sit front and center. Funny how that works.
I slip into my seat and Mrs. Hobbs smiles at me. Most of her face is as weathered as the side of a barn, but her hazel eyes sparkle like wet paint.
This is Advanced English. Mostly we read, discuss themes and symbolism, and then write papers. In between she slips in sentence diagramming and vocabulary lists.
When we’re reading novels and short stories and plays, Mrs. Hobbs doesn’t tell us anything. She makes us figure out the deeper meanings for ourselves. Even after we think we’ve got it, she won’t confirm whether we’re right or wrong. She says it’s all up to the individual reader.
Me, I love digging around, trying to figure out what the author was trying to say beyond the words she wrote down on the page. I’m like the symbol sleuth. The theme detective. The—
“What?” I say.
Mrs. Hobbs raises one bushy eyebrow and I can see she’s trying not to smile. But when she’s trying to look stern, somehow it makes her look even nicer.
“I asked if you have your paper,” she says, her voice husky like she smokes five packs of cigarettes a day.
I quickly dig through my bag and hand over three typed sheets. I wrote about Romeo and Juliet’s names in Shakespeare’s play. About how Romeo Montague ends in weak vowels, and Juliet Capulet’s name ends with a snapping consonant. I went on about how Juliet’s name sounds stronger and how I feel Shakespeare wanted to show she’s the stronger character. Three pages worth of proof.
Okay, I admit it: My dad helped me. He didn’t actually tell me what to write, but since he is a professor of English, specializing in Shakespeare, and I love that subject, we sometimes talk about it. He’s always telling me how names can be very significant in a story, and he especially hinted about it when I told him we were reading Romeo and Juliet. But hey, what are dads for?
Mrs. Hobbs moves on with a swish. Somewhere on her body she wears a bell that tinkles every time she steps sideways. So far, no one’s been able to figure out where the bell is hidden.
As Mrs. Hobbs makes her way between rows, some people start whispering. I press my fingers to my earlobes, feeling how smooth they are, with a little dimple on the backside. Will getting them pierced hurt?
Sandy, sitting beside me, leans over and says, “Is it getting too loud in here for you?”
I drop my hands onto the desk. “No, I wasn’t plugging my ears, just wondering what it’ll be like to have them pierced.”
Sandy brushes her long hair away from her face. “You still don’t have your ears pierced? I can’t believe it. I had mine done before I was one. You’re not chicken are you?”
“No,” I say quickly. I pause. Which is worse, being chicken or having a father who didn’t let me?
Luckily, Mrs. Hobbs has returned to the front of the room. Everyone knows not to talk when she’s standing there. It’s not that she ever humiliates anyone into being quiet like Mr. Prescott, one of the science teachers, or bores us into silence like Mr. Driggs. It’s just that even in her hobo clothes, she somehow commands attention. We give it to her.
She puts her hands together like she’s praying. Large silver rings encircle each long finger, even her thumbs. “Now that we’ve finished reading and analyzing Shakespeare’s masterpiece, it’s time to take it to the stage.” Like a magician, she waves her arms, as if that says it all. Somehow it does.
My heart starts to hammer. Stage? Not me, no way.
“I will put you into groups of four, and you will decide which scene to present.You have one week to prepare your performances. Any questions?”
Someone in back raises a hand and asks, “Do we all have to act, or can one of us be the, uh, backstage crew?”
“Really, Mr. Wilson,” Mrs. Hobbs says (she calls us by our last names when she’s trying to make a point), “I would think you’d jump at a chance to perform. From what I hear, you’re quite the actor.”
A low Ooooo rises in the room.
“Slammed,” someone whispers.
“In answer to your question, yes, everyone must perform. Oh, and your lines must be memorized.”
The previous Ooooo turns into an Awwwww.
Then comes the worst part. Mrs. Hobbs assigns us into groups. My group is me, Sandy, Vanna, and Matt.
First thing Matt says is, “Hey, slant, you like this book?”
I know this is supposed to be advanced English, but maybe there was no more room in the remedial class. “It’s a play, not a book,” I say back.
“Looks like a book to me,” Matt says, tossing the, well, book form of the play into the air.
Sandy looks at me. She’s one of the most popular girls in school, if not the most popular. She’s a cheerleader and her boyfriend is on the football team, of course. Talk about clichés. “Slant?” she says.
“It’s her nickname,” Matt says. He’s serious.
I sit absolutely still so that I don’t look like I’m squirming in my seat. I relax my face and open my eyes wider, as if that will help.
“Can we get started?” Vanna says. She has black hair and black nails, neither one of them natural. She looks like she might not have a brain on account of the occult or drugs, but she’s really sharp. Rumor has it that Vanna only wears stuff from a secondhand shop she goes to every weekend in the Village. We’re not too far from New York City, but my dad would still never let me take the train in by myself.
“Okay, what scene should we do?” Sandy asks, flipping through the pages.
“We have to use four characters,” I say. “But I don’t mind having a small part.”
“Stand in line,” Vanna says. She points to an open page near the end of the play. “How about this death scene? There’s Romeo and Juliet and the friar and Balthasar.”
Sandy looks at Matt. “You’ll have to be Romeo.”
“I’ll be Balthasar,” I say, remembering that that’s the shortest part. And there’s no way I’m kissing Matt, even if he is supposed to be dead.
“You can be Juliet,” Vanna says to Sandy, “and I’ll be the friar.”
By the time we run through the scene (with Vanna giving us all tips on acting, on account of her seeing lots of off-off-Broadway plays), class is over. Yes, the weekend has begun!
I dash out of school with everyone else, trying not to get crushed in the throngs. I’m too excited to mind the body slams and flailing elbows. This weekend starts with having my ears pierced, going to a fancy-shmancy party Julie’s parents are having tomorrow night, and finally picking up Grandma Ann on Sunday evening. I’m more nervous than excited about that last part, but I am curious to see Grandma Ann after so long.
I catch sight of Julie, or rather, Julie catches sight of me and hollers.
