Act 1 | Scene 1
It wasn't the first time that Benvolio found himself desperately wishing that his friends were there, and it wouldn't be the last. It wasn't just that Samson and Gregory were seniors, or that they were roughly twice his size; Benvolio knew that they went to Capulet. That they were Capulet — two hulking, stupid manifestations of the utter disdain everyone who went to school across town bore for the preppy rich kids who had nothing better to do than skip their classes at Montague and go smoke cigarettes down by the bay. "And why shouldn't they hate us?" Benvolio often found himself thinking as he looked around his school. "What are we but a bunch of future failed-romantics, coasting on potential until we hit those high tax brackets and all of the apathy and atrophy that comes with them?"
Benvolio often considered what he himself might be like if his parents had sent him to Capulet. Sure, he liked to think that he'd have nothing against the kids from Montague, just as he failed to harbor the same animosity for Capulet that drove his classmates to occasionally head across town and deface the campus or crash a football game, but who knows? Truth be told, the schools weren't all that different. Both provided their students with a rigorous education. Both valued hard work and self-discipline. Montague may have been an older, respected Catholic school that saw a fair share of its graduates head for the Ivy League, but Capulet was regularly praised as the best public high school in the state — and despite their modest academic achievements, Capulet's student body excelled in athletics, consistently crushing any and all competition while the school's coaches and faculty bred elite teams of future professional athletes. Neither school was a bad choice for any aspiring student, it was true, but Montague and Capulet worked in different ways, their different ideologies and values pushing the town's young, impressionable kids to different places, different points of view. Isn't that always how it goes with rival schools?
Of course, none of this was Abraham's fault. Hell, the kid was just a freshman. Benvolio knew that Abraham probably didn't even understand how Montague worked yet. He knew that Abraham was the last person on whom these two Capulet goons should be taking out their frustration. And he knew that he couldn't just keep walking, or even duck back into 7-11 after having turned the corner to find the boy cornered against the back of the building, one Capulet's elbow pressed squarely into his chest, pinning him to the wall. The other stood close to Abraham, too close, his palm planted against the bricks inches away from the boy's head as he leaned in, whispering something into his victim's ear that Benvolio knew couldn't have been good; at least not if the wicked laugh the two older boys shared as Gregory pulled away was any indication. Benvolio dared to peek his head out a bit further around the corner as the two Capulets grinned and sized the younger boy up. Their stares were like daggers pinning Abraham to the wall. He could not run. All he could do was stand there, sweat and wait for the two Capulets to administer his fate.
"So, what shall it be my young Montague?" Gregory spoke first, spitting the school's name at Abraham's feet. "A boy like you must learn to mind himself. We can't have you bandying about town with a blatant disrespect for anyone you don't find good enough to attend your precious school, you know."
"That's what I hate about these snobs," Samson chimed in. "Think they're better than us. Think they're better than everyone." He took a step towards Abraham, jabbing a thick finger into the boy's chest as if punctuating a thought. "What, just because our school doesn't offer Latin you don't think my friend and I here deserve the right to walk the streets without having to suffer a constant stream of indignities from you and your yuppie buddies?"
When Abraham spoke his words crept out in stutters. "I told you, I was just biting my thumb."
"Bull-SHIT, Montague!" Samson cried before pulling his arm back and sinking his fist into the boy's stomach. Abraham crumpled to the ground, doubling over in pain. Gregory allowed the boy a brief moment to kneel there with the punch before planting his foot against Abraham's side and toppling him over onto his back. Abraham could only look up in fear as the two older boys towered over him. "What do you think?" one asked the other. "Should we break those disrespectful little thumbs of his? Or maybe knock out a few teeth?"
Benvolio could hear them chuckle from around the corner, his own back now pressed to the wall as he steeled himself to do something, anything. If he didn't act now, he knew it would be too late. He knew how rough the Capulets could get, he'd heard the stories of what had happened to the Montagues caught crashing Capulet parties or flirting with their girlfriends; and while some of Benvolio's schoolmates could give as good as they got, he knew that Abraham wasn't one of them. Benvolio had to do something, and he had to do it immediately. "If only I weren't alone," he thought to himself, clenching his eyes shut tight. But he wasn't going to let that stop him, not this time. He couldn't. So he balled his hands into fists and turned the corner.
"Leave him alone!" Benvolio shouted. His voice sounded less impressive than he had hoped it would, but it was enough to get the Capulets' attention. Unfortunately, whatever courage may have driven Benvolio to enter the fray quickly vanished as the Capulets looked towards him, amused smirks quickly replacing their initial looks of surprise. "I've made a huge mistake," he thought to himself as the two older boys turned their backs on Abraham's quivering body and began to advance towards him.
"Well, well, well," Gregory intoned with mock-surprise, "What do we have here? Another Montague? Lemme guess," he added with a snicker, nodding over his shoulder to Abraham, "here to save your boyfriend?"
"Why don't you two just fuck off?" Benvolio responded, his hands still clenched in nervous fists. He hoped they couldn't see his arms shaking. Maybe if he played it cool he could talk his way out of this. "The kid's just a freshmen; whatever he did, he didn't mean anything by it. And besides, this isn't your turf." He tried to speak with more assurance now, channeling every last bit of courage that didn't vacate his body the moment the two Capulets turned to face him. "I've got four friends inside, too, you know," the boy lied. "Four Montagues who I'm sure would jump at the opportunity to remind a couple of Capels like yourself whose side of town is whose. Why don't you just get out of here before it comes to that, though?" Samson and Gregory eyed each other, suddenly unsure. Benvolio was almost starting to feel like he could pull this off.
When suddenly a voice spoke from behind him. "Four Montagues, you say?" Spooked, Benvolio whipped around to find himself face to face with a third Capulet, a cigarette dangling from between his teeth. He struck a match and lit it, taking a long drag before letting the smoke escape from his mouth with a laugh. "Funny, I didn't see anyone in there. Your friends must have left without you." He dropped the match to the ground, crushing and grinding it into the pavement beneath his heel. "Or maybe they just don't teach you not to tell lies at that preppy school of yours." The boy was as thin as a rail, and looked to be about Benvolio's age, probably a junior as well. He brought his cigarette back to his lips and tossed his hair out of his eyes, hair the same oaky brown color as Benvolio's own. But whereas Benvolio's eyes were brown as well, this boy's were the color of a frozen pond, an icy blue the gaze of which the Montague couldn't meet. He averted his stare, turning his head half towards the wall before feeling something sharp prick up against his cheek.
"Up up up," the Capulet tutted, tapping what Benvolio quickly and fearfully recognized as a long switch-blade against the Montague's face. "Turn thee, Benvolio… and look upon thy death." The Montague fought to prevent a tremor of fear from wracking his body. His eyes darted quickly, first to the blade at his cheek and then back to the boy, whose lips now curled in a grin that could only belong to the Prince of Cats himself. Benvolio had heard of Tybalt; there were few boys at Montague who had not. The captain of Capulet's illustrious fencing team, it was rumored that he was never without a blade, that his parents had given him an actual rapier for his sixteenth birthday; a weapon from which more than one Montague bore scars to this day.
Benvolio dared not blink. "How do you know my name?" he practically stammered. This was not going as he had planned.
Tybalt smirked down his arm, down the knife still resting just below the boy's left eye. "What is it they say about knowing one's enemy?" he mused, shoulders lifting in a faint shrug. "I'm fairly familiar with the Montague student body, actually. I've certainly seen the insides of enough of them." His teeth cracked into a wicked smile as a low chuckle escaped his throat and Benvolio swallowed hard. His surroundings seemed to vanish around him. The laughter of Samson and Gregory behind him, Abraham still whimpering on the ground… all gone. Nothing remained but Tybalt's cold, icy gaze and the faint sting of the blade that the Capulet had begun to press just slightly harder into his cheek. He felt a drop of blood run down the side of his face before dropping from his chin to splash on the pavement below.
A familiar groan brought Benvolio back to Earth. "Student body puns? Really, Tybalt, your sense of humor's nearly as bad as that insipid nickname of yours." Tybalt's eyes narrowed as Benvolio shot a glance over the Capulet's shoulder, a rush of relief flooding his chest. The moment he saw Mercutio leaning against the corner of the building he knew that he was saved, and that was before he noticed the five other Montague seniors standing alongside him, lighting smokes and popping the cans of soda and energy drinks he assumed they'd just purchased inside. "Better late than never," Benvolio thought to himself. As Tybalt turned his head towards the Montagues, Benvolio seized his opportunity to back away from the Capulet's blade. He wiped the blood from his cheek and turned to shoot a glare at Samson and Gregory, their faces pained with frustration and contempt for how quickly the odds had turned against them. Mercutio pushed himself from the wall before his long legs carried him in strides into the middle of the fray, to stand alongside Benvolio.
"Now let me see if I've got this straight…" he spoke as he moved, nodding towards each Capulet and taking a tally on his fingers. "One, two, three Capulets against, what? Two Montagues? One and a half?" He ducked down to address Abraham, still curled up on the ground, a reluctant spectator with his head hidden under his arms and his eyes still wide with fear. "No offense," Mercutio waved to the boy before turning back to Tybalt. "What happened to your duelist's code of honor, o Prince of Cats? Is this what a man such as Tybalt would christen a fair fight?"
Tybalt scowled in reply. "I count seven of you now. Is that what a Montague would call a fair fight?"
"It isn't," Mercutio replied curtly, the faintest hint of a grin propelling his words. "So why don't you heed the advice my friend here was bright enough to offer earlier and scurry back across town? Don't forget to tuck your tail while you're at it."
Tybalt exchanged glances with Samson and Gregory before slipping his closed blade back into his pocket and crossing the Montagues' path to join them. Benvolio was almost relieved enough to think that it might end there before remembering just which of his friends had come to his rescue. As Tybalt turned to go, Mercutio called after him, "Good kitty!" eliciting a low murmur of laughs from the other Montagues and causing their rivals to pause where they stood, their backs still turned, frozen mid-step.
Before Benviolo knew what was happening, his face was in Tybalt's hand, the Capulet's thumb running over the cut still open on his cheek. Tybalt's gaze shifted from Benvolio to Mercutio, the latter returning the Capulet's glances with an unimpressed but engaged stare. "Patience perforce with willful choler meeting makes my flesh tremble in their different greeting," Tybalt murmured venomously. He pinched Benvolio's cheek to collect another drop of blood before removing his hand. The Capulet studied his thumb as he slowly began to back away. "I will withdraw, but this intrusion shall… now seeming sweet?" here he paused to suck his thumb clean, before narrowing his eyes. "Convert to bitter gall."
And with that the Capulets were gone. Some of the seniors who had arrived with Mercutio picked up Abraham and began to dust the boy off, but Mercutio himself simply reclined back against the wall, stretching his legs out and resting on the heels of his shredded Chuck Taylors as he slipped a cigarette into his mouth and began to fish around his pocket for a light. Benvolio turned to face his friend.
"Why do you always have to do that?" he asked. "They were just going to leave."
"Do what?" Mercutio replied absent-mindedly, finally finding his lighter. He flicked the cigarette to life and took a drag, gesturing towards Benvolio's face with his free hand. "You want a band-aid or something for that?" he exhaled. "Looks kinda nasty."
"I'll be fine," Benvolio replied, wiping his cheek and narrowing his eyes. He decided not to press the issue. After all, Tybalt seemed like the type to hold a grudge even if Mercutio hadn't decided to see him off with one last taste of his uniquely acerbic charm.
"Just lookin' out for ya, kid," the older boy sighed, stuffing his hands in his pockets and letting his cigarette hang between his lips. He bounced away from the wall and stood on his toes, groaning as he arched his back and stretched every last inch of his impossibly long body. "What say we get out of here?" he said over his shoulder as he began to walk towards the parking lot. "I've been meaning to talk to you."
"What about?" Benvolio asked, following Mercutio to his car.
"About Romeo."