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It didn’t matter if she had a pink scrunchy on her wrist or wore ripped jeans below the velvet dress; and the daisy choker on her throat, a $3 accessory from Claire’s, might as well have been of diamond and lace. Surrounded by a paper-made Verona, glowing under the light of a fluorescent sun, sixteen-year-old Lisa Braeden was more than an actress, she was the real deal. One classy fucking princess.
Dean said as much, and Sam, having snuck over from the middle school for the lunch break, rolled his eyes over a peanut butter and banana sandwich.
“Juliet’s an aristocrat. A rich kid, not a princess.”
“Why do you know that?”
“Why don’t you? How many times have you seen this?”
Dean was a good kid overall. He’d never be the star pupil, usually preferring a back-row nap to class discussions, but he stayed out of trouble. That is, until his little brother came into the equation. “You screw with one Winchester, you screw with them both” was the lesson quickly learned by the boys’ new school. Luckily, the principal was a decent lady, and she recognized the bloody nose Dean handed out to the hallway bully as self-defense rather than troublemaking. And so, instead of heading home with a notice of suspension, he had been assigned “crew duty” for the high school play.
It amounted to doing all the crap no one else wanted to — scraping paint off the floor of the stage, collecting the crushed Pepsi cans lying under chairs and between props after rehearsals. Basically, cleaning up after slobs. His father’s work kept him busy, every few years the small family packing up and moving out to another base, so Dean was used to playing housekeeper. Nothing like an auditorium full of teenagers to make him appreciate just how lucky he was to have a neat freak like Sam for a kid brother.
“Winchester!” came a shout from the stage.
Sam shrunk low in his seat, and Dean sighed and trudged over to the drama teacher.
“Yeah?” he asked, somehow wrapping up all the cool discontent of any chastised teenager in a single syllable. But then he saw dark eyes, the kind framed by long lashes and warm as chocolate, watching him from above, and his attitude changed to begrudgingly cooperative. “Um… how can I help?”
“You can help by getting your butt on the stage and reading these lines.” A thick stack of clipped papers was dropped into Dean’s fumbling hands, the boy’s eyes panicked. “We lost our Romeo. Idiot broke his leg on a slip n’slide.”
“What about the understudy?” Dean stammered.
“Strep throat. Now move it. You’ve been here for all the rehearsals and I’ve seen you watching the practices.” A smile ghosted the teacher’s lips, and Dean resisted the urge to squirm. The guy knew why Dean had been paying such rapt attention to the show — or, at least, to its female lead. “You’re a wiseass, but you’re not stupid. I know you’ve got the lines down, so get up here.”
Dean reluctantly climbed the stairs to the stage, his eyes trained on his feet, with the exception of one hot glare shot at his brother. Out in the seats, Sam was grinning as if Christmas had just come early.
“Act One, Scene Five!” called the teacher’s assistant, and Dean’s heart threatened to pop out between his teeth.
Romeo and Juliet’s first kiss.
“Line, Romeo,” called the teacher.
Lisa smiled at him encouragingly. He always saw her with a tube of Smackers chapstick in her pocket, and suddenly there was no room in his mind for anything but the question of what flavor it was.
“Winchester!”
“Uh…” Dean started shaky, and by the time he got to “My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand,” he heard the undeniable giggle of Sam echoing from the back. But then it was Lisa’s turn. Her performance was like a spell, drawing him into the smooth cadence of her delivery, until there were no dingy curtains and cafeteria smells wafting from down the hall, no teachers with notepads or classmates with bemused faces.
There was only a beautiful girl, the classy kind Dean only dared approach in his daydreams, telling him how much she wanted him to kiss her.
The stage came alive with whoops and laughter, a few of the other cast members even breaking into applause.
“Dean!” shouted his teacher. It was the third time he had called the boy’s name, but the first time Dean heard it. “This is only a rehearsal. A kiss is not necessary. So if you would please detach yourself from Miss Braeden, I’d like to keep this practice going without you bringing the PTA down on me.”
The blush ran from the collar of Dean’s jacket and up to his ears. He took his hands from the small of Lisa’s back, her shoulder, wondering how they got there and how girls could be so damn warm.
“Sorry,” he stumbled to Lisa. He meant the apology, truly, but he couldn’t stop smiling. “I… I didn’t mean to…”
Lisa smiled back at him before turning to her friends. They had clustered about her, a gaggle of giggles and coy glances that lead her, laughing, backstage.
Below, Sam was sticking his finger down his throat and pretending to gag, while the teacher dropped into a chair, more than ready to take five.
“And for the record, Mr. Winchester,” he called, “I’m fairly certain they do not use tongue in Shakespeare.”
Dean grinned numbly in Lisa’s wake. Licked his lips.
Cherry. Her chapstick was definitely cherry.