Always Never Yours(19)

CHORUS: Now old desire doth in his deathbed lie,





And young affection gapes to be his heir.


    That fair for which love groaned for and would die,


   With tender Juliet matched, is now not fair.


II.prologue.1–4


WHEN I WALK INTO REHEARSAL ON MONDAY, I notice the Rent bed’s nowhere in sight. Thank god. The front of the room isn’t set for a scene, and I know that can only mean one thing—Jody’s doing a one-on-one with someone who has a monologue. I just hope it’s not me. She comes out of her office, and I begin involuntarily fidgeting while the rest of the class files in. She watches silently until everyone’s in their seats and the bell rings.

“Anthony,” she calls, and I feel my shoulders sag in relief. “It’s monologue time.” Anthony fist-pumps in his seat, obviously excited for an hour of uninterrupted work on his part. “The rest of you,” she continues, “pair up, work on memorizing.”

My relief turns to irritation. Anthony would’ve been my partner. Without him, I search the room for a replacement. Everyone’s pairing off. I notice Tyler looking at me with an inquisitive eyebrow raised. There’s a certain logic to Romeo and Juliet working together, I know. But after Friday’s bedroom scene and Madeleine’s confusing intimations about Tyler’s and my first time, I want space from him even more than usual.

I pointedly look elsewhere, and my eyes lock on to a familiar crop of black hair. Owen is talking to Alyssa. Before she can get her claws into him, I dart over and grab him by the sleeve. “I need you . . .” I say into his ear, pushing him forward.

He turns, his startled expression—his default, I’ve come to understand—returning, one long eyebrow curving upward questioningly. “Common sense dictates your partner’s over there.” He nods in Tyler’s direction. “You know, Romeo?”

I make a face. “Romeo and Juliet? No, no, no,” I scoff. “Friar Lawrence and Juliet, now they have a lot to work with.”

Owen cracks up. He looks over his shoulder, where Tyler’s dramatically proffering his hand to a group of sophomore girls. “He is being particularly obnoxious today.”

We walk out into the hallway and toward the auditorium. Jody demands silence for her one-on-one rehearsals, and while we’d normally take the chance to rehearse outside, it’s raining today. So instead, we’re headed to the theater, which offers enough space for pairs to rehearse in corners of the room without overhearing each other’s every word.

Still, the cavernous space sometimes echoes irritatingly. When the door swings shut behind us, I steer Owen down the aisle to the stage. “You want to run lines on stage?” He sounds incredulous.

“Of course not.” I open the door to the left of the front row. “We’re going backstage. I have a key to the green room. It’s quiet in there.”

I lead him up the darkened staircase, through the empty wings, and to the locked room behind the stage. Owen follows me, his footfalls softly crunching on the cheap carpet of the stairs. I figure he’s studying the cast-and-crew photos lining the wall from productions before my time. I know them by heart—2001’s Beauty and the Beast, 2005’s Grease, 2014’s Much Ado About Nothing. I remember being crestfallen to learn they’d done Much Ado right before I started high school.

We reach the upper level. What passes for a green room at Stillmont is more of a hallway. It’s long and narrow, with only a single couch covered in dubious stains.

Owen looks around when I close the door. “If Will comes by and you guys start making eyes at each other again, I’m out of here. This is way too intimate a setting.” He drops onto the couch.

“If Will comes by, I’d want you out.” I shrug. “The things we could do on this couch . . .”

Owen winces with exaggerated disgust. “Way more imagery than I wanted.”

I collapse next to him. “If only it was more than imagery. It’s not like he’s made a move or anything,” I say with more frustration than I intend to show.

I know he notices from the way his expression softens. “Don’t read into it. Will . . . is new-hot.”

I wrinkle my nose. “He’s what?”

“You know, like new-money.” Owen gestures in the air, his knees jutting far over the edge of the couch. “Will’s new-hot,” he says. “He doesn’t know the etiquette for these situations.”

I raise an eyebrow. “These situations?”

“Like . . .” I catch him blushing. “Having a girl, um, interested in him.”

“Interested would be putting it mildly,” I declare. “You’re his friend. Feel free to nudge him in my direction, or, you know, shove him forcibly,” I say half-jokingly, pulling out my script and opening it to Act V. “You want to run your scene with Friar John?”

“Want would be putting it generously.” His lips curl faintly, and I let out a laugh. He’s quick on his feet, I find myself thinking, not for the first time. “But yeah, I guess,” he adds.

I open to Scene ii and say loudly and clearly, “Holy Franciscan Friar, brother, ho!” Owen jerks back, and I point at the page. “No, really, that’s Friar John’s line.”