The Juliet Spell. Douglas Rees

with pricey apartments above the stores, fountains and things like that.

      We walked slowly, Edmund taking in every detail of the houses and yards we passed. Then we turned a few corners and were in the middle of a whole new world.

      My first problem was getting Edmund to cross the freeway overpass. It wasn’t the height that bothered him. It was the sight of all the cars below us, hood to trunk with their lights on, and even more the roar that came up from the eight lanes of traffic under our feet.

      “This howling, this howling, how d’ye stand it?” he shouted to me, clapping his hands over his ears.

      “Edmund, it’s okay,” I said. “It’s just rush hour. Every one of those cars has somebody in it who’s just trying to get home. It’s not dangerous. It’s normal.”

      “’Tis hellish.”

      “Well, okay. We don’t have to do this now,” I said. “We can go back to the house if you want to.”

      I could tell that was exactly what Edmund wanted to do. But he wouldn’t let himself. “I must bear it,” he said. “Lead on.”

      So we crossed the overpass. Then I had to explain to him about stoplights and crosswalks and taking turns. This was after he stepped out in front of a line of cars turning into the main drag of Malpaso Row from a left-turn lane and he nearly got creamed.

      A driver shouted, “Watch it, you stupid bastard!”

      And Edmund shouted back, “Ye’re the whoreson heir of a mongrel bitch, an eater of broken meats and the very flower of the pox!”

      “No, Edmund!” I yelled at him. “No, no, no, no, no! Never when the light is red. Only when the light is green. And stay between the nice straight white lines. That’s how it works.”

      “Must I wait the pleasure of some lantern to do as I wish about so small a thing as cross?” he said. “’Tis like a prison to walk your streets.”

      “You’ll live a lot longer if you do,” I said, calming down.

      “What of the yellow light?” he said.

      “That means, ‘caution’.”

      “Aha. So a man has some choice at least.”

      “Come on,” I said. “You’ve survived your first stoplight. Let’s see what other trouble you can get into.”

      Chapter Five

      We cruised slowly up and down past the clothing stores and the restaurants and the bars. Edmund paused at one that had a sign hanging out that said:

      Falstaff’s

      A Traditional

      English Pub

      “Can we not go in here, at least?” he begged.

      “Edmund, we’re underage. They’d throw us out so fast you’d meet yourself coming in. They’d lose their license if they let us stay.”

      “Monstrous. Unnatural. Wrong.”

      “Come on,” I said. “Let me show you something you’ll like.”

      Down at the end of the street was a Corners Books. I was pretty sure Edmund would be interested in it. And it turned out he was.

      “Books,” he said, like he might have said “Jewels.”

      It was a big two-story place with a coffee bar in the middle of the ground floor. We walked around every section, taking it just as slow as Edmund wanted.

      “So many, so many,” he kept repeating.

      He took some of them off the shelves, touching them as if he thought they might evaporate under his hands, studying the way they were made.

      “Paper’s different,” he said. “Aye, and the bindings. But what riches ye have, Miranda. Even in London there’s no such place as this.”

      Finally we ended up in the magazine section, which was right next to the coffee. The magazines absolutely transfixed Edmund. Or anyway, the covers did.

      “Such images. How d’ye ever…” he breathed as he looked at all the bright-color pics of cars, pretty girls and famous heads.

      But before I could display my vast erudition again, there was a voice behind us.

      “Hey, Miri. What’s up?”

      I turned around and saw Bobby Ruspoli smiling at me.

      “Hey, dude,” I said.

      Edmund also turned.

      “Bobby, this is my cousin Ed,” I said quickly, and feeling rather proud of myself for being such an adroit thinker. “He’s from England.”

      “Hey, Ed,” Bobby said.

      “Give ye good even.”

      “Ed, this is Bobby Ruspoli from school,” I said.

      “You guys busy?” Bobby asked.

      “Not exactly,” I said.

      “Then come on over and help me work on Drew. I’m trying to talk him into reading tomorrow. Stubborn geek says he doesn’t want to be on stage.”

      I would have agreed in a ten-thousandth of a second, if I’d been alone. But I had Mr. Shakeshaft to consider. “What do you think, is it okay, Ed?”

      “Yes. It is okay,” Edmund said.

      So Bobby led us over to his table and we sat down with Drew.

      “Hey, Drew,” I said.

      “Hi, Miranda.”

      He had an empty espresso cup in front of him, and a paperback copy of the play.

      “Drew, this is my cousin Ed, Edmund, from England,” I said. “Edmund, this is Drew Jenkins. He’s in school with me, too.”

      “Give ye good e’en,” Edmund said.

      And Drew smiled and said, “Give ye good e’en, as well, fair sir.”

      “Ye speak English,” Edmund said.

      “Fairly well for an American,” Drew said, and the three Americans laughed.

      “Bobby says he wants you to read for the play,” I said.

      “No way in hell.”

      “Please,” I said. “We need guys.”

      “You need actors,” Drew said. “That lets me out.”

      “Drew, there were guys on that stage today you could act the asses off of,” Bobby said.

      “I agree there were some dreadful impersonations of acting,” Drew said. “But the fact that they were god-awful doesn’t make me good.”

      “Dude, you have got to get over seventh grade,” Bobby said.

      “Shut up—”

      “This guy,” Bobby said, “used to do shows with me all the time in grade school. He was the beautiful white pony. I was the blue car smooth and shiny as satin. That was second grade—”

      “Third. Second grade I was the woodcutter and you were the prince.”

      “Oh, yeah,” Bobby said. “But the point is, he was good. Then in seventh grade—”

      “Shut up, Bobby. Nobody cares what happened in seventh grade.”

      “Apparently you do,” Bobby said.

      “Okay, I do. So shut up about it,” Drew said.

      “We were both cast in the Children’s Musical Theater Holiday Spectacular,” Bobby went on. “You didn’t know Drew could sing, right? Well, he can. Better than me.