Crushing on a Capulet Read Free

wall.
    â€œYikes!” cried Frankie.
    â€œYikes and a half!” I added.
    Over and over we rolled. There were lots of legs and arms and costumes and props. It was like Frankie and I were inside some sort of classic-book clothes dryer, tumbling around and around until we were dumped down into a street in the pile of costumes.
    I rolled over and over until I splatted against something flat and cold. Frankie slammed up against me. We both groaned for a while before we moved. When we got to our feet, we saw that all around us were old stone buildings and twisty streets. Some buildings were pink and some were blue.
    In the center was an open square and a big stone fountain. But instead of spouting painted water, this one spouted actually real water.
    â€œFrankie?” I said. “Do you see anything weird?”
    â€œDevin, I don’t see anything not weird!”
    â€œWhat I mean is, this looks a lot like the stage set in the cafeteria, only it’s really real. I think that’s weird.”
    â€œWeird times two.” Frankie picked the book up from the ground and opened it to the first page. “Okay, look, first things first. The setting of the story. Mr. Wexler said Romeo and Juliet were Italian, right? Well, it says it right here, just like he told us, ‘In fair Verona where we lay our scene.’ So I guess we’re in Verona, Italy.”
    â€œIsn’t Italy where all the meatballs are?”
    She laughed. “With us here, there’s at least two.”
    â€œBetter make that four,” I said, pointing to the far side of the square. “Because here come a couple of guys wearing tights—”
    Two men rushed into the square.
    â€œThey’re wearing swords, too,” said Frankie.
    Spotting us instantly, the two tights-wearing men pulled out their deadly-looking swords and started running toward us, shouting something like “Get them!”
    I turned to Frankie. “Can I just say something?”
    â€œIf you say it quick,” she said.
    â€œIt’s just one word,” I said. “HIDE!”

Chapter 3
    But we couldn’t hide. The two swordy guys were all over us like sauce on meatballs, carving shapes in the air with their swords and backing us all the way up against the bubbly, spurting fountain.
    â€œWhoa, dudes!” I shouted. “Put away the pointy things! This is the land of macaroni, not shish kebab!”
    â€œSilence, you, you— Montague !” snarled one of the men, drawing shapes around my head with his sword. “Draw your blade and fight us!”
    â€œIt’s plastic!” I said, showing him how the toy sword bent every which way. “Besides, I’m not this Monty Glue you’re looking for. I’m Devin Bundy—”
    â€œAnd I’m Frankie Lang,” said Frankie. “We’re—”
    â€œYou’re Montague spies, that’s who you are!” said the second man, his sword twitching an inch from our nostrils. “And we’ll get you!”
    â€œNo, you won’t!” shouted a loud voice from the far end of the square. We turned to see two new guys rush into the square, yanking out their pointy swords, too.
    â€œIf there are any spies to get,” one of these new guys said, “ we shall get them, you—Capulets!”
    Our two men gasped. “You—Montagues! Get them!”
    In a flash— clang! clonk! pling! —everybody was getting everybody else. The air rang with the sound of blade against blade. I mean, the four guys went at it like actors in some ancient sword-fighting movie.
    I looked at Frankie. “I’d like to repeat what I said before.”
    â€œYou said a lot of things.”
    â€œTrue, but the one particular thing I want to repeat is—HIDE!”
    Without another word, Frankie and I dove under a cart standing in the square, and pulled the pile of genuine PTA mom costumes in front of us.
    â€œLook, Frankie,” I