Chapter 16
Theodor e
It’s the day after one of the potentially worst ideas I’ve ever had, and at rehearsal neither of us so much as hints at what happened the night before; whether it’s because we’re determined to pretend it never actually happened or are waiting for an appropriate moment, I don’t know. Thankfully, Mr. Hackle wants to focus on Act Three this week, which means no kissing. That’s great– splendid in fact. Perhaps this pause from physical contact will make both of us realise how utterly ridiculous the whole thing was. Mostly me.
We’re actors. Not bloody trapeze artists. We don’t need to let go off-stage. Never mind that I felt so sure it was the right thing to do. Or that I don’t remember giving–or receiving–a better kiss than last night’s. I will not think about it if I can help it. I haven’t told Devon what happened, for obvious reasons. Not only he’d never let it go, but he’d call the bet off and proclaim himself the winner, probably by hanging a banner on our door that says something way too literal, like: Theodore Price likes Dafne Wright. I was right, thank you for believing in me.
I can picture it with striking detail.
“Alright lads,” Mr. Hackle says, rubbing his chin as he eyes his script. “Let’s go through the duel one more time and then you can go off doing whatever twenty-year-olds do instead of studying your part.” Each time we’ve rehearsed the duel–which Ms. Walker choreographed and later recorded us in action, so we could learn it to perfection by watching it over and over again–I’ve had the distinct impression Oliver is scrutinising me, as if by piercing me with a stage weapon he could make me spill all my secrets instead of my guts. When I asked Devon what he and Oliver had actually talked about last night on the train or when they’d both left me and Dafne after the play, he’d simply said chatting with him was fun, and the perfect excuse to nudge Dafne in Ethan’s direction through them both. Then Devon told me Ethan had officially asked Dafne out–and she said yes. Which is fine, I guess. It happened before I showed up outside her dorm room like a madman, and not only I doubt that changes anything, but we wouldn’t be each other’s property anyway. If we were–
“ Boy, this shall not excuse the injuries that thou hast done to me, ” Devon booms as he approaches me, “ therefore turn and draw. ” I shake my head free of my stupid thoughts and raise one hand in a placating gesture, step-ping to my first mark.
“ I do protest I never injured thee, but love thee better than thou canst devise, till thou shalt know the reason of my love. And so, good Capulet, which name I tender as dearly as mine own, be satisfied. ”
On cue, Oliver steps in front of me, a hand going to the hilt of his sword. “ O calm dishonourable vile submission !” he draws in the sword and goes into position.
“ Tybalt, you ratcatcher, ” he hisses, and I swear I see that draw a hint of a smile out of Devon. “ Will you walk? ” Oliver raises his chin, and it’s just an inch, but he seems infinitely taller.
“ Will you pluck your sword out of his pilcher by the ears? Make haste, lest mine be about your ears ere it be out. ” What a fun way of saying ‘I’m about to murder you in cold blood’.
“ I am for you ,” Devon states with much less fury than required. Still the battle begins, as brief as it is.
Romeo–that’s me–interrupts the duel because the Prince of Verona forbids violence in the streets; in the chaos of the retreat, however, Tybalt skewers Mercutio fatally. Mercutio and Romeo, life-long comrades and friends, are separated forever–which is as much a tragedy as that of his and Juliet’s, if you ask me.
Jack, who plays Benvolio, enters from the left side of backstage. “ O Romeo, Romeo, brave Mercutio is dead! The gallant spirit hath aspired the clouds, which too untimely here did scorn the earth, ” he cries.
I walk to my centre mark. “ This day’s black fate on more days doth depend; this but begins the woe others must end. ”
Devon is back, and the second part of the battle begins. This time Romeo lashes out, and murders Tybalt–Juliet’s cousin. Weird how both of Dafne and I’s real-life best friends perish in the same scene.
Devon falls to his knees after I make my move, and I stare at him in horror.
“Scene,” Mr. Hackle says, effectively dragging me out of it. Devon turns his head up and gives him a toothy smile. “Wasn’t that decent?”
David and Oliver reach us at centre stage, and Mr. Hackle claps his hands once. “It was more than decent, smart-arse,” our director confirms, holding out a hand to help my friend stand up.
“I think you’ve got the dynamic down. There’s one thing I want to ask you though,” he adds, nodding towards Devon as he talks to them both. “Do either of you think Tybalt and Mercutio were secretly lovers?”
Oliver tilts his head and squints, like Mr. Hackle just spoke in ancient Greek. Devon, on the other hand, shrugs and says, “I think we can all agree there is plenty of not-so-straight tension in this play, Mr. Hackle,” a playful smile stretching on his lips, his freckles more visible after the strain of repeating the sequence multiple times having coloured his cheekbones. Oliver goggles at him. I look between the two of them, and our director seems completely unaware. I presume he’s grown a shield to protect himself from the dramatics of theatre kids decades ago. “I think so too, Devon, so feel free to explore the impli-cations of that. Dismissed!” he turns, Ms. Pattersonfuriously taking notes in tow. Oliver and Devon exchange an unreadable glance, the former nods to us both in goodbye and reaches the front row of seats, where Dafne has been taking notes for him while he was on stage.
“That was int–” I start, but Devon is walking away, so I follow him backstage. “Hey, mate, you alright?” I try again, placing a hand on his shoulder.
His face is serene, but I know him like the palm of my hand, and something’s unraveling in his head.
“I’m alright . Brilliant, actually. Also…” he smacks his lips, his hands splayed on his waist. “I have a big, fat crush on Ollie.”