No one will ever believe me, I know. I don't even believe me sometimes. But it is the truth as I know it, as I have experienced it.
Rose lived in a two-story old Victorian ("apologies for the draft, it's old-old," she said with a dismissive wave) and if I had entertained any hopes that this was to be a cozy two-person study section where anything could happen, it was instantly dispelled by two classmates of ours, Chris and Alice, who lifted their drinks in the kitchen island to me in greeting, scripts already opened. Mostly we chatted about our roles in other plays and funny theater anecdotes; fortunately for me, Chris and Alice had already seen the play performed many times, and Alice had even played Peter once in an abridged version, so to them it was old hat. But then we got to talking about the various adaptations of the play (something about seals, gnomes, and two musicals) and the dreaded Di Caprio movie reared its head.
"Oh no, that one is pure nineties nostalgia," said Alice, crestfallen.
"Definitely," agreed Rose as she searched for the remote, and I could feel my heart brim with the love I felt toward her. "But Ms. Duncan grew up in the nineties, so she likes that version. I prefer the sixties version, it's less crude and violent. We can watch that now."
"Zac Efron Romeo!" crowed Alice.
"'Get your head in the game, Montague,'" growled Chris and we cracked up.
We settled down to watch the movie, the dark falling like a thick curtain, somehow unpierced by the glow of Rose's seventy-inch. Around the "What Is A Youth?" scene, Romeo and Juliet eyefucking each other across the ball, scratchy feeling grew in my throat, stomach churning; my forehead and neck felt feverish, both hot and cold at the same time, as if a lasso of fire had been thrown around it.
"Are you all right?" Lit by the screen, Rose's concerned face looked ghastly.
"Yeah," I managed. "Fine."
But the feeling did not lessen, and as the film went on I felt something jerk, a discordant feeling around my navel. I found myself falling. A voice called me, echoing as if in a cave.
"Sander? Sander!"
YOU ARE READING
Madness Most Discreet
Teen FictionTheater geek Alex Cuoco has an embarrassing confession to make: He's never been that into Shakespeare. Especially that one play everyone knows and ninth-grade English teachers try to ram down their throats. But one night trying to impress his crush...
