picture. Ju.liet was supposed to already be on the balcony when Romeo showed up. This cover looked like whoever’d done it hadn’t even read the play.
But now Drew was staring at it like it meant something to him. “I wonder if I could do that,” he said. “You do make a guy want to try.”
“What part do ye favor?” Edmund asked.
“I don’t think it matters,” Drew replied. “As long as I could have some of that feeling you were talking about.”
“’Tis hard to do. ’Tis not to be counted upon. But may.hap I could help ye toward it if ye would like.”
“Yeah. I would.”
Bobby burst into the conversation, excited. “Cool. Drew reads tomorrow, he scores a part, and Ed coaches him. Rus.poli and Jenkins together again, live on stage. Thanks, Ed!”
“Listening to meself, I wish—Cousin Miranda, may I not read tomorrow?”
“Do it, man,” Bobby said. “It’d be so cool to have a real English dude in the play.”
I felt a whoosh of panic. No, no, no, Edmund must not read. Edmund must not be cast. Edmund must be hidden away. But then
I thought how stupid that was, and, really, how impossible. For better or worse, Edmund Shakeshaft was living in Cali.fornia, in this century, in my house, and he’d have to find a way to fit in. And maybe being part of the one thing he’d learned how to do in his own time that we were still doing in this time would help him to adjust.
“Yeah,” I said, though still a little weakly. “Tryouts are two-thirty tomorrow after school.”
“I will come then.”
“Okay,” I said, thinking that in one way at least this could end up being the most accurate Romeo and Juliet anybody had done in more than four hundred years.
Bobby and Drew started asking Edmund all kinds of ques.tions about what it was like to be an actor in England. And I was really impressed with how he managed to answer them without giving anything away.
“How long have you been acting?”
“Oh, since I left school.”
“How many shows have you done?”
“I don’t recall for certain. About fifty, I think.”
“Have you done much TV?”
“Television? Nay. I do not think I would like to do it.” I kept thinking I ought to drag him away, but he seemed to be enjoying playing with the guys, and they were definitely interested in what he had to say. Finally, Edmund solved my dilemma for me.
“Cuz,” he said. “I am weary. Can we not go home?”
“Sure,” I said.
“Would you like a lift?” Drew asked.
“We’re close,” I said.
“Come on,” Bobby said. “Drew’s got a new ride.”
“It’s okay. We’ll just walk,” I said.
But Edmund was suddenly alert. “This ride ye speak of, friend Drew. Is it a car?”
“Sure,” Drew said.
“I would like to ride in it.”
I think he was trembling just a little.
“I call shotgun,” Bobby said.
Drew’s new car was an old car. A bug-eyed little thing that looked like clowns might burst out of it at any minute. I’d never seen anything like it.
“What is this?” I asked.
Drew smiled. “A Citroën 2CV. The most flawless meld of engineering requirements ever designed to run on gas. Intended to take French farmers out of the age of the horse and put them behind the wheel. Totally simple, modular construction. If you dent a fender, you unbolt it and slap on a new one. The backseat lifts out for cargo. The same cable that runs the speedometer runs the windshield wiper. And you can carry a bushel of eggs across a plowed field with.out cracking one. That was part of the design requirement. I love that about it.”
“And it can hit forty-five without even trying,” Bobby said.
“Actually, this is the last model. It’s capable of sixty-two.”
It also had a canvas top that slid along the roofline. Not really a convertible, but the same effect.
“Drop that top!” Bobby demanded, and he and Drew un.latched the canvas and pushed it back.
The little coffee-grinder engine started up and we bounced out of the parking lot
But now Drew was staring at it like it meant something to him. “I wonder if I could do that,” he said. “You do make a guy want to try.”
“What part do ye favor?” Edmund asked.
“I don’t think it matters,” Drew replied. “As long as I could have some of that feeling you were talking about.”
“’Tis hard to do. ’Tis not to be counted upon. But may.hap I could help ye toward it if ye would like.”
“Yeah. I would.”
Bobby burst into the conversation, excited. “Cool. Drew reads tomorrow, he scores a part, and Ed coaches him. Rus.poli and Jenkins together again, live on stage. Thanks, Ed!”
“Listening to meself, I wish—Cousin Miranda, may I not read tomorrow?”
“Do it, man,” Bobby said. “It’d be so cool to have a real English dude in the play.”
I felt a whoosh of panic. No, no, no, Edmund must not read. Edmund must not be cast. Edmund must be hidden away. But then
I thought how stupid that was, and, really, how impossible. For better or worse, Edmund Shakeshaft was living in Cali.fornia, in this century, in my house, and he’d have to find a way to fit in. And maybe being part of the one thing he’d learned how to do in his own time that we were still doing in this time would help him to adjust.
“Yeah,” I said, though still a little weakly. “Tryouts are two-thirty tomorrow after school.”
“I will come then.”
“Okay,” I said, thinking that in one way at least this could end up being the most accurate Romeo and Juliet anybody had done in more than four hundred years.
Bobby and Drew started asking Edmund all kinds of ques.tions about what it was like to be an actor in England. And I was really impressed with how he managed to answer them without giving anything away.
“How long have you been acting?”
“Oh, since I left school.”
“How many shows have you done?”
“I don’t recall for certain. About fifty, I think.”
“Have you done much TV?”
“Television? Nay. I do not think I would like to do it.” I kept thinking I ought to drag him away, but he seemed to be enjoying playing with the guys, and they were definitely interested in what he had to say. Finally, Edmund solved my dilemma for me.
“Cuz,” he said. “I am weary. Can we not go home?”
“Sure,” I said.
“Would you like a lift?” Drew asked.
“We’re close,” I said.
“Come on,” Bobby said. “Drew’s got a new ride.”
“It’s okay. We’ll just walk,” I said.
But Edmund was suddenly alert. “This ride ye speak of, friend Drew. Is it a car?”
“Sure,” Drew said.
“I would like to ride in it.”
I think he was trembling just a little.
“I call shotgun,” Bobby said.
Drew’s new car was an old car. A bug-eyed little thing that looked like clowns might burst out of it at any minute. I’d never seen anything like it.
“What is this?” I asked.
Drew smiled. “A Citroën 2CV. The most flawless meld of engineering requirements ever designed to run on gas. Intended to take French farmers out of the age of the horse and put them behind the wheel. Totally simple, modular construction. If you dent a fender, you unbolt it and slap on a new one. The backseat lifts out for cargo. The same cable that runs the speedometer runs the windshield wiper. And you can carry a bushel of eggs across a plowed field with.out cracking one. That was part of the design requirement. I love that about it.”
“And it can hit forty-five without even trying,” Bobby said.
“Actually, this is the last model. It’s capable of sixty-two.”
It also had a canvas top that slid along the roofline. Not really a convertible, but the same effect.
“Drop that top!” Bobby demanded, and he and Drew un.latched the canvas and pushed it back.
The little coffee-grinder engine started up and we bounced out of the parking lot
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