“You’re doing it all wrong,” I said.
“Hmm?”
“Think of it as a sacred procession of flavors.”
“Proshession?” he tried to say, smiling through his epic jaw struggle.
“I’m serious,” I said. “First, you take a reasonable-size bite. Then you let the chocolate melt. Keep the biscuit and caramel part in the center, between your tongue and the roof of your mouth, so the caramel has nothing to stick to—and that way you don’t start thinking about cavities. Feel free to rub the chocolate away from the rest with your tongue. Then the caramel layer will eventually melt, and what you are left with is a biscuit that has reached absolute perfection, a soft, somewhat soggy consistency.”
Oliver made an appreciative moan.
“Now, some people don’t have the patience to wait for this ideal biscuit to melt, too, which I can understand. But the best things come to those who wait. I happen to know for a fact that it’s possible to draw out the biscuit flavor for a solid two minutes.”
See? I could do a great commercial. Mars, Inc.: Call me!
Oliver managed to swallow enough down to speak properly. “You’ve clearly given this some thought.”
“So all those people who just chomp away at their bars, willy-nilly?” I continued, getting all revved up. “They’re crazy. I want to shake them. All that amazing flavor, totally lost in giant gulps. And the texture they’re experiencing is frankly unpleasant: either sharp, cardboard-y biscuit or un-chewable caramel gum.”
He nodded and tutted in agreement.
“Think about it: There’s a reason they don’t throw the bars into some blender before packaging them. A Twix bar is not a salad!”
“Now, that is a T-shirt–worthy slogan if I ever heard one.”
“Yes!” I exclaimed. “T-shirts! Billboards! We need to tell the world!”
“Tell the world what?” Jimmy stood in the doorway.
“Hey, my gorgeous garlic clove!” I said, automatically spreading out my arms for a hug.
“Hey,” he replied, not returning my smile and, worse, leaving my hug invitation hanging.
Um . . . awkward?
“Jimmy, what is your deal?” I asked, exasperated.
Seeing our sudden tension, Oliver jumped in: “Marty has just given me a tutorial on the proper way to eat a Twix bar. Did you know there’s a proper technique?”
“Yeah, of course I know that,” Jimmy said, annoyed. “We developed it together.”
Yikes.
“Anyway,” he continued, “I just came by to say that Kirby called a few minutes ago, and he can drive us all home later.”
“Oh, good, I’ll call off my parents,” I said, rolling my eyes. “All these silent car rides with them are torture.”
“And remember,” said Oliver, rubbing his hands together, “I’ll be taking my driver’s test in just one week!”
Jimmy fixed me with a stare. “Since when are you mad at your parents?”
Oh, dear. I had never said anything to Jimmy. “Oh, um, we had a stupid fight a few weeks back. They’re giving me a curfew.”
“Oh. OK,” Jimmy said. Then he turned and walked out.
Oliver looked at me, questioning. “What was that all about?”
“I dunno. He’s been weird lately.” I chomped on the Twix bar in my hand, which had already started to melt.
It’s amazing how time flies, especially when you’re doing a show. One minute you’re getting your script and working out where to stand, and then all of sudden you look up and you realize that you’ll be onstage, performing, in just a few weeks’ time. Then you blink, and suddenly it’s in a few days’ time. Don’t get me wrong: There’s a ton of work in between, but somehow the end of the rehearsal period always comes as a shock.
On the Monday of our opening week, we had one more music-only rehearsal, which Mrs. Murray had organized to keep us focused on getting the notes right. We had been doing the singing in a half-assed way as we worked through the staging and the timing and everything, so we really needed the refresher course.
When she called a short break, the rehearsal room started to empty out. I pulled out my chem homework to see if I could get some of it done, but moments later I realized I wasn’t alone. Kate O’Day was sitting in her chair, twirling her pen in one hand and staring at me.
It was very unnerving.
Then she got up and sauntered over. “Do you mind if I give you one tiny piece of unsolicited advice?”
Oh, no. Was she going to criticize my acting or something?
“Make nice with McCafferty. I know she can be a little . . . much sometimes, but this play is really important to her.”
Wow. Um, not what I was expecting to hear.
“I’m not . . . I mean, I haven’t said anything, you know . . . ” I stammered, suddenly flushed with shame. Why did she think I was being mean to Jenny? What did I ever do—you know, other than accidently brain her a few weeks ago?
Ah, yes. My Jenny impersonation. Besides nearly killing Chloe on Set Day, it definitely wasn’t all that “nice” for Jenny, of course. Oh, man. Now I felt bad. Kate clearly saw me as a Mean Girl.
But, whatever. I was a nobody freshman, while McCafferty was a junior! Why would Jenny even care? And why would popular, senior Kate even care? Weren’t we all far beneath her notice?
“You haven’t said anything directly to her, no,” she said, gently grasping my shoulder and letting her eyes crinkle in a show of empathy. “But I think you know what I’m saying. I’ve seen you roll your eyes at her whenever she talks, imitate her—all that stuff. Jenny—well, she sees it, even if she doesn’t let on. You, on the other hand, project your emotions pretty clearly, even if you don’t realize it. I think that’s part of why you’re such a good actor.”
OK, now she totally had me stuck. First she accuses me of being mean, and then she wraps the accusation in a compliment, so how am I supposed to defend myself? I just gaped at her, at a loss for words.
Kate gave my arm a little rub and said, “It’s just that it can be hard for people who don’t fit in so easily. McCafferty only wants good things for us, and I just . . . I don’t know. I think that’s really cool. We should all embrace her for it.”
Some people wandered back into the room, and Kate gave me a quick smile before turning and waltzing back to her seat.
I was totally gobsmacked, so I didn’t even notice when, moments later, Felix slid into the chair next to me.
“Sullivan.”
“Oh! Peroni.”
“Got a question for you.” He rubbed his palms together. “What will you be doing tomorrow after school?”
“Tomorrow? Ugh. Going home right after school. Parental lockdown,” I said, rolling my eyes, as if otherwise I would be out partying somewhere, like on any other Tuesday in November. (Where? How? With whom?) “How come?”
“Well, I was thinking that you could tell your folks that we’re falling behind and that Sister added an extra rehearsal before Wednesday’s dress. They wouldn’t expect you home for a while, and that would give us some time to, you know, hang out,” he said, letting the ambiguity of the phrase pulse between us. Play it cool, Marty.
“I think something like that could be arranged,” I said, shifting my weight and folding my arms. It was a pretty good plan, actually; my heinous parents would be none the wiser.
At last, we would be able to spend some actual time together that wasn’t just smooching! Not that I’m complaining about the smooching. I’m not.
“Great,” he said. “I’ll text you the plan later tonight.”
That dimple.
When I got home, I made sure my phone was fully charged. I positioned it in an empty cookie tin (one of many former storage bunkers for Twix bars) so that it would go off like a drum set when Felix’s text came. By eleven I was getting drowsy, and at midnight I basically gave in to sleep. It’s not like I could text him right back this late; it would be way too obvious that I was waiting for it. I’d ha
ve to wait until morning, anyway.
When I woke up, the phone lay in its tray, as silent as ever. No messages.
At breakfast, after explaining to my mother that we had an extra rehearsal that night (and then immediately going back to giving her the silent treatment), I had a total panic attack. OMG, did I leave my phone on some do-not-disturb, non-vibrating, silent mode? After some frantic fumbling in my book bag, I saw that—alas!—all seemed to be in order.
Hmm. Annoying.
Maybe his phone had died, and he couldn’t find his charger anywhere, and he was going crazy at that exact minute, knowing that I was waiting for his text. Or he mysteriously lost my number?
By second period, I managed to convince myself that he was having trouble making reservations at some special restaurant or something, and he needed to work out a better plan before texting me.
By third period, I started wondering if Felix had changed his mind. I mean, maybe in thinking over on his scenes with Gorgeous O’Day he’d figured he was selling himself short by asking me out?
By fourth period, I was getting worried about Felix. Did he get hit by a tour bus? Abducted by Polynesian terrorists? I mean, if he were found lying in a ditch somewhere, how long would it take before I found out? It’s not like anyone would call me. I’d probably only eventually find out in a recasting announcement from Jenny McCafferty.
By fifth period, I was feeling morose. Who cares about dimples? Boys suck. Maybe I should become a nun, one of those cloistered ones who don’t speak and spend all day making Communion bread. I bet they don’t shave their legs.
By sixth period, I started wondering if he had promised to text me at all. Had I imagined the entire conversation? Was I losing my grip on reality? I mean, was I totally deluded, living in a wormhole of my own imagining?
But by the time the last school bell rang, I was livid. Felix could take his phone and shove it up his perfect little butt. I marched up to Xiang and told her I was going to punch Felix’s face in the next time I saw him.
“I don’t get it. Why don’t you just text him?” she asked.
I snorted in response and shook my head. “’Cuz.”
“Oh, just do it already.”
“Fine.” I took my phone out and typed:
???
“That’s it? That’s all you’re going to write?” asked Xiang.
“It’s all he deserves.” Send.
We stared at the phone a moment, riveted, until Xiang broke the spell by snapping her fingers in my face. “Come on, lady. Let’s go.”
We trudged down the hall, but then my hand honked loudly. Or, at least, the phone in my hand. EEP! It was him! (I had set the phone for the loudest ringtone possible.)
“What’d he say? What’d he say?” asked Xiang, laughing and wrestling for my phone.
“OK, OK, stopstopstopstopstop. You’re gonna make me reply by accident—stop it,” I said, swatting her away and then holding out the phone for her to read.
SO SRRY CNT DO 2DAY. AFTER REHRSL TMRW? TELL YR PARNTS ITLL BE A L8 1.
“See?” said Xiang. “No big deal.”
“But whyyyy?” I whined. “Why is he torturing me like this?”
Xiang put her hands on my shoulders, forcing me to look her in the face. “He’s not doing anything,” she said, “except spelling terribly. You’re the one freaking out. Be cool.”
“Oh, I see. Is that how you are with Parker?” I asked accusingly.
Xiang dropped her arms. “Yes. I just snap my fingers, and he comes.”
“That’s what she said,” I blurted out, giggling. Sometimes, yes, I have the maturity level of a ten-year-old.
“Ha-ha.”
Just then, my hand/phone started blaring a polka. Ohmigod, was it Felix?
“Hello?”
“Miss Sullivan, I believe you owe me an apology,” a male voice said sternly. My heart dropped to the floor. What now?
The voice continued. “I have been waiting for you all day long. It’s my birthday, silly! What, don’t I get any love?” A huge sigh of relief flooded through me as the voice matched a face in my brain—it was Oliver.
“Oh, my God, Oliver, I didn’t recognize your voice! You scared me to death!” I nearly shouted into the phone. Xiang rolled her eyes and wandered away, presumably to smoke.
“Ahem.”
“Oh, yes, yes, sorry: Happy birthday! Oh, geez—and you’re sixteen! I’m the worst ever. I totally should have called. Happy sixteenth birthday!” OK, now I was yelling. Thank goodness classes were over and the hallway was empty.
“Yep, I’m sixteen all right. And—drumroll, please—a legally licensed driver by the great State of Ohio.”
I let out a piercing scream. In most places, that would result in a flood of concerned people rushing out to help someone in need. Not at a girls’ school; random screaming is just par for the course. “That’s amazing! Totally, totally great. I’m so proud of you! I see that your confidence was well placed.”
“Yes, yes, it was. When and where can I pick you up?”
That evening Oliver and I drove around. I mean it: We just drove.
“Where should we go?” he asked.
“Dunno. How about . . . Lake Erie?”
“Your wish is my command.”
And off we went. It’s amazing how liberating that is, just picking a random place and going there. No reasons, no schedules, no annoying adults involved. Well, except that we did have to get back by nine, about the time I always got home from rehearsal. And, technically speaking, Oliver had to be back by midnight, since he only had a restricted license until he turned eighteen. Why has no one taken all these restrictions to the Supreme Court? They are so completely unconstitutional. Total age discrimination.
Nevertheless, Oliver was all glow-y. He was so happy, he couldn’t stop smiling. I loved that, and his positive energy was totally contagious, completely pushing my Felix melodrama out of mind.
“Come on, come on, let’s see it!” I said.
“It’s in here,” he responded, tossing me his wallet from his door pocket. I pulled out his license. There he was, wide-eyed and grinning like an idiot. But such a cute idiot. His wallet also had a plastic window displaying an old photograph of a youngish woman.
“Your parents must be so proud,” I said.
“You have no idea,” Oliver said, still shining. “They said I could use this car because they’ve been planning to get a third one. Getting in and out of our driveway will take some planning, though.”
“Is this your mom? She’s pretty,” I said, indicating the wallet photo. Oliver glanced at it, and his smile wavered slightly.
“Yeah,” he said. “But she’s . . . gone.”
My heart sank in pity. “Oh, Oliver, I’m sorry,” I said. “When did she pass away?”
“No, no,” he said, laughing. “Gone, like, she left us. I think she’s in Utah or somewhere now.”
Yikes. Poor Oliver, I thought. I couldn’t imagine what that must be like, having your own mom abandon you. I’d be all pissed and, like, burn her picture, not keep it in my wallet.
“Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t realize.”
“Naw, it’s all right,” he assured me. “I don’t really remember her all that much. It was a long time ago. She left me, my little brother, and my dad when I was four.”
“Oh, man. Did she . . . like, why did she do it? Did she leave a note or something?”
“She had a lot of problems with drugs and stuff. I don’t know all the details; my dad doesn’t like talking about it.”
“Do you ever miss her?”
“In some strange way, I guess, but I don’t really know anything different at this point,” he said, keeping his eyes trained on the road. “I mean, I could imagine what it would be like to have her around, and I guess I could miss that, but that’s just my fantasy, you know? Maybe we wouldn’t have gotten along, or whatever. But the family that I do have is pretty great, and that’s enough. I’m really lucky, actually.”
<
br /> I thought about my own parents, about how we definitely didn’t have that kind of closeness anymore. I regarded him for a long moment. “You know,” I said, “you’re a pretty smart guy, knowing what to appreciate. Wiselike.”
Oliver flushed crimson, but he flashed me a quick smile. “You’re not so dumb yourself,” he said.
We drove in contented silence for a while.
“So how’s it going with Jenny McCafferty?” I asked.
“Not so bad,” he said. “She’s intense, but she’s actually pretty nice when things settle down.”
“Kate said something very similar to that at rehearsal once,” I said, regretting not having smoothed things over with Jenny.
“I’m dreading this weekend, though. I can’t even imagine how wound up Jenny’ll get during final dress rehearsal, let alone opening night.”
“It’s that soon, isn’t it. Just a few days.” I shook my head and felt a slight buzz in the pit of my stomach. I would be ready, sure, but so soon I would be onstage in front of . . . everyone. Auditions are bad enough, but actual performances really set off my nerves. It’s funny how you can both crave and dread something at the same time.
“Derek’s really improving,” I said. “I was worried about him earlier, but he’s becoming a lot more confident.”
“Yeah, my boy will be fine,” Oliver said. “He never disappoints.”
Sunset was approaching, and houses flashed by in quick succession, morphing into different shapes and colors like some kind of suburban flipbook. The houses made me think of HGTV, and that made me think of Jimmy. Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy.
“What’s your passion, Oliver?” I asked. “I mean, I love that you’re doing the play, but it doesn’t seem to be the thing that gets you up in the morning.”
Oliver gave me a surprised look. “Well, that’s a pretty hard-core question,” he said.
We drove for a minute or so in silence.
“Well, I don’t know if you would call it a passion, but I want things to be fair. I guess that’s what gets me up in the morning.”
It was my turn to be surprised; I figured he would just say Ping-Pong or something.
Beyond Clueless Page 14