“How ’bout you? Are you seeing anyone?” he asked.
Jimmy snorted.
“Gee, thanks, Jimmy!” I said, tossing the T at him.
“Hey, you’d better watch it,” he said, “or you’ll be the one getting sauced, missy!”
“No, actually, it’s about time we all got sauced . . . ,” said Derek, opening up his backpack. He lifted out a six-pack of beer. “. . . thanks to my brother.”
There wasn’t enough alcohol there for us to get actually drunk, but I was soon buzzing happily. The stars were blazing above, the fireflies lazily echoed our camera flashes, and we were laughing uncontrollably, goofing around.
At some point, it occurred to me that this was a moment. Like, I needed to remember this night. Maybe it was the alcohol, but I started getting philosophical about it—I mean, you hear people say all the time that high school was “the best years of their lives.” That always seemed super-depressing to me—I mean, is it really all downhill afterward?—but maybe there was some small kernel of truth to it. It’s not like I ever saw my parents being this silly with their friends—did they miss being able to do this kind of stuff? Why didn’t they ever get this silly anymore? Or did they?
My parents never really talked about their teenage years. Did other people’s parents talk to them about their pasts? I doubted Xiang’s ever did. Or Jimmy’s parents. Maybe it was, like, my parents knew me so well that they thought I should be able to remember their pasts somehow, too, even though that was completely illogical. Huh.
But my parents didn’t meet each other until after college, so did they even talk about it between themselves? Or maybe it was just an awkward thing to work into everyday conversations . . .
“Heads up!” A slice of bread sailed past my ear.
“Hey, hey, hey—watch it!” Oliver said, almost sternly, to Jimmy.
“What? I’m trying to get her ‘toasted’!” Jimmy responded, grinning. “I know! Let’s play Duck, Duck, Goose!” He looked around. “If only we had brought Grey Goose vodka. I think my parents have some in the liquor cabinet . . .”
“Sorry, beggars can’t be choosers,” Derek said, planting a kiss on Jimmy’s cheek. “And speaking of my brother, he said he’d be coming to pick us up around eleven thirty, so we should start packing up and head back. Who has the Listerine?”
The mention of Listerine made me think of the time I’d put mouthwash in Jimmy’s Arizona iced tea bottle, and, unaware, he took a swig. He ended up spraying it all over his Ted Baker feather-design bedspread, which he had specially ordered online a few weeks before. He was so mad, I thought fuzzily, he didn’t speak to me for a whole day. I never played a joke on him again.
“Yeah,” said Oliver, watching me giggle moronically at my own thoughts, “I think we’re all set with the photos. It’s probably time to head back.”
I told Xiang about the photo shoot during Monday morning’s algebra class, and she was totally envious. Mr. Dartagnan was at the front of the room prattling on about integers, his glasses flashing in the projector’s light and making him look like Dilbert. Meanwhile, everyone else in the room was in the midst of a REM cycle, just shy of actual snoring.
“God, why do I have to live in permanent lockdown?” Xiang grumbled. “After you guys dropped me off on Saturday, all I could do was watch some bad Spanish-language TV.”
“La Intrusa?” I whispered back.
Xiang’s eyes bugged out, à la Wile E. Coyote.
“Um, please tell me you’re stalking me. I’m not sure I can be friends with someone who memorizes TV schedules.”
“Miss Hsu?” At the sound of Mr. Dartagnan’s voice, Xiang replayed the trick from Saturday of folding herself into a single point in space. “Anything you’d like to share with the rest of us?” He must have meant a royal “us,” because no one else in the room bothered to wake up.
“No.”
“Then will you and Miss Sullivan please stop your incessant chatter?”
He turned back to the projector. I made my most sympathetic “Oops!” face at Xiang, but she just shrugged and rolled her eyes.
We lay low for the rest of the class, but then later, at lunch, Xiang slid her tray in front of me, beaming. During her free period, she had gone to see Sister Mary Alice about being in the orchestra for the show.
“She. Is. So. Cool,” Xiang gushed. “Have you seen her classroom? There are couches in there. And she has, like, snacks put out in bowls everywhere. I can’t wait to take her English lit class next year.” Xiang sat down and heaved her green messenger bag into the chair next to her. She had written Albatross across the front flap with a marker.
“But she said she doesn’t even know how to play a kazoo, so she won’t be the musical director. She’s delegating all the music stuff to Mrs. Murray, the lady with helmet hair. And Sister Mary Alice actually said ‘helmet hair’ when she described her.”
“WHAT? Really?” I snorted soy milk into my nasal cavities.
“No, of course not,” Xiang said carelessly. “But I could tell she was thinking it. Apparently, they haven’t set a date for auditions yet, but it’ll probably be next week sometime. They weren’t even thinking about opening it up beyond people who are already in the school orchestra, but I mentioned that I had friends from other schools who might be interested.” She carefully lifted the plastic wrap off her sandwich.
“Ugh, that reminds me,” I said, “the cast auditions are on Wednesday, and I have nooo idea what I’m going to do.” I squished my face between the palms of my hands, and I could feel my heart speed up. I had spent all of yesterday afternoon at Bracksville Public Library’s drama section, trying to find a good monologue. And what song would I sing? If I didn’t get into this play, then . . . oh, God. I didn’t even want to think about it. No Jimmy and no theater? Or worse, Jimmy and the boys getting in and me not? How embarrassing would that be?
Xiang looked up from her sandwich. “Don’t look at me. All I have are, like, cello sonatas.”
I frowned. “Any ideas for the monologue?”
Xiang shook her head. “I dunno. ‘To be or not to be?’ You know I don’t have a clue about that stuff.”
I pushed a raisin along the table with a piece of celery. “I just wish I knew what other people were bringing. I mean, if I come in with a monologue from something theater-y, like Our Town or The Miracle Worker or The Effect of Gamma Rays on Man-in-the-Moon Marigolds or something, will that make me super-lame?”
Xiang shot me a what-the-hell-are-you-even-talking-about look.
“Or is everyone going to be edgy and creative, doing dramatic readings from, like, a book on Demi Lovato’s beauty tips?”
That made her smile. “That’s really good! You should totally do that! I’m sure you’ll stand out.”
“Or be shunned as a freak forever.”
“Or that,” she conceded, and started sucking on her juice-box straw.
We sat in silence for a moment, imagining my potential social death.
“Oh, let’s talk about something else,” I finally said. A lightbulb went off in my head. “Heyyyyyy, didn’t you have a CYO rehearsal on Sunday?” I twirled an accusatory carrot stick in her direction.
“Don’t even go there,” Xiang said, shaking her head.
“What? Did you even talk to him?”
“Yeah, I guess, a little bit,” she hedged.
“Did you start the conversation, or did he?”
“Parker did.”
I sat there, just looking at her. She looked right back at me, impenetrable.
“Aaaaand?”
“He came over during the break and said hey.”
Another moment of just sitting. This was getting ridiculous.
“Xiang,” I said, “you gotta work with me here. We’ll be here until Saturday at this rate. Just tell me what happened.”
Xiang rolled her eyes and gave a huffy sigh. “OK, OK, OK.” Then she rattled off, “He came over, said hey, said it was great running into me and meetin
g you on Saturday, asked how long we ended up hanging out at the mall . . .”
“Well, that sounds promising!” I interjected.
“. . . and he asked what I was doing on Wednesday after school.”
Yowza!
“WHAT? Ohmigod, that’s huge!” I exclaimed. But then I stopped myself. “Wait—are you lying again?” You could never tell with Xiang.
“Noooo, he really asked me that. But I told him that Wednesday I’m going to stay after school to watch your audition. And that was that.”
“Oh, Xiaaaaaang . . .” I was touched, actually—she chose supporting me over a date with her crush! Gosh, would I have done that for her? Uh . . . no. “You know you didn’t have to do that. I’ll be fine auditioning on my own.”
“Well, no shit, but I was glad I had an excuse. That sounded a lot better than, ‘Actually, my mother expects me home right after school to practice this goddamn cello and do my fucking homework.’ ” I involuntarily scanned the cafeteria to make sure there were no teachers around to hear. But poor Xiang. I had never seen her so upset.
Then we just sat there for a bit—me searching for something to say, and Xiang twisting her straw to death. This may be weird, but to be honest, I felt jealous of her, just as I had with Jimmy. I didn’t even have the excuse of being gay, or of having really controlling parents, and yet I was the only one without any romantic stuff going on. I know I wasn’t interested in the orchestra guys, but how come none of them liked me? What was wrong with me? Wasn’t I pretty enough, or friendly enough? Was I destined to spend all my Saturday nights pretending to flirt with a bunch of gay guys?
“OK, well, what did Parker say after that?” I finally asked. “When you told him you would be at the audition?”
“He just kinda turned red and bolted. I don’t know.”
I made a frowny face and said, “Don’t worry, we’ll figure something out. And, hey, if he joins the musical’s orchestra, think about all that extra time you’ll have to flirt and canoodle during rehearsals!”
“Ha-ha,” she replied sadly.
“Come on, Xiang, chin up! Keep a stiff upper lip!” I said, reaching across the table and giving her shoulder a light punch.
“What the hell does that even mean? Shouldn’t it be a stiff bottom lip?” she asked, just as the period bell rang. I shrugged, and we gathered our garbage and headed out of the cafeteria, variously contorting our lips and tapping them to test their stiffness.
That evening Jimmy came over so we could do our homework together. Yeah, I know, we have different homework, but sometimes he needs to have people around when he does it—otherwise, he ends up watching HGTV or Teletubbies or something; he has very little self-discipline.
“You don’t happen to know what caused the Whiskey Rebellion, do you?” he asked me, sprawled out over my bed with his American history work sheets.
“I dunno—something about taxes? Isn’t all the early stuff about taxes?”
“Yeah, but there’s something more to it. Federalism or something. I wish this thing had an index,” he said, flipping through his textbook.
“Can’t help you there. Ask me next year.” (Our Lady has us take American history as sophomores.) I finished off the last exercise on my algebra problem set and plopped the pages onto a sprawling mound of papers. My desk was a mess, but what else was new? I woke my computer up and started scanning my playlists.
“I hate to interrupt your productivity streak, but I need you to listen to this,” I said. “I’m thinking of singing this at the audition on Wednesday.” I clicked on “Moonshine Lullaby” from Annie Get Your Gun. Bernadette Peters’s voice floated into the room, rich and slow.
Jimmy closed his eyes and placed his history book over his chest.
I tried to imagine how the song would sound with just piano accompaniment and with my voice (which isn’t terrible, but I’m no Bernadette).
As the final notes rolled to a stop, Jimmy murmured, “You put me in your bed, make me do homework, and then you play this song. Are you trying to put me to sleep?”
“Sit up!” I said, giving the bed a kick. Unfortunately, I only jostled the mattress a little.
“Oh, sure, now you’re going to rock me?” Jimmy said, giggling.
“I’m serious—no sleeping! Are you saying the song is way too boring?”
“No, it’s slow, but it’s nice. It’s perfect. Do you have sheet music for it?” Jimmy sat up and rubbed his eyes.
“Yeah, they had Annie Get Your Gun at the library—they have a surprising amount of musicals there. What are you auditioning with?” To be quite honest, I was still surprised that Jimmy planned to audition on Wednesday.
“Oh, I don’t know. Is ‘Happy Birthday’ good enough?” he asked.
“Oh, come on. You’ll never get a part if you don’t even try,” I said. I scrolled through my playlist. “How about . . . I know! ‘More I Cannot Wish You’ from Guys and Dolls! It sounds like ‘Moonshine’—here.” I clicked on it.
Jimmy gave me a doubtful look. “You want me to sound like I’m eighty years old?”
“Well, it’ll be easier to put your own personal stamp on it, now, won’t it?”
“Oh, don’t worry. I’ll stamp on whatever I end up singing.”
“Ha-ha.” I scrolled down the list of songs again. “Hmm . . . how about . . . this one?” I clicked on “Putting It Together” from Sunday in the Park with George.
Jimmy rolled his eyes as the song began. “Waaaay too complicated.”
“Well, it’s Sondheim, just like Into the Woods.”
He didn’t respond, just flipped absently through the pages of his history book.
“So you had a good time on Saturday, right?” he asked.
I kept scrolling through my list. “Yeah, of course! Didn’t you?” This one was too high for Jimmy’s voice. This one, too fast. Too operatic. Too girly . . .
“Yeah. Derek’s brother is good people. What do you think of Oliver?”
“Oliver? He’s nice! And super-cute, to boot.” I looked up at Jimmy. “You know, I like Derek’s friends, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
Jimmy smiled dreamily. “Yeah, he does have good friends, doesn’t he?”
“So what’s with Kirby and the two boyfriends?”
“Five.”
“What? Five boyfriends?”
“He hasn’t met any of them, though. They’re all long-distance, online relationships. But he’s working the odds, assuming that most of them are catfishing or having lots of other relationships, too.”
“I guess it’s pretty hard to meet gay guys our age around here, huh?”
“Lucky me!” Jimmy said, grinning so wide it looked painful.
“Yeah, yeah, lucky you,” I grumbled. “Ooooh, how about this?” I clicked on Ella Fitzgerald’s version of “Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered.” “I don’t know what show it’s from, but I’m sure you could find the sheet music for it.”
But eight seconds into it, I clicked it off. “OK, maybe not.”
Not that Jimmy heard it; he was busy doodling a heart motif on his history notebook, lost in his thoughts. Geez Louise, why was everyone around me so lovesick all of a sudden? What about me? Whom did I have to swoon over?
I pulled a Twix bar out of my bottom desk drawer—I’d been saving it for a self-pity party just like the one I felt coming on. Then I double-clicked on Streisand’s “What Kind of Fool,” because I knew that Jimmy hated it.
But I didn’t have to pity myself for long. No, sir, I was about to swoon, too.
Hard.
On Wednesday, I was buzzing with nerves all throughout the day, thinking about the auditions. Needless to say, I really, really, really, really wanted to be in the musical. Acting is the one thing that I’m actually good at. Not sports, not grades, not being all sexy and boyfriend-y. Nobody really paid much attention to me at school, but if I could just show everyone that side of me, it would change everything. I’d be Marty, that girl who was really great in
the musical. (OK, I know that probably doesn’t sound so great to most people, but at least it’s something.)
But if I didn’t even get into the musical, I’d just be . . . yeah.
I would not be able to stomach sitting in the audience, watching other girls perform onstage, let alone any of my gay boys. Even if no one else noticed or cared, I’d be humiliated for myself. I mean, when I was eleven, I staged a full reenactment of Chicago with dolls and stuffed animals—yes, disturbing in retrospect—for Jimmy and my parents. Last year, I used my birthday money to buy a Carol Channing–autographed theater program on eBay. I know all the words to basically every musical worth seeing, and a lot of the bad ones, too. I had to get a part.
So when I met Xiang at her locker after the last class, I was practically levitating with stress. I thought I was hiding it pretty well, but she looked at me uncertainly.
“Are you gonna be OK?”
“Yeah, no problem. I’ll be fine.” It was a bit mortifying to have Xiang see me like this, but there was only so much I could do about it. I took a deep breath, but it only made me feel even more light-headed. We floated out to the parking lot, where we saw Jimmy, Derek, Oliver, and Kirby standing around, looking lost.
“Oh, good, you got here in good time!” I shouted as we approached.
But I didn’t stop. I just glided on past the boys toward Jerry Hall, and the boys grabbed their bags and hustled after us.
When we walked into the theater, I was relieved to see that there weren’t as many girls there as at the meeting the week before—not yet, at least. I mean, don’t get me wrong, there were still a lot of them, probably thirty or so. Maybe the process of finding a song and a monologue had weeded some of them out? There were only about a dozen boys so far, and clumps of them huddled in various corners.
Actually, it was weird to see boys in Jerry Hall—or anywhere at Our Lady, for that matter. I had gotten used to the girls’ club feel of the place, and now it seemed like they were invading our space.
Beyond Clueless Page 5