--FAIR WARNING: Adult Language Can Be Found In This Chapter--

Patti wasted no time in getting us all together to start working on our one act. Thatcher and I finalized the script Saturday and by Sunday, all four of us found ourselves in Patti's room again, rehearsing. She wanted to get all the blocking done right away, she said, especially with all of the quick costume and character changes that everyone has. "It needs to be perfect. We can't flub up the Bard's work," she said.

She had printed out copies of the script for each of us and gave us all different colored gel pens to mark in our blocking and directorial cues that she, with the help of Thatcher, gave us. As Gregory in the first scene, I was supposed to be roasting Moth's Sampson over and over again. As Lady Capulet, I was supposed to be cold and stuck up. As Tybalt, I was supposed to be bloodthirsty. The directions went on and on for each character, but I wasn't going to complain. Mom is right, I have a little bit of a chance of being chosen to be on A Call from Midnight, but so does everyone else in the class. I don't want to drag my group down and make us look bad just because I suck.

The fight scenes took the most of our time that day and into Monday's class, especially the one between my Tybalt, Patti's Mercutio, and Thatcher's Romeo. Finally yesterday, Wednesday, we perfected all the basic steps for each fight scene.

But all of Patti's directing is nothing compared to the work I've been doing at home. Every night after homework, I've watched the Leonardo DiCaprio version of Romeo and Juliet, memorizing how each of my characters say their lines. It's easier for me to memorize them that way than the way Thatcher does it, which is just looking at the lines and saying them over and over again until they flow through him effortlessly. Then, once I had the sound of the lines in my head, I recorded myself reading each of my lines in the way I heard the actors say them, and I play them back through my headphones every chance I get. On the way to school, during study breaks at school, on the way home, while working on other assignments, while getting ready for bed; really, any time I can. I've never studied so hard for anything in my life, including the quiz in science I had on Tuesday and bombed. Oh well.

"Do you think we're ready to start running through the scenes?" Patti asks the group now that it's Thursday and we've been aggressively planning the scenes for the past four days.

"Doesn't hurt to try," Thatcher says.

"Okay, places everyone," she directs us. We're in our usual spot at the back of the stage where the shadows can sort of hide our progress from Layla Monroe's group's nosey gaze.

Thatcher steps forward to the center of our area, and recites the prologue. He and I cast him as the reader, because he'll be the last one to enter the first scene and he's the best one of us at memorizing long lines.

"Yes, great," Patti says. "Okay, now enter Moth and Janie."

Now is my moment to show off what I've been doing all week.

Moth starts with the first line as Sampson: "A dog of the house of Montague moves me to stand."

As Gregory, I roll my eyes and laugh arrogantly at Moth's character. "To move is to stir; and to be valiant is to stand: therefore, if thou art moved, thou runn'st away."

Patti steps into our area, her chest puffed out as she holds an invisible sword at her side.

I wait until she enters to continue my line, now with a little fear in my voice: "Draw thy tool! Here comes one of the House of the Montagues."

Patti breaks character to say, "Janie, you're nailing it, keep it up." Then she morphs back into Abram and delivers her lines.

The scene plays on, and I continue nailing every one of my lines. Thatcher can't stop beaming at me. Patti keeps breaking character to cheer me on. Moth doesn't hold back his speed or delivery, as he's been doing during rough run throughs of the scenes. I'm actually contributing in a positive way to the one act and I doubt I could feel any more confident than I do right now. Our group breezes through the new script, tackling one scene after another like pro's. I even get a laugh out my group as Lady Capulet when I deliver my "this is the matter:--Nurse, give leave awhile, we must talk in secret:--nurse, come back again" line.

Finally, with ten minutes left in class, we get to the big fight scene between me, Patti, and Thatcher. Moth is there too, but Benvolio is the peaceful one throughout the play; he just watches, panicking.

Patti and I fight as we've practiced, each step and swing of our sticks—yes, literal sticks she brought in from the tree in her backyard—carefully planned, until Thatcher steps between us and I jab my stick under Patti's arm to pretend to stab her. I run off stage while Patti's Mercutio dies and Thatcher pretends to become so enraged by me that when I return, he's yelling.

He is so damn good, I think. Like, seriously, crazy good. As he's yelling at me about the soul of his friend floating only a little way above our heads, his eyes actually tear up, his cheeks actually fill with an angry shade of red.

"Either thou or I or both must go with him," he yells at me.

I'm so in awe of him, I almost forget that it's my line next. I yank my stick out of the loop in my jeans where Patti told me to keep it until we can get real sword and sheath props, and deliver my line with the same snarl that Tybalt in the movie did. "Thou, wretched boy, that didst consort him here, shalt with him hence."

He really looks offended by my character's challenge. I wonder if I'll ever be as convincing as he is in any role, let alone in my roles for this one act.

"This shall determine that," he growls.

We get into our fight sequence, and for a few of our steps, I'm genuinely scared of Thatcher. He's so in his character, that when I duck to avoid his blows, I actually let out a little yelp. Then, stupidly, I stand up a beat before I'm supposed to, and Thatcher hits my arm with his stick sword.

"Ow," I squeal, holding my arm, and completely breaking character. Tybalt would never be such a wuss. Tybalt would look at an injury like that, lick the blood in defiance, and use his anger to propel him further into the fight. Janie drops her stick sword and looks at her challenger with puppy eyes. "You really got me," I say.

Thatcher's character drops. "I'm so sorry, are you okay?"

The pain subsides, so I remove my hand to check on the injury. It's nothing. Just a little red streak on my arm. I run up to him and swing myself onto his back. "Tybalt gets his revenge," I call, laughing as I squeeze my arms around his chest.

He curls his arms under my legs and lifts me up further on his back, so that he's actually giving me a piggy back ride now. He pretends to try and shake me off. "Off you wretched fool," he says in his best British accent, which is pretty darn good.

"Oh my god," Patti says from across our little area. Thatcher and I stop what we're doing and look at her. A little smile sneaks onto her face. "You two are totally dating, aren't you?"

Moth is a little more socially aware, so he doesn't let his words give away that he knew, at least from my end, that that was a possibility; but his face totally betrays him. His mouth hangs open in an excited grin, and his hands shoot up to his cheeks.

I wriggle out of Thatcher's arms and he lets me down. We exchange looks. Whether or not we are officially dating hasn't actually been established yet, just that we both like each other and appreciate each other's company.

"I don't know," Thatcher says. "Are we?"

I try to hold back a smile with no success. "Are we?"

"Oh my god, are you?" Patti squeals.

Thatcher takes a deep breath. "Do you want to be my girlfriend, Janie?" he asks.

My heart explodes in my chest. Romeo has slain me with his sweetness. I let out an embarrassingly unavoidable giggle. "Yes, I do."

Patti and Moth burst into nonsense noises and rush toward us for a bouncy group hug. I'm positive at this point that not only is Layla Monroe's group staring at us, but the entire class. I don't care though, I'm Thatcher's girlfriend and I'm happy. Thatcher's happy. Our group is happy. Nothing could possibly bring me down.

I decide to tell Mom about the new development over dinner. "So," I start. A warm tickle rises up within me, and I almost can't bring myself to say it; but I already have her attention and Mom needs to share in my excitement. "Thatcher asked me out today."

My cheeks feel like they must look so pink, and my mom freezes, her spoonful of veggie chili halfway to her mouth. "Really?"

I nod.

"What did you say?" she asks.

My lips spread into a grin. "I said yes."

She smiles back at me. "I'm so happy for you, honey. Be smart, though. Boys are boys, no matter what."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"You're right, not all boys are your father, but... just don't let him take advantage of you."

That's the second time this week someone warned me of that. If I were more like Romeo, I'd think "the stars" were trying to tell me something.

"I won't," I tell her, and whatever other forces out there that might be listening so no other adults feel the need to tell me to be careful around Thatcher.

"Good," she says with a lazy smile. "I'm really happy that you're so happy, honey."

"Thanks Mom."

Just then, there's a knock at the door. Mom looks at me in confusion. "Are you expecting Thatcher tonight?"

I check my phone to make sure I didn't miss any messages from him. Nope, none.

Whoever is at the door pounds on it again.

"I'm not expecting anyone," I say.

Mom instructs me to stay at the table while she checks it out, but I don't let my eyes leave her the whole time. My gaze follows her to the door, but when she opens it, I can't see who it is right away. I only know because Mom greets him.

"Mr. Gorsky, right? Thatcher's dad?"

Uh oh, what is this about?

"You're the mother of that girl who came over, right?" he asks in a gruff, sort of slurred voice.

"Yes, Janie. What can I help you with?"

He pushes his way into the house and looks around.

"Excuse me, I didn't invite you in, please step back onto the porch," Mom says sternly.

Mr. Gorsky finds me and glares in my direction before shoving a piece of paper into my mom's face. She takes it and reads it to herself.

"A fine for loitering. What is this about?" she asks.

"Ask your daughter."

Mom looks back at me. "Janie, come here please."

Crap. Crap. Crap. I'm dead. This is how I die.

I approach my mom and my inevitable fate.

"What is he talking about?" she asks.

I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. My eyes start to well up.

"Your daughter and my idiot son went to park at Callahan Park after their stupid dance," Mr. Gorsky barks. "I called the station and the cops told me that the officer found them in a steamy car together. The two of them are lucky they only ticketed them for loitering."

"Wait, no, it wasn't like that," I try to protest, but I just sound like a whiny baby.

Mom's mouth is open wide in shock and horror until she turns to me. "What was it like then, Janie?" Her jaw clenches so tightly when she addresses me, it's amazing the words can even make it out of her mouth.

"You said I could be out until eleven, and Thatcher and I just wanted to hang out a bit longer. We were just watching Stormship Troopers on his phone, but the car was off so the windows fogged. The cop totally misunderstood the situation."

"I don't a fuck what you two were doing," Mr. Gorsky snarls. "But I'm not paying this fine."

Mom swipes the ticket out of his hand. "Get out of my house with that language," she orders him.

"You're paying the fine, then," he says.

"I'll pay it, now get out."

"Good. Get some control over your little bitch there," he says on his way out.

Mom charges after him, stopping herself in the doorway. "What did you just call her?"

"You heard me, bitch," he says from the sidewalk outside.

"Fuck you," Mom yells after him. I'm horrified. I've never heard Mom say that to anyone, especially not to my new boyfriend's dad. "Never come here again!"

She slams the door behind him. Like, really slams. Like, all our wall decorations shake because she slammed it shut so forcefully. Everything inside me shakes too. I've never seen my mom this angry before, so I have no way of knowing what she will do next. I've never been more terrified than I am in this very moment.

Mom turns back to me slowly—I swear I can see the steam rising from her head—and waves the ticket at me. "What is this about?"

"It was nothing."

She checks the ticket. "Three-hundred dollars' worth of nothing? I don't think so. Where were you two loitering?"

"Callahan Park," I say under my breath.

"What were you doing there?"

"It was after the dance. You said I could be home by 11:00pm, and it was over at 10:00pm. We just went and sat in his car and watched a movie on his phone together. That's it."

"How am I supposed to trust that that was it if I can't even trust you to be honest with me about what you're doing or where you are?"

"I didn't lie to you, I just didn't tell you about that part of my night."

"That's lying by omission," she yells. Her eyes are wild with frustration and anger, but I don't get it. I didn't lie.

"Not telling you and telling you a lie are too very different things."

She shakes her head. "I can't believe I thought you were improving."

"What? How is that even—I am improving. Thanks to Thatcher. Who I was just watching a movie with. I really don't understand why you're freaking out about this."

"Oh, you have not even begun to see me freak out about this yet. You're grounded for a month."

"A month? Are you serious? That's ridiculous!"

"And you aren't to see Thatcher anymore."

"What are you, a 1800s parent? You aren't to see that boy anymore. You can't stop me from seeing him."

"Do you really think mocking me is the best way to proceed?" Her question sounds more like a threat.

"No, I'm sorry," I back down. "He's just helped me in so many ways. He makes me happy, like, really, annoyingly happy. It's not going to help me fix whatever you're trying to fix by keeping us from seeing each other outside of school."

"We'll see about that. Now go to your room. I don't want to see you again tonight while I figure out where the hell I'm going to find an extra three hundred dollars in my budget."

"Okay, but I'm going to still see Thatcher."

"Go," she booms. "Now!"

I scurry up the stairs and slam my door shut behind me before collapsing on my bed. That's when I feel that my phone is still in my pocket. Thatcher.

I compose a message:

Janie Myers: Thatcher! Your dad just came over and screamed at us about the ticket. What happened? My mom says I'm grounded for a month and we can't see each other anymore. I'm not going to let that happen. You mean too much to me. (8:04pm)

Soon after I send the message, I see the three little dots appear on the screen. I wipe the tears from my cheek in preparation to read his response. I'm praying he has a plan.

Then it comes through:

Thatcher Gorsky: Thatcher no longer has a phone and you shouldn't either. Leave my son alone. (8:05pm)

I toss my phone across the bed and bury my face in my pillows to cry. This is my worst nightmare, and the only thought that keeps playing in my head is that Thatcher would know what to do. He would make a plan.

So, what if I try to see him anyway?

I calm myself down, go through my nightly routine, and turn off the lights to "sleep." Then I make my own plan.