Caution: this is a quartet of little stories centered on a thirteen-year-old girl who does a controversial thing.

10. Juliet Quartet

Juliet

It was a bad day. At lunch in the school cafeteria a damned juvenile boy had “accidentally” spilled milk down her front. Not a lot; just enough to soak her bra. He and his idiotic friends thought it was hilarious, claiming it might make her “boobies” grow, but she was hardly amused. She retreated hastily to the girl’s room and rinsed the bra out, but it remained too wet to wear, so she wadded it up in a damp ball and stuffed it in her plastic lunch bag. She managed to make it through the afternoon classes bra-less. Fortunately (?) she was as yet not well endowed, so did not attract attention.

Her friends said, giggling, that it meant the boy liked her. He just couldn’t say it openly without getting razzed, so he touched her in another way. Well, she didn’t like him. Not after that. Anyway, her folks were hopelessly twentieth century, and refused to let her date yet. She was just an ordinary girl, nothing special, not great athletically, indifferent as a student, and certainly no beauty. So there wouldn’t have been much prospect for dating even if she could.

Naturally she wished she could somehow amount to something. To accomplish some great deed, become famous, or at least recognized. But she was realistic enough to know a foolish dream when she saw it. She was doomed to nonentity.

Now she saw a group of boys by the bus stop, and that one was among them, so she just knew that they knew. She didn’t take the bus, as she lived close enough to walk, but her route went right by the stop. They would tease her unmercifully. She’d be lucky if they didn’t “accidentally” rip her shirt open to prove it. Neither parents nor teachers had any notion what real life was like in or around school. Not only would she be further humiliated, she’d get the blame for making a spectacle of herself. That was always the way it was.

So she detoured quickly, before they spied her. She made a right angle turn, going north. This would take her well out of her way, but would spare her the cruel gantlet of the boys and their juvenile humor. There was another through street two blocks up that would take her safely toward her house. She would be late, but her folks weren’t home at this hour, so wouldn’t notice.

She made the turn and approached a larger intersection. And heard a crash. She looked up just in time to see the delivery van turn over. It landed on its side with a second crash and slid to a halt. Meanwhile the car that had hit the van skewed to the side, paused, spun its wheels, and squealed away: a hit and run driver. The jerk had probably run the light and caught the van broadside. She wasn’t in a position to see its license tag; it was just a nondescript white car.

She ran up to the van. She was the first person on the scene. This was exciting!

Then she saw the man.

He was evidently the van’s driver, and he had somehow been pinned half under it. He lay on his back, his arms spread out to the sides, facing up. He was conscious, because he was moaning.

She dropped to her knees beside him, letting her purse, lunch bag, and homework book fall beside her. Then she saw the blood leaking out beside his body. She stiffened with horror. He was badly injured.

“How can I help?” she asked him, unable to think of anything more sensible.

“My legs!” he gasped. “God, they hurt! Make the pain stop!”

And how could she do that? She obviously lacked the strength to lift the van off him, and even if she could, it wouldn’t make him stop hurting.

She did remember one thing. She fished her cell phone out of her purse and dialed 911. “Bad accident! Man injured! Send help immediately!” She gave the intersection. “Can you hurry? He’s in awful pain. What can I do?”

“Comfort him,” the voice said. At least that was as much as she was able to assimilate at the moment.

She had no idea how to do that. But she knew it would take at least a little time for help to come, and the man was in pain now. How could she help him in the interim? She couldn’t stand to see him suffer.

His head rolled back and forth and his eyes were scarily wide. Then his wild gaze caught hers in a desperate glancing contact. “Please!” he begged.

She had to do something! But what? What could she possibly say to comfort him? How could she make his pain go away?

Comfort. Could she somehow comfort him the way her mother sometimes did when she was hurting? Not with words so much as with a hug. But she couldn’t hug him; it was physically impossible, there on the pavement. Apart from the dirt and blood. Was there anything else?

She acted before she knew it. She picked up his near hand and brought it to her slight bosom, hugging it to her. This was of course absolute foolishness, but what else could she do? “Help is coming,” she told him reassuringly.

His eyes abruptly focused on hers, and she felt his arm relax. It was working! She was hugging his arm, and it actually seemed to be helping him.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “You’re an angel of mercy.” His breathing became less labored. Could that really be all he needed?

But then his eyes closed. She realized that he was relaxing too much. In fact he was probably going into shock. She knew about that from her health class. It was when there was not enough blood left, and the body shut down and died. Maybe like freezing to death. She couldn’t let him relax too far, lest he sink into oblivion. She had to keep him alert, at least for the few minutes until help arrived.

Maybe it wasn’t comfort he needed so much as distraction. To keep him conscious, alert, but not thinking of his legs. He was a man, and they had certain interests, as the attitude of the boys indicated.

She turned his hand around, then untucked her blouse from her waistband. She threaded his hand inside and set his palm against her small bare right breast. Would it be enough?

His eyes popped open again. He knew what he was touching.

“Don’t tell,” she pleaded.

“Never!” he agreed, with a fleeting smile. His fingers squeezed gently. He was definitely awake and distracted. “I’m feeling no pain.”

Someone came. She looked up, and was horrified. It was her church pastor! He recognized her. He saw where the man’s hand was. Now she was in awful trouble.

“He’s hurting,” she said lamely.

“It is not for us to question the manner God works His will,” the pastor murmured.

Did that mean it was all right, or at least that he wasn’t condemning her completely?

“You deserve credit for helping this man survive,” the pastor said.

“No! My folks would never understand!”

“You prefer anonymity,” he said, unsurprised.

She nodded, ashamed.

There was the sound of an approaching siren. The ambulance was finally coming. In fact there were several cars. The police were here also.

“I will handle this,” the pastor said. “Whom may I say comforted this man?”

He was giving her a chance to be truly anonymous! She gazed wildly around. She saw the cover of her school book: Romeo and Juliet. It was the Shakespeare play the class was reading, that promised to be really dull homework. “Juliet.”

The pastor intercepted the newcomers, speaking quietly to them. They saw his collar and knew he was legitimate. Actually, probably all the city personnel knew him, because of his calling.

The injured man’s hand was still inside her shirt, still grasping her breast, but the medics seemed not to notice. The pastor must have warned them. “Can’t help him until we get that vehicle off him,” one said grimly. “Can’t medicate him until we know the complications.”

“Lift the van off,” the pastor said. “Quickly, while he is feeling no pain.” He certainly knew the score.

There was another vehicle there. In moments the van was heaved up and off. The victim’s crushed legs lay exposed in their pool of blood. She averted her gaze, wincing. The medics got rapidly to work. They were used to this sort of thing.

“Now we can stabilize him,” one said. He brought a kind of cup and put it over the man’s face.

The hand relaxed, letting go of her breast. She pulled away, hastily tucking in her shirt. Then she got up, picked up her things, and walked away.

“But she’s a witness!” someone protested.

“I am the witness,” the pastor said. “Let her go.”

They let her go, heeding the man of the cloth. He had really helped her.

The accident made the news, but only in a minor way. Similar accidents happened all the time. No one seemed to think anything of it. Her folks never mentioned it.

That Sunday she was at church as usual, forcing herself to go. It was routine. That was the way she wanted it.

But then came the sermon. “This week I witnessed a miracle,” the pastor said. He described the accident, and how the victim’s injuries were life-threatening. Was he going to mention her after all? She was frozen with apprehension. “Had he not been saved from shock, he would surely have died before the medics could stabilize him.” He paused. “But God sent an angel to minister unto him, for his destined time was not yet. She took his hand and comforted him, lending him her compassionate spirit, sustaining him, preserving his life. He survives today in the hospital, in coma, but stable. When he wakes he will know he owes his life to that angel.” The pastor paused, and she held her breath. “And the name of the angel was Juliet.”

She let out her breath with a faint wheeze of relief, but her folks did not notice. No one noticed. There was a murmur of appreciation, for the accident had been in this neighborhood and many parishioners knew of it. It was a great sermon. But no one thought anyone here was involved. She was home free.

Back in her room she resumed her homework, reading the ancient play. There would be a test. She discovered she liked Juliet. Juliet was a figure of romance and tragedy, the kind of role it would be fun to play on stage if not in life, if only she could be an actress. Of course she lacked dramatic ability too.

But mainly Juliet was an ordinary girl her own age who achieved greatness because she dared to love. A perfect role model for another ordinary girl.

Secret

She answered the door. It was Saturday, so she was home. “Pastor!” she exclaimed, surprised. He did make house calls, but seldom by surprise.

“May I talk to you and your parents?” he asked. “Something has come up.”

“Sure.” She turned her head. “Mom! Dad! The pastor’s here.”

In moments the four of them were seated in the living room. “I dislike bothering you,” the pastor said. “Something has occurred, something private but important. I believe your daughter may be able to help. May I borrow her for two hours?”

Her mother and father exchanged a glance. This was unusual, but they trusted the pastor. He was a thoroughly honorable man who had done much good in the community in quiet ways. He would surely clarify his purpose when that was appropriate.

Soon she was in the pastor’s car. “I need Juliet,” he said. “You are of course free to decline.”

“The van driver!” she exclaimed, belatedly making the connection.

“He has remained in a coma for more than a week now. The doctor has impressed on me the need to bring him out of it, as he needs to give consent for what may be risky surgery on his legs.”

“Doesn’t he have parents?”

“He is nineteen, legally adult, and his family lives in a distant city. He is a student at a local university. He took the delivery job to support himself, as they are not wealthy. He is covered by insurance, and there may in due course be a settlement from the driver who hit him.”

“They found the ba—bad boy!” she exclaimed, gratified.

The pastor smiled, appreciating her stifling of the bad word. “They did. He was plainly at fault. But that will take months to clarify, while the crisis is now. Do you understand the nature of a coma?”

“He’s out cold?” she asked, aware that it couldn’t be that simple.

“It’s a state of partial consciousness. It is almost as if he doesn’t want to come out of it. He faces the possible loss of his legs, and even if they are saved, he will never participate in track meets again.”

“Track?”

“He was a competitive runner, on the university team. Not a winner, but with fair prospects for improvement.”

“And now he can’t.”

“And now he can’t,” the pastor agreed. “This surely makes for a serious depression.”

“Can’t blame him,” she agreed. “But I’m no doctor, or even a nurse. What can I do?”

“You can perhaps bring him out of the coma so his physical recovery can proceed.”

“Me? If the doctors can’t do it, how the he—heaven can I do anything? They won’t even let me in. I’m not his family.”

“They will make an exception.”

“Why?”

“All he says is ‘Juliet! Juliet!’”

She felt a warm thrill. “Oh my go—gosh!” The man must have heard her say the name, before they put him out. Before he went into the coma.

“I repeat: you are free to decline.”

But she couldn’t decline. “Okay,” she whispered. The implication was stunning. No wonder the pastor had said nothing about it to her folks.

Then they were in the hospital, approaching a check-in station. “This is Juliet,” the pastor said.

It was the magic word. This intensive care unit was restricted; only family and clergy were allowed to visit. But the hospital folk also trusted the pastor, and by extension, her.

“This way,” the supervising nurse said. “We call him Romeo.”

Because of what he said. But it really wasn’t funny.

They stood beside the bed. The man lay quietly, his lower portion encased in some sort of massive cast. He seemed halfway conscious, but unaware of them.

“I will be in the hall with the nurses,” the pastor said. “No one will interrupt you.”

She nodded, and he departed. She was left alone with the patient.

“Romeo,” she said tentatively.

There was no response.

“I’m—I’m Juliet.”

“Juliet! Juliet!” he said. Then he lapsed back into passivity.

So it would take more than words to bring him out of it. She had somehow known it would.

She untucked her blouse, reached inside, and unfastened her bra. Then she took Romeo’s hand and lifted it to her bared breast, setting the palm firmly against her modest flesh.

“Juliet!” he cried, his eyes focusing on her.

“Yes.” He was definitely awake.

“Juliet! I love you!”

Oops. “I—I—” What could she say?

“Kiss me, beloved.”

What could she do? She leaned carefully forward, keeping his hand in place, and kissed him on the cheek.

“Please.”

Oh. She kissed him again, this time directly on the mouth. The touch was electric, sending another thrill through her. This was Romance!

She finished and stood up straight again, his hand unchanged.

“Oh, Juliet! Marry me!”

“Romeo, I can’t! I’m—not ready.”

“I’ll wait.”

“But—” She was unable even to formulate a coherent protest. This was overwhelming.

“Please,” he begged. “It was only the love of you, Juliet, that kept me alive. Everything else is gone. Without you I’ll die.”

He wasn’t fooling. He could sink back into the coma, and on into death. What did he have to live for, except his dream love? How could she kill him by taking that away?

“Yes,” she whispered, shivering.

“Oh thank you! I know you don’t really know me, Juliet. I’ll make it up to you. I promise! Only stay with me in spirit. Visit me. With your help I know I can make something of myself.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “But one thing. My folks—please, let’s make it a secret. For now.”

“Secret,” he agreed.

“Thank you. I must go now, but I’ll visit. I promise.” She leaned down and kissed him again. Then she lifted his hand from her breast, hooked her bra together, and tucked her blouse in.

“I love you,” he repeated as she left. “I know you can’t say it back yet. I must court you, win you. I will!”

“Yes,” she agreed, and stepped out of the room.

The nurse and pastor looked up as she emerged. “He’s awake,” she said simply. “But I’ll need to visit again.”

“It will be arranged,” the nurse said.

Back in the car, she couldn’t keep silent. “Did I do wrong?” she asked.

“I believe God sent you. You can not do wrong in God’s eyes.”

“I agreed to marry him.”

He froze for an instant. “This complicates things.”

“Yes.”

“Yet early betrothal is not unknown in many cultures, provided consummation is delayed until the girl becomes of age.”

“Like, don’t let him screw me until I’m twenty one?”

“I would not put it that crudely, but yes, that is the essence.”

“So it’s okay to be secretly engaged?”

“This would seem to be God’s will, if that’s what sustains his will to live. I might point out that in the future much can change. He may lose interest as he mends, and you will be freed from any marital obligation.”

“Lucky me,” she muttered. But it did suggest that her situation was not hopeless.

She visited Romeo again, courtesy of the pastor. She let him hold her breast while they talked. She learned that Romeo was a good student, interested in chemistry, but had not decided on his major specialty yet. “What do you think, Juliet? What should a cripple do?”

That was bothering him, and she understood why. What could she say? “I’m just a dumb girl. I can’t tell you what to do.”

“You are my beloved.” He squeezed her breast. “You can tell me what to do.”

She searched for something positive that would not also be hopelessly ignorant. “You know, your legs—I guess you won’t be running anymore. But even if you got to be a track star, your career would be over by the time you are, like, thirty. But if you’re a great chemist, it won’t be over until you retire.”

He nodded. “True. I could have wasted myself in a physical sport. Thank you for your insight. I appreciate it.”

He was not being sarcastic. He truly did value her input. That pleased her. The more she talked with him, the smarter she realized he was, and he was nice, too. In fact, she was starting to fall for him. Could she afford that?

On the third visit he picked up on her concern. “Something is bothering you, Juliet. Please, I hate to have you unhappy.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Your incidental mood is my obsession. Please, tell me.”

When he said please, she couldn’t deny him. “I’m falling for you, Romeo,” she blurted.

“Oh, Juliet! This is wonderful. How can you think of it as otherwise?”

“Because I’m not smart or talented or anything. You could do a lot better, and you won’t have to wait years. I’ve got no business lo—falling for you.”

“You are my beloved. Can’t you say the word?”

“Love,” she said. “I can’t love you. I’d be a drag.”

“Never!” he said passionately. He drew on her breast, bringing her forward, and kissed her. “I want your love more than anything else in the world.”

She had to accept it. “Then I guess we really are betrothed.” That was Shakespearean language she had picked up from class discussion. She had never been allowed to have a boyfriend, let alone a fiancé, but this made it seem more acceptable.

“We really are,” he agreed.

Suddenly it overwhelmed her. She leaned down again and kissed him fiercely. “I love you!” she said, and kissed him once more. “I really, really, really do!”

“I am in heaven.”

“So am I.” For the moment. But could this really be real? She wasn’t quite sure.

Romeo

Juliet was there for Romeo’s first walk, after the casts were off, by his request. The nurses had dressed him and wheeled him out to the hall, where there was a sort of wraparound walker. He put his hands on the rails and heaved himself up.

And sat down again immediately with a wince of pain. “It hurts!”

“You have been off your feet for some time,” the nurse said reassuringly. “Surgery on both legs. You have lost muscle and cartilage, and have scar tissue. It is likely to be uncomfortable at first. Time and patience will gradually improve it.”

“But I want to walk now!” he protested.

“First you learn to stand. Without too much pain. Then you walk.”

He looked around. “Juliet can help me.”

The nurse shook her head. “You’re substantially taller and heavier than she is. If she tried to support you, you would likely fall and take her down with you. You’d both get hurt. We can’t permit that.”

“I want Juliet.”

The nurse’s mouth turned grim. But before she could speak, Juliet did. “Let me talk with you alone, please.”

The nurse was puzzled, but obliged. They walked a few paces away. “Now what is this?” she asked sharply. “We’ve been remarkably tolerant about your presence and the way you interact with him, but this is serious therapy. You must not interfere.”

“Romeo—when he was in the accident, I was the one who got to him first. He was going into shock. I—I put his hand on my breast, and that kept him alert. He said he felt no pain. The distraction—it’s like pain pills. Now maybe he could walk, if.”

“No way. I know how you distract him, and I have to admit he behaves better after your visits. But this is different. For one thing, he needs both hands on the rails, to support himself.”

“I will be his support on one side.”

“You actually believe this?” the nurse asked incredulously.

“Yes.”

The nurse considered. “Very well. We’ll try it. Once. Show me that it works. If you fail, we’ll hear no more of this. Understood?”

“Yes.”

They returned to Romeo. Juliet loosened her shirt and unsnapped her bra. She took Romeo’s right hand, put it around her body, and on her right breast. She put her left arm around his body to help support him. “Ready?” she asked him.

“Ready. Three, two, one, heave!”

He heaved himself up, with her assistance and his left hand on the walker rail. He stood. “I feel no pain.”

The nurse’s expression said she strongly doubted that, but she kept silent. She was giving it a fair chance.

But the walker was now in the way. He could not step properly into it with Juliet there.

Impatiently, he swung it away and stood without support, except for Juliet. “Now we walk,” he said.

“In step,” she agreed. “Carefully. I can steady you, but I can’t hold you up if you fall.”

They stepped forward, carefully. Then again. Soon they were walking down the hall, his hand firmly on her breast. The nurse was surely watching, flabbergasted.

They turned, also carefully, and walked back. “No pain,” Romeo repeated.

“That’s enough,” the nurse said. “You have made your point. You must rest now. Your legs are hurting even if you can’t feel it. Tomorrow you will walk again, farther.”

“Our way,” he said.

“Your way,” she agreed grimly.

Next day the nurse wheeled Romeo to a separate hall that seemed to be closed off from general hospital traffic. “This is private,” she said to Romeo. “You will not be disturbed by anyone but me. Walk the length of the hall twice and stop. Even if you feel no pain now, your body is not yet recovered, and you do not want to damage it. Each day you will do more, until recovery is sufficient to allow you to check out of the hospital.”

“Thank you,” Juliet said.

The nurse glanced at her. “I believe in therapy that works. But I could get in trouble with the authorities if news of its detail leaked out. So I am not inquiring about the nature of your participation. You are merely his friend. Consider it moral support.”

“Thank you,” Juliet repeated. “I am good at keeping secrets.”

The nurse departed. “She’s not a bad sort, once you get to know her,” Romeo said as they got into position. She had come to really appreciate it when he touched her, especially where it counted. It was as though power flowed from her to him, uniting them in this challenge, but also came back to her. As if her breast was a portal, intimately linking them. Maybe the effect was all in his mind, and hers, but it worked. If this was love, she liked it.

He took hold of her breast and stood. “I did hurt yesterday, after you left. They had to give me extra pills.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t be. It’s proof of your magic. There truly is pain, but I don’t feel it with you.”

“I’m an anesthetic,” she agreed wryly.

“More than physically. Even if I felt no physical pain, I would not care to live without you.”

She loved hearing that, but had to demur, at least slightly. She was the young one, but she had to practice maturity. “But you know I won’t stay this way. I’ll fill out, and no longer be the slip of a girl who first took your hand.” And maybe lose him. She hated the thought.

“You will always be that slip of a girl to me. My beloved. My angel.”

“I’ll settle for Juliet.” She was pleased.

After two loops of the hall, she had to remind him. “That’s the limit.”

“I don’t want to let go of you.”

Maybe she could offer him something else. “Let’s compromise. Sit in the wheelchair.”

He let go of her and sat. Then she stood close. She took his hand and put it on her rear, outside her jeans. “There’s more of me, if you like.”

“Oh, Juliet, yes! Any part of you.”

“Make sure the nurse isn’t looking.” She loosened her belt and dropped her jeans and panties, then put his hand on her bare buttock. Her heart was pounding with this new daring.

“Juliet! Juliet! I love you!”

“And I love you, Romeo.” How sweet it was to say it!

He drew her close and put his face against her bosom. He kissed her breast and squeezed her bottom. “Beloved!”

Sure it was a kind of sex. It felt like love to her.

Then, nervous about discovery, they separated. She reorganized herself, and he turned the wheelchair and started back. She couldn’t overstay; the pastor would be waiting.

“I do not disparage young love,” the pastor said as he drove her back. “The passion of the young can be as intense and abiding as that of the mature. But it is important to honor the limits.”

“I’ve been naughty,” she confessed. “Does it show?”

“To a degree. You are flushed with excitement.”

“I—I let him hold my bare butt,” she said. “When I didn’t have to. How bad is that?”

“Well into the danger zone. To you it may be an adventure. But he is a man. There is little natural limit on his desire. You must draw the line. In future keep your pants on, literally.”

“Yessir.” She was relieved that he didn’t preach at her. His caution was surely well taken. Maybe he knew that his words could have only limited effect, in the face of the passion she had found. All the abstinence-only lectures in school and church didn’t affect the behavior of teens. Everyone knew that.

“You may be in love with love. That can be treacherous.”

“I’m in love with Romeo. Maybe when he touches me he feels no pain. But his touch really turns me on.”

He glanced at her. “I fear for your near future. I do believe God is using you as His instrument. But if you can’t be good, be careful. Extremely careful.”

“I’ll try.” But she knew it would not be easy.

The following days and weeks saw excellent progression. “I have never seen a patient with his degree of injury recover so rapidly,” the nurse remarked. “Too bad we can’t adapt this form of therapy to other cases.”

“I just talk to him,” Juliet said. “Apart from, you know. About his plans to return to college and major in chemistry and all. He has a good mind.” In contrast to hers. Indeed he was brilliant compared to her. He had a real intellectual future.

“But I would want none of it, without you,” he assured her during one of their therapy sessions.

“What, no coeds your age?” she asked. She smiled, but she feared it. She knew that many of those college girls were smart, shapely, and experienced. She was none of these things.

“I never cared much about girls, one way or another,” he said seriously. “Until I met you. Now I care only about you.”

Nevertheless, she braced herself for the time when he no longer needed her. Then he might discover the college girls. She would be heartbroken, but if God’s plan was to use her only in the interim, she would have to accept it.

At last came the Day: the doctors cleared Romeo for release. He was moved to a separate rehabilitative unit, where he would work his way back toward employability. He could walk well enough without Juliet’s assistance. For some reason he was not completely pleased with that.

There were many people at the rehab unit, in all stages of recuperation. Romeo shared a room with two other men. There was no privacy. Juliet, of course, could not protest; they did not know about her, and it was best that they never know. Young men couldn’t keep their mouths shut.

Home at night, in her bedroom on the second floor, she brooded. She had been several days alone, as it were. She knew it was best that she wean herself away from Romeo, but all she wanted was to be in his embrace, kissing him, with one of his hands on her breast and the other on her butt. Hearing him tell her how he needed her. She condemned herself as a foolish twit, but still she longed.

There was a faint sound. She paused, listening, but now there was silence. Then the sound came again, from the window, as if sand was hitting it.

Could it be? She went to the window and opened it.

“Juliet,” came the whisper. It was him!

Suddenly she was frightened. “Romeo, get away from here! If my folks saw you—”

“Juliet, I must hold you, kiss you. Only that will sustain me.”

“But it’s dangerous!”

“Please.”

She melted. “I’ll come down. Keep quiet.”

She made her way downstairs. Mom was cleaning up in the kitchen; dad was watching TV. She was able to sneak by without alerting either of them. She opened the back door with excruciating care and slipped out onto the dark porch.

Romeo was there. He swept her into his embrace and kissed her. “Juliet, I love you!” he breathed, putting a hand on her butt just the way she had imagined.

“I love you,” she echoed. Then something occurred to her. “You know, we’re reenacting the balcony scene in the play.”

“It was in my mind,” he agreed, kissing her again.

“How did you find me? I never told you my real name or where I live.”

“I Googled ‘Juliet.’ They had your whole story.”

“No!” she exclaimed, appalled.

“I’m joking,” he said quickly. “But I did do a statistical survey of all the houses in your neighborhood, orienting on those with girls your age who go to the local school. I got pictures, and there you were. I had to come.”

“You’re so smart,” she said adoringly.

“I’m so in love.” He kissed her again, squeezing her buttock. How she loved that!

Suddenly the porch light came on. The door flung open. Disaster! Her folks had caught them!

“Get your hand off her ass!” her father barked. “Get the hell out of here, you lecher!”

“Go!” she breathed tearfully, needing to save Romeo if not herself.

Romeo faded back and away. Juliet turned to face her angry father, who had plainly seen that she was avidly cooperating. To face the end of her world.

Vision

“God forgive me,” Juliet said aloud. Then she started swallowing the sleeping pills she had raided from her mother’s cache, washing them down with a cup of water. She hoped they would be enough.

When she had downed them all, she went to her desk and wrote a brief note for the world. I CAN’T LIVE WITHOUT ROMEO. I LOVE HIM. I’M SORRY. She wasn’t condemning her folks, just explaining. She had always known her folks wouldn’t understand. They were locked in the sterile conformity of the chaste married state. If she ever got the chance to marry, she would make sure it never got to be like that. Not that she would get that chance.

Then she lay on her bed. “Romeo, I love you,” she said. “I hope we can be together in the other realm.” She closed her eyes, relaxing. What would be, would be.

Time passed, an instant or an eternity. She stood at the pearly gate of Heaven. She tried to enter, but it closed before her. She was not completely surprised; suicides were reputed to be unwelcome here.

She looked around. There was a desk to the side, with a female clerk sitting at it. “This way, miss,” the woman said. “We have to process you in.”

Oh. Of course. They wouldn’t even know who she was, without the paperwork. Bureaucracies were like that. She went to the desk. “Juliet,” she said, identifying herself.

The woman rifled through a sheaf of papers. Her eyes widened. “Oh, my!”

This was not looking good. “I’m a suicide,” she said. “I guess you have a problem with that.”

“It’s not just that. There’s a codicil attached. You must answer to God directly. And is He ever wroth.”

So it was the worst case scenario. “I’ll save you the trouble. Where’s the road to Hell?”

“Nuh-uh! You don’t get off that easily. Go that way.” A door opened in the wall behind the desk.

Juliet wasn’t eager to go there, but found herself walking through the doorway and down a short hall. Then she was in a huge glorious chamber, and the passage she had used was gone. There was no exit. Obviously they didn’t fool around with bad souls in the afterlife.

And there was God, sitting on a giant golden throne, wearing a brilliant crown sparkling with diamonds. At His right hip was a terrible swift sword. His eyes swung around to bear on her, transfixing her.

“I’m—I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“You OD’d on pills, you idiotic little snit?” He demanded imperiously. “Whatever possessed your minuscule mind? It’s not your time.”

She fell to her knees before Him, sobbing in terror.

“Oh shut up and listen,” He snapped. “Don’t you dare quit now. I am not through with you, you selfish twit. Not by a long shot. I need you to sustain Romeo. Why the Hell did you think I sent you to him?”

Now she found her voice. “But God, I can’t be with him,” she quavered. “My folks forbid it. I’d rather die.”

“You want to take the easy way out, you little ignoramus. I want you to take the hard route, go to school, pass your classes, be the best that you can be, little as that is.” His gaze bore down on her crushingly. “Even math. You can make a D in that, can’t you, if Romeo helps you study? Do it.”

“But God, I’m not smart or beautiful or courageous or anything. I have no future.”

“Your future is not the point, you feeble excuse for a girl. It is Romeo I’m trying to save. You are merely the instrument.”

This was confusing, even in her humiliation. “The what?”

“The instrument. The necessary mortal tool to accomplish My purpose. Do you think it was mere coincidence that brought you to him when that spawn of Hell sideswiped his van? I had to preserve him, and there were no good prospects handy, so I had to make do with what pittance offered. You were the closest, so I used you, and you used what little you had to sustain him the minimum necessary time.”

“My meager breast,” she agreed wanly.

“Any port in a storm,” God agreed. “I had to enhance its effect, of course. Even so, it was a shoestring operation. At least you pulled him through that crisis. For that I am obliged to give you credit.”

“Thank you,” she breathed.

“But now he is fixated on you, and it would be complicated to change that, so I have to work with it. Have patience. In due course you will become eligible. Then you will truly support him while he completes his degree.”

This was getting interesting. “But why is it so important?”

“He is destined to become an outstanding chemist, and to fathom the catalyst that will enable coal to yield its energy efficiently and cleanly.”

“Clean coal? That’s important?”

“Trust Me. It represents about half of the problem. The other half is the mess coal extraction makes, making molehills of My mountains, polluting My pristine streams, generating piles of useless contaminated rubble. But that’s a separate problem. Romeo must handle the energy aspect.”

“That seems so—so great,” she said, awed. “I had no idea.”

“It is not your business to have an idea,” God said. “It is Romeo’s. You just have to be there to support him, so he doesn’t do something stupid on his own.”

“You mean I can really, maybe, be with him? I don’t have to go to Hell?”

The phenomenal visage frowned at her. “Are you attempting to bargain with God?” he demanded.

She was cowed again. “Oh, no sir, no no! I was just trying to get it straight. Can I let him touch me?”

God sighed. “The limit is defined by what you have allowed before, you naughty nymph. Privately. For now. Thereafter more, to hold his interest until he can marry you. Is that satisfactory?” The sarcasm was divinely huge.

“Oh, yes, yes, sir! I didn’t want to do more anyway, really. Not much more. Yet. Just—”

God grew impatient. “So be it. You may have him in life. Now stop wasting My time. Get your silly little ass out of here before I spank it.” The flat of his sword glowed.

“But—”

“GO!” God roared like thunder, his body flaring like lightning.

“But I don’t know the way! It’s all opaque.”

“Oh.” God reconsidered as the special effects faded. “I forgot how meager you are. Take My hand.” He rose from his throne and extended it.

Timidly she took His hand. It was warm and firm and comforting, not deadly at all. She realized that beneath his gruff exterior, God loved her.

Then they walked forward, together, into the sparkling darkness that surrounded the glorious chamber.

She emerged into light. “Juliet!” Romeo exclaimed gladly. It was his hand she was holding.

“Romeo,” she agreed. She was back in the realm of the living. In a hospital bed.

“Don’t ever leave me, Juliet!” he said. “I could never survive without you.”

She believed that. “How come you’re here?” she asked as she got her bearings. “I thought Dad forbid you to ever see me again.”

“Your pastor brought me. I had to come. It was as if God told me to get my stupid ass the hell over here, or else.” He paused, embarrassed, for the pastor was standing by the other side of the bed. “I mean—”

“That was God, all right,” she said, smiling.

“Oh, Juliet, if I lost you, I’d kill myself!”

“Shut up a minute and listen,” she said. “I have something to tell you.”

“You’re just everything to me. The pastor made a deal with your folks, when the stomach pump didn’t bring you out of it. If I could take your hand and bring you back, the way you did me, I could date you, supervised. So now—”

She glanced at the pastor. “Can you give us a minute?”

He nodded, understanding. He left the room.

“I love you,” Romeo said. “Nothing will ever change that.”

She took his hand and threaded it into her hospital gown, on her breast. He was abruptly silent, transfixed.

“Listen,” she repeated. “Now what do you plan to do with your life?”

“I will love you forever! All I want is to be worthy of you.”

She pressed his hand closer, silencing him again. “I mean, what kind of a job? To support a family?”

“Well, you know I want to be a chemist. But there are many specialties, and I haven’t decided—”

“Coal.”

“What?”

“Coal. Study the chemistry of coal.”

“But that’s the worst pollutant of all!”

“Right. Find out how to make it burn clean. That’s your mission.”

“But—”

“Trust me.” Then she bought him down for a kiss. She knew his future, and hers. It was almost as if she could see God smiling in the background.

Note: This is one of my favorite stories in this volume, maybe because of Juliet’s vision of God. I wrote it early in 2009. In the original Shakespeare play, Romeo and Juliet, Juliet is thirteen, Romeo older. By today’s standards their romance is illicit. I have never been one to sneer at young love; it can be as intense as any. I remember my love for a schoolmate when I was eleven, she twelve, as real as anything since. So at age thirteen, Juliet could truly love, and she does. But the notion freaks out publishers, and I had to fudge it to get it published by Excessica, to whom I donated it, receiving no royalties. I am annoyed by erotic publishers who refuse to address reality, such as the fact that the average woman has first sex at about age fifteen. That means some do it older, some younger. There are even child prostitutes plying their wares. Publishers are afraid they’ll get sued for publishing fiction that comes too close to reality. It’s past time to let fiction be relevant to real life.