Saving Juliet Read online

  Fernando supplied mouthwash and the wardrobe master took my costume to be cleaned, giving me a replacement. The play continued and I managed to hold it together, even when Troy took an extra long time with his death scene. Hello? Just drink the poison already!

  So there I stood, in my invisible danger zone. I wanted to go home and crawl into bed. I wanted to swallow Juliet's sleeping potion and sleep forever.

  My mother took a towel from the counter and wiped off a stool before sitting. She tucked her turquoise skirt under her long legs. "We'll tell everyone it was food poisoning," she decided. "Clams are never good this time of year. We'll tell everyone that you ate bad clams."

  I swept the towelette across my eyelids, dislodging mascara globs. Clams might work. I wasn't keen on discussing my real condition with the public. Tomorrow night this would all be over, the curtain would fall, and I would take a nice break in Los Angeles. I would drink fresh-squeezed orange juice and bask in sunlight while New Yorkers shoveled snow off their stoops.

  "Reginald Dwill called this afternoon," my mother announced. I put down the towelette and leaned against the counter, steadying myself for what was sure to be bad news. "He's very intrigued by the success of our show. He wants to film it for DVD. Isn't that exciting? I don't have to tell you how prestigious it would be to have him direct you. We're meeting with Troy's agent tonight but you've got to prove to Reginald that you're in control." My mother froze her smile, waiting for my enthusiastic reply.

  "But I'm going to Los Angeles, remember? You said I could stay with Aunt Mary. I'm all packed."

  "That was before Reginald called. The future of this theater takes precedence, as does your career."

  My career.

  How long do you think the average career lasts? My great-grandmother was eighty-two when she died, having just finished a performance. She was buried in her favorite Lady MacBeth costume so she could continue her career in the next life. That's not normal, is it? I'm glad my great-grandmother loved her job but don't most people change careers at least once in their lifetime? Somehow I needed to convince my mother that fourteen straight years of acting, since age three, was a good solid run and that there was no shame in wanting to move on.

  Most of the time I felt like an actor in my own life, walking a path that my family had designed, saying my lines, and following my blocking instructions. But the path I wanted to take, one of my own making, hadn't been paved yet. I was still waiting for the building permit.

  I turned away from the dressing room mirror. "How am I supposed to shoot a DVD with all this anxiety? It's getting worse."

  "You will have to control it."

  "But I can't."

  "You can!" She smoothed her skirt. "You'd better. I'm close to paying off some substantial debts and Reginald's DVD will bring in new investors. I can't do everything on my own." There it was, in case you didn't catch it--the Guilt.

  Truthfully, I felt as sorry for my mother as I felt for myself. She had once been an actress, and it was no secret that she had married my father to further her career, becoming a Wallingford by marriage. But being famous doesn't automatically make you rich, and our household income came mostly from the Wallingford Theatre. When my father died, the business of running the theater fell into my mother's hands-- an overwhelming job that forced her to stop doing what she loved. Her metamorphosis from starlet to businesswoman was rough. She certainly beat me in the stressed-out category. And while she worried about the theater's future, she worried about mine as well, focusing all her unfulfilled desires on My Career.

  "You need broader exposure. You need to reach an audience beyond New York. A DVD will open more doors." She folded her manicured hands in her lap as I wiped gloss from my lips. "Mimi, sweetheart, I'm going out with Reginald tonight but I want you to go straight home and get a good night's sleep. There will be special guests in the audience tomorrow and your performance must be your absolute best."

  "Special guests?"

  "Yes. I've invited the admissions committee from the Theatre Institute."

  The Theatre Institute--my mother and father's alma mater, the creme de la creme of New York acting degrees.

  "This is the final step in the application process," she said.

  "Application? I didn't fill out an application."

  "I filled one out for you. And I called Dr. Harmony and he's going to come over after breakfast tomorrow and work with you so that you'll be very relaxed and focused for tomorrow night's performance." She reached out and took my hand. "You must do your absolute best, Mimi. Tomorrow could be the most important night of your life. Theatre Institute training is exactly what you need to reach your full potential. And I think some intensive study will help you to overcome your..." She stopped. She couldn't say stage fright, as if I had picked up a sexually transmitted disease or something. As if. I was seventeen years old and had never been on a real date. Dateless = Virgin.

  I had already given a great deal of thought to college. That was one of my reasons for planning the Los Angeles trip. An acceptance letter had arrived from UCLA and my aunt was going to take me on a tour of the campus. Admittedly I was hiding this plan from my mother but she had left me no choice. When the catalogs had arrived the previous fall, she had dumped them straight into the recycling bin. I had fished them out, secretly studying the photos of happy coeds. I'd been schooled by tutors my entire life, usually between rehearsals. I wanted to carry a backpack and eat in a cafeteria and sleep in a dorm without an ounce of pancake makeup or the glare of a spotlight. College would be my chance to get away. My chance to drive a car. Make some friends. Meet some guys.

  "Your father and I loved our years at the Theatre Institute," my mother said. "I can even use my influence to make sure you get cast in the lead roles of the school productions. And you can live at home, just like I did."

  Holy crap!

  A swirling abyss opened at my feet. "What are you talking about?" I took a deep breath. "Mom, I've been thinking about some other colleges ..."

  My mother's eyes pooled with tears. Genuine tears? Remember that she had once been an actress. "I only want the best for you, darling. When I'm gone, you've got to be able to support yourself, just like I did after your father died."

  "But Mom, I'm still thinking about pre-med."

  "That again?" She raised her eyebrows. "You can't even look at an accident scene. You're too sensitive. Just forget this whole fantasy about being a doctor and accept your God-given talent. You're an artiste. You can't ignore the call of the theater any more than Shakespeare could ignore the call of the page." She stood and kissed my cheek. "The driver is waiting. Go straight home."

  "But my flight to L.A.?"

  "I've already canceled your ticket." She took her exit, startling the women who had been eavesdropping outside the dressing room door. "Ladies," she said through a clenched smile. They parted down the middle like one of Fernando's hairdos. As I fought back tears and removed the last of the makeup, Veronica Wallingford's heels clicked into the distance.

  Three bombs dropped at once: a DVD, drama school, and no trip to Los Angeles. Sorry about extending the metaphor, but shell-shocked is the best way to describe how I felt at that moment.

  As they walked past the door, the stage crew made plans to meet for drinks. I sat down to tie my boots when Troy Summer sauntered in. "Seen Clarissa?"

  I shook my head. Clarissa was my understudy and Troy's girl-of-the-week.

  "I told her to meet me here." He sat down on one of the stools. "Thank God this is almost over. I'm totally sick of Shakespeare. Can't understand a single word."

  He was sick of Shakespeare? I lived Shakespeare. I dreamed Shakespeare. I ate, drank, and peed the guy. Sure, Shakespeare was a genius, but ever hear of overkill? If I could go somewhere and never again hear a single, solitary Shakespearean word, I'd be a happy camper.

  "I only did this because my agent thinks Romeo is the perfect role for a sex symbol," Troy said.

  What an ego. Why was he tal
king to me anyway? I acted like my boots were the most important things in the world. I had tried my best to avoid Troy ever since our first stage kiss--a kiss I relived on a daily basis, like a bad taste I couldn't help regurgitating.

  Here's what happened. On day one of rehearsals, Troy sauntered into the performance hall with his sunglasses and browned-butter tan and I couldn't take my eyes off of him. Neither could anyone else in the cast. He knew his effect and seemed to feed off our admiration and desire, charming everyone with his music video moves. He paid attention to me, more than to the other girls. He let me sip his mineral water and take bites from his PowerBars. He even asked the director if we could have extra rehearsal time to work on our lines. I didn't mind. Not one bit.

  I had a full-blown crush. I admit it. I'd find myself staring at his faded jeans, which were worn to a velvety softness and moved with his thighs like a second skin. Even during the coldest winter days he wore T-shirts with surfing logos that stretched across his broad chest. I liked the reddish blond hair that speckled his arms and the way his long, pale lashes could only be seen up close. I bought all three of his CDs and a copy of Troy's Got Trouble, the cable sitcom that had launched his career.

  Then came the moment for our kissing scene and I hadn't slept at all the night before. I had practiced on my bathroom mirror, deciding that I should close my eyes because if I kept them open, I'd probably go cross-eyed. With the entire cast watching, Troy Summer leaned over the fake balcony railing and pressed his lips to mine. They didn't feel cold, like the bathroom mirror. I didn't move. I didn't know what to do. Was I supposed to open my mouth or just move my head from side to side like in an old movie? When he finally pulled back, I opened my eyes to find him smiling. No, he was smirking.

  He knew. He knew it had been my very first kiss, ever.

  "You need to work on that," he whispered in my ear. "I'd be happy to give you some lessons."

  "That was perfect," the director called out. "A perfect virginal kiss."

  I just wanted to die, but death never comes at a convenient moment. Blood rushed to my face and I told the director I needed a bathroom break. When Troy caught up with me later, he asked if I wanted to go grab some dinner or ... something else.

  When the teen idol heartthrob of your generation offers to give you kissing lessons, you can take it one of two ways--you can either be thrilled by the opportunity or devastated by the humiliation of it all.

  "Thanks, but no thanks," I said, gathering my pride and hurrying away. He took Dominique, the director's assistant, out to dinner that night. The following week, Lauren, the stage manager, nestled in the crook of his arm during breaks. Turning down the kissing lessons had been the right decision.

  I would have been just another notch. So I started ignoring him except when we were onstage together. We still had to speak words of love and we still had to kiss, but I kept the kisses quick and tight-lipped.

  But on that night one year ago, Troy and I were alone in the dressing room. Other girls would have killed to be in my boots but all I could think of was making an escape. Hadn't I made it perfectly clear that I wasn't interested in being one of his groupies? I didn't want kissing lessons from the biggest jerk on the planet, like he'd be doing me a favor. What made him think he was such an expert anyway? Practice does not make perfect all the time. For all I knew, he could totally suck at kissing.

  "Romeo and Juliet's a stupid story when you think about it," he said. "What guy would poison himself over a girl he had known only for a few days? Romeo must have been retarded or something."

  That's why you're perfect for the part.

  He fiddled with a lipstick tube. "They're talking about a DVD."

  "I know." My voice sounded heavy and unfriendly. "What about the stage fright thing? You puked all over yourself."

  Thanks so much for the reminder. My pride, though shriveled and damp, still had a few sparks left. "I puked because I ate bad clams."

  "Yeah, right." He swept a golden lock from his forehead. "No one's going to believe that spin."

  I pulled my coat from the rack. "I don't care."

  "I'm leaving tomorrow, right after the curtain call. I'm shooting a music video in the Virgin Islands." I might have been overly sensitive but I'm pretty sure he hesitated on the word virgin. "Want to hear my new song?" He noticed the mirror and leaned forward to inspect his teeth.

  "Not really." I buttoned my coat.

  "Tell me what you think." He must have graduated from the Veronica Wallingford School of Listening because he cleared his throat and started drumming his fingers on the counter as he sang. "Girl, you got me throwin', Girl, you got me sowin', Down the seeds of love, Down the seeds of love. Girl, you got me rowin', Girl, you got me stowin', On the sea of love, On the sea of love."

  My mouth hung open as Troy pulsed his shoulders to his music, pointing a finger at me every time he said "Girl." Simply asinine. Oh God, there was more.

  "Girl, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, girl." He stopped pulsing and stared at me. "So, what do you think? Be honest."

  "It's kind of ... stupid."

  "It's totally stupid." He ran his fingers through his thick hair. "Some moron wrote it. I keep trying to persuade the producers to let me record my own songs but they say my stuff is too 'alternative.' They totally underestimate the girls who buy my CDs. The music doesn't always have to be fluffy, you know?"

  Clarissa the understudy entered. "Babe," she said, wrapping her arms around Troy's waist. Then she shot me a wicked look. "I heard you're going to the Theatre Institute." News traveled fast.

  "It's not for certain." I fumbled with my gloves and dropped them.

  "Of course it's for certain. You're a Wallingford." She said my name as if describing something she had coughed up.

  "It's not for certain. I don't know if I want to go." I put on my gloves.

  "Don't want to go? Are you nuts? I'd kill to go to the Theatre Institute." She stepped toward me, her eyeballs blazing with envy. "But I don't have connections. I just have talent. Guess I'm screwed."

  The tears that had been waiting pushed around the edges of my eyes as the truth of her words stung.

  "Hey, you're really stressed out," Troy said to me as I tried not to blubber. "You should get out of New York for a while. Some of the cast are coming with me to the Virgin Islands. They're going to be extras." Why was he telling me this? I put on my hat. "Why don't you come with us? You can be Bikini Girl Number Four."

  I looked at Troy, golden, beautiful, idolized Troy, and I didn't like what I saw. He felt sorry for me. He gave me the same kind of look that I gave my neighbor's cat the time it had a piece of poop stuck on its back leg.

  "Thanks, but no thanks."

  I grabbed my backpack and left the dressing room. A mob churned outside the backstage door so I walked quickly down the hall to the lobby, empty of employees and patrons. My driver waited outside the glass door.

  Me, Bikini Girl Number Four in a Troy Summer music video. That would kill my mother. Exposure, certainly, but not the kind she desired. For the briefest of moments I felt I just might do it. I might rebel. I felt sand between my toes and the sun shining on my butt cheeks. I tasted coconut milk as the chorus of "Girl, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, girl," pounded in my head.

  But then I did what I often did before leaving the Wallingford Theatre. I turned and looked up at my great-grandmother's portrait. Adelaide returned my gaze, sobering me with her green eyes and miffed expression. "Thinking about a rebellion, are you?" I imagined her asking. "Tell me, Mimi, what would you do if you left the theater? What talents do you have besides acting?"

  I had no answer.

  "You have no idea how tough the real world is. I know because I came to this country without a penny. I took the Wallingford name out of the factory and the low-rent district and I put it in lights for all to see"

  "I know," I murmured.

  "I did all that, and I'll have no great-granddaughter of mine sullying the name by wiggling her bare derriere in a
music video'.'

  She probably would have gone on all night if I had let her. I left the lobby with the weight of Adelaide's legacy pressing down on my shoulders.

  Rebellion smothered.

  What was I thinking anyway? I didn't even own a bikini.

  Three

  ***

  "Now is the winter of our discontent".

  Snow continued to fall. The limo's wipers squeaked out a rhythm that reminded me of Troy's horrid song. I was furious at myself for crying in front of Clarissa and Troy. My unhappiness was none of their business. They had probably laughed about it on their way to one of Troy's parties--laughed at the girl who had it all but couldn't handle it all.