The Rosemary Spell Read Online Free PDF

replies. “If Shakespeare carved his lover’s name in stone, it would certainly outlast a piece of paper.”
    â€œBut paper lasts,” Adam protests. He avoids looking at my backpack, and I know he’s thinking about the ancient book in there.
    â€œYeah,” Aileen chimes in. “Adam’s right. I mean, look at the library. It’s practically all paper.”
    â€œBut it’s not just the paper,” I say. “It’s the words. They’re kind of bigger than the paper.”
    Mr. Cates takes a step toward me. “Go on,” he prods.
    â€œSo, Shakespeare didn’t write on these actual pages,” I explain, and I thwack my book for emphasis. “His poem is just reprinted here and in lots of other books—”
    â€œAnd it’s been in print for about four hundred years, right?” Micah adds.
    â€œRight,” I agree. “So, it’s the poem itself—the words, not the paper—that lasts longer than a stone.”
    â€œNice.” Mr. Cates smiles encouragement at all of us. “This. Powerful. Rhyme.”
    He claps his hands together. “Shakespeare—the Bard,
the
Bard—is our inspiration for today. Take out your journals. You can start with a line or two from the poem we just read, or you can use any Shakespeare lines you know . . .”
    Josh cuts in. “What Shakespeare would we just know? We don’t all sit around memorizing poems.” He sort of laughs and looks around for support, but when it comes to giving Mr. Cates a hard time, he’s on his own.
    Mr. Cates puts his hands on his hips, his feet shoulder width apart, like he’s about to start exercising. “What Shakespeare do you know?” he asks the room.
    â€œTo be or not to be?” Miranda offers.
    â€œFriends, Romans, countrymen,” Kendall says.
    â€œWherefore art thou Romeo?”
    â€œAll that glitters is not gold!”
    â€œTo thine own self be true,” Aileen says. “Or is that Jesus?”
    Mr. Cates laughs. “It’s Shakespeare. See, Josh, most people know Shakespeare. He inhabits the English language like oxygen inhabits air. We breathe him in even when we don’t know it.”
    The energy in the room is practically vibrating. I don’t know if it’s Shakespeare or Mr. Cates who’s gotten us so inspired, but I can’t wait to begin writing.
    Mr. Cates drops his hands to his sides. “Just copy down any Shakespeare you like, and then write what comes to you.”
    I pull the diary from my backpack like I’m lifting a fragile, living thing. I place it on the desk between Adam and me and open to the first blank page.
    I angle my hand for cursive and carefully unspool the
Hamlet
quote Mom took my name from:
    There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance. Pray, love, remember.
    â€œGood choice.” I hear the grin in Adam’s voice.
    Mr. Cates circles toward us. I take a breath. “Mr. Cates? We found this old-looking blank book. Is it okay if Adam and I use this for our journal?”
    Mr. Cates frowns ever so slightly. “It looks very old—” he begins.
    â€œI know!” I try to strike a tone somewhere between mildly pleased and a little shallow. “Doesn’t it?”
    â€œWhere did you find it?” He steps closer.
    If he really sees the diary, he’ll know it’s not pretend old. He’ll know we shouldn’t be writing in it.
    â€œMega Mart,” I lie. It’s an insult to this book to even think about it and Mega Mart together.
    Mr. Cates backs off. “Sure. Use whatever inspires you,” and he circles on to another pair.
    â€œSo what are you inspired to write?” I ask.
    â€œFunny,” Adam says, his fingers resting lightly under the line from
Hamlet.
“You are writing about herbs, like the list.”
    â€œAs you pointed out yesterday, poems about herbs would be pretty boring. How about the