Douglas Rees - The Juliet Spell

“I don’t recall for certain. About fifty, I think.”

“Have you done much TV?”

“Television? Nay. I do not think I would like to do it.” I kept thinking I ought to drag him away, but he seemed to be enjoying playing with the guys, and they were definitely interested in what he had to say. Finally, Edmund solved my dilemma for me.

“Cuz,” he said. “I am weary. Can we not go home?”

“Sure,” I said.

“Would you like a lift?” Drew asked.

“We’re close,” I said.

“Come on,” Bobby said. “Drew’s got a new ride.”

“It’s okay. We’ll just walk,” I said.

But Edmund was suddenly alert. “This ride ye speak of, friend Drew. Is it a car?”

“Sure,” Drew said.

“I would like to ride in it.”

I think he was trembling just a little.

“I call shotgun,” Bobby said.

Drew’s new car was an old car. A bug-eyed little thing that looked like clowns might burst out of it at any minute. I’d never seen anything like it.

“What is this?” I asked.

Drew smiled. “A Citroën 2CV. The most flawless meld of engineering requirements ever designed to run on gas. Intended to take French farmers out of the age of the horse and put them behind the wheel. Totally simple, modular construction. If you dent a fender, you unbolt it and slap on a new one. The backseat lifts out for cargo. The same cable that runs the speedometer runs the windshield wiper. And you can carry a bushel of eggs across a plowed field without cracking one. That was part of the design requirement. I love that about it.”

“And it can hit forty-five without even trying,” Bobby said.

“Actually, this is the last model. It’s capable of sixty-two.”

It also had a canvas top that slid along the roofline. Not really a convertible, but the same effect.

“Drop that top!” Bobby demanded, and he and Drew unlatched the canvas and pushed it back.

The little coffee-grinder engine started up and we bounced out of the parking lot and onto the street.

I could sense Edmund tensing up beside me. Being so small ourselves made all the SUVs and vans seem even bigger than they really were, and having the top down made them very, very close. But it was the speed that seemed to bother him most.

Not that Drew was speeding. We were doing thirty-five, which was totally legal on that street, but it did feel faster than it would have in a regular car with the wind in our faces, plus Edmund’s long hair was whipping around.

Edmund was pushing himself back into the seat the way he had when he was watching television, and his face was set like he was a sea captain on an old-time ship staring into the storm. He looked handsome as hell and vulnerable as a little kid all at the same time.

Then his hand grabbed mine and held it like he was never letting go.

“Ah!” I went, because it hurt and I was surprised.

“What?” Bobby said, looking back over his shoulder.

“Nothing. I just like Drew’s ride, that’s all,” I said, and I squeezed Edmund’s hand back.

That squeeze ran all the way up my arm and into my heart.

Uh-oh. This should not be happening, I thought. Must not happen.

But I couldn’t just let go of his hand. I held on to it all the way home.

Drew pulled into our driveway. Bobby got out and opened the door for us. I crawled out of the back seat, but Edmund unfolded himself and climbed over the side of the car. Then he leaned on it casually, but I was pretty sure his legs were trembling and he needed the support. I walked around and took his arm.

“I thank ye, friend,” he said to Drew. “A most excellent ride.”

“Any time.”

“Well, good night,” I broke in. “See you at tryouts.”

“Cool,” Bobby said, and got back in with Drew.

Edmund and I waved as they took off down our dark street.

When we couldn’t hear the engine of the Citroën any more, Edmund barfed all over the lawn. Then he allowed himself to collapse onto the driveway.

“Dear God, do ye do that all the time?” he asked, looking up at me. “’Twas like being on a mad horse with no reins. Or a plunging ship with a gale blowing. How d’ye stand such a thing?”

“Edmund, it’s okay,” I said, sitting down beside him. “Really. Drew’s a good driver. There was nothing wrong. Cars are the best way anybody’s ever come up with for getting from one place to another.”

“How fast were we going?”

“About thirty-five.”

“Thirty-five what?”

“Miles an hour.”

“Thirty-five miles an hour?” Edmund said. “How is it we’re still alive?”

“Maybe you’ll like riding in our car better,” I said. “It’s bigger and safer.”

“My car riding days are over!”

“They can’t be,” I said. “Everyone takes cars everywhere. You’ll get over being afraid. And I’ll tell you something else. Sooner or later, you’re going to be driving.”

“No! Such a thing…d’ye think I could learn the manage of a car?” Edmund asked.

“I think you could do anything you wanted to.” I said it just to cheer him up. But when I said it, I realized that I meant it.

“I, do such a thing,” Edmund said. “It must be easier than it looks.”

“We’d better go in.”

It was still early, only a little after nine o’clock, but tucking Edmund into bed in the extra room seemed like the best thing to do with him at this point. I needed some private time to sort out a couple of things. Such as how I was going to explain to Mom that we had a new, permanent house-guest. And why my heart was still going thumpity thump.

And Edmund really was tired. “Saint Mary and Joseph, I am weary and ’tis late for a night with no ranging to be done,” he said. “Miranda, where may a poor player lay his head?”

I showed him the bedroom. But then there was another little problem.

“Edmund,” I said. “What do you sleep in?”

He thumped the bed and looked surprised at how much it bounced. “Oh. On such a warm night as this, I’ll need nothing. Thank you, Miranda.”

“Okay,” I said. “But if you have to—go to the jakes in the middle of the night—”

“I will cover myself up. I do have a proper sense of shame.”

“Well, good, then. Good night.”

“Miranda, before we say good-night, will ye pray with me?” Edmund asked.

“Uh…yeah. Okay, I guess,” I said. “What religion are you?”

“Church of England, of course,” he said. “Inclining more toward the old faith than some, as I expect ye’ve noted. What are ye?”

Dad was Jewish, and Mom wasn’t anything. My six-week stint in Sunday school had been because I was curious where some of my friends went on Sunday morning back in the second grade. My curiosity had been satisfied and I hadn’t been back since.

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