Authors: Suzanne Selfors
"Daughter," Lady Capulet said. "I bring wonderful news. We have concluded negotiations with Paris and it is agreed by all parties that the wedding shall take place as soon as possible
--
perhaps by week's end."
Juliet's mouth hung open in disbelief. But she didn't say a word. Perhaps she had learned, as had I, that some arguments could never be won. Lady Capulet kissed her daughter's forehead. "Prepare yourself to meet your future husband." She tried to pat down Juliet's hair but it stubbornly refused to oblige. "I shall send the hairdresser."
Juliet did not move for a very long time after her mother had left. Her arms hung limp and she stared at the floor.
"Juliet?" I asked, touching her shoulder.
"I am to marry a man I have not even met." She started to breathe quickly.
"There's still hope. Remember the boil."
"I feel strange," she said. "I feel like the room is getting smaller. I feel so trapped." She flung the balcony door open, gasping for air.
"Calm down," I told her, as I had so often told myself. "It will be okay." But would it? If my dream followed the traditional story line, then Juliet was doomed to commit suicide in a few days' time. In that case she
was
trapped
--
trapped in a Shakespearean tragedy. However, this was my dream, so I wouldn't let that happen.
"My heart's beating so quickly. Why must they force me to marry?" She clung to the rail. Her hands began to shake and her jaw began to tremble. Tears rolled down her flushed cheeks. She opened her mouth, taking in shallow breaths.
Wow. It was like watching
myself
. "You're having a panic attack," I realized, clutching her hands.
"Panic?
Yes, I do feel a sense of panic. I cannot catch my breath."
"Listen to my voice. We have to slow your breathing or you'll hyperventilate." I started to chant my centering mantra, over and over. "Do it with me," I insisted and she did. Om
ya,
om
ya, om ya,
until her breathing slowed and we both sank to the balcony's stone floor.
She cried for a bit and I kept hold of her hands. Shakespeare may have created this predicament but I was the one who could change it. I wasn't going to let this girl kill herself. Even if it meant that I had to stay in this dream for a very long time. I was determined not to wake up until Juliet got her happy ending. One of us deserved a happy ending.
"I do not wish to get married," she pleaded, squeezing my fingers.
"We'll come up with a plan," I assured her. "I don't know what it is yet, but I'm going to help you get out of this engagement."
***
"Why, then the world's mine oyster."
T
here was no way to get around it. I had to pee.
Juliet had burrowed beneath her blankets once again, insisting it was the best place for her to think. "If I lived in Manhattan, I would never have to get married. Are you certain that you do not wish to go back to Manhattan?"
"Totally certain.
I'm sure there are other places we can go." I looked under the bed for a chamber pot but found only dustballs and a slumbering brown mouse. What the heck did they do in the sixteenth century? I remembered reading that in the Middle
Ages,
people stuck their butts out holes in castle walls. No way was I doing that. Dream or no dream, I had my pride.
"Escape will be impossible with my mother's henchmen following us. Even a nunnery could not protect me." She punched the blanket with her foot.
"Juliet?" I squirmed like a first-grader. "Where's the bathroom?"
"I refuse to share a bed with that old man!"
"Juliet, I need to
urinate."
"You need to piddle? The closestool is behind the screen, in the corner."
I hadn't noticed the screen, painted the same off-white as the walls. It concealed a stool with a
hole
cut in the center and a ceramic pot held beneath, like a toddler's training potty, only larger. I could deal with that.
As the pee filled the pot, doubts trickled into my mind.
The sensation felt warm and relieving
--
like the real thing.
What if I was actually peeing? Oh my God, did that mean that I had just wet myself in the real world?
How totally embarrassing, especially if Troy had witnessed the act.
He had already seen me vomit.
Just great.
I couldn't blame wetting my pants on bad clams.
Wait a minute. Falling in a dream feels real, but the dreamer isn't actually falling. So it's possible I wasn't actually peeing.
But doubt lingered. Dreamers don't wonder if they're actually dreaming or not. When asleep, they accept the dream as reality. Yet there I sat, a nagging doubt tapping me on the head.
"Oh Mimi, even if I had money, which I do not, and even if I had a horse and carriage, which I have not, two women cannot travel alone.
We'd be noticed immediately."
"Then we'll dress as boys," I suggested, grateful to have a distraction from my confusing thoughts.
"As boys?"
"Why not?
It's a classic theme. Even Shakespeare uses it."
"Shakespeare?"
The room filled with voices. I straightened my dress and emerged from behind the screen. Two serving women placed bowls of water on the bedroom table while two others pulled Juliet from bed
--
a bit roughly, I noticed. Juliet pouted and squirmed while they washed her face with small towels and brushed her hair. Two more women began to remove her nightgown.
"No thanks," I insisted as one approached me with a washcloth. "I can do it myself."
"I never get to dress myself," Juliet pouted, standing in a sort of tank top and slip. "Never!" she yelled in a woman's face. "I suppose that the Capulets of Manhattan are allowed to dress themselves."
Not this Capulet. At some point in my development, probably when my breasts refused to fill anything larger than an A cup, my mother decided that I should look exactly like Audrey Hepburn. "She's a classic," she had told me, filling my closet with trench coats and sleeveless dresses. "And she's dead so you can't upset her if you look exactly like her." My crisp style garnered me a few mentions on the best-dressed list but I didn't care. It wasn't
my
style.
"I don't get to dress myself either," I commiserated.
Juliet tapped her foot irritably as an attendant pulled a long white shirt over her head. "That hurts. Stop tugging on my hair. I shall scream if you keep tugging like that." All of a sudden I felt bad for Fernando, recalling all the times I had whined while he had simply done his job. I slipped off my filthy costume and took the shirt handed to me. The servants widened their eyes at the sight of my bra and panties, but said nothing. Juliet was too busy squirming and complaining to notice. "You are all wretched and I hate every one of you," she told them.
With the shirts in place, we slipped on long underskirts. Then the attendants held up our dresses. Juliet's was
green,
mine was blue, both with square necklines and ribbons for cinching the waist. "At least Father doesn't make us wear Capulet colors to all parties," Juliet said, grimacing as the cinching proceeded. I let the attendants help with my dress, since it was such a complicated procedure. The sleeves were huge puffy things that had to be attached at the armholes with laces. This took forever and my arms got tired as I held them aloft. Why would my arms get tired in a dream? And why did I feel so hungry? Nagging doubt returned but still, I ignored it. A party
awaited
, with music and dancing and guys to dance with. I had attended tons of charity events over the years but never unchaperoned. I was going to cut loose tonight, maybe try some wine, maybe even do some slow dancing with that gorgeous Benvolio. In Shakespeare's story, he sneaks into the party with Romeo in tow.
Oh, that's right. Romeo was going to be there, too. That would definitely complicate things, as we all know. A happy ending was still my goal so I'd just have to do my best to keep Romeo and Juliet apart.
"How dare
they
!" Lady Capulet screamed, popping into the room like a champagne cork. Her hair hung loose and her sleeves had not yet been attached. She held a piece of paper in one hand and a bouquet of roses in the other, which she shook so vigorously that red petals flew about. "Those monstrous, motley-minded Montagues are at it again." She flapped the paper in the air. "They told Paris that my daughter has a boil on her bottom!"
Juliet gasped, playing it cool. I, on the other hand, would have crumbled under that woman's interrogation. One gaze from her and I'd give up name, rank, and serial number.
"Mother, such unkind words."
Lady Capulet raised her eyebrows. "You don't, do you? Have a boil, that is."
"Mother!"
Juliet stomped her foot, crunching the fingers of the poor attendant who was trying to tie her shoes. "How would a Montague know what is or what is not on my bottom?"
"How indeed!"
Lady Capulet thrust the paper at me. "Paris sent this. Read it aloud, Mimi. I am too distraught."
I took the little note card. A capital P sat in the upper corner, embossed in gold. The writing swirled in delicate loops and curlicues. Aroma of rose drifted off the page.
My dearest Lady Capulet,
How saddened I am to hear of your daughter's unfortunate condition. Boils can
he
dreadfully unpleasant, especially if they sprout on such a delicate derriere as I can only imagine your daughter possesses. I would be happy to recommend a skilled surgeon if lancing becomes necessary. In no way does this lessen my
esteem for your daughter. Even the most beautiful rose can succumb to a case of black spot now and then.
I am disappointed that the party is canceled. Please send word as soon as Juliet is recovered so that we can move forward with marriage arrangements. Consider these flowers as a token of my admiration.
Yours most respectfully, Paris Calchetto
IV
"He thinks my daughter is spotted. Spotted! And that the party is canceled." Lady Capulet tore the note from my hands and crumpled it. "I will send word immediately that the boil is a vicious lie and that the party is not canceled. Damn those malignant Montagues." She threw the bouquet on the table. "Use the rose perfume. Paris prefers roses. And where is the hairdresser? Your hair will ruin us all."
As soon as her mother had left, Juliet kicked over one of the stools. Then she pushed through the flock of attendants. "Everyone be gone!" A woman handed me a pair of leather booties with wooden heels, then followed the others from the bedroom. "Rose perfume," Juliet complained, throwing the bouquet across the room. "I shall not smell like one of his roses. I shall smell the opposite of a rose." Juliet had clearly bounced back from her panic attack. She didn't seem to suffer from depression, unlike poor Romeo. She had simply freaked out, and who could blame her? Her situation totally stank. But Juliet Capulet was not the kind of person willing to give in to despair. Her spunky nature wouldn't allow it.
She opened the chest, took out a coin,
then
stomped onto the balcony, her wooden heels clacking like castanets. "Boy!" she called. Dusk had come but the air still held summer's warmth. Despite the growing darkness, the boy had returned to his crate. He eagerly leaped to his bare feet.
"I did what you asked, my lady."
"Yes, excellent work. Now I want you to go to the market and purchase some onions
--
the ones with green stems."
"The market is closed, my lady. But my mother has onions in her garden. How many would you like?"
"Three. Three should do it." Juliet tossed him the coin and he ran off, just like last time. "Paris may be willing to forgive a boil, but we shall see what he thinks of onion breath." She wrapped her arm around my waist in a conspiratorial hug. I ate up her rebellion like a starving French peasant.
"Ladies!" a voice sang, startling us both. A man wearing a floppy scarlet hat entered Juliet's bedroom. In fact, his entire outfit blazed scarlet, from his tight-fitting doublet to his even tighter leggings. Two servants followed, carrying a bench. Nurse entered as well, tottering under an enormous basket filled with ribbons and combs.
"Oh, no," Juliet whispered.
"My mother's hairdresser."
The scarlet man bowed gracefully, swirling his hand through the air like a cook whisking egg whites. He smiled patronizingly.
"My dear little poppy.
You should not scowl like that. Your scowls make Vincento crazy."
Juliet scowled harder, thrusting out her bottom lip like a bulldog. Vincento shook his head with disapproval when he sized me up. "Two heads of unruly hair that Vincento must tame. Nurse, fetch some wine. Vincento must arouse his muse."
Nurse set down the basket and departed with a huff, muttering that if anyone needed wine and arousing, it was she.
Vincento motioned for Juliet and me to sit on the bench. He grabbed a comb that looked like a barbecue fork. "I shall create my latest invention
--
the Leaning Tower of Hair."
Crap! How many hours had I spent having my hair and makeup done? I wondered. What was keeping me from walking down the hall rather than sitting on that bench? Why should I torture myself? I could go anywhere I wanted in this dream. I could pull my hair back with one of those ribbons and say, "See ya later" to Juliet. "I'm outta here."