I get to eat cookies all day and drink unlimited amounts of soda. I scoop up dough and pop it into my mouth when no one’s looking. I drop batches of cookies onto sheets of waxed paper using a tiny ice-cream scooper that gives me blisters. There’s a glass window in front of the ovens and it’s no secret that boys sneak glances at the girls as we bend over to put trays in the oven or take them out. I can’t decide if I like this or not.
When the line gets to be too much, I run into the back.
“Sanchez! Help, I’m drowning out there,” I say.
Matt looks up from the dough and it takes everything in me not to wipe the flour off his nose. We are so not together anymore and that’s a good thing, but sometimes I want to make out with him. Nat says this is totally normal.
He salutes me. “Aye, Cap’n.”
Matt and I went out for exactly two months freshman year. We were in the same English class and what started as a daily flirtation became a heady eight weeks of declarations and fights and awkwardness. He loves fantasy football and movies about funny dumbasses. I hate sports and love Shakespeare. It was never meant to be. Still, we stayed friends and I was the one who helped him get the job here at the Pot. Being with him was fun—not an epic love or massive heartbreak. But I’m ready for the real deal. A Serious Relationship. Love.
By dinnertime the line dwindles and we get a breather.
“Dude, that was insane,” Matt says.
“For real.”
The buzzer goes off and he crosses to the oven to retrieve the newest batch of cookies. The air fills with their warm, sweet scent: macadamia nuts and white chocolate. I’m about to go snag one when I see you out of the corner of my eye. You don’t see me. You’re following your parents into Applebee’s, head down. You’re wearing a long, thin cardigan, unbuttoned over a Muse concert tee. You’re pretty much the only guy other than Kurt Cobain who can rock a cardigan sweater. My eyes follow you. They take in how your dad pats your back, how your mom reaches out and grabs your hand. A lump forms in my throat.
“Grace? Chica, hello…”
I turn and Matt’s holding up a yellow cardboard box.
“That special order—how many macadamia cookies did they want?”
“A half dozen,” I say.
My eyes float back to the restaurant, but you’re already gone. I text Nat and Lys, tell them I saw you. They both respond with emojis. I can’t translate what a confused face, a party hat, and a palm tree mean.
I keep glancing toward the Applebee’s entrance throughout my shift, but you never reappear. I’m nervous. What if you think I’m a total freak for giving you that letter? What if you never read it?
I blush, thinking about how I’d said you were the most talented person I’d ever met. How obvious can I be about crushing on you?
“Excuse me,” someone snaps in front of the register.
I turn around, ready to be fake nice, but it’s just Nat and Lys.
“You bitches! I thought the horrible lady from last week had come back.”
Long story short: a customer called me uppity. It was a whole thing.
Lys crosses her arms and leans her chin on the glass counter, her eyes—which have glittery blue and pink eyeshadow—sympathetic. “Sucks being a wage slave.”
Though you wouldn’t know by looking at her, Lys comes from some serious money. She probably won’t have to work a day in her life unless she wants to.
“I like to tell myself it builds character,” I say. I point to the cookies with my spatula. “What’ll it be, ladies?”
“Chocolate. I’m on my period,” Nat says.
Lys scans the trays. “I’ll have my usual.”
I put brownie chocolate chip cookies in one bag and snickerdoodles in the other.
“If I worked here I’d be such a fatty,” Nat says. She’s reed thin and has perfect posture after an entire childhood spent in a ballet studio.
“Yeah, my mom told me she saw some cottage cheese—aka cellulite—on my legs the other day,” I say, “so I’m taking a break from the deliciousness.”
Lys stares at me. “Your mom actually said that?”
Nat rolls her eyes. “Are you surprised? That’s textbook Jean.”
Matt comes through the swinging door wearing basketball shorts and a tee. He gives us a little wave.
“Adios, chicas,” he says. “I’m out.”
“Does that ever get weird working with him?” Lys asks after Matt heads toward the parking lot.
I shake my head. “Everything’s cool between us.”
Nat glances over her shoulder, toward Applebee’s. “So I’m just gonna say it. Suicide attempt aside, Gavin Davis is back on the market.”
Lys grins at me. “So when are you gonna tap that?”
Nat gasps and I laugh. “Nice, Lys. Keepin’ it classy.”
“Dude. You’ve been in love with him for, like, three years,” she says. “Now is your chance.”
Nat raises her hand. “Can I say something?” We nod. “As the most responsible of the three of us, I would say go for it, but be careful.”
“Why are you the most responsible?” Lys asks.
Nat eyes Lys’s ensemble, which includes rainbow tights, platform sneakers, and a pink bow in her hair.
“Fine, you can be the most responsible,” Lys says.
I break off a piece of a freshly baked peanut butter cookie. “What do you mean be careful?”
“He’ll be on the rebound,” Nat says. “And he might be a little…” She makes the sign for crazy, twirling her index finger next to her temple.
Lys nods. “True. The dude did try to kill himself.”
“Guys, I appreciate your faith in me, but there is no way Gavin would ever look at me that way, so I don’t really need this advice.”
Nat’s eyes flash. “You just think that because of the kind of crap your mom says.”
I fold my arms. “Like what?”
She ticks off on her hand: “According to her, you have cottage cheese legs, you’re not photogenic, you can’t sing—”
“Okay, okay. I get it.” My eyes flick toward Applebee’s. Maybe you and your parents went out the other door. “But this is Gavin Davis we’re talking about. He’s going to have a Grammy before any of us finish college. Also, if you compare Summer and me—”
Lys holds up her hand. “Please allow me to give the lesbian perspective. Summer is nice and cool and all of that, but she’s really not as hot as you think. I, for one, have never fantasized about her while masturbating.”
“OH MY GOD,” Nat says, her eyes wide with shock. Two spots of pink deepen on her cheeks.
Lys raises her eyebrows. “Aren’t you people not allowed to take the Lord’s name in vain?”
Nat gives Lys a dainty punch in the arm and Lys gets into a karate stance and starts quoting Princess Bride. “Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.”
Just then a woman comes up and I try to keep it together while I box up her dozen cookies but I keep snort-laughing. She frowns at the three of us as though we’re all hoodlums, her eyebrows going way high as she takes in Lys’s ensemble. It’s crazy that a socialist lesbian and an evangelical Christian are besties, but that’s just how the three of us roll. We became friends our freshman year, when we were put together for a musical-theatre assignment in drama class. We decided to sing the fabulously naughty “Two Ladies” from Cabaret (Lys played the emcee), and we bonded over our love for Alan Cumming. I feel like our friendship is like those outfits you see in Vogue where nothing matches but it looks totally awesome. We’re plaid and polka dots and stripes.
As soon as my customer’s gone, I glance at Nat and Lys.
“I wrote him a letter,” I say as I start bagging cookies to sell as day-olds tomorrow. The mall closes in fifteen minutes.
“Gavin?” Nat asks.
I nod. “And I … I mean, he probably didn’t read it. Or, if he did, he’ll think I’m, like, the lamest person ever.” My breath tigh
tens just thinking about it. “I’m sort of mortified. I don’t know what got into me.”
Nat’s phone buzzes and she glances at it. “Well, you’re going to find out tomorrow. Kyle says Gav’s coming back.”
“Tomorrow?” I say.
“Yep.”
“Oh god,” I moan. “Why did I write that stupid letter?”
“Because you’re fucking cool and fucking hot and he probably fucking knows it and just needs an excuse to fucking make out with you,” Lys says.
Nat nods. “I agree with everything she says minus the F-bombs.”
Lys places a hand over mine. “You’ve been crazy about him forever. Now it’s up to the universe.”
“Or God,” Nat says.
“Or Buddha or Muhammed or, like, the Dalai Lama, whatever,” Lys says. “Ten bucks says Gavin falls for you before he graduates.”
“Ten bucks says he doesn’t,” I say, holding out my hand.
Nat balls up her bag and throws it in the trash. “May the best woman win.”
* * *
YOU ARE BACK at school today.
I see you in the halls, joking around with the other drama guys, with your band. You’re like a pack of gangly puppies; none of you ever sit still. Somehow you’re able to live in both those worlds: the cool-guy band and the nerdy drama dudes.
It’s been nine days since The Day happened and from where I’m standing, Gav, it looks like you’re back to normal. You’re wearing your Nirvana shirt and your fedora is tilted at a particularly jaunty angle. The hat throws me off. I’d expected—what? A black turtleneck and beret in place of your usual outfit? A Greek chorus following you to class? You’re wearing the cardigan sweater again and I wonder if it’s to hide your wrists. I know I’m not the only one who wonders if there’s a bandage, a scar on each one.
My heart speeds up and I suddenly feel foolish. What possessed me to write that letter? What if you think I’ve overstepped my bounds, that I’m weird? What if—
You turn around.
There are dozens of students between us, everyone rushing because the bell’s about to ring. You’re holding both straps of your backpack and you stop the minute you see me. Freeze. Your eyes widen (blue, blue like a tropical sea) and then the corner of your mouth turns up, just the slightest bit.
How do boys do that? How do they make your whole body combust just by looking at you?
I hug my books to my chest, Sandy in Grease asking Danny Zuko with her eyes, What now?
I don’t know this yet, but these moments between us are choreography for the movie of your life. This thing you’re doing—the look, the stop, the awed stare—you stole it right out of the BBC production of Pride and Prejudice. You’re ripping off Colin Firth like nobody’s business and I don’t even realize it. You’re two steps away from rising out of a lake wearing a drenched white shirt. It’s only later that I’ll see you’re feeding me rehearsed lines and perfectly timed smiles and gasps and tears that come at precisely the right moment. A year from now I’ll be screaming Fuck you, FUCK YOU into a pillow because I won’t have the guts to say the words to your face.
But right now, a boy is staring at me from the end of the hall and even though he doesn’t say a word, he’s claimed me.
I’m new territory and you’ve planted your flag.
FOUR
I walk through the drama room door just as the bell rings. It feels like there’s one inside me, too, clanging away. I keep replaying that look on your face when you saw me. The smile. Ring! Ring! Ring!
Peter is working on his English accent for the scene he’s doing this week from Pinter—I forget which play. Alyssa is helping Karen with the first sixteen counts of the dance they’re in for the concert this spring. Kyle’s singing “Lily’s Eyes” from Secret Garden, totally lost in a world of his own, and I listen to him for a moment, utterly enchanted. He has the kind of voice that makes everything inside you sit up straight. If God could carry a tune, I bet he’d sound like Kyle.
I cross the room and plop down next to Natalie, who’s sitting on the carpeted floor, cross-legged and deep in conversation with Ryan. From the concerned looks on their faces, I suspect they’re talking about you, analyzing your first day back. I want to tell her how you stared at me. I want to use words to trace that half smile.
“How is he?” I ask instead.
She shakes her head. “I can’t tell. Summer said his parents are freaking out. They didn’t want him to come back yet.”
“Well, duh,” I say. “He tried to … you know.”
“Yeah,” she says, soft.
It’s strange to think that your life is going to go back to normal, that you’ll have math homework and run laps at P.E. You’re so beyond that now.
Miss B comes out of her office, which is located just off the drama room. We don’t have chairs or desks here, just lots of space to play. We turn our bodies toward her. She helped us all through what happened to you—there were whole class periods that turned into counseling sessions.
“Who’s auditioning for Chicago today—can I get a show of hands?”
I look around—nearly everyone has raised a hand.
“Excellent,” she says, smile wide. “Be sure to bring your music to the choir room and comfortable clothes for the dancing portion.”
Natalie grips my hand. She has no reason to be nervous—she’s a total triple threat. Plus, she’s pretty, but she doesn’t know it, which is the best kind of pretty.
Miss B passes out new scenes for all of us and I’m paired up with Nat and Lys, as usual. We’re playing cheerleaders in a scene from the play Vanities. I’m secretly excited about this scene because I’ve always wanted to be a cheerleader. It doesn’t matter that as a smart, arty girl I’m supposed to hate them. Being a cheerleader has always seemed like a way to change your fate, to become something bright and shiny that no one can look away from. Nat and I went to the meeting at the beginning of this year, just to see what the tryout required. As it turned out, we were both too broke to be cheerleaders. You have to buy a specific color lipstick, special shoes, the uniform, bows, warm-up outfits … I guess there’s a reason why all the rich girls are in cheer.
But none of this—cheerleaders, popularity, becoming a sparkle kind of girl—matters in light of you being back, you being broken.
“Do you think Gavin’s going to audition?” I ask Natalie.
She shakes her head. “I have no idea.”
How must you feel, knowing that as you smile and sing and dance, everyone will be thinking about what you did, their idea of you reorienting itself around this terrible thing?
“Let’s read through it, yeah?” I say, holding up my script.
We jump into make believe like it’s a pool on a sweltering day. Here, we wear other people’s skins and it helps us forget our own, lets us pretend, for a little while, that we’re okay.
* * *
THE CHOIR ROOM is packed with actors. I sit a little ways from Miss B, keeping track of everyone. There’s only one name I haven’t checked off the list yet.
“Hey.”
Someone plops down next to me. I turn. It suddenly becomes a little bit harder to breathe. I can cross that last name off the list.
“Gavin. Hey.” Everything in me lights up like Christmas.
We’ve never been alone before, never had a real conversation that didn’t include other people. When we were in rehearsals for Earnest, you’d mostly talk to the guys. Except for our one or two conversations about music and directing, we’ve mostly had brief exchanges about stupid, inconsequential stuff. The last thing we talked about was garden gnomes. But now I can feel that letter, hovering in the air between us.
I understand …
I know right now it seems like …
You matter, even if you think you don’t …
I’m here for you …
“You ready to get up there, show Miss B what you got?” I ask.
You lean in, conspiratorial, forehead nearly touching mine. Y
ou wink and it’s the goddamn sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.
“It’s in the bag,” you say.
Your voice has its usual carefree tone, but amazing actor that you are, you can’t hide the tension underneath. I follow your lead, though—if you want to pretend everything’s fine, then I will, too.
“Pretty confident, are we?” I ask.
You laugh and I notice that when you do, you look down at your lap and shake your head a little. Soon, this gesture will become familiar to me. Dear.
“Put in a good word for me?” you say.
“I’ll think about it.” Now it’s my turn to wink.
“This is pretty fabulous.” You reach out and gently tug on my sweater. It’s covered in sequins, one of those cheap five-dollar things from H&M.
“You’re the only straight guy I know who can say fabulous and get away with it,” I say.
You grin. “That’s because I’m fabulous.”
The first round of singers go up, most of them variations on awful. You actually cringe once and slide lower into your chair, like the sound is physically painful to you. I like that you try to keep this on the DL—you’re not a jerk, just a connoisseur.
You turn to me, eyes snagging on mine. “Thank you,” you say, your voice soft. “Your letter, it kinda … saved me.”
I blush, pleasure blooming in my chest. I don’t know it now, but there will be a garden inside me soon. And it’ll grow thorns.
“Oh,” I say. Why can I suddenly only think of expressions from French class? Je suis un ananas. I am a pineapple? “I mean, cool. I hope it helped. Um.”
I bite my lip, look down at the audition slips I’m clutching in my hands. Nothing ever comes out right. I wish Tony Kushner or some other beautiful playwright could live inside my throat and just say the right thing for me at the right time.
Bad Romance Page 3