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a Soda for Juliet

Alexander G. Tozzi

    Justine always got a lump in her throat before speaking to crowds. If it hadn’t been for her low grades she would not have signed up for this play. Pacing behind a velvet curtain which separated her from an auditorium stocked to maximum occupancy, she could hear the audience’s fragmented conversations and sense their cold stares when those curtains were drawn.
    “I need a drink of water,” she choked out. Scott, the stagehand, nodded, and she hiked up her gown to rush toward the water bubbler. It was broken, of course, and she scolded herself for not knowing. This was a high school, after all.
    “Five minutes to show time, Juliet,” came a booming voice. Justine turned and saw Mr. Berman, all three hundred pounds of him, directing stage hands and actors alike. He shot Justine a look that threatened detention if she didn’t get over there.
    Justine smirked as he went away. I’m not on until the second scene, she thought to herself. Her throat was getting sore now, itchy as though she’d swallowed a pine cone. “I can get some water first,” she rasped, and went deeper into the recesses of the auditorium until she came to an exit.
    Through this exit she was blinded by the fierce glare of the stadium lights, her ears pounding from the booming of a football announcer. Romeo and Juliet fell on the same night as one of her school’s football games, and it was just as crowded in the stadium across the parking lot as it was in the building. Which was just fine with her.
    Justine tended to like crowds, when she was part of them. But when she had to set herself apart, usually making a speech or performance, her throat got lumps, turned sore, and became dry. A crowd of football fans would suit her just fine, especially since they were too busy jeering at the game.
    “And drinking sodas,” she whispered. In her dress were a couple of dollars she kept just in case, and she hiked it up to cross the parking lot. Halfway across the black tar she realized what she was dressed in, and started to turn.
    I can’t be seen in a football stadium like this! If everyone saw her in that fluffy pink dress with garters down its back, they’d stop screaming insults at those juggernauts on the field and shout insults and wolf-whistles at her. But I can’t go back inside, either, she worried, feeling the dryness spread deeper into her throat.
    A fit of coughing overtook her, each cough tearing up her throat worse than the last. Crying from the strain of coughing, she hunched prostrate in the dark parking lot, feeling the lump grow through her dry throat. She needed a drink, needed it now.
    Sniffling, she rose, swallowing against the pain. It helped but little.
    If I do go back in, she asked herself, how would it be any different than going into the stadium? It wouldn’t be much different, probably better to be embarrassed in that stadium than face the wrath of Mr. Berman.
    Once more hiking her dress, she crossed the lot and stood at the entrance to the stadium. There were no ticket takers now, probably inside watching the last quarter of the game. It was thunderous at the entrance, though, and Justine’s ears started to ring. Let it distract you, she told herself, and marched in to the stadium.
    It was pandemonium. Two teams were charging against each other on field, both ready to risk life and limb for that dead heap of pig, and in the stands, fans were ready to pour out of their seats to help those teams in their quest. Justine felt sucked into a whirlwind of screams, and made a tight beeline toward the stairs. No one seemed to notice her, and those that did just stared at her for a moment before shifting their attention back to the game. Even the soda vendor just glanced at her.
    Holding the large, icy soda cup in her hand, Justine couldn’t bring herself to drink. She was too busy wondering why, why hadn’t anyone paid any attention to her? She couldn’t figure it out, and she grabbed a nearby fan by the shoulder, asking him why no one cared to look at her.
    The fan made a face and said, “Cram it, Cinderella, I’m trying to watch the game!’
    Justine’s eyes widened to the size of saucers. Not over the fan’s insult, but at his words.
    “’I’m trying to watch the game’.” Justine glugged her soda and pondered those words. Pondered them the whole trip back to the school. At the concrete steps to the exit she’d left, she took another gulp of her soda and let the cup fall on the grass. She opened the door, smiling. She’d figured it out now.
    Mr. Berman lunged after her like a rampaging elephant. “You’re on in five minutes, Juliet!” he trumpeted. Justine ignored him as he stood there fuming, red in the face. She passed him by and went to the curtain, no longer feeling any lump in her throat at the staring eyes behind it.
    They’re here for the performance, she decided. Here to be entertained, not to ridicule me. She took a deep breath, feeling the air soothe her now moist throat. “And I’m going to give them a performance worthwhile.”
    The curtain rose, and she began her lines.

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