A Tale of Two Centuries

Struck by the surprising insight his facial cues gave me into this perplexing boy, I follow where he points— past Kendal, who is visibly incensed—to see the young girl from the waiting room. Now the tickle of recognition from earlier makes sense. Their dark hair and soulful blue eyes are almost identical.

Jamie smiles and waves, and Austin gives her an indulgent smile in return. The sardonic angles and strong features of his face soften. He transforms.

And in this moment, he is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.

Then his gaze shifts to me, and aloofness wins again.

“Please take your places and begin,” Ms. Kent calls out.

My body locks in fresh fear. Impulsively I reach out, grabbing Austin’s arm. Muscles flex beneath the firm, warm skin, and my mouth goes dry. His free hand closes around my fingers, giving a quick squeeze before removing them from his body. Then, in a loud voice only slightly laced with arrogance, he says, “I’m ready.”

I shake my head and take a hurried glance at the pages in my hand. The highlighted section begins with two words from me and then a short speech from Austin—er, Romeo. I should be able to read the material ahead while he says his lines. I look out into the crowd and straighten my shoulders. “So am I.”

Inhaling through my nose, I watch Austin from the corner of my eye. Outwardly, he appears calm, but I can see the worn toe of his boot scuffing the floor. The action somehow reassures me and with a smile, I turn to him and say, “Ay me!”

My plan had been to read my next speech as Austin reads his, but that is not what happens.

Because Austin does not look down at his page.

“She speaks: O, speak again, bright angel! For thou art as glorious to this night, being o’er my head as is a winged messenger of heaven….”

Although Austin is but a volunteer and has no need to be familiar with the script, he recites Romeo’s speech as though he wrote the words, as if he believes them…and as if I am truly his bright angel.

Reyna’s confusing riddle from the tent springs to mind, disrupting my romantic musings as I realize I have just met the first marker.

An angel speaks.

Two more markers remain until I am sent back to my own time. My pulse pounds in my ears.

Austin stops speaking, and I snap back to reality to see him wiggle his eyebrows, indicating it is my turn. Flustered, I tell myself to focus as I look down and read my next part. “O Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo?”

And as I read those lines, I leave behind the tent, the riddles, and even my own identity. And I become Juliet.

So we continue, each reciting in turn, and with each line uttered, I become more enchanted. Yes, my faithful blush rises at the talk of Romeo taking me and at his being left unsatisfied—much to Austin’s distinct enjoyment— but somehow as the scene unfolds and Austin stares into my eyes, I forget the audience. I forget the fight we had earlier in class.

I stare at Austin, and he is Romeo.

And I am in love with him.

Offstage, another volunteer acts as the nurse and calls for me, yanking me from my imagined world where I stand on a balcony in my Verona courtyard. I stumble on my next line. I look around, see the darkened theater and the director’s table, and then glance back at my page.

“I hear some noise within,” Austin whispers, giving me my line.

I glance up, grateful, before finding my place and beginning again. But the magic is gone. I say the next few lines, and Ms. Kent calls, “That will be all.”

Austin bows and I bob a curtsy, and as we walk out from under the bright spotlight he whispers, “All this is but a dream.”

A line from Romeo’s next speech.

He continues on, back to the shadowed row of volunteers, and I slow my stride, curious how much of the Austin I just witnessed is the dream and how much is the hidden reality.

Chapter Ten

The soft, buttery leather of the backseat hugs me as our driver steers us away from the theater and away from confusing boys who spout Shakespeare. Cat, however, is still beside me, not letting me forget.

“How was that even possible?” she asks me again, pushing the button to raise the divider, separating us from our driver. She turns her body toward me so she can better scrutinize my every facial expression. And she has reason to.

Ever since I walked off the stage, I have been in a daze. The rest of the auditions were spent sneaking not- so-subtle peeks at the row where Austin sat, unable to pay attention to anything else. I know this because somehow I failed to notice Cat just a few rows away, watching not only my onstage performance, but also my equally interesting offstage one as well.

“I don’t know what’s crazier, seeing my Renaissance-period cousin spouting Renaissance lingo while dressed in designer clothes, or watching her optically make out with a Shakespeare-quoting Austin Michaels!” She throws her hands up in disbelief. “The boy who can’t even find his way to English class was reading the lines like he was from the sixteenth century, too. How is that possible?”

That has to be the fifth time she has asked me that question, and I still have no answer. But she is right— Austin did recite the lines as if he were from my time. Perchance that is why my heart and brain are in such conflict. My heart wants to believe that the Romeo version is the real one. But that was an illusion, “too flattering- sweet to be substantial.”

I just have to keep reminding myself of the very words Austin whispered as he walked offstage, that it was all but a dream and the real Austin is the boy who taps on his desk, listens to annoying music instead of hardworking instructors’ lectures, and sends silent, brooding glares but otherwise ignores the pleasant-enough- looking girl sitting and gawking beside him.

I wrinkle my nose.

That last part may be a bit personal. But the rest is definitely accurate.

“I do not know,” I tell her honestly.

Cat tilts her head, watching me for a moment more, and I see the instant she decides to give up the inquisition. I sag in relief.

“Well, as exciting as all that was,” she says, digging in her purse, “the fun’s not over yet. Jenna got back today, and apparently Angela and her mom are coming over to talk sweet sixteen plans.”

She whips out her cell phone, showing me the text from her future stepmother. Modern communication is nothing if not convenient. She pockets her phone and stares at the plush gray carpet beneath our feet, the corners of her mouth turning up wistfully. “I wonder if Lucas will tag along.”

Maybe it is remembering the soft smile on Lucas’s face when he spotted Cat or the romantic scene I just read with Austin, but I surprise even myself by saying, “You know, he seemed rather nice in our French class.”

Cat’s head shoots up and her gaze sharpens, and I realize I failed to mention our shared subject.

Eagerly hiking a foot under her, she twists toward me on the seat and starts worrying her bottom lip with her teeth. In her eyes, I can see the battle brewing as she fights asking the question I know she wants to ask. Finally, she gives in. “Did he say anything about me?”

As soon as the question is asked she shakes her head. “No, don’t answer that. It’ll only make it worse. Ugh, why am I turning into such a girl?”

I cannot help but grin at the theatrics. It is a shame she is so against claiming her acting lineage; clearly, she has a gift. “And is it so bad, being a girl?”