Juliet

Juliet:  I don’t want to do it.

     I have to do it.

     I don’t want to—

     Have to--

I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe.

I can.  Juliet, you can do it, you’ll be okay, I tell myself.

You’re not dying, it just feels that way.  It’s just a panic attack. 

Wiping cool sweat from my brow, I hit the space bar on my laptop, waking it up.  Open Safari, sign in to Youtube.  Open iMovie, and I’m almost ready to record. 

I don’t want to do this, but I have to because I can’t breathe and it helps when I’m someone else, performing, playing to my fans but also revealing something from deep inside, my voice--

I am a star, I whisper inside, afraid of what I might say if I dare to speak -- that it might be the wrong thing, that someone’ll get hurt if I even breathe.

Pulling my hair back, I stuff it into the piece of black stocking I use so no one will recognize me.  Sometimes, all I wear is the stocking.  Sometimes I pull it down over my forehead, eyes and nose. 

Today, I put on a snarled Hannah Montana wig from when I was ten and loved Hannah Montana and loved to parade around pretending to be her and now I don’t know who I’m pretending to be anymore or if I’m pretending at all.

Next, a Mardi Gras feathered mask over the upper half of my face.  Then, get my wastebasket.  At last, with the tap of a key, I am recording.  Show’s on!

     Sticking a finger down my throat, I throw up for the camera.

Juliet

Juliet:  I will never take off these socks, I think to myself.

I will take them off, but I will never wash them, I’ll save them, the socks that are filling with dirt as I press my heels into the side of the hill, off the path that leads away from Griffith Park Observatory.

There are people just above us, looking out at the lights of L.A. in the distance I hope, and not down into the dark hillside to the dark shadows which are Raif and I.  This is not how I expected my first time to be.

My mouth is raw from kissing Raif, kissing that started outside the theater, as soon as we got into his car.  Kissing that almost got out of control in the parking lot outside Starbucks, then turned tender inside, where we sat in front of the fake fireplace and ignored our coffee.

I have to pee, I think.  My underwear, down around my ankles, is probably getting full of dirt.  This hurts.  I didn’t expect it to hurt so much.  I’m sliding a little down the hill and rocks are scraping my butt.  We didn’t go to Raif’s apartment because he said he wanted to take me someplace special.  This is special.

Stop complaining, Juliet, this is special.  We’re under the stars.  We’re in love.  I love Raif and he loves me.  How long is this supposed to last?

That’s not what you’re supposed to be thinking, Juliet.  You’re not supposed to be thinking at all!

This is so awesome!  I’m having sex!  Me, Juliet, Never Been Kissed Juliet. 

And Raif is not old, like Michael said.  He’s twenty-four. 

Raif grunts softly, then sighs, long and deep.  Rolling to the side, staying on the flannel shirt he laid down for us, he pulls me close.  He sucks on my neck, and I realize too late that he’s giving me a hickey, which I know I should be happy about because it means I’m his, and it’s not like he’s branding me like a cow, it’s not. 

Only now I have to tell my mother.

I worry too much.

“Your skin is so soft,” Raif whispers.

“My boot!” I say as I grab for it, rolling down the hill. 

Raif scrambles down a few feet after it.  His ass is pale in the moonlight.  Skinny, the knobs of his pelvis show when he turns over.  Like me, like me!

“I think I love you,” I say, my fingers holding tightly to my boots, nervous fingers because I never said that to a guy before.

Raif smiles and kisses me.  Crushing my Doc Martens between us, and we start to slide again.  My underwear is sticky and cold, and dirty and gross.  Raif didn’t say he loved me back, but that’s okay.  Of course he loves me, or we wouldn’t be here.

“I have to pee,” I say, giggling.  

Juliet

Juliet was the main character in a novel I didn't finished, Let Her Cry.  I'm reworking the novel, but this part probably won't appear in it.  Still, it's something Juliet needs to say...

Let her Cry

By Juliet Lourdes

Setting:  a small home in Los Angeles, CA

Characters:

Juliet:  sixteen

Cristina:  Juliet’s mother, late forties

Dan/Danny:  Juliet’s father, early forties

Scene one:

Juliet lies on the floor of her bedroom with her feet in the air.  Her laptop is next to her.  She types with one hand as she speaks.

Juliet

I’ll bet when people think of me, they are like, “Wow, look at her, she’s so cool with her clothes from Out of the Closet, all punky and retro.  She gets that from her mother, Cristina Lourdes, the actress.  Juliet’s mother is the coolest mother in the world…”

They don’t know us.  They don’t know that sometimes I have to lie on the floor with my feet in the air, counting…

Scene two:

Cristina and Dan enter the living room, just one thin wall away from Juliet’s bedroom.  Cristina slams the door behind them, then pushes past Dan and paces.

Cristina

They hated me!  I’m not going to get the part!  I hate me!  You hate me!

Cristina collapses on the floor, bawling.

Dan

I don’t hate you.

Cristina

They hated me.

Dan

No one hates you.

Dan tries to comfort Cristina, but she pushes him away and hurries past Juliet’s room to her own.  Dan stares after her, lost.  He goes to the stereo, puts on a Hootie and the Blowfish tune, “Let Her Cry”.   The lyrics blare, “And if the sun comes out tomorrow/ Let her cry…”

Scene  three:

Juliet, still lying on her floor with her feet in the air, gulps for air as she counts…

Juliet

Eighty-nine, eighty-eight, eighty-seven…

Juliet stops counting, looks at the audience.

Juliet

“They” don’t know us.  Sure, my mother and I are close.  Sure, she’s cool.  She takes me to awesome thrift shops for clothes.  She’s my best friend sometimes.  She taught me that when I’m having a panic attack, I should put my feet in the air and count backwards from one hundred because if you’re counting, you’re breathing, plus, no one dies with their feet in the air, counting backwards from one hundred.  When I have a panic attack, it feels like someone’s going to die.

Eighty-six, Eighty-five…

Scene four:

While Juliet continues to count, Hootie continues to play in the living room – “And if the sun comes up tomorrow/Let her be...let her be.”  Dan gulps from a glass of scotch.  Cristina rushes out of her bedroom, runs to Dan and collapses against him.  Juliet is still counting.  Dan and Cristina hug-walk to their bedroom.  No one checks on Juliet.

Juliet

Juliet:  “You’re wearing your mermaid dress,” I say to my mother as she pours us to-go cups of dark coffee.  Is my smile stretched too tightly?  I’m just so happy that she’s so happy – as indicated by her wearing her “mermaid dress,” a long, spaghetti-strapped, emerald green casual gown covered with cheap lace, worn under a faded denim jacket that matches mine.  Her “happy” -- so happy she’s like immortal -- dress.

     I’m wearing a faded black tank with a faded silver arched cat on it, over a bright white tee, under my denim jacket.  Black leggings, knee-high boots with zippers up the backs.  Everything soft and worn, from my heart to my heels.

     “You should try wearing a tee shirt and leggings and cute boots sometime,” I say, getting into her car.  She never drives me!  This is way special.  I am way special today…  I don’t even miss not getting a ride from Derek, even though he’s my best friend and he’s driven me every day for this whole year and even though this year he turned into a total hottie, not that it matters -- Michael is, and always has been my one true love…

     I shake my head so that my thoughts stop jumbling.  My curls fall out from behind my ears, and I look even more like my mother.  Smiley and red-headed.  “I mean, it feels really good,” I continue – “I always feel really good when I wear this outfit.  Like, calm.  Comfy, but also kind of shiny, you know what I mean?”

     My mother pauses, the car key poised to turn.  Did I say something wrong?  Oh Goddess no… why can’t I do anything right?  I love you Mommy --

     But my mother doesn’t burst into tears, she just says, “Interesting, very interesting.”  Then she smiles at me, and I lean in close, holding on to her arm and breathing in her scent – peaches and bergamot and coffee.  Rosemary in her hair.  Love in her warmth.  She loves me!

     But suddenly, she’s gone!  Just like that, on the way to my school with me hanging on to her every word and movement and mood.  She’s drifted into a world I only get to watch-- Heavy lids, eyes almost unfocused but not enough that she can’t multi-task – still letting me hold tightly to one of her arms, and driving at the same time.  This while her brain has sunken into creative mode.  The artist at work in my element…

     Sliding into a parking space at school, she suddenly breaks the surface, splashing up at me with an excited sparkle– “When I wear my mermaid dress, I feel slinky and cool, like I’ve just risen from the deepest, darkest part of the ocean, up into the light.  I feel renewed.”  My mother ruffles my hair as she says, “And shiny, too.”

     “Um… interesting?” I say, trying to see where she’s going with this.

     “Okay, picture this – I’m onstage—“

     “Or me, I’m onstage—“

     My mother waves at me with one hand.  “Shh, shh.”

     I hate when she does that.

     She continues, the ideas bubbling up like the froth of a wave, crash! Ideas! And bubbly-bubble— “and the show’s called ‘You Are What You Wear,’ and I have on an outfit, and I’m talking about how it makes me feel and—“

     I join in.  Crash!  “—it’s one outfit, but it’s in layers that I peel back into other outfits, each one with a different feeling attached—“

     My mother has clasped my hands in hers.  (Crash!)  “We must make lists.  Of outfits, different outfits and feelings that go with them.”

     (Crash!)  “We’ll have to go shopping!” I add.

     “Maybe one of us will be lit at a time, and the other changes clothes meantime instead of showing the layers revealed—“

     “—maybe we call the show, ‘Layers Revealed’!”

     “No, honey, ‘You are what you wear.’ Is better, it’s like ‘You Are What You Eat,’ but--”

     “We should practice wearing our outfits one at a time all day and write down what we’re feeling—“

     This is so great, I don’t even want to go to school, I’m all—

     Oh no.  Shit no!  All of a sudden she has those glassy eyes again.  Mommy’s hands grow cold as she withdraws into her own creative space again.  Without me.  Goddess damn it!

     A boy whistles.

     Michael?  No he did not.

     OMG, it was Michael.  Not whistling at my mother, not not not!

     Was.  Was whistling.  At.  My.  MOTHER!

     I tilt my head down and hurry out of the car, run into school.  I will not cry. 

     I will not cry!  Leave that to her.  Let her cry.

Juliet

Juliet began as a character in a novel-in-progress, Let Her Cry, and then appeared in OGW 10/22/09.  Juliet is working on a “one-girl show”, hoping to become a performer like her mother.  Unfortunately, Juliet’s mother is bipolar, which often takes too much of Juliet’s time and energy, and leaves her with little left to work on herself.

Juliet: 

Juliet:  Story of My Life

(a “one-girl” show)

starring Juliet McCarthy as herself

(One small dot of light expands… expands, expands, becoming a halo, illuminating Juliet’s face, becoming a spotlight of her whole body.  She is crouched on the floor, holding the microphone in one hand, tapping a cigarette with the other.  A black and white movie reel plays in the backround:  loud sounds of reels spinning, the movie is crackly -- family scenes, like a montage of old family movies

Wait.  Too campy.  Not authentic enough.  Change to: (Natural lighting dims.  Juliet is crouched on the floor, tapping a cigarette with one hand, tapping keys on a laptop computer with the other.  She is illuminated by the light from her computer screen.  The microphone rests on the floor by her feet.  Her toes, barefeet, scrunch.

Slides click into place behind Juliet -- family scenes -- click, click, then faster and faster, clickity clickity click, in time with Juliet tapping out words on her computer.  She reads:)

                                                            Juliet:

After the big fight over Hootie.  Mom in fishnet tights and a big tee shirt with Dad’s Irish-green down vest over it for warmth.  He’s so happy when she kisses him.

            I’m happy too.  No, really.  Mom’s eyes look like clichés – sad clown or raccoon eyes, streaked make-up.  From the fight.  But it’s over now, they’re happy, and I’m happy.

            Really.  (Looks up at the audience.)

            But you don’t believe me.

           

            After the big fight, Mom with raccoon eyes kisses Dad and he runs his hands over her down vest.  They retreat to the bedroom, and Dad leaves his drink.  Scotch Rocks.

            I’m so happy for them, and the fact that they don’t see me anymore.  I’m so happy for me -- and the fact that I don’t see me anymore.

           

            (Juliet looks down at her computer and types as she reads:)  I don’t believe in me.

            I drink the scotch. (Mimes drinking a glassful in one gulp.)

            Tap my cigarette.  Suck hard.  Crouched over laptop on the floor of my room, Achilles tendons stretching, knees popping.  Writing.

            This is my story.

(The last slide clicks into place – it is Juliet, posed as she was a moment ago -- as she was in her bedroom that night.  She rises, and faces the screen and the slide, reaching out to touch her own image.)

Juliet

Juliet struggles to find her own voice, while caring for her bipolar mother.  Juliet began as a character in a novel, Let Her Cry, which is waiting for a rewrite, perhaps will be my next big project.

Juliet:  Last night I was writing a song.  It was about Michael, and it was going along fine, if a little corny.  I was singing and strumming my guitar, “You are the riches/You are the king/You are the future/Whatever that brings…”

     Slam!

     Then came pounding on the front door, and Dad trying not to yell, just to be heard – “Marnie, open up!  Marnie, please –“

     Dad’s river-wild, stage-strong movie voice was cut short by the door

     Slamming!

Open again, and then

     Slam!

Shut.

     My mother was crying in her show-voice, the one I think of as her desperately-crying-for-attention-and-love voice, this time melting into her for-the-audience-in-the-back-rows-too-darling voice.  Her combat boots pounded down the hall past my room and on into her own, where I heard her throwing, tearing, destroying.  And of course crying.  Gasping, sobbing, sucked-up screaming…

     My strum changed to minor chords, loud and abrupt and accompanied by “Shut up shut up shut up now!” angrily sung by me in my quietly-absorbing-everything-and-never-complaining voice.  My parents wouldn’t hear me.  I didn’t want them to.  I didn’t want to make things worse.

     But of course my mother couldn’t keep everything to herself, nope, she had to begin shoving photo after photo under my door, pictures she’d torn herself out of.  She knew how to make an entrance.  I wished I could be so talented, grabbing all the attention for myself -- and then Michael would love me, I thought as my mother scratched the outside of my door with her long fingernails. I dropped my guitar and my selfish thoughts, and ran to her, flinging open my bedroom door and allowing her to fall against me.  She was so tiny, and I was so gi-normous, her head tucked under my chin, and her drippy, sobbing, scrunchy-face pressed against my chest as if she were the child and I were the adult.

     “She shouldn’t – you shouldn’t –“ My father said from just behind her.

     “It’s okay, Mama.  I’ve got you now.”

     “They hated me!  I hate myself!  Everyone hates me!”

     “I don’t hate you Mama—“

     “Jules…” my father said, then sighed and backed away, disappearing back down the hall and into the living room.

     He turned on the stereo, and now it was as if Mama and I had a soundtrack.  Our lives were a play or a movie, and maybe this wasn’t how normal kids lived, but at least in this movie, I was a star.  Not like my mother, but a leading role at least.  A pivotal part.

     “Let her cry… if the tears fall down like rain/ Let her sing… if it eases all her pain/ Let her go…”

     Oh no!  Not Hootie!  I stepped back into my room as my mother ran down the hall to go and kill my father.

     “And if the sun comes up tomorrow/ Let her be…”

     “Oww for fuck’s sake Marcie, you—“

     I closed my door, realizing sadly that I might have to settle for a supporting role after all.