Jimmy walked by the café about six times, trying his hardest to look like he was on his way somewhere important, that he just happened to be traversing the same block every two-point-three minutes. Finally he managed to gather enough chutzpah to walk in—and immediately made a beeline to the counter to order without looking around. You know, like he was actually there for the jasmine tea.
Five minutes later, he had settled into one of the comfy couches and, at last, started breathing again. Of course, he was also pretending to read his copy of The Age of Innocence with a muscular intensity to avoid making eye contact with all the Gays around him (who had long ago stopped pretending to read). Then, a certain handsome fellow—later to be identified as Derek—sat down beside him and started coughing. And by “coughing” I mean “deep, phlegm-gargling hacking.” Apparently, Derek really was mostly there for the tea. How that boy managed to get bronchitis in late August continues to be a mystery.
Serendipitously, Jimmy feels the same way about Halls cough drops that I do about Twix bars—except that, tragically, because of its quasi-medicinal status, he can’t responsibly succumb to the same level of indulgence that I can. But he always carries cough drops around, just in case his throat gets scratchy. Which, amazingly, happens several times a day! (When Jimmy gets a cold, he practically throws a party.)
So a cough drop, an awkward explanation, and a conversation later, Jimmy shed the last vestiges of his heterosexual delusion and decided that this Derek character was the cat’s pajamas.
“Well, good for you!” I told Jimmy, stretching out on his bed. “Do you have any visuals?”
A slow smile made its way across Jimmy’s face, despite his best efforts to stop it.
“You do! Lemme see!”
“You can’t laugh,” Jimmy insisted.
“I would never!”
“Oh, please. You’ve refined making fun of me into its own sophisticated art form,” Jimmy grumbled, but he made his way to the computer, anyway. “OK, he has a profile, but the pic he posted really doesn’t do him justice.”
In no time, I was looking at a devilishly good-looking, chiseled-jawed boy.
That’s when I felt a searing flash of envy go through me—lonely, loveless me. You know, it’s funny. Until that moment I never really thought I was missing something. But now I felt a strange, hollow sensation, perhaps of being left behind.
“Yummy. Is he Indian?”
“His parents are from Sri Lanka.”
I scanned Derek’s “favorites”: Catcher in the Rye, juggling, Cape Cod, postcards, blah, blah, blah.
“Huh. He certainly has an earnest profile, but does he have a sense of humor?” I caught myself: Marty, don’t be a bitch. “I mean, I’m not criticizing. You just can’t really tell from this.”
Jimmy squirmed a little. “Well . . . I wouldn’t say he’s Jimmy Fallon or anything, but he has a funny dark side that no one sees until they really get to know him. Like, snarky.”
All of a sudden I was seized with the desire to leave. I straightened up and picked up my book bag. “Well, you know I like a good snark. A very promising fellow.” I patted Jimmy’s shoulder. “But now, my succulent squash, I, alas, must take my leave. I have my first algebra test on Friday and a drama club meeting tomorrow night, so I have to study tonight. When do I get to meet this Derek person?”
“Actually, you can meet him on Friday! He’s coming over. We’re going to watch bad sitcoms and eat cookie dough. It’ll be fun! We can celebrate your algebraic success.”
I felt another stab in my chest. That would have been really fun—if it had been just us.
“Super. Sounds awesome.”
I speed-walked home the long way, via the sidewalks, lost in thought over this new Derek development. Jimmy and I barely had any time to spend together as it was, and if he all of a sudden had a boyfriend, where would I fit in? What if I despised Derek after I met him? If push came to shove, whom would Jimmy choose?
I stared hard at the pavement, my hands clenched into fists around my book-bag straps.
For so long, it had always been Jimmy and Marty. Jimmy and Marty everything. School, shopping, weekends, TV-watching, late-night snarfing of cough drops and Twix bars—we did everything together. He got the meanings of all my jokes, all my pointed looks, all my thoughts—honestly, I usually didn’t even have to say anything, and he’d totally know what I was thinking.
But now, high school was a totally different story. Now it was Just Me at this new school with all these other girls. I mean, they were pretty nice so far, a few days in—it’s not like they had been mean to me or anything like that—but I hadn’t really connected with anyone there. Most girls already had friends at Oaks from whatever Catholic elementary school they’d gone to, so to them I was this odd satellite just outside their orbits, passing by. They seemed fine and pleasant, but I needed someone on my wavelength, someone who really understood me.
Before tonight I could take comfort in the fact that Jimmy was in the same boat as me, missing me at his new school. But now I wasn’t so sure. He had this whole Derek thing to look forward to, to obsess about, to define himself by, even though Derek didn’t go to his school. He was becoming Jimmy without Marty. But who was Marty without Jimmy?
Aaaargh. And what was wrong with me—why couldn’t I have met my Derek first? At this rate, I was never going to meet a Derek. Not too many Dereks roaming the estrogen-soaked halls of Our Lady. Should I just accept reality and get my name legally changed to Third Wheel Sullivan?
Miss Sullivan. Earth to Martha.”
I looked up to see Mr. Dartagnan knocking on the whiteboard, eyebrows raised.
“Uh-huh?”
“Can you tell us what the cubic root of twenty-seven is, please?”
My brain hadn’t caught up with my face, which by now looked very interested in everything Mr. Dartagnan had to say.
“Uh, sure.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw someone holding up three fingers under the next desk. “It’s three.”
“Correct.” Mr. Dartagnan frowned, clearly disappointed that I had gotten it right. He turned back to the board. “So, if we take that cubic root and subtract it from this dividend . . .”
Those three fingers belonged to the Asian girl with the weird name, which I couldn’t remember for the life of me. It had only been about a week since school had started, and I had a hard enough time sorting out all the Kellys, Jens, and Megans, let alone some name that started with an X. I gave her a smile of thanks, and she smiled back quickly and looked down at her math book.
After class I saw X Girl sitting by herself in the lunchroom. For the past week the social seating situation had been very random. On the first day I had thought that there would be a clear social hierarchy mapped out by where people sat in the cafeteria. I mean, anyone who’s ever seen a high school movie knows that. But as it turned out, people kept mixing it up every day, so it didn’t seem weird just to plop down anywhere to eat. I suppose it’s hard to develop patterns when you have a different class schedule every day, and maybe things were different at an all-girls school—or maybe it was too early in the year for people to define power relationships. Well, whatever the reason, I thought, hopefully it’ll stay that way. I placed my lunch down across the table from X Girl.
“Hey, do you mind if I sit with you?” I asked.
She looked up and shook her head. I decided then and there that this cute, small, shy, smart girl was nothing less than Adorable. She even had little butterfly barrettes in her hair. Aww . . .
“Thanks for helping me out in class. You must be really good at math,” I said.
Her face suddenly darkened. “Why, because I’m Asian?”
Uh—or maybe not so cute. Blood rushed to my face. I was dumbfounded.
But then she smiled. “I’m kidding. Relax. Hey, I’m Xiang.” She pronounced it Seng.
It took me a moment to process, but I managed an uneasy grin.
“Martha. Well, Marty.”
�
��Actually, I really hate math. I just knew the answer to that one.”
“Oh, well, thanks again.” I fished out my pumpkin-seed-butter-and-banana sandwich and reviewed the rest of my lunch. Great, thanks, Dad. I was just craving these carrot sticks that always dry out and warp by lunchtime. Having two health nuts for parents sucked royally. Even the juice box was actually soy milk—like the fructose in real juice would make me diabetic or something. (Actually, I kinda like soy milk, but you see what I’m saying.)
“Have you heard the rumor that Mr. Dartagnan’s name is actually Mr. Darton, but he changed it to make himself seem more fancy? Major insecurity issues.” I thought it was a pretty dumb rumor, but I couldn’t think of anything else to say.
Xiang smiled. “Ooooh, that’ll give me something fun to mull over in class. Have you noticed that his socks have his initials on them?”
“Really?” I giggled. “So they don’t get mixed up with the other campers’ socks?”
“They’re actually embroidered that way. That’s a lot of attention to give a sock, if you ask me.” Xiang nibbled on an apple slice.
“Well, I hope he’s grateful that he doesn’t have to wear these plaid skirts. I never had to deal with gross men leering at me until I got this uniform. How, exactly, does this uniform encourage Catholic morals?”
Xiang gave a sly smile. “Priestly morals, perhaps.”
My, my, this Xiang girl was quite the spitfire, wasn’t she? Jimmy would definitely like her.
Oh—Jimmy. My mood dimmed a bit as I pictured Jimmy eating lunch at Bracksville High. Whom did he eat lunch with? Fred, the gamer guy? Big Amy? Or someone I didn’t know, from some other middle school?
Xiang studied me for a moment. “So I take it you didn’t go to Catholic grade school.”
“No, the public elementary school in my town. You?”
“Homeschooled.” My eyes widened, and she continued. “It took me three years to convince my parents to send me to a real school so that I could learn normal socialization skills. And they only agreed to this place because it’s all girls, run by nuns, and in the middle of nowhere. You have no idea what a relief it is to be out of that house.” She wiped her mouth with a napkin.
“No way! I had the exact opposite experience. On the first day of school my parents literally had to use a bolt cutter when I chained myself to my bed. I definitely didn’t want to come here.”
Xiang started to giggle but cut it off when she realized I maybe wasn’t kidding.
“All my friends go to Bracksville High,” I added sadly.
“Really? I live in Bracksville! Wilton Road.”
“No way! I live on Iroquois! I thought I knew everyone our age in town. Your parents really kept you under wraps, didn’t they?”
She rolled her eyes. “You have no idea. My house should be registered as a Chinese consulate. The only time I met other ‘American’ kids was at Cleveland Youth Orchestra.” She brightened up. “Hey, we should carpool! Both my parents usually have to stay late at work on Thursdays, so we haven’t quite figured out how to get me home. These past two weeks I had to ask my cousin to pick me up, and his car smells like warm tuna salad.”
“Yeesh. OK. I’ll ask my mom!”
Did I just make a friend? I know this sounds incredibly cheesy, but as I walked out of the lunchroom that day, I suddenly felt a little bit . . . taller. It had been a long time since I’d met a new friend—Jimmy had filled up the whole “friend” category for the past few years, and before that I guess I was too young to actually notice it happening. Part of me wanted to stop this whole Xiang thing now. I mean, I felt like I was cheating on my friendship with Jimmy. But on the other hand, if Jimmy was out finding a boyfriend and eating lunch with God-knows-who, he was already abandoning our BFF relationship.
Oh, Lord, what was I thinking? Relationship? Clearly, I had to get over these dependency issues with Jimmy. It’s true that Xiang was no Jimmy—Jimmy and I basically shared a brain, we were so in sync—but beggars can’t be choosers. With Jimmy charging ahead with his own life, I had to start leading mine.
Just then, I noticed a brightly colored poster hanging in the hallway.
DRAMA CLUB MEETING TODAY, SEPT. 3!!
COME FIND OUT WHAT THIS YEAR’S FALL MUSICAL WILL BE—
AND HOW TO BE IN IT!
3:00 P.M., JERRY HALL
My life so far has revolved around two loves: Jimmy and theater.
Well, at least I’ve got one left.
After school that day, I found Xiang by her locker.
“Hey, I was wondering if you wanted to go to the drama club meeting with me.”
Then, immediately after I said it, I realized that the invitation was probably too much, too soon. I mean, we just had our first real conversation a few hours ago. I didn’t want to seem like a stalker or anything.
Fortunately, Xiang didn’t seem fazed by my smothering of her.
“Yeah, I would, but I can’t act,” she said, packing books into her bag. “And I definitely don’t sing.”
“Well, there are tons of other things you could do,” I said. “You could be a stage manager, props coordinator, a costume designer . . .”
Xiang rolled her eyes.
“. . . or, you know, you could go straight home instead.”
Xiang hesitated. I smiled more broadly.
“You’re a special kind of evil, you know,” she finally said.
“Yup.”
“I’m telling you right now: Don’t expect me to do any acting or singing or tap-dancing shit.”
Yikes. “Understood.”
Just before the door slammed on Xiang’s locker, I spotted a box of cigarettes inside.
“What?” asked Xiang, because I clearly failed to hide my surprise.
“Oh. Um, nothing.”
Cigarettes? Who was this person? Instead of making me feel older, high school was making me feel very, very young.
Oh, well, no time to dwell on that now.
The drama club meeting was being held at Jerry Hall. I figured that there would be—what?—twenty people there for a drama club meeting? Maybe thirty, forty? I mean, only about seven hundred students go to Our Lady. But when we walked into the theater, I almost died. There must have been at least a hundred and fifty people there, almost filling the entire auditorium. Was drama really that popular here because of Jerry Hall? How was I ever going to get a part?
Xiang turned to me, asking, “Are you sure this is the right place?”
I shrugged, and we took two seats in the back.
A very small, very old nun was onstage, trying to turn on a microphone. She banged it on her knee, and a piercing scream of feedback shot through the theater, immediately silencing the crowded assembly.
“Bingo,” she said, chuckling to herself. She patted down the front of her skirt, then looked out across the sea of students.
“Welcome to the fall musical introductory meeting. My name is Sister Mary Alice. I’ve been directing the musicals here for the past thirteen years.”
Xiang muttered loudly, “Since she was, like, eighty-five years old?” I slid down in my seat, hoping no one had overheard her. Xiang was quickly going from Potential Friend to Total Liability.
Sister Mary Alice continued. “As I’m sure many of you are aware, the Our Lady of the Oaks Drama Club stages two major productions every year, the fall musical and the spring play. I’m delighted to see so many of you expressing interest in the former.” She gave us all a stern look. “Out of pure love for the theater, I’m sure.” There was low-level giggling throughout the audience, and Xiang and I exchanged bewildered looks.
The nun continued in her warbly voice. “Now. First things first. I know you are all eager to hear which musical we will be presenting this year. Let me assure you, it wasn’t an easy decision after all your suggestions from last year, and the board has really gone out on a limb to approve this choice. But I’m sure we are up to the challenge.”
Sister Mary Alice took a moment to
cough lightly. She cleared her throat and patted her chest while one hundred and fifty some girls leaned forward in their seats. This woman sure knows her drama, I thought to myself.
“The musical for this season will be . . . drumroll? The Sound of Music.”
There was silence. Then a collective slumping of shoulders. I could practically hear the blood draining from everyone’s faces. The Sound of Music? So we were going to be either nuns or bratty Austrian children? What teenager wants to sing “Do-Re-Mi” in front of an audience?
A low, angry murmur began to grow. Sister Mary Alice’s hand flew to her mouth, and she started bouncing. It took me a moment to realize she was laughing.
“I’m just kidding, girls! Just kidding!” she cried, still bouncing. “It’s not The Sound of Music. It’s Stephen Sondheim’s Into the Woods.”
I’ve never seen a group of people so relieved before. Xiang turned to me, her eyes bright and flashing. “That was hilarious. Amazing. You know, I’m actually starting to like this lady . . .” She settled back into her seat, looking the happiest I’d seen her yet.
Sister Mary Alice wiped tears from her eyes with the palm of one hand and let out a “Whooo!”
My brain started going through the show’s characters while Sister Mary Alice continued. Rapunzel, the Witch, the evil Stepmother, the Baker’s Wife . . .
“I imagine most of you are familiar with this musical because of the recent Hollywood film adaptation. Written by Stephen Sondheim and James Lapine, the show premiered on Broadway in 1987. The musical uses familiar characters and stories from fairy tales to analyze a multitude of themes, such as community, responsibility, adulthood, family, love . . . and even sex.” She waited for the inevitable tittering to die down after the last word. She took a deep breath and became very serious.
Beyond Clueless Page 2