“Interesting point,” Ms. Hardwick says. “How much do you think their love was based on their circumstance?”
“All of it. It wasn’t love,” I say, like it wasn’t already obvious.
“Rebecca, are you seriously comparing true love to a spare room in your house?” Huxley asks. She raises her eyebrow at me, like I’m a stray hair in her food. “Didn’t you read the play? The language, the sonnets, the monologue Romeo recites to Juliet. You don’t think any of that was genuine?”
“As far as pickup lines go, it was all right. But just because it sounds pretty doesn’t mean it’s true. And honestly, it’s a little pathetic that Juliet fell for it so quickly.”
“Why would Shakespeare have them say it if they didn’t mean it?”
“Because he knew the public would eat it up. Obviously, people still do.” I grip the edges of my desk, steadying myself. Adrenaline soars through me. My brain and mouth are in sync for once. “I mean, when we watched Titanic in fifth grade, you cried for like two days after. You couldn’t listen to that Celine Dion song without breaking down.”
The class laughs at that. Direct hit! Huxley clenches her jaw for a split second before turning her smile back on. I just broke her number-one rule.
“You know, Titanic is pretty much Romeo and Juliet on a sinking ship,” Ms. Hardwick says. “West Side Story is also a modern interpretation of the play. Has anyone here watched West Side Story?”
Huxley ignores her. “They died for each other, for love.”
“For mutual infatuation.”
“Now, ladies—” Ms. Hardwick begins. Huxley holds her hand up.
Huxley maintains her friendly tone, but her eyes narrow slightly. Only I can make it out. It’s a look I remember from those times when I would steal a fry off her plate or beat her at jacks. She stands up. Her long legs propel her above the class.
“Ms. Hardwick, if it’s all right with you, I’d like to address the class. Plead my case, if you will. Becca can do the same.”
“The best way to understand literature is to get involved in it!” Ms. Hardwick says. “After you both talk, we’ll put it to a class vote.”
I stand up, too, right back at her. She has a good four inches on me. I’m the munchkin to her Dorothy.
“You girls don’t have to stand, though. This isn’t a debate.” Huxley and I flash glares at each other. Oh, it so is.
Neither of us sit down.
Huxley clasps her hands together, keeps her back straight. She is in her element. I never thought that people could change so absolutely. I used to believe that if you looked closely enough, you could see their true selves hiding behind the facade. But Huxley proved me wrong.
“Romeo and Juliet may not have had the ideal relationship. No couple is perfect. Even Steve and I have disagreements from time to time. Yes, it’s true,” Huxley says, though I doubt anyone believes her. I’m sure girls steal her old pen caps and gum wrappers to create homemade shrines where they pray to the relationship gods for a union as perfect as Huxley and Steve’s.
She runs her fingers through her hair. It falls right back into place. “But there was love at the core. There was something spiritual, some subconscious connection that was pulling them together. It wasn’t logic. You don’t go through all of this for someone you think is so-so.” She puts her hand over her heart and gives me a look of concern. “Now, I know you have never been in love, been pursued or had a significant other in any way, shape or form. Not even a kiss, unless you count rolling around on your bed with that poster of Leonardo DiCaprio.”
The class howls over this, and I join in with them to pretend that I don’t care, even though I feel like I’m about to crumble.
“Whoa, Becca. Sex animal!” Shana calls out.
“But despite your extremely limited experience,” Huxley says, “you can’t say their relationship was all a total sham, Rebecca. Can you?”
Huxley receives a smattering of applause as she takes her seat. Shana holds out her hand for a low five that never comes.
I’m sure Calista used to believe this, as did Lily, Kim and my other former clients. I remember my sister used to sound like this, right up until her heart got stomped on and beaten with a baseball bat.
“You’re up,” Huxley says to me.
I can’t move. All my words and coherent thoughts slip away. My face has turned shades that don’t exist on the color wheel.
“Becca?” Ms. Hardwick asks. The room goes silent, waiting for my rebuttal.
“They were nuts,” I say, with an apathetic shoulder shrug.
“Becca and Huxley, you both make valid points.” Ms. Hardwick hops off her desk, happy to have control of her classroom again. “Let’s put it to a class vote. Who thinks Romeo and Juliet were not in love?”
None of them raise their hands.
Huxley flashes me an ear-to-ear grin, that smile that cuts like a knife. You don’t mess with a future senator’s wife, she’s telling me. Ms. Hardwick waits an extra moment to see if any students change their minds.
None do.
5
After school, Huxley’s words still rattle around in my brain. Most kids at Ashland believe the crap that she spews. It’s mass mind control, and I’m the one person who didn’t drink the Kool-Aid the second my hormones began raging. It’s incredible how revered she is, considering four years ago nobody would’ve listened to a word she uttered.
When Steve Overland moved to town in eighth grade, he instantly shot to conversation topic number one like a natural disaster on the news. Guys who played in his peewee football league were eagerly anticipating his arrival. Not because he was cool, but because he had an amazing arm, which I guess was cool to them. He walked into class the first day, friends with the most popular guys in school. And with his mat of brown hair and aw-shucks smile stamped on his face, he became the crush of every girl at school.