shall lose drinking privileges if I disobey orders." He started up the road.
Benvolio slipped into a bakery as we passed by. I had planned on telling him that he shouldn't take Romeo to the Capulet party because it would only end very badly, but I decided not to call out to him. No telling what the guard would do. When I looked back, Benvolio had returned to the street. Our eyes met and it felt as if I had stuck my finger into an electric socket.
Eight
***
"The lady doth protest too much, methinks."
B eing carried like a sack of potatoes was fun at age five. I would pretend to fall asleep on the couch, and my father would scoop me up and whisk me off to bed. But it was a miserable mode of transportation at seventeen because my hip bones and boobs kept getting pinched. My head pounded with each step.
"Put me down. I can walk." My driver ignored me, jogging past countless people who also ignored my protests. "Someone tell this gorilla to put me down." The gorilla tightened his grip on my thigh.
What's a girl to do when she finds herself upside down? I pushed my elbows into the guard's lower back and tried to hold my head upright, taking in my dreamworld as we charged down winding street after winding street. We passed velveteen rich people and tatteted poor people, merchants calling out their wares, and customers arguing over prices. A fat woman herded swine and a group of skinny boys chased a dog. My neck started to spasm so I gave the gorilla another thump on the back, just for good measure.
The ride continued, swerving left, then right. This was my warped version of the yellow brick road. I hummed a few lines and pictured Dorothy's kick-step choreography. Follow, follow, follow, follow, follow the yellow brick road.
Finally the trip ended and the hulk deposited me in front of a huge door, upon which he pounded. I swayed as blood rushed from my head. A little panel in the door opened and a bloodshot eye peered out. "Who goes there?"
"Gregory. I found one of our women wandering the street."
The door opened immediately and a knotted hand reached out and clutched my arm. "Oh dear, we had best get her inside before her ladyship hears about this. Can't have Capulet women wandering the streets."
Gregory stomped off, muttering about a "damn thirst." The knotted hand belonged to an ancient man. He pulled me inside, then locked the door with a brass key and hung the key on a hook. He clutched my arm with his bony fingers, guiding me down a hallway. Gold-framed portraits hung on either side of the hall. The largest caught my eye. It was an oil painting of a woman covered in jewels. The painter had positioned her irises so that they stared directly at the onlooker. Her thin lips were curved into an expression that is best described as miffed.
"Who's that?" I asked.
The old man squinted at the portrait. "She was the matron of this prestigious family, her most esteemed and virtuous Adelaide Medici Capulet. Are you certain that you are Capulet?"
"Yes." I had hesitated. He tapped his boot and pursed his lips.
"Then why did you not recognize this portrait?"
I should have recognized it. She looked exactly like my own Adelaide, after a session with a sixteenth-century stylist. "Silly me, of course I recognize it."
He stood on tiptoe, examining my face. "Yes, I do see a family resemblance. You and Juliet have the same chin."
How strange, I realized, that I hadn't cast myself as the leading role in my own dream. Sure, I was sick of the part and I hadn't done it justice on stage with my stage fright and all, but shouldn't we all be the stars of our own dreams? The face that launches a thousand ships, the hero who kills the dragon, or the girl who finds true love on a balcony.
But I had cast myself as a Capulet cousin -- a lesser role.
And that was my state of mind one year ago. You see, my deeper truth was far more toxic than stage fright or resentment of my mother. Somewhere along the path of my childhood,
Benvolio slipped into a bakery as we passed by. I had planned on telling him that he shouldn't take Romeo to the Capulet party because it would only end very badly, but I decided not to call out to him. No telling what the guard would do. When I looked back, Benvolio had returned to the street. Our eyes met and it felt as if I had stuck my finger into an electric socket.
Eight
***
"The lady doth protest too much, methinks."
B eing carried like a sack of potatoes was fun at age five. I would pretend to fall asleep on the couch, and my father would scoop me up and whisk me off to bed. But it was a miserable mode of transportation at seventeen because my hip bones and boobs kept getting pinched. My head pounded with each step.
"Put me down. I can walk." My driver ignored me, jogging past countless people who also ignored my protests. "Someone tell this gorilla to put me down." The gorilla tightened his grip on my thigh.
What's a girl to do when she finds herself upside down? I pushed my elbows into the guard's lower back and tried to hold my head upright, taking in my dreamworld as we charged down winding street after winding street. We passed velveteen rich people and tatteted poor people, merchants calling out their wares, and customers arguing over prices. A fat woman herded swine and a group of skinny boys chased a dog. My neck started to spasm so I gave the gorilla another thump on the back, just for good measure.
The ride continued, swerving left, then right. This was my warped version of the yellow brick road. I hummed a few lines and pictured Dorothy's kick-step choreography. Follow, follow, follow, follow, follow the yellow brick road.
Finally the trip ended and the hulk deposited me in front of a huge door, upon which he pounded. I swayed as blood rushed from my head. A little panel in the door opened and a bloodshot eye peered out. "Who goes there?"
"Gregory. I found one of our women wandering the street."
The door opened immediately and a knotted hand reached out and clutched my arm. "Oh dear, we had best get her inside before her ladyship hears about this. Can't have Capulet women wandering the streets."
Gregory stomped off, muttering about a "damn thirst." The knotted hand belonged to an ancient man. He pulled me inside, then locked the door with a brass key and hung the key on a hook. He clutched my arm with his bony fingers, guiding me down a hallway. Gold-framed portraits hung on either side of the hall. The largest caught my eye. It was an oil painting of a woman covered in jewels. The painter had positioned her irises so that they stared directly at the onlooker. Her thin lips were curved into an expression that is best described as miffed.
"Who's that?" I asked.
The old man squinted at the portrait. "She was the matron of this prestigious family, her most esteemed and virtuous Adelaide Medici Capulet. Are you certain that you are Capulet?"
"Yes." I had hesitated. He tapped his boot and pursed his lips.
"Then why did you not recognize this portrait?"
I should have recognized it. She looked exactly like my own Adelaide, after a session with a sixteenth-century stylist. "Silly me, of course I recognize it."
He stood on tiptoe, examining my face. "Yes, I do see a family resemblance. You and Juliet have the same chin."
How strange, I realized, that I hadn't cast myself as the leading role in my own dream. Sure, I was sick of the part and I hadn't done it justice on stage with my stage fright and all, but shouldn't we all be the stars of our own dreams? The face that launches a thousand ships, the hero who kills the dragon, or the girl who finds true love on a balcony.
But I had cast myself as a Capulet cousin -- a lesser role.
And that was my state of mind one year ago. You see, my deeper truth was far more toxic than stage fright or resentment of my mother. Somewhere along the path of my childhood,
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