I finally bring myself to respond to Thatcher the next morning as I'm eating pancakes and vaguely answering my mom's questions about last night. She can never know anything about last night's encounter with the police. I won't allow her to, because if she ever found out that I got in trouble for loitering near a darkened park with a boy, I'd be the new age Rapunzel, locked away until her hair grew long enough to be rescued.
Janie Myers: Hey sorry I didnt reply last night. I fell asleep right away. (9:03am)
It doesn't take him long to respond.
Thatcher Gorsky: Last night was pretty crazy. I feel like such an ass for taking you there. I've been beating myself up all night for it. (9:04am)
Thatcher Gorsky: Let me make it up to you today? (9:05am)
Janie Myers: I have to work on our new script for Romeo and Juliet. Help me? (9:06am)
"Mom, can Thatcher come over and help me develop the script for our new one act?" I call from the dining room into the kitchen, where Mom is washing the pans from breakfast.
"I thought you couldn't write it yourselves."
My phone buzzes.
Thatcher Gorsky: Yeah! Want to come over to the shed? (9:07am)
"We can't, but now we're doing Romeo and Juliet, so we have to adapt it. Never mind, though, Thatcher said I can go there."
"I'd rather you work here," Mom says, stepping into the doorway with a mug of coffee. "Maybe he'll tell me more about the dance than you did."
I try to hide my anxiety about any possible questions she'd ask him. "Maybe," I say. Then I text Thatcher: "My mom wants us to work here. She might ask you questions about Snowball, but DON'T mention the police part at all or the park even."
Thatcher Gorsky: I'd never do that. My dad doesn't know either, but I'm going to have to pay the fine somehow. I'll figure it out. (9:08am)
Janie Myers: How much is it?? (9:08am)
Thatcher Gorsky: Don't worry about it. It's not much. I'll have it covered. (9:08am)
Thatcher Gorsky: So what time should I come over? (9:09am)
I haven't had a shower yet and I'm still in my pajamas, so I tell him to come by at 10:00am. I keep myself occupied with dishes, a shower, and a bit of makeup until he comes. That way I can't think too much about the embarrassment from last night or my fear that Mom will somehow sniff out the truth.
When he shows up at 10:00am on the dot, we get straight to business. I grab my mom's iPad, and Thatcher sets out his copy of Romeo and Juliet, which apparently, he owns outside of class. I've never asked my mom to buy any of the books we've read in school, because, well... they were school books. The books that you read in school are never good, or maybe I've just never read them well enough to understand why they're good; but I've never liked them. The first book I sort of liked was Romeo and Juliet, and that was only because of how Thatcher read the part. Catcher in the Rye, again, is only okay because Thatcher is helping me.
As soon as we are settled at the table with all the things we need to create the script, Mom comes out with glasses of water. "Would you like anything else, Thatcher?" she asks. "Did you eat breakfast yet? We have some extra pancakes left over that I could heat up." She takes a seat at the head of the table as she speaks.
"Thank you, Ms. Myers. I'm okay though."
"Okay," she says, and then, as if it were part of the same thought, she asks, "so how was Snowball?"
He smiles at me before responding. "It was really good. I had a great time, and Moth kept us dancing all night. He even danced with Gina."
"What? Really?"
"Yeah," he answers, "she seemed uncomfortable with it at first, but then she actually looked like she enjoyed it. Janie pulled her over."
"Really?" Mom asks, this time addressing me.
I shrug. "She looked lonely. Her whole group had left her."
"That was really sweet of you, honey. I wouldn't have done that, but it was still sweet. You're not friends with her again, are you?"
"No, Mom, it was just the dance."
"She left right after that song, Ms. Myers, don't worry."
Thatcher turns again to me and smiles, and since he is seated between me and my mom, Mom takes notice. She smiles at me too. "So, you and Janie had a lot of fun together last night?"
"I had a lot of fun," he responds. "Janie, did you?"
"Yep. Now, Mom, we really need to get to work on this script."
She winks at me as she pushes herself up from the table. "Message received. I'll give you two some space to get that done. Let me know if you need anything."
"Okay, so anyway, let's get into the script then," I say while opening the Notes app on my phone. I type, "Sorry about her."
"I'll Google the script, and we can copy and paste it into a doc. From there, we can edit it down," he says. As he speaks, he types a response below my note: "She's sweet, no worries."
I type: "She wants to no details. She cant no about the cops thing."
"Sounds like a good plan," I say out loud once I'm done typing. I can't type that much and speak at the same time.
Thatcher's smile drops when he reads the note, and he mouths to me: "She won't. Don't worry." Then he says—seriously this time, he's not just trying to cover for our secretly typed conversation: "Let's start with the first scene. And the tough thing will be to make sure there are only ever four characters on stage at once. I think we can do it, but we might have to cut a bunch of stuff from the big fight scenes."
"Okay," I say, serious now too.
He finds a script of the entire play online—it's easy to do that, he says, because all Shakespeare's plays are copyright free—and copies it into a Google doc on my mom's iPad. Together, he and I (mostly him, though), go through the entire play, cutting lines here and there to shorten it and ensure only four people are ever on stage at once. It takes us (let's be honest, it's basically only him working on it) a couple of hours to work on it and get it to where it needs to be, but as he reads through the scenes, he explains them to me as if each one holds an actual memory for him that he wants to share with me. He even refers to Romeo as "I" half of the time.
"This is the scene where I'm getting ready to go to the party, but then I have this dream that because of the party, someone I love but also hate will die. So, I try to tell my friends, and the one makes fun of me. So, eventually I just decide to go and let destiny run its course."
Stuff like that.
Finally, we get to the final scene, the one that I remember Thatcher reading so vividly. "Okay, so here is where I find Juliet dead. Well, I think she's dead, and I go into my last monologue. Do you want to hear me do it? I have it memorized?"
"Yes," I say, beaming. This was my first memory of Thatcher, and one of my favorites, still after everything we've been through together.
He slides his copy of Romeo and Juliet to me. "Open to page 203, so you can read it while I recite it and check me for accuracy."
I flip through the pages, but as I approach the 203rd page, I notice a little gap between the pages. The kind of gap that would be left because some other object had been shoved into the book. I look up at Thatcher, and when I find him smiling, I move my thumb to the gap and open the book there.
Wedged between the 202nd and 203rd pages is a pressed daisy—no idea where he got it in the middle of winter, unless he bought a bouquet specially for this purpose—and one of Shakespeare's sonnets, re-written in Thatcher's handwriting. It's Sonnet 29, which means nothing to me right now; but Thatcher takes my hand under the table, so now it means everything.
"Have you ever read this sonnet?"
I shake my head. "No."
"Can I read it to you?"
"I won't understand it, but I'll try," I say with a smile.
"I'll help you," he offers. Then, taking the paper, he reads the sonnet aloud to me:
"When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,
Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
(Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven's gate;
For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings."
"It has something to do with wealth," I say. I'm not sure why this would be left for me with a pressed daisy if it has to do with money. I'm really hoping that when Thatcher explains it to me, it has a different meaning.
"Sort of, but not a money sort of wealth. So, the sonnet starts by this guy talking about how he thinks about how poor he is and he compares himself to other guys, he cries. He's not as rich as other guys, not as talented, not as favored by the heavens, and when he makes these comparisons, he ends up just hating himself. But then he thinks about a girl, and when he does, he feels happy and rich in love."
He blushes, squeezing my hand a bit tighter.
"That's how I feel," he whispers. I'm honestly not sure where my mom is lurking, but this is so sweet, I don't even care if she hears. Still, he continues to whisper, "I've never been the smartest, or the most athletic. My family has always struggled, and nothing has ever been easy for me. No one's ever noticed me, and I never felt like I was the best. But then I met you, and you made me feel like I was the best at something. I was the best at acting, but more important than that, I was the best at being your friend. And that made me feel wanted and noticed, and now... liked. You make me feel like the wealthiest guy in the world."
Again, I don't care if Mom is spying, because even if I get in trouble, it will be worth it. I lean over and kiss his lips, though not for too long. I don't care if Mom saw that, but I also don't want to press my luck.
"You make me feel like the luckiest girl in the world," I whisper.
He smiles and pushes the sonnet back to me. "That's for you. To remind you of how much you mean to me, especially after things happen that attempt to break us, like last night, and like I'm sure many more things will."
"Thank you," I say. He's right after all. Last night was embarrassing and horrifying, but as long as we have each other, nothing too terrible can happen.
We finish editing the rest of the play, and by the time we're through it all, we have thirty-seven pages of Shakespearean dialogue fit to fill a one act play time slot. We break it up into fourteen scenes, and each one only has four characters in it at the most. Then we go through and assign roles.
Thatcher is always Romeo, except in the first scene when he is the Prince and in the scene where Juliet's parents go off on her when he will play the Nurse. Patti is always Juliet except in the scenes with Mercutio, in which she'll play him. Moth and I will play all of the other parts, but we are careful to give me parts with fewer lines if possible. Usually Moth will play Benvolio, Capulet, Friar Lawrence, and the Nurse (except for that one scene, in which he has to play Capulet). Usually I will play Tybalt, Lady Capulet, and whatever smaller roles are needed for the scenes. We decide we will use costumes for roles like the Prince and Nurse that switch between actors, so that the audience can tell who they are supposed to be.
Then, right as Mom is getting ready to serve us lunch, we share the Doc with Patti and Moth for review.
"How's it going in here? You two seem to be working hard," Mom says. I can't hear even a hint of sarcasm, so I assume she wasn't spying on us earlier when I kissed him.
"We just finished," I say.
"With the whole play?"
"It was pretty easy, Ms. Myers. We just had to copy and paste the play into a Doc, and then edit it from there. I love reading Shakespeare plays, so it wasn't any trouble."
"Really?" she asks. "I always hated Shakespeare. Why do you like him?"
"Shakespeare is sort of the great equalizer. Everyone struggles with it, no one understands it, so in class, it's the one thing we all come to with the same level. After lots of practice, though, you start to see who has the talent for it."
"Do you feel like you have the talent for Shakespeare?" she asks.
I answer: "He's amazing. There's no question he has the talent for it."
"Thanks," he says, and then, turning back to my mom, continues, "I really hope it will get Grant O'Reilly's attention."
"Grant O'Reilly? From that show you're always watching, Janie?"
"She didn't tell you about this?" Thatcher asks.
Mom shakes her head. "What's going on with Grant O'Reilly?"
"Well, he graduated from Riverside," Thatcher starts, "and actually went through the theater program at our school. He's looking for some extras for the show, and wanted to help some Riverside kids get noticed, I guess. He'll be at the one act performances, and he will watch them and choose a girl and a boy to go and film as extras in one of his shows."
Mom looks at me with wide eyes and a subtle grin. "Janie, is that something you'd want?"
"Well, sure, but it's not going to happen. At this point, we're just trying to do our best to help Patti be the girl and Thatcher to be the boy, so they'll be playing Romeo and Juliet."
Mom furrows her brows. "Don't sell yourself short, Janie. You can do anything you decide you want to do, but if you never make the choice to go for it, it will never happen."
Thatcher nudges me. "See? It could be you and me."
It is you and me, I want to say. Just not you and me who are going to Hollywood.
"We'll see," I say.
Mom shrugs, a smile on her face. "We will. I have a feeling it will all work out, though," she says.
And then, as if a sign from the stars Romeo is constantly talking about, Thatcher and I both receive a text from Patti. It reads, "OMG OMG OMG I love the script, you two are such rock stars! We are totally going to have the best one act! YES YES YES!"
One step at a time, I think. But there's a little cheerleader in my head now, chanting for me to believe in myself. Maybe it will all work out.