Author's Introduction: Just recently finished this piece - it's only a draft, and needs some pretty serious revision, but as it's the longest thing I've written so far (over 9,000 words - does this count as epic, or just macro-tastic?) it seemed extra-appropriate. If you actually make it through this, I'll give YOU points. Oh, and I sent it to Yellowbear. If he tells you any different he's a dirty, stinking, filthy, flaming, generally unpleasant, differently abled, liar. Oh, and now way am I going through this and inserting paragraph indents, you'll just have to imagine them. Oh, and there are plant zombies. I love zombies.


A Tragedy

Romeo pulls a peach down from a tree, takes a bite and offers the dripping fruit to Juliet.
She says, “Isn’t it amazing how food can just grow on trees?”
“Not as amazing as you,” says Romeo.
They kiss, lips sticky and sweet, in the orchard thick with moonlight and the gentle smell of peaches, the earthy hints of damp manure and soft dirt.
“Look,” says Juliet, “a shooting star.”
“Make a wish.”
The trail of light arcs down out of the sky and disappears behind the rows of trees.
Juliet gasps, “Do you think it landed in the orchard? Maybe we can find a space rock.”
Chuckling, Romeo presses Juliet to him. He loves to fit his hands into the curve above her hips. “What did you wish for?” he asks.
“An end to hunger in Africa,” she says, nodding her head at the words as if to welcome their truth to the world. “I’ve got to go,” she kisses Romeo, “I’ve got morning cheer practice.” He kisses back, deeply, tasting her teeth, and she pushes away, smiling. “Goodnight.”
“I love you.”
“I love you.” Juliet walks off down the row, towards the Capulet house in the heart of the field, wiping her lips on her sleeve.
Romeo watches her until her sweater is just an afterimage, a spot that flickers on his iris, an unsure color in the black of night. He had a good wish, and wanted her to ask him what it was so he could say, in that husky whisper that makes him feel as though his voice is deep and rich, “I wished we would be together forever.”
Between the two orchards lies a road, long and narrow, two grey lanes patched unevenly with asphalt. Trucks come through in mid-day, and since the water bottling moved into town the road would clog at rush hour. In the night, though, there are never more than one set of headlights off in the distance. He climbs over the low wooden fences where the Capulets have a hand-painted sign that says “Organic” and his family has one reading “Espresso.” The Montagues get the morning traffic on their side of the road.
He walks among his father’s apple trees, towards the clubhouse, the varnished pine room at the edge of the ranch house’s yard. The pot smell hits him as he crosses the lawn. His parents never seemed to notice.
Ben and Ty sit on beanbag chairs, the tall, glass bong between them. Ben’s hair is in knots, he wears a tie-dye shirt and open-toe sandals held together with duct tape. Ty wears black lipstick and eyeliner. The room rattles with the fast beat of black metal and frantic thumbs on the buttons of video game controllers. Ben glances up.
“Juliet didn’t come?” he asks.
Ty mouths something below the music. Romeo thinks he’s saying, “Fucking cheerleader skank whore.”
Romeo steps between Ty and the screen to reach the bong and stays there while he draws deeply from the chortling tube. Ty starts swearing, leaning to try and look around Romeo, and Ben jumps up, cheering, “Yeah! Take it!”
Tossing his controller onto the floor, Ty slumps back. “Gimme the fucking bong, man. This is bullshit.”
“So why didn’t Juliet come over?” asks Ben.

•

The morning is cool and grey, the dopplering hush of cars already beginning. By six Romeo has the coffee carafes full and a dozen pre-made fritters in the oven. The shop was started to sell apple products to travelers; -pie, -butter, -sauce, and big wooden barrels with false bottoms eight inches in to make them look like they overflow with fresh, crisp apples. Since the water bottling plant showed up, most of the shop’s income comes from the espresso machine.
At ten-after Marcie comes in, tight jeans and a tight, pink shirt, thick white belt. The cops never bother Marcie. Romeo starts pouring her a coffee.
She says, “You like that shit I sold your cousin? I got more.”
“It’s good shit.”
“You got time later I could come over, roll a blunt. Thanks.” She takes the coffee, Romeo doesn’t ask for money and she doesn’t offer to pay.
“I’m going to a movie with Juliet after school.”
“I got a line on some mushrooms. Interested?”
“Talk to Ben. He’s into that hippie shit, Expanded Consciousness.”
“It’s his dollar. Tell him to call me.” Marcie tries to sip the coffee, winces and spits it back into the cup. The oven timer dings and Romeo turns to retrieve the hot fritters. Marcie says, “Well, I gotta get to Kennedy before the kids spend their money on the candy machine.”
“All right.”
“I’ll see you, smoke you out soon.”
The door chime jingles, a plant worker in his flannel comes in and says, “Coffee and two fritters.”
“Bye, Romeo,” says Marcie.
At six-thirty Romeo’s holding a tin pitcher of milk up to the steam nozzle when Mr. Capulet bursts into the shop, knocking the door chime up against the wall with a clank and trampling through the coffee line. “Montague! Tell your father, boy,” he lifts a thick arm drooping with graying hair and points with a dirt-stained finger, “to keep off my land. Tell him I don’t know how he made my trees sick, but I won’t stand for it. He’s going to pay for each leaf! And tell him to keep that nephew of his away from my boy.”
The plant workers stay meek, and part to let the broad farmer leave.
At seven Romeo’s mom comes in to take over, bustling silver at her temples and skinny blue jeans. “Hurry up or you’ll miss the bus,” she says.
“Mr. Capulet came in, saying some shit about dad making his trees sick.”
“Language, young man,” Mrs. Montague slips a floral apron over her head. “I’ll look in on Mr. Capulet later and see if I can’t calm him down. Get!”

•

The high school draws the children of farmers and shop-owners for twenty miles. Their clothes are new and their shoes sleek, bought with the money the plant has brought to the town. The children sip sweetened coffee drinks by their lockers and check their cell-phones. The atmosphere is excited, anticipatory; soon it will be Sunday, and time for the harvest festival, transformed since the plant came into a proper fair, with games and rides.
When they see him, Romeo’s friends chorus, “You get a taste of that fine, cheerleader pussy yet?”
“Guys, I’ve told you,” Romeo puts up his hand to push back the lascivious tide, “It’s about more than sex with Juliet.”
“He still hasn’t got any yet!”
“She holding out for her wedding night?”
“Maybe our Romeo doesn’t have the equipment.”
“He sure talks like a girl!”
“High five!”
The guys slap palm to palm and laugh and Romeo slams the thin, steel door of his locker shut. He says, “It’s not a joke. I’m sorry if you can’t understand that.”
“I think we offended him.”
“We’re sorry, Girly-o.”
“My heart! Catch me!”
Romeo walks away from the jibes, out of the low-ceilinged academic building, across the parking lot, freshly paved and painted, planted with new saplings, out to the football field where the cheerleaders are just finishing up. He makes his way along the outside of the hedge-lined chain link fence to where the girls dismount from a human pyramid with a shout. They jog to the bleachers, where, concealed from their view, Romeo can hear the girls talk.
“It was kind of gross, I had to towel off my breasts because they felt all slimy.”
“Chad is, like, so good. He never tries to do anything wierd.”
“You’re so lucky.”
“Hey, Juliet. What’s Romeo like?”
Romeo’s heart thuds up into his throat and he holds his breath. Juliet says, “He’s really sweet.”
The girls laugh. “We know what that means.”
One says, in a prim and informative tone, “The forbidden fruit is the sweetest.“
A boy’s voice interrupts the cascade of giggles, a shout from the field, “Hey, Juliet!”
Juliet calls, “Hey, Ben.”
“Come on,” says Ben, “we’ll be late for Biology.”
“I’ll catch up with you. Save me a seat.”
The bubbling laughter falls on Romeo as he ponders what kind of fruit he is. He finds it hard to breathe evenly.

•

“I don’t think my dad did this,” says Romeo. They stand again in the night at the edge of the Capulet orchard, a mound of purple logs and dark red leaves lit up in the ring of the hissing lantern. Romeo squats down to get a closer look, to make sure the logs really are purple. He notices they’re starting to sprout, little purple sprouts with orange buds at the tips.
“My dad chopped it up,” says Juliet, “He’s burning it tomorrow, he had to get a permit.”
“This is what you wanted to show me?” asks Romeo.
“Are you sure your dad didn’t do this?” asks Juliet.
“How could he, this is really weird.” Romeo plucks one of the sprouts and holds it to his nose. “Smells sweet.”
“My dad’s really mad,” says Juliet. The lantern bobs in her hand as she pulls her jacket shut. Shadows shoot off into the wild grass in the adjacent field.
Standing, Romeo says, “I think we should tell our parents.”
Juliet says, “Now?” then hushes herself, “Now’s even worse.”
“Maybe it’ll calm them down.”
“No,” she puts her hand on Romeo’s chest, “at least wait until this blows over. We’ll tell them soon.”
Romeo leans in to kiss her.

•

Marcie’s high laugh carries out to the road. Romeo jogs through the trees, his feet sinking into the heavy soil and kicking it out in sprays that patter on the trunks. The leaves rustle and Marcie laughs. Romeo pushes into the yellow glow of the clubhouse.
“Shut up,” he hisses, “My parent’s will hear.”
Ty’s stumbling stiff-legged around the small room, bumping into the walls and tripping over the television even though his eyes are wide. His tongue lolls, a string of drool hanging from his chin, his arms held limply in front of him. Marcie’s deep in one of the beanbag chairs, snorting through her hands. Ben’s up against a wall, mouth wide in silent laughter.
Romeo glances across the lawn at the family house and shuts the door behind him. “Did you guys take mushrooms?”
“No, no,” sighs Marcie, “Ty’s just a funny kid.”
Ty wipes his chin and smirks at Romeo.
“You guys are just stoned,” says Romeo.
Ty says, “I was doing an impression of you.”
“How is that an impression of me?”
“He’s just messing with you,” says Marcie. She opens her purse and pulls out a pack of cigarettes.
“You know, kid,” says Romeo, “your daddy doesn’t want you over here.”
“At least my daddy doesn’t poison,” Ty’s voice cracks and ululates, “trees.”
Romeo points and laughs and Ty turns red around his black-lined eyes. Marcie taps the pack against her wrist and stands up. Ben and Romeo get a look at the top of her red panties over the edge of her belt as she stands. “I’m gonna have a smoke,” she says and gestures Romeo towards the door with her chin. She lights her cigarette and hikes her little purse up into her armpit, then steps past Romeo. As he follows her out he says, “You should go home before you get in trouble, kid.”
Closing the door, Romeo can hear Ben saying, “Let’s smoke another bowl.”
Romeo catches up with Marcie, heading to the tree line. She digs through her purse, cigarette clamped between her lips, eyes squinted against the smoke that rolls up around the paper tube and over her face, and produces a small pipe. “Here,” she hands the pipe and lighter to Romeo, “it’s already packed.”
The flint grates sharp in the quiet orchard, a flare of light that subsides as Romeo pulls the flame into the sizzling bowl and chokes out a low, white cloud. He hands the pipe to Marcie and turns to cough into the dirt. Marcie holds the pipe to her lips and gazes up at the trees.
She says, “That kid’s scary.”
Rubbing his eyes, Romeo says, “Who, Ty?”
“Who’s out there?” Mr. Montague’s voice, the voice of a man perpetually in need of water, grates through the trees.
Marcie drops the pipe into her purse. Romeo says, “Me and Marcie, Dad.”
“Eheh, eheh,” the chuckle comes out of the trees, Romeo squints his eyes but sees only trunks. “Good to see you, Marcie.”
She waves at the orchard, “Hi, Mark. I was just taking off.”
“Drive safe, Marcie.”
“Bye, Romeo.” Marcie heads to the road, her pale jeans bobbing through the trees.
Romeo jumps when a hand drops on his shoulder. His father speaks low, “I hope you don’t charge her,” his voice rolls over the pronoun, dripping down into the uvular fricative, “for coffee. Did you see your mother today?”
“When she came in to open the store. Mr. Montague was mad at you about his tree.” Romeo’s voice seems to echo too loud in his ears, he worries he’s talking too loud.
“Come inside soon, it’s a school night,” the hand slips off Romeo’s shoulder, “and bring your cousin in too.”
In the little pine clubhouse Ty hands the bong to Ben, a curl of smoke escaping its mouth.
“I thought I said your dad didn’t want you hanging out here,” says Romeo.
“He doesn’t want you trying to fuck his daughter, either.” Ty coughs. “Maybe you should be paying me to keep my mouth shut.”
“Get out,” says Romeo, “Get out,” he grabs Ty’s black shirt-collar and pulls him towards the door. “Get out.” He pushes Ty, whose frame is small, outside, and the boy trips over the doorframe.
“Hey,” says Ben, standing. Romeo cuts him off.
“It’s time for dinner, we’re going inside.”
Ty picks himself up and brushes his pants off, pushes his black-dyed hair off his forehead. He says, “Sleep tight, Romeo,” and stalks off through the trees.

•

The morning fog lies chill and low about Romeo’s feet. The sound of a chainsaw comes soft, maybe just a moped on the road but it persists. It gets louder. By the time Romeo’s at the door of the shop his curiosity’s got the best of him and he keeps walking. Across the road, through the Capulet peaches, the sound insistent, gnawing. Romeo stops and peers around a tree at the edge of the orchard, out into the clearing where the purple logs of the sick tree were stacked.
Where the pile was, around where the pile was, is a ring of new trees. Purple trees with deep red leaves, heavy with orange fruit. There’s Juliet, the sky brightening behind her, wearing blue-jeans and a thick sweater, sloshing gasoline from a heavy red can onto the purple grove. Long branches extend out toward the orchard, long, purple branches. Mr. Capulet hefts the spitting chainsaw and presses it into one of the branches, Romeo can smell the gasoline, sweet and leaden, gasoline and something like fire. The branch gives way, falling to the ground with a crack and a rustle. A dozen other truncated purple branches, pink where they’ve been cut into, reach for the orchard, their dozen tips lined up on the ground like soldiers’ bodies.
The chainsaw throttles down and chokes out and Mr. Capulet sits heavily on a fallen log. In the clean quiet the sloshing of the gasoline from Juliet’s can, the liquid spattering on the tree trunks, comes plain. Something else too, a quick crackling.
“That’s enough,” says Mr. Capulet. Juliet sets the can down and from her pocket she pulls a long fireplace lighter.
Romeo is surprised he didn’t notice the other fire earlier. It’s big. Its cloud rises dark grey into the bluing sky from the fallow field that borders the Capulet orchard. Romeo steps out from his hiding place, drawn forwards. Fire springs livid on the purple grove, Juliet backing away. With a growl the fire curls tall, Juliet tosses the can on the ground next to four others.
Mr. Capulet sees Romeo, stands and says, “You two collect the fruit before it has a chance to seed.” His words drop flat from his mouth. “I’m going to call, I guess I’m going to call the EPA.”
Juliet glances at her father’s retreating back and then at Romeo. “Come on,” she says, “throw it on the fire.” She bends and starts underhanding fruit into the blazing grove, wincing when she looks at firelight. Romeo drifts closer. He can feel the heat on his face. The grassfire’s spread, a grey curtain framing the burning grove, the two clouds mingling overhead. Soot starts to fall. Leaves, the fine traceries of their veins preserved in delicate ash, crumble and smear on his shirt when he tries to brush them off. Now the sun has crested, bloody behind the smoke.
“Come on!” says Juliet, “I need help.” Her brow is smeared with black, her cheeks, strands of hair cling damp to the contours of her face.
“What happened?” says Romeo. A purple stick falls at his feet, one end a glowing coal, the other coated in tight red buds. Romeo picks it up, while Juliet flings orange fruit in to the fire where it sputters and bubbles, and the buds open and little leaves reach out to the dimmed sunlight. The living tip is still growing, new buds appearing as the little leaves develop and expand. Romeo drops the stick and kicks it towards the fire.
Romeo becomes aware of sirens, distant but audible over the fires. “The firemen are coming,” he says.
“Help me get all this on the fire,” says Juliet, panting now. A tower of cinders collapses out of the inferno, scattering sparks across the dirt.
Romeo takes a step back. “The firemen are coming, Juliet. Juliet!”
Juliet tries to lift one of the branches, her legs bent, back arched, teeth glaring, neck taut. Her body goes slack and she gasps. She says, “It’s put down roots.”
Then they’re there, in their heavy coats hung with reflecting strips; broad, solid looking helmets, the visors flipped up. They usher Romeo, dazed and pliant, away from the fire. Behind him Juliet shouts, “You have to let it burn.”

•

The school’s hallways seem to curve, Romeo has trouble tracing a straight line from door to locker. Hand on the cold metal of the lock, he doesn’t want to see his friends. No one is talking about a fire, or a purple tree, or a man – a boy, a boy – who can’t help his girlfriend, who wanted to run away.
Romeo doesn’t register the crowd of fast, heavy feet until they’re upon him, his friends, chorusing, “What happened, man?”
“Juliet just showed up in a cop car.”
“Did she do something?”
Romeo pushes through his friends, heads for the front door. There, through the wide, varnished door, comes Ty. Eyes on the ground, scowl set deep on his brow and the bridge of his nose, he passes through the watching crowd. When he comes to Romeo, without looking up, he says, “I’m staying at your house tonight.”
“Where’s Juliet?” says Romeo.
“She didn’t want to see you,” Ty says. “She cut.”
The bell rings, and the clumps of students break apart as Ty walks to class and Romeo runs outside. Quiet saplings, crows picking at the grass of the football field, a white compact pulling up to the school. Romeo looks to the east, towards the orchards and the morning sun, and sees no smoke.
The white compact honks and the driver reaches to push open the passenger door. Marcie’s voice comes shouting through the cracked door, “Get in the car, Romeo.”
The car lurches away from the school’s front steps, tires clawing loudly, before Romeo even gets a chance to close the door.
“You’re Dad sent me to get you,” says Marcie. “Why’d you leave? The orchard, when the firemen came, why didn’t you stay?”
Romeo says, “The bus came.”
“Where’s your backpack?”
“I didn’t, I never had it. I was at the firetruck, the bus came.”
“You should have stuck around, you could have made yourself useful.”
Romeo looks at Marcie, her tight clothes, he sees there’s soot on the white and pink, in the blonde of her hair. Her face is tense, lips pursed, knuckles white at ten and three on the steering wheel. “You were there? What was I supposed to do?”
“Your dad told me to get you, he wants you to help.”
“You’re a drug dealer.”
“I’m a farmer’s daughter,” says Marcie, and she runs a stop sign.

•

The change takes Romeo’s breath away. Rows of purple trees, as Marcie slows the car Romeo watches redness crawl over the leaves of a green and healthy peach tree. A row ahead of the advancing color pickers work frantically, jogging to the bin with full sacks. Marcie’s little car pulls into the clearing around the Capulet house.
Romeo’s father drives a forklift, deep tracks in the dirt scarring back and forth to low stacks of big, plastic shipping crates filled with peaches. He jumps down from the lift and walks towards the car, sweat patching his faded t-shirt.
He waves at the car, says, “Thanks, Mar.”
“You need me to pick?” she asks.
“Go round up some more reinforcements.”
“Okay.” The car’s clutch clicks into reverse. “Good luck, Mark.”
“Grab a bag,” says Montague, “If any of the pickers fills theirs, take it and give him the empty. Run the peaches down here and dump them in the bin. Repeat.”
Marcie’s car gone, Romeo hears the lift’s two-stroke rattle, and he hears birds, birdsong. He knows his father hasn’t talked to a Capulet for three years, since the incident with the pesticide. “Why?”
“Farmer has to worry about his neighbor’s field, too.” Romeo’s father lifts himself into the forklift’s cab. Romeo starts moving, slowly. His father says, “Go, go.”
“Why didn’t you have Marcie get Juliet? Why isn’t she here?”
“They’re kids, Romeo. They don’t need to see this.”
“Juliet’s not a kid.”
The lift hums and grinds and a filled crate comes up off the ground. “They’re fourteen. They’re kids. You’re a man.” The lift trundles towards the stacks. “Go.”
Romeo goes. He runs down a row until a sharp whistle stops him. He stands side-to-side with a picker, who hefts a full bag onto his shoulder. The strap bites down and Romeo lurches forward to keep his balance. The picker’s already back up a ladder with the empty bag. As Romeo runs the bag back to the bins he hears a picker shout, “Vamos. Está cambiaron. Vamos.”
They abandon the fruit they haven’t reached yet, moving the ladders to the next row as the color advances.
The work wears Romeo down to where his feet scuff and gouge at the dirt as he tries to run. As the sun begins to drop from it’s peak the last row turns and Romeo drops to the ground. The harvest sits in tall stacks on grass that’s turned red underfoot. They didn’t even lose as much as a bad freeze, thinks Romeo, and I helped. He wants to tell Juliet.
“Get up,” says his father, “we’re not done yet. Vamos!”
Romeo doesn’t understand but he pushes himself to his feet and follows. He walks through the rows of purple trunks with the pickers. He sees one silently cross himself. Around them the fruit starts to fall.
As they near the road Romeo hears honking, voices, as he clears the trees he sees. Purple branches have grown across the road, reaching towards the apple trees. Already, the Capulet orchard is turning purple and red. Lines of stopped cars trail away from the orchards, people milling about, touching the branches that block their way with tentative hands, watching the weary procession, the sweat soaked and dust stained pickers stepping out from the purple trees and crossing the road.

•

As evening shadows lengthen and disappear the last of the Montague orchard turns purple. Mr. Montague pays the pickers cash. They thank him quietly and leave in knots, conversing in fast Spanish.
Mr. Montague says, “Walk with me, Romeo,” and he heads off into the dark orchard. The grey dusk makes the orchard look real again, look whole and unchanged. A little ways in the trees just harvested are already heavy with fruit again, white fruit. Mr. Montague reaches up and plucks one of the fruit from the tree, sniffs it, takes a bite.
Romeo hears it crunch between his father’s teeth. “Dad, don’t!”
“Textures off, sort of like a hard pear. Tastes like an apple, a little. An apple dipped in egg.” He swallows the bite and offers the fruit to his son. “Want some?”
“I’m not eating that.”
“Yeah. It’ll be fine in pies but we’re going to have trouble selling these fresh for a while.” Mr. Montague kneels over a piece of the fallen fruit, one split down the middle by a tiny shoot. “The flesh is fine. But we’ll have to seed them before we sell them.” More fruit drops around him, the sound is near constant now, the patter of ripe fruit hitting the ground. “Our production’ll be through the roof.”
Romeo looks at his father, who takes another bite of fruit and chews slowly. “What are you doing?”
“I’m thinking about the future.” Romeo’s father stands. Even with the light almost gone Romeo can see how white his teeth are when he smiles. “What are you doing?”
“I’m going inside,” says Romeo.
“Tell your mother I’ll be in soon. Capulet’s kids are staying with us tonight, let Juliet use your room. You can sleep on the couch, Ty gets the foldout.”
“Why are they staying with us? Ty’s crazy, I can’t sleep with him in the house.”
“Their father was arrested for assaulting a fireman. And Ty’s harmless. Be nice.” As Romeo walks away, his father call’s after him, “What color do you think your mother’s Chinese Elm will turn?”

•

Tired and filthy, hunger sitting in his stomach like bleach, Romeo walks through his darkened house. No one, no sound, light from the answering machine and the microwave clock. Romeo passes through his home and heads towards the clubhouse. Marcie leans on the small building, the ember of her cigarette flaring long and bright.
She exhales and says, “How’s it going?”
“I don’t know,” says Romeo. “Where’s my mom?”
“Went to try and bail out their dad,” she nods towards the clubhouse. “How’s your dad?”
“He’s out in the orchard, eating that diseased fruit. He said it would be good in pies.”
Romeo can’t be sure, but the shadow mask of Marcie’s face seems to wrinkle into a smile. She rubs out her cigarette on the sole of her shoe and tosses the butt over her shoulder. “Keep an eye on the kids. Juliet fell asleep. Let her get some rest before you wake her up.”
The little room smells of mold. Juliet’s asleep on one of the beanbags, her head lolling on her chest. Ben sits in front of her on the floor, leaning back on her legs, controller in hand, staring at the TV. On the other beanbag Ty watches Ben play. When Ben sees Romeo he smiles lazily.
“Get up,” says Romeo.
“Sure, man. No worries.”
“What are you doing?”
“There’s only two seats in here, you want me to lean on Ty?”
Ty says, “You’re the only fag here.”
“Shut up,” says Romeo, “Get out of that chair, I want to sit down.”
“No. What’re you going to do?”
Romeo takes a step to stand glaring down at Ty. Ben says, “Dude, you don’t want to wake up Juliet.”
Romeo glares at the two boys, and turns to his girlfriend. Kneeling down, hand on her shoulder, Romeo leans in to kiss Juliet. When their lips touch she starts, eyes flicking open, and pushes Romeo away.
“Sorry,” she says, “You scared me.”
“Looked to me like you didn’t want him kissing you,” says Ty.
Romeo says, “Come in to bed. I’ll walk with you.”
She says, “Ty, have you been back yet?”
Ty shakes his head. Romeo says, “You’re tired, you should get some sleep.”
“She was sleeping.”
“I want to go back,” says Juliet. She stands up, unsteady, cramped. “You” she says, putting a hand on Romeo’s chest, “should go to bed.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“Stay,” says Juliet. She kisses Romeo’s cheek. “It’s a family thing. I’ll come back.”
“I helped pick all your fruit,” says Romeo, “I wanted you to know.”
“Thank you,” says Juliet.
Ty smiles widely at Romeo as the two leave. Ben sits down in the beanbag chair, still warm where Juliet touched it.
He says, “Things aren’t going too well for you,” his face slack, fingers mad, his focus on the screen.
“What the fuck do you know? I’m going in.”
“She didn’t know you smoke pot,” says Ben.

•

The moon keeps things grey, the house, the yard, the orchard. Colorless, they do not seem changed, except for the rain of fruit. The house still dark, Romeo aims himself as straight as he can at the Capulets’ land. He walks on a bed of fallen fruit, hard, around him the patter goes on, and the rustle of leaves, an owl’s low, lonely hoot.
He thinks he hears giggling, then a man’s consonant rumble. He thinks he hears running. A fruit grazes his shoulder. Romeo looks back at his house, but can only see trees. Growing trees, he thinks, the branches seem to reach for him. The white streaks of falling fruit make him jump.
The road’s been cleared, and the Capulet trees don’t seem interested in crossing it again. The Capulet farm smells like peaches and cream, candy sweet, but enormous; a scent that squats on Romeo’s shoulders. The fruit he steps on crush wetly, quietly, the slippery ground sucks at his shoes. He almost walks right into them, but they’re lost, standing quietly. Ty and Juliet. She’s leaning on him, her head on his shoulder, and she’s crying. Her breath loud, shuddering.
Romeo freezes, wills his heart to beat more quietly and his clothes not to rub or creak. He has the urge to go to her. He thinks, she was mine. How do I make her mine again?
Romeo hold his breath when he hears her speak. “Do you want to go back? We can go to bed.”
“You should go to bed,” says Ty, “you have cheer in the morning. I’m going to stay out a while longer.”
She kisses her brother on the cheek, passes close to Romeo as she leaves. He feels cheated. He feels the urge to touch her. Romeo leaves Ty standing in his father’s field and follows Juliet back to the road. Romeo wants to talk to her, press himself against her, be reassured. As he steps over the low fence at the edge of the road a light glares in his eyes.
Marcie says, “Is that you, Romeo? What’re you doing out here?”
“Just taking a walk.” Romeo’s eyes, dazzled by the light, cast spots of color on the night. Romeo starts to cross the road, Marcie and the flashlight meet him on the yellow line.
“You look tired,” she says, “maybe you should get some sleep.”
Romeo snaps at her, “Don’t tell me what to do!”
“See?” she says, “You’re cranky.” She baby talks to him, “Womeo needs his west.”
Romeo slaps the flashlight out of Marcie’s hand, it goes dark when it smacks into the road.
“What is wrong with you?” Marcie bends to retrieve the light. It rattles in her hand when she shakes it, and the switch clicks uselessly back and forth. “You need to grow up if you’re going to make it –“
A voice from the Montague orchard calls Marcie’s name.
“Is that my dad?” says Romeo.
Marcie cups her hand to her mouth, speaks to the trees, “Be right there.”
“Do you hear a car?” says Romeo.
“No,” but she stops to listen. They stand quiet, the engine noise clear, distant but approaching. They look down the road, no lights. “Maybe we should get out of the road.”
With a gutter and a growl a pair of headlights burst from the Capulet’s drive, the truck fishtailing across the road as it skids to face Romeo and Marcie. Romeo feels the impact on his chest, Marcie’s hands, the sound of meat on metal jars his bones.

•

In the morning, lying restless in his bed, Romeo smells coffee, and a few minutes later, bacon. He rises and begins to dress, the rows of purple trees, the sea of red leaves, and behind them the hills painted deep red with grass, framed in his bedroom window. In his mind his father climbs into the back of the ambulance with Marcie, cursing the name Capulet, again and again.
The kitchen table is set for company, six plates with cloth napkins. Mrs. Montague fills two cups with coffee and hands one to Mr. Capulet.
“Black,” she says.
Romeo storms when he sees Capulet. He draws his brow tight and points an accusing finger.
Ben enters and says loudly, “Boy am I hungry. Something sure smells good, Mrs. M.”
“It’ll be ready in a minute Ben. Help yourself to coffee or juice. Romeo,” she says, “do you want anything to drink?”
“He has to leave,” says Romeo. When he says it the little sounds of the kitchen stop, the clanking, gurgling and sizzling. Outside a bird chips obviously. Romeo’s heart starts up now, the adrenaline. He hisses, “Do you know what he did? Did he tell you what he did last night?”
Mrs. Montague says, “Mr. Capulet didn’t do anything last night.”
Juliet comes into the kitchen, yawning, but awake when she sees her father, tosses her arms around his neck, her hair across his face.
“We can talk about this later,” says Mrs. Montague.
“Good morning, Juliet,” says Ben.
Then Ty comes in, his face healthy and pink without makeup, his father shakes his hand, and Mrs. Montague puts a platter of bacon on the table. Ben says, “We should check the news,” and the little counter-top television whines to life. Romeo’s left to render accusations or sit and eat with man who tried to run him down. Ben and Ty are eating loudly, lips greasy, Juliet and the parents watch the news.
The television’s saying, “are encouraging people to bring any plants they can indoors and not to open any doors or windows,” and Romeo’s about to shout when the doorbell rings.
Romeo’s mother goes to answer the door, the television says, “making an effort to preserve State and National Parks.”
Romeo says, “I know what you did,” and his mom calls, “Cam? Could you come out here, please?” Mr. Capulet gets up, wiping his mouth. Juliet keeps watching the news, Ty looks at Romeo.
He says, “What do you think my dad did?”
“You were out there last night, weren’t you?” Romeo turns his finger on Ty. “He was in jail, but you were alone, at the house.”
“Romeo,” says Ben, “Are you saying you followed Juliet and Ty when they left the clubhouse last night?”
Juliet turns away from the TV, attention taken by the sound of her name. “What are you guys talking about?”
Ty smirks, says, “Ben just asked Romeo if he’d-“
And Rome slams his hands on the breakfast table, the silver jumps and clinks. He says, “Shut up!”
Juliet says, “Don’t talk to my brother like that.”
Mr. Capulet pokes his head into the kitchen. “Ty, Jule, I have to go with the Sheriff again. Come give me a hug.”

•

Romeo seeks refuge in the clubhouse. There’s a moment, crossing the reddish lawn, towards the light pine boards of the clubhouse and the purple tree line, that Romeo’s head lifts up. His feet light, if he stumbled he would just start floating, the clubhouse far away. He’s inside it alone, the room hot with August, she comes looking for her brother. She’s just had her tryouts for junior varsity cheer, and she made the squad.
Her legs are smooth, strong, she bounces on her toes as she tells him. She bites her lip when she smiles and her hair dances on her shoulders. It’s brown, straight and it catches the light in ripples. Romeo wonders if it could be as soft as rabbit fur, and he reaches out to touch it.
Romeo leans on the clubhouse, watches his feet, dirt stained sneakers on red grass, until his vision clears. He sits himself in a beanbag chair and gets high, pulling hard on the bong, coughing out dense smoke. He does it until his neck feel rubbery, his lungs raw and aching.
He turns on the television, the video game system, he tunes in, tunnel vision on the screen. The sun makes a little progress.
“You’re playing video games?”
The light from the open door makes Romeo blink and squint, Juliet stands backlit.
She says, “We have to go somewhere.”
“I don’t know what your brother told you, he’s lying.”
“He did lie to me. When he started getting high with Ben he told me you didn’t smoke. Now get up. Bring your car keys.”

•

She points him down the rural route to the highway. “West,” she says. They drive through the long fields, all turned shades of red. Romeo keeps saying things in his head. I love you. I want to be with you. Your brother tried to kill Marcie and he’s going to let your dad take the blame. I’ll do anything to be with you. What do you want me to change. How do you want me to be different.
He says them in his head until they feel spoken, until they feel like they left his mouth. Juliet changes the radio station every time a commercial starts. She’s got the volume down, the music a murmur.
When they pass into the hills, the rolling red hills, Juliet asks, “Wasn’t all this grass dead?”
“Yeah,” croaks Romeo, tongue thick, sticking to his teeth and palette.
Juliet stares out at the hills, and then she starts to giggle. “Zombie plants,” she says. She looks at Romeo, “Come on, that’s kind of funny.” She says it again, putting up wiggling her clawed fingers, “Attack of the Zombie Plants,” and she moans like a funhouse ghost.
He says, “Where are we going?”
“I told you about this place. It’s where my mom and dad used to take us camping.”
“When did you tell me about it.”
“Remember? I told you it’s where I want my honeymoon to be. You said Paris.”
She leans to change the station again, Romeo puts his eyes back on the road. He realizes he’s slowed down to forty-five. He guns the engine and they pass out from the hills, into fields again. These fields give way to a sprawl of city, just a few miles, the malls and outlets and dealerships rise up like walls, then fall back to fields. The car starts to climb into hills again. Romeo knows he’s been driving at least an hour, but he has trouble placing the moment they got into the car and left, the distance between then and now.
He knows the drugs should start wearing off soon. Good, he thinks, when I’m straight we can talk. When I can think straight, she’ll listen.
Juliet has him turn off the freeway, and they drive up, winding into the hills. She turns off the radio when they pass the line where red grass stops and the dry hill shrubbery, pale as straw, starts. From the moving car, filled with the rumble and hum of the engine and the wheels, the line looks stopped, drawn. Stationary.
When they crest the hills Juliet pushes herself up in her seat to look out. Below them the road dives into a basin of thick evergreen, a great lake of green shored in by rocky hills and the ocean, the blue horizon. Cranes jut from the trees, moving in long arcs. Then they’re driving down into the trees, thick trunks, brown bark. Juliet rolls down the window and breathes in the damp chill, the pine.
They come to a ranger’s station, empty, the gate across the road raised. Juliet directs him down the narrow access roads to a parking lot at the foot of a trail. She jumps out and jogs for the trees. Romeo follows her up through the trees, up to the side of the hill and then in long zigzags up the steep, rocky slope. Where he grabs for support the loose dirt and rock break away in his hands and he stumbles. They come up out of the trees, the view a plane of green disrupted by metal plates reaching out from the sheer hillside.
A crane swings another plate into the wall, the sparks of welding torches leave pinpoint spots in Romeo’s eyes. His mouth still dry, thirsty, the sides of his head starting to ache, Romeo bends his head into the slope and runs heavily after Juliet. His throat burns when he breathes through his mouth.
Then she stops running. A small crowd stands on the trail on the hillside, maybe a dozen people. Most have cameras: with long, weighty lenses, or cellphones, or small and silver, a few record video. A few stand with their hands cupped under their chins of over their mouths. Below them a line, like a firebreak, a streak of cleared dirt running through the forest. On the ocean side of the break the wall is going up, a patchwork of metal plates stitched together on an irregular frame. Out in the middle of the basin they can see workers still adding to the frame, working from the hills on either side towards the center.
“Look!”
“Oh, God.”
“Here it comes.”
The inland hilltops turn red. The sun on Romeo’s cheek is hot, but the cold ocean wind makes him shiver. The red crawls down into the trees, the wall grows, the race, achingly slow presses the witnesses into stillness. Then the trunks start turning purple, the foliage red, the color swarms sluggishly forward, towards the break.
Workers stop welding the frame and climb down, fire trucks and camouflage painted trucks roll out into the break. They form up a line, waiting, from the hillside just little toy soldiers standing in a row. The trees along the break turn purple, purple branches begin to grow forward, towards the line. Strands of fire leap from the tiny people, sticking where they touch the trees. Juliet inhales sharply.
The cranes lower plates into place, the tree line blazes, burning branches reaching out, falling with cloud of sparks to the ground, the purple forest pushes forward and the flamethrowers burn it back. One of the watchers points, one of the soldiers has aimed down at the ground. Purple grass starts to creep out from the forest, towards the fighters. They withdraw, but a few don’t see it coming. One sprays wildly around him, the fire touches a leg and the little person falls, quickly covered in a white cloud of extinguisher.
The flamethrowers are forced back, the trucks start to drive out of the break, people jumping onto the running boards as they pass. The line breaks apart on the edges. Out in the middle, where the wall hasn’t been closed up yet, they watch a few last flames lashing out at the purple trees. The forest pushes out over the flames, smothering them with the ash of the burned trees, and starts to cross the break. Cranes lower plates into the gap in the wall, Juliet begins to rock side-to-side.
The forest is winning, red needles pressed up against the wall, closing in on the gap and the last few fighters, soon just a thin column of smoke along the wall, but the wall is there. The zombie plants crawl as far up the rocky hillsides as they can, but the wall is high. The wall is finished. On the trail some of the watches applaud, a hollow and lonely sound in the vast space of nature. The purple and red forest and the green and brown forest and the silver line between them. The wind blows through, the trees bend and rustle.
Juliet leans against Romeo as the other witnesses begin to quietly leave. He reaches an arm around her and she turns to embrace him, hard, tight, face in his chest.
Walking back to the car, Romeo smells pine. He’d try and hold Juliet’s hand, but she walks hugging her arms to her chest. He sees the spotted flanks of a deer flit between the purple trunks, but it’s gone before he can point it out.
As the car climbs out of the basin Romeo tries to break the silence. He says, “I’m sorry.”
Juliet looks at him, eyebrows up. “Why did they arrest my dad this time?”
“He ran over Marcie. I’m not sure it was your dad, though. It might have been Ty.”
Juliet says, “My dad only brought us out here once after our mom,” she pauses. “We went hiking, that same trail. If you follow it to the end you wind up walking along the ridge a while, then down the other side into the hills. We found a rabbit lying in the trail, it was shaking, trying to pull itself up, but its body was limp, its legs. Its fur was matted. My dad reached for it and when he picked it up it screamed.
“It really screamed.
“Then he twisted its head. I could hear its neck break.
“Ty didn’t stop crying until dad had packed up the campsite and driven us halfway home again.”
Another long moment of silence. Juliet clicks on the radio and starts switching through the stations.
Romeo says, “I love you.”
Quietly, Juliet says, “Is Marcie okay?”

•

The traveling carnival booths go up, indifferent to the color of the grass and trees, bright prizes and chipped games, rattling rides bolted rustily together in the grey pre-dawn. The town comes, resolutely, in spite of the color of the grass, with a banner made by the sixth grade class to mark an entrance to the harvest festival. Farmer’s wives set up tables to sell pies and juice, the last pies and juice. Farmers set up the judging stand as the mayor’s aide hovers around them.
The town’s children run noisy through the maze of booths, thrilled with the emptiness of the place. No lines for the haunted house or the tilt-a-whirl, the best treats won’t be eaten up by the crowds, no helping with their parent’s tables, no having their parents scold them, saying, “You’re representing the town to all these people, so be on you best behavior.” The bored strangers running the games, bereft of paying customers, give the children free hoops to toss or balls to throw at stacks of milk-cans.
The mayor arrives and gets on the PA. “Testing, testing. Are we? Thanks. Good morning, everyone. It fills me with joy and hope to see you all here today. The events of the last few days have been shocking and frightening. Today, though, is a day of celebration. A celebration of what we, as a community, have accomplished. A celebration of our strength. We have survived frosts and blights before today, because as a community we are strong. Our strength will ensure that we will continue to survive, we will overcome this as we have overcome so much else. We celebrate today because we are strong, we celebrate to say that tomorrow we will be strong. Today we can celebrate and have no more talk of sad things because our strength gives us hope that tomorrow will be filled with as much joy as today. So it is my distinct and absolute pleasure to welcome you all to the forty-ninth annual harvest festival!”
Romeo helps his mother carry the folding table from the car and spread the tablecloth, he helps her stack pies in cardboard packaging. There’s a gap in the rows where the Capulet table should be, Juliet standing behind it selling cobbler and making change. He goes to look for her as soon as he can, his mother saying, “Come back for lunch.”
Romeo follows the paths of the carnival, away from the smell of pies and the chatter of the farmer’s wives, past the caricaturist, sketching a landscape at dawn, the face-painter, painting flowers on the back of her own hand. A tape of carnival music, bright and repetitive, starts to play. Romeo passes into the rows of carnival booths. A man with a hammer shouts, “Test your strength.” A woman with a gun yells, “Test your accuracy.”
“Ride the bull.” The path turns unpredictable, Romeo finds himself retracing his steps, corners that deceive the eyes, Juliet around none of them.
“Can you survive the haunted house?” The carnival booths arranged to deny exit, fence in the crowd that isn’t there this year, route them in circles. Dizzied, Romeo seeks a way out, an escape.
“Feel the power of the hurricane.” Finally Romeo sees a gap that opens onto the red fields. He squeezes between a novelty hat vendor’s booth and a psychic’s tent and he’s outside. The shape of the carnival is clearer now, the backs of the booths aligned to make a wall that curves through the field. Romeo follows the wall to the west, away from the sun.
He finds Ty in the long morning shadows where the wall of carnival booths runs north to south. Ty has one of the tablecloths, checkered red and white printed on lined plastic, and he’s shading something close to the ground, his head under the tablecloth so he can watch. Romeo sneaks along the wall, the music of the booths muted but still masking his steps. Then he’s close enough to see what Ty’s doing.
Ty digs a little hole in the dirt with his finger, and pushes a peach pit into the hole. He waits, and in a moment a tiny sprout pushes up from the earth. It opens its leaves to the sky, but finds no light there under tablecloth. The plant grows almost up to Ty’s intent face before withering. The leaves turn brown and fall away, the stalk shriveling, curling in on itself. Romeo can see a half dozen dried stalks sticking out of the grass under Ty’s tablecloth.
Romeo freezes when Ty looks up at him. Ty shakes his head and says, “You should find my sister.”
“Where is she?” asks Romeo.
“I didn’t hit Marcie with the car,” says Ty, “neither did my dad.”
“Then who did?” says Romeo, like a mother asking a chocolate-faced child who really ate the cake.
“He told her how pretty and smart she was, and he did it right in front of me. He said she was so pretty and so smart and you just couldn’t appreciate her. He said you bragged to him about having sex with her. He said he was different. Like I wasn’t even there.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Think, Romeo,” says Ty, turning back to his task, “There aren’t that many people to choose from in this ridiculous little story.”
“Where’s your sister?”
“At the festival,” says Ty.
Romeo walks past Ty, along the curve of the wall of booths towards the entrance, hung over with the sixth-grader’s banner. When he’s out of sight of Ty he starts running. He dives into the maze. There’s a couple at the ring toss, but the girl’s blond. He watches a small crowd of teenagers disembark dizzily from a ride and filter out. He hears a hawker yell, “Win a bear for your girlfriend!”
Romeo runs blindly into his friends, shooting miniature basketballs at miniature hoops. They chorus, “Romeo!”
“Dude, we heard about you and Juliet.”
“We’re real sorry.”
One offers him a flask, “Here, you’ll feel better.”
“We should take him to a strip club.”
“Wasn’t good enough for you anyway.”
Romeo says, “Have you seen her? Where is she?”
“Why don’t you just hang out with us?”
“Yeah, we’ll have some fun.”
“Tell me,” shouts Romeo, hoarse, flushed, “Where is she?”
“Maybe you should –“
Romeo turns his back and picks a direction. He runs and thinks he sees her by the love-meter but it isn’t her and he runs. She’s here, here with a predator, and Romeo has to save her. He catches sight of her by the haunted house, as Ben pulls her between the rides, her brown hair slipping behind the tall false façade painted with stony gothic arches.
Following, he finds himself in a pocket, ringed in by the backs of the big rides, a generator buzzing loudly. The back door to the haunted house clicks shut. Romeo tries the knob, finds it unlocked.
The space is dark, lit intermittently with red and blue gels, dark colors, glow in the dark skeletons, a knee-deep fog that smells of rotting pumpkins. The narrow corridors fill with fake screams and tinny howls. His own image, suddenly illuminated in a hidden mirror, makes him jump. Then he hears a brief shriek that bubbles into Juliet’s giggle.
Ben’s holding hands with a skeleton, dancing with it as it spins and twists on the rope tied to a hook in its head. Juliet claps in rhythm to his steps and laughs as he pretends to be dipped by the glowing bones.
“Romeo,” she says, smile gone.
Ben lets the skeleton go, it continues to dance and wiggle on its rope, he walks to Juliet’s side and puts an easy arm around her shoulders. She steps away from him, pushing his hand gently off.
She says, “I wanted to talk to you before anyone else did.”
Romeo throws himself at Ben, pushing him back into a flimsy wall that cracks and bulges. His voice comes a roar, wordless, his vision blurred with hot tears. He punches Ben in the face. It hurts his hand but it hurts Ben more. Romeo sees the blood on Ben’s lip and punches him again. The jolt in his arm feels pure, like justice. Juliet drives herself in between the two, pushing Romeo back. For all the strength he feels in his taught muscles and pounding blood, her hand moves him as if her were paper.
“He hit Marcie,” groans Romeo, “he lied to you, and he hit Marcie. It was him.”
“Go away Romeo. I knew you wouldn’t be able to handle this like an adult.”
Ben’s bloody lips pull back in a grin and the edges of Romeo’s vision sparkle into darkness. Romeo balls his fist and throws it into Ben’s face, but it’s suddenly Juliet in front of him, eyes wide, her face falling sideways into his narrowed sight. He feels his knuckles touch her nose, feels it up his arm, in his elbow, the crack and buckle, she falls against Ben.
Ben yells, “What the fuck are you doing? Get away from her you monster!”
Her blood on Romeo’s hand, he reaches it out, takes hold of Ben’s throat, his thumb pressing into Ben’s windpipe. Ben opens his mouth and chokes, Juliet moans, falling into the fog.
A man’s voice comes, “What the hell’s going on in here? You punks better not be trashing my place, I’ll have you fucking skinned.”
Romeo lets go, he doesn’t have a choice, his hands feel distant, unworkable. Ben gasps and breathes roughly. Romeo says, “I’ll tell the police. You’ll go to jail.”
Ben rasps, “You attacked me,” and he laughs, coughing.
The white shine of a flashlight darts into the corridor, the blood on Ben’s face suddenly very bright. Romeo turns and runs.
He runs to his mother. The rows of tables, the heart of the fair, seem an odd haven among the loud carnival booths, the simple patterns of the tablecloths. There’s a crowd gathered around the judging stage, most of town. The mayor’s saying, “were lost this year, but I’m happy to say some real prize-worthy produce was saved. Just look at this fifteen-pound squash from Phil Lawrence’s hothouse. Let’s here it for Phil!”
Romeo’s mother is at the Montague table, covering the pies with saran wrap. When she sees Romeo she says, “Good, you’re here. Your father’s insisted we watch the judging, I don’t know – are you crying?” She offers her arms to him, “I’m sorry, honey, did Juliet tell you she’s moving away?”
“What?”
“Oh, I’m not supposed to know about you two, am I?” She smiles indulgently, “It’s okay. I know you’re sad but it doesn’t mean you won’t ever see each other again.” She steps closer to embrace Romeo, he can see that her eyes are red too. His feet tingle numbly, his hand starts to throb. “And some new family will move in, you and Ben will make new friends. And you’re young, you have lots of time, so many opportunities to meet new people.”
“Are you crying, mom?”
“Just allergies, honey. Don’t worry, nothing important is going to change. Let’s go watch the judging.”
“I have to tell you something,” he says, but his mother’s already leading him into the crowd. His voice feels thick in his throat, muffled by the very air.
The mayor’s saying, “the fairy godmother wouldn’t have to do much to turn this monstrosity into a carriage, right folks? Just add wheels!”
Mrs. Montague pulls her son up towards the judging stand. He jostles blindly through the faces, the whistling and murmuring, the spotty laughter and spattered applause. They near the front of the crowd. There’s a row of monstrous vegetables, a heavy yellow squash, a massive orange pumpkin, a watermelon, green, the size of child. The mayor’s saying, “And finally a mysterious offering from the Montagues.”
Romeo sees his dad, standing next to something round, almost as tall as the men, covered in a sheet.
“Let’s see what you’ve got!” says the mayor.
Mr. Montague pulls the sheet away with a flourish to reveal a fruit, blotched purple and red and white. Silence washes through the crowd.