dude,” I said.
Edmund also turned.
“Bobby, this is my cousin Ed,” I said quickly, and feeling rather proud of myself for being such an adroit thinker. “He’s from England.”
“Hey, Ed,” Bobby said.
“Give ye good even.”
“Ed, this is Bobby Ruspoli from school,” I said.
“You guys busy?” Bobby asked.
“Not exactly,” I said.
“Then come on over and help me work on Drew. I’m trying to talk him into reading tomorrow. Stubborn geek says he doesn’t want to be on stage.”
I would have agreed in a ten-thousandth of a second, if I’d been alone. But I had Mr. Shakeshaft to consider. “What do you think, is it okay, Ed?”
“Yes. It is okay,” Edmund said.
So Bobby led us over to his table and we sat down with Drew.
“Hey, Drew,” I said.
“Hi, Miranda.”
He had an empty espresso cup in front of him, and a paperback copy of the play.
“Drew, this is my cousin Ed, Edmund, from England,” I said. “Edmund, this is Drew Jenkins. He’s in school with me, too.”
“Give ye good e’en,” Edmund said.
And Drew smiled and said, “Give ye good e’en, as well, fair sir.”
“Ye speak English,” Edmund said.
“Fairly well for an American,” Drew said, and the three Americans laughed.
“Bobby says he wants you to read for the play,” I said.
“No way in hell.”
“Please,” I said. “We need guys.”
“You need actors,” Drew said. “That lets me out.”
“Drew, there were guys on that stage today you could act the asses off of,” Bobby said.
“I agree there were some dreadful impersonations of acting,” Drew said. “But the fact that they were god-awful doesn’t make me good.”
“Dude, you have got to get over seventh grade,” Bobby said.
“Shut up—”
“This guy,” Bobby said, “used to do shows with me all the time in grade school. He was the beautiful white pony. I was the blue car smooth and shiny as satin. That was second grade—”
“Third. Second grade I was the woodcutter and you were the prince.”
“Oh, yeah,” Bobby said. “But the point is, he was good. Then in seventh grade—”
“Shut up, Bobby. Nobody cares what happened in seventh grade.”
“Apparently you do,” Bobby said.
“Okay, I do. So shut up about it,” Drew said.
“We were both cast in the Children’s Musical Theater Holiday Spectacular,” Bobby went on. “You didn’t know Drew could sing, right? Well, he can. Better than me. And he got a solo. ‘Christmas Is a Time of Giving,’ right at the end of act one. I mean, it’s the big act finisher, right? And he dries up. Can’t remember his song. Just stands there and—”
“Shut. Up. Now,” Drew said.
“All I’m saying is, it’s time to get back on the horse, Drew. The beautiful white pony. It’s been four years.”
“And all I’m saying is, you’re wrong. It’s not that I’m scared. Scarred for life, definitely. But not scared. I’m just not interested.”
“Miri,” Bobby said. “Explain to him why he’s interested.”
“I can’t,” I said. “But, Drew. Cast parties.”
“I come to those anyway,” Drew said.
Which was true. Whenever there was a cast party and Bobby showed up, Drew was with him. This was whether Bobby had a girl on his arm or not.
“They’re more fun when you’ve just finished a show,” I said hopefully.
“I have all the fun I can stand at them now,” Drew said. “Any more fun, I’d die from sheer pleasure.”
“Please,” I said. “We need people.”
“No.”
Edmund picked up Drew’s script. “I see ye have marked Mercutio’s speeches,” he said. “Friar Lawrence’s, too. Why have ye done so if ye are not interested?”
“I’ve been helping him,” Drew said. “We’ve been running lines for weeks.”
“I could see ye as Mercutio,” Edmund said. “Friar Lawrence, too, though ye be something too young. ’Twould depend on who else was in the company.”
“Ed’s an actor,” I said. “A real one.”
“Hey,” Bobby said. “You ever play in this thing?”
“Yes. Okay. I have,” Edmund said.
“What part?” Bobby asked.
“Different ones. I’ve played in it more than once. But tell me, what part do ye fancy for yourself?”
“Romeo,” Bobby said like there was no question about it.
“Romeo,” Edmund mused. “It would not be my first thought for ye.”
“Oh? Who would you cast me as?”
“Tybalt, mayhap, if ye can fence well,” Edmund said.
“Tybalt’s not a very big part,” Bobby said.
“Thirty-five lines,” Drew said. “But he’s on a lot.”
“Not a long part,” Edmund agreed. “But a large one. He tries to kill Romeo at old Capulet’s party. Later, he kills Mercutio. Thus Romeo slays him, and must flee Verona. If there were no Tybalt, ye’d have no tragedy and Romeo and Juliet would live to ripe old ages.”
“Well, anyway, I’m up for Romeo.”
Edmund turned to Drew. “Tell me, fellow. When ye went dry onstage when ye were a lad, what happened next?”
“What do you mean, what happened next?” Drew said. “Nothing happened.”
“What
