Crushing On a Capulet
“The countryside around us was beautiful. On each side were big meadows and rolling hills, and here and there little stone houses with gardens and bunches of sheep and goats grazing.
“Frankie,” I said, taking it all in, “after last night, this is like one of those summer mornings when you wake up and realize the world is a nifty place.”
She grinned. “I like the postcardiness of it all.”
“Check it out,” I said. “I mean, here we are in old Verona. We have no homework hanging over our heads. The birds are tweeting. The air is clean. The sheepies go baaa. ‘And the grey-eyed morn smiles on the frowning night, checking the eastern clouds with streaks of light!’”
She paused and turned to me. “Devin, that’s like poetry.”
“Like?” I said. “Ha! It is poetry! When you weren’t looking, I was doing some serious reading—”
“You weren’t!”
“I was!” I held up the book, which I’d snuck out of Frankie’s pocket as Romeo led us out of the city. “And even though it was tough going, I picked up some of the words.
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