Star-Crossed (3 page)

“I don't know,” you say curiously, deciding that you need to know
now
. A thought suddenly occurs to you. O
h, it's gonna be somebody really ugly, isn't it? Euwwww! No, no, no
… You stop inwardly wincing and pay attention. “Who is it?”

“What? You mean, you don't
know
?”

Would I
ask
if I knew?
“Erm … no, I don't. Who is it?”

Misha's smile of delight is quickly changed to a pitying grimace, and she tosses back her hair. “
Well
—”

“Hello, my dear!” Reuben shoves a cup of hot chocolate into your hand. You glare at him, but he pretends not to notice and turns back to Misha. “Hi, Misha! Yes, lovely day!
OK, bye-bye!”

He takes your arm to steer you past a disgruntled Misha, navigates you over to the back table, then gently pushes you down into your seat. Your eyebrows are narrowed angrily as you try to speak, but he beats you to it. He looks slightly apologetic.

“OK. I'm sorry, Jen, I would have told you earlier, but I knew that you would shout and get seriously angry unless we were somewhere public where you couldn't completely lose it on me. I wanted you to stay calm so that I could talk to you about this, and that you wouldn't flip out.” You scoff at his remark, but Rubes is starting to really worry you now.

“What do you mean, Rubes? And I don't ever ‘flip out'!” you hiss.

He raises his eyebrows. “Oh yeah, Jen, whatever you say. I'll just forget about the time when Maddy wrecked your brand-new shoes and you screamed the house down, and also that time your dad couldn't make it home for your birthday party—”

“I was
nine
years old!” you burst in.

Rubes raises his eyebrows. “But if memory serves, you still made quite a scene…”

You shake your head. “Whatever. Get back to the point, boy, before I get violent.”

He stops smiling, sighs, and then looks down into his steaming mochaccino. He coughs slightly. “Chrisbannersplayingromeo.”

“What?” you say, not hearing a word of his slurred mutter.

He casts a look around the room. Everyone is minding their own business: light-heartedly moaning to each other about coursework, gloating about their glittering social lives, or just chatting about nothing in particular. He twists his hands, watching his fingers interlock. “Maybe I should have told you in private…” he mutters.

“Just
tell me
!”

“Chris Banner is playing Romeo.”

You stop breathing.

“Chris
 …
Banner
…
?” you hear yourself whisper.

“Sorry, Jen, but er
 …
yeah. Chris Banner…” He trails off, leaving you to take in this new development.

Chris Banner?
you think.
Chris
Banner?
Chris Banner?!

You shoot a piercing look at your best friend, your voice shaking slightly but staying quiet. “The Chris Banner who belongs to the Banner family? The Chris Banner whose family has argued, insulted and otherwise frozen out
my own family
for
twenty-five years
? The Chris Banner whose coward of a father chose his job over his loyalty to his best friend? The Chris Banner whose guts I hate?!”

You say the last three words with surprising venom, your voice not sounding like your own, each syllable shaking with anger.

Reuben looks at you with pity. “Yeah. The very same. What are you going to do?”

You shake your head slowly, your options racing through your mind.
I could quit the play … but then I wouldn't be Juliet. I wouldn't have my part … and I don't want to give that slimy son of a betrayer the satisfaction of having me back out because of him. I know I can act circles around him, but can I actually be on stage with that bastard without kicking the life out of him? What do I do?

You look at Rubes, who gives you a small smile and squeezes your hand. Suddenly you don't want your hot chocolate any more. You feel sick.

What do I do? What the
hell
do I do?

You sit on your own in your form room, silently seething and cursing Chris Banner. You haven't spoken a word since Reuben told you about Chris being Romeo, because you don't know what will happen when you open your mouth – if you will scream with frustration or swear until you run out of colourful words. You are infuriated with Mrs Walker and Miss Phillips.

Why did they cast him?
you think.
He's a complete and utter prat at the best of times. He can't act. And he'll look like a complete idiot in Romeo-style clothes. He won't take it seriously either.

You look around the room, glaring at every object, like it's that thing's fault that Chris is a complete and utter idiot. Your eyes travel across the familiar room: the film posters, groaning bookshelves that are about to fall down, the defaced tables, Mr Bowden's big old desk. You stare absent-mindedly at the desk. It's always been the same – littered with bits of paper, textbooks and pens. Your gaze falls on one particular item. It triggers a memory that you would probably rather forget.

It was your first day of secondary school, and you walked into a classroom that seemed so big and scary. You remember how frightened you were when you walked into the school. Your only friend, Reuben, had been put in a different form, so when you had left him in his room, you wandered around until you found yours. You were acting tough on the outside, but inside you were freaking out. When you found your room, you pushed open the door and saw some other people in there. They all seemed to know each other already, so you decided to sit on your own at the front of the class, next to Mr Bowden's desk. It looked a bit newer then, and a bit bigger, but that was probably because you were smaller. You remember you were looking at your hands, minding your own business, when a ball of scrunched-up paper hit you square in the back of your head, then slid off. It had stung badly, so you opened it up and out fell a large sharpener. You looked around, rubbing the back of your head and scowling, to see who had thrown it, but you couldn't see over the mass of girls seated in the middle of the room, who were obviously too busy chatting to throw bits of paper. You looked back to the note.

It read:
Bad luck, Anderson. If you're anything like your old man you'd better watch your back. 'Cause I'll be firing stuff at it.

You didn't recognize the handwriting, which made you scowl.
Somebody knows me
… you thought, as you stood up to look over the girls to the corner of the room. Sitting at the back was a blonde boy with bright blue eyes, and a sneer on his face.

Anger swelled inside you. You sat back down and scribbled a new note to the boy in the corner on another bit of paper:
I'm a lot like my dad, and he's got great aim – so you'd better watch your face, 'cause it's in MY firing line.
You screwed up the note, but it didn't seem heavy enough to travel across the length of the room. You looked to the front of the class, and your eyes landed on an object on the desk.

A small plastic paperweight was on top of a bunch of papers in the centre of the desk. It was in the shape of a book that said “For the World's Best English Teacher” on it. You reached over and picked it up. It was perfect. You wrapped the note around it and stood up. Chris looked at you, then said something to his circle of friends, who all looked at you and laughed. You curled your fingers around the paperweight and threw it with all your might at Chris. It hit him in the head, and he shouted out in pain and surprise. You gasped, shocked at yourself. His hands were up at his head, and when he brought them down you saw blood on his forehead. Then Mr Bowden walked in. All the class were staring at you, mouths open and silent. Mr Bowden looked first to you, then to the bleeding Chris, put two and two together and took you both to the Head Teacher's office. You both spent the week in detention, and the whole of Year Seven talked about it for the next month. Ever since, everyone knew that Jen Anderson and Chris Banner were not to be mixed.

Miss Phillips should have known.

All that anger is still flowing strongly through your veins. You still hate Chris with all your might. And it doesn't help that—

Oh my God, there he freaking well is!

While you were lost in thought, people have been gradually arriving, and now, who but Chris Banner should saunter into the room. Your pulse soars about twenty blood-pressure points. Looking like Action Man from his years of Army Cadet training, Chris sweeps the classroom with those penetrating blue eyes until they land on you. He arches an eyebrow and smiles cockily, turning to his mates and nodding in your direction. You're leaving. You shove your folder into your bag and look up – straight into his scarily bright blue eyes. He stares straight back, the eyebrow still raised and his hands leaning on your table – on the strap of your bag.

“Good morning, my Juliet…”

His mocking voice makes your stomach knot with suppressed rage, but your face stays emotionless. You won't let him know that you hate him with the fire of a thousand suns – although he already knows that, because he hates you just as much, too.

You give him your best “Don't-Even-Bother” look, but he just smirks even more. The two guys behind him laugh too. The rest of the class who have arrived are silent now, watching the two of you. They're like a bunch of scavengers, just waiting for something juicy to go down so they can start spreading it around the year. You can sense it happening, but you maintain eye contact with Chris. You are trying to stay calm, but the audience is getting on your last nerve.

“You OK, Jen?” The way he says your name makes you want to take his perfect face and tell him where to shove it. “'Cause you look kinda” – he leans in close, so that your faces are centimetres apart, and whispers – “
irritated
?”

He must die…
you think.
He MUST die…

You smile at him with as much sarcasm as you can muster, and let your voice ooze with fake concern, laced with loathing.

“No,
Christopher
, there's nothing wrong with me, but thanks for caring. Although you look a little
red…
Hey, what are you going to do for a face when that baboon wants its butt back?”

The class sniggers. A flash of annoyance flickers across Chris's face, but then the smarmy mask comes out again and he ignores the laughter from behind him.

His eyes narrow as he speaks, sarcasm dripping off every word he says.

“Witty, Anderson, very witty, but I know you're really just a pussy cat … just like Daddy.”

You flinch and make to swat him, but his reflexes, heightened by his military training, are quicker and so he catches your wrist and bends it back slightly. Pain shoots through your arm and you wrench your hand away, glaring at Chris. You grab your bag from under his hands, making him lose his balance and fall backwards on to the desk behind him. Pulling your bag over your shoulder, you give your enemy a look that could turn the Sahara desert into an ice-rink.

“Touch me again, Banner, and you'll have a black eye to deal with. Now your daddy wouldn't want his precious son to have been
hit by a girl
, now, would he?” you hiss.

Chris straightens himself up and stands in front of you. He opens his mouth to speak, just as your form tutor, Mr Bowden, walks into the room. Everybody looks round, giving you the chance to dodge Chris and practically sprint out of the room, skidding to a halt by Mr Bowden at the door. You smile the smile that you reserve for teachers only – like when you want to go somewhere or you've not done your coursework. He surveys you edgily.

“Good morning, Jennifer. Are you—”

“OK?” you butt in speedily. “Yeah, yeah, fine! But I gotta go, OK? But I'm here. Yep. OK? Good!”

You say all of this very fast, and run out of the door and down the corridor towards the drama studio. You stop abruptly again at the notice board and scan it quickly, knowing that people will be out of their rooms in a second. You spot what you are looking for and fish out a blue biro from your bag.

The paper pinned to the board reads:

 

Cast List:
Romeo and Juliet

Romeo – Christopher Banner

Juliet – Jen Anderson

Nurse – Misha Reeves

Mercutio – Reuben Lucan

Tybalt – Danny Jupp

 

It goes on listing the rest of the cast. You think back to the films that you have watched, and a particular title springs to mind. You scribble a message on to the notice and move off to art just as the bell rings.

As you stride down the corridor, you pull out your phone and press speed-dial two. It starts to ring, but then clicks into the voicemail. Your face is determined as you leave your message.

“Hey, Rubes, it's me. I'm gonna do it. I'm gonna do the play. And you know what? I'm gonna make sure that I'm the best damn Juliet there ever was. See you later.”

You click your phone shut and shove it into your bag with a smile on your face.
He's going to wish he'd never met me
. . .

The note you wrote next to Chris's name shines slightly as it dries. You were seething with anger as you wrote it, so the handwriting is a little wobbly, but it doesn't matter. It'll still freak him out. You smile wickedly as you walk into your class, imagining the look on Chris's face.
I'll show him “irritated”.

The three blue words sink into the paper:

Romeo Must Die
…