Beyond Clueless

  What was wrong with me? How had my feelings for this guy turned so quickly? And how long would it take for Kirby to get here?

  Thankfully, not too long—the Friendly’s wasn’t too far from Weeksburg High, where Kirby, Oliver, and Derek all went to school. I saw Kirby enter, and relief flooded through me. He first walked toward the bathroom but then backtracked when he spotted our booth.

  I suddenly had the horrifying realization that I hadn’t thought to discuss a cover story with him. I mean, it would be totally obvious to my dinner companions that I’d called him from the bathroom, and that would be super-bizarre, right?

  But Kirby is a pro. When he got within a few feet of me he feigned surprise—really convincingly; he totally should have auditioned!—and busted out with, “Holy shit, Marty? What the hell are you doin’ out here?”

  I reddened, paralyzed.

  But he didn’t wait for an answer. He came over and introduced himself to the others. “Hey, I’m Kirby. I live down the street from Marty here.” He turned to me. “Hey, yo, how are you gettin’ home? I’m just leaving. You need a ride?”

  Oh, hallelujah. “Actually, that’s a great idea!” I said brightly. I sprang out of the booth, turning to the others and saying, “Sorry, guys. This has been great, but I’m totally bushed. Here’s a twenty—that should cover me.”

  And—boom—we were out of there.

  Kirby and I didn’t speak the whole way home. Once I tried, saying, “Kirby, look—” but he cut me off.

  “Stop. It’s OK.”

  So I settled back in my seat and exhaled.

  When he pulled up to my house, it was getting close to midnight, which was stretching what my parents would find believable for a very late rehearsal. One more reason I was glad I’d left Friendly’s when I did.

  Kirby turned off the engine.

  “Look, I’m the last person in the world who should be giving advice about anything,” he said, all quiet and subdued, staring at the steering wheel. “It’s a lot easier to log on to a Web site and send some chat messages than it is to deal with real people in real life. I know that.”

  Then he turned to look directly at me and held my gaze. “But it doesn’t have to be hard, either. If things don’t feel right to you, they probably aren’t.”

  I smiled weakly in response.

  “Thanks for—you know,” I said, and I got out.

  There was one good thing about the humongous-disaster-that-was-my-first-date: It took my mind off the musical . . . a bit.

  Actually, that’s a lie. It didn’t take my mind off the musical at all.

  How was it that I could stress and obsess with my whole body and soul about what I could possibly say to Felix the next day that in any way made sense, yet also stress and obsess with my whole body and soul about the performance on Friday? It was as if my capacity for nervousness had doubled all of a sudden. Not good.

  The next day was our final dress rehearsal, the last chance to screw up our lines, our blocking, or our cues without ruining our lives forever. It’s bad enough looking like a jackass in front of thirty people you’ve been working with for months—and screwing up the thing they’ve been working just as hard on. But it’s so much worse when the entire school, basically, and all your family and friends—and enemies—are there watching. Oh, and recording it all, to make sure your grandchildren will also be able to ridicule you until the day you die.

  I got a text from Felix during Mr. Dartagnan’s class.

  U SEEMED A LTTL OUT OF IT LAST NITE. R WE OK?

  Almost out of habit, I passed my phone to Xiang. She passed it back and didn’t say anything; she just gave me a concerned look.

  I suddenly regretted showing her the message. I like melodrama, not pity; there’s a difference.

  At lunch, she cut right to the chase. “So spill. What happened ‘last night’?” She literally did air quotes with her fingers.

  “Oh, nothing. I don’t even know why I showed you that. I was just tired last night.” I took a big gulp of soy milk.

  “Tired,” she said. “On your first real, public date with Felix Peroni, a boy you’ve been obsessing over for weeks.”

  “I just . . . I dunno. I just—” And suddenly tears were streaming down my face.

  Xiang sprang into action, grabbing my arm and dragging me away from my lunch, out of the cafeteria, and into the nearest restroom.

  She checked to make sure all the stalls were empty, then sat me down on the radiator.

  I was a full-blown mess by this point, all red-faced and shuddering.

  “What. Happened.”

  “We went to Friendly’s, that’s all,” I choked out. “With his friend Matt and some girl from Holy Name. At some point Felix just . . . got . . . you know, affectionate. Frisky.”

  “Be specific.” Xiang was stone serious.

  “He put his hand on my leg. And moved it up a little. No big deal.”

  “Well, it’s a big deal if it makes you cry at lunch, Marty,” she pressed. I had never seen Xiang like this—no zingers, no sarcasm.

  “I’m just tired. And stressed about the musical. It’s nothing.”

  “It’s not nothing, Marty,” she shot back. “You obviously didn’t want him to do that. You weren’t ready.”

  In retrospect, I’m sure Xiang meant that in a supportive way, but something about the way she said ready rubbed me the wrong way. Like because she smokes cigarettes or is someone who does more than just kiss, that means she’s way more sophisticated than me? When I thought about it, she was always full of advice, lecturing me, telling me why people are the way they are and how I should act.

  I flailed my arms. “What the hell does that mean? You’re almost having sex. Why wouldn’t I be ‘ready’?”

  Xiang reared back. “Whoa. This isn’t about me, Marty. This is about you. Actually, it’s about Felix.” She did an eye-roll maneuver. “It’s not some competition.”

  My tears were still flowing, and somehow all my swirling emotions had channeled themselves into anger. Embarrassed, frustrated, confused rage.

  “You know what? Fuck you,” I said, pushing past her and back into the cafeteria. I grabbed my abandoned lunch as I passed our table, dropping it into the garbage on my way out. In the parking lot, I pulled out my phone.

  Sorry about last nite, just a weird combo of exhaustion and nerves. We’re gr8. CU soon. xoxo.

  Send.

  When I walked into Jerry Hall for rehearsal a few classes later, Xiang was already in the orchestra pit, giggling over something with Parker. Her eyes met mine, and she froze. I could feel her gaze follow me as I walked up to Felix and wrapped my arms around him, drawing him into a big ol’ French kiss.

  As we broke away from each other, Felix was left with a wolfish grin, and his hand lingered on my hip.

  Not ready, my ass, I thought to myself.

  As I looked around, it became clear that our PDA had surprised everyone. Not just Xiang and Jimmy, who knew our secret, but Oliver and Kate and Jenny McCafferty—and Sister Mary Alice, who for once looked truly at a loss for words. Was it really such a shock, Felix and me together?

  Jenny ended the awkward moment, clearing her throat loudly. “All right, people—places. This is the final run-through, so it has to be flawless. Flaw. Less.”

  We shuffled off backstage, and Felix kept his hand on my waist. He pulled me into a corner behind the curtain and pressed himself against me, kissing me deeply.

  “Well, I guess we’re out now,” he breathed. “You are so hot today.”

  “Oh,” I said, “about last night—”

  “No worries,” he said. “Let’s just enjoy the time we’ve got left.”

  My miscomprehension must have shown, because he smiled broadly. “In the musical. The time left together here in the show.” With a quick nibble on my ear, he bounded out of our corner toward the stairs to the dressing rooms.

  Suddenly Jimmy was at my side, pulling on my elbow.

  “What was that?” he
hissed.

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s like I don’t even know you. Why would you go and do that?”

  “I can hear the words leaving your mouth, but I have no idea what you are saying.”

  The overhead lights flashed twice, Jenny’s signal for the show start.

  Jimmy held both his palms up in front of my face. “Whatever. I can’t deal with this—with you—right now,” he said and then sprinted off to the sound booth.

  I stood there, stunned. I didn’t know what to think. Yes, I’d made out with Felix. Big deal! He makes out with Derek all the time! And he knew I’d hooked up with Felix before, so was this just because it was in front of other people?

  AARGH. Like I don’t have enough drama right now with the show and Xiang probably never speaking to me again. Shake it off, Marty, I told myself as I headed to wardrobe.

  But just before I got to the bottom of the stairs, Oliver appeared, blocking my path.

  “Hey,” he said. He didn’t look too happy, but I couldn’t really be sure, since his face was deeply shadowed by the light pouring out from behind him.

  “Hi. What’s up? Shouldn’t you be at the curtain controls? Jenny will totally—”

  “Yeah, I know. But this’ll be quick. I saw you . . .” He flailed his arms. “You know, with Felix. And I don’t want to tell you what to do, but I just . . . I don’t think you’ve really thought this through.”

  Oh, Lordy.

  “You, too?” I asked, hand on hip. “First Xiang is all patronizing; then Jimmy gets all pissy. Jesus Christ, what is going on here? I can’t win! I’m so sick of this shit,” I said, trying to move past him. But Oliver held out an arm, blocking me.

  “You deserve better, Marty. He’s an asshole.” I had never heard Oliver swear before, and it seemed really unfair that he would be criticizing Felix without really knowing him—and criticizing me, too, basically, for hooking up with him.

  “Excuse me, but where do you get off telling me what the hell I should do?”

  He flinched and stepped back as if I’d slapped him.

  Whatever. “I’m late,” I huffed, moving past him before angry tears formed.

  In the dressing room, I managed to calm down and text my mom.

  All my rides fell through 2nite. You have 2 pick me up at 11.

  An unexpected benefit to having weird drama in your life? You get better at drama (like, theater drama), because it’s sooo nice to leave yourself for a while. When I was onstage that night, with all the costumes and the lighting and the scenery, I was Little Red Riding Hood. All the rehearsals finally clicked into place, and I easily made all my cues. Even in my one scene with Felix, I wasn’t thinking about Felix—it was just the lurid Wolf following me through the woods. And when I sang my big solo about, well, life, I was still Red. I was someone who had never heard the name Martha Sullivan—or met her totally critical, judgmental, unsupportive, so-called friends—in an enchanted forest nowhere near Nowhere, Ohio.

  That night I lay in bed for hours just staring at the ceiling. (If you’re wondering about the wisdom in that, you’re right: If you have a super-important event the next day—say, the opening night of a musical in which you will sing in front of hundreds of people—it’s not a good idea to add sleep deprivation to your list of concerns.)

  My mom had seen the Hsus’ car in the parking lot when she had come to pick me up. On the drive back she had asked, “Are you and Xiang not getting along?”

  All she got in response was “None of your business.”

  And I don’t know what this says about me, but I wasn’t all torn up over my fight with Xiang, my only true friend at school. And I wasn’t even bothered about Jimmy, my onetime BFF, being all mad at me. I had a grinding, scissors-y feeling in my chest, and I just couldn’t stop picturing Oliver’s big brown eyes as I pushed past him. They were so sad. No, not sad. Disappointed. Hurt.

  Jimmy and Xiang were probably jealous of me and Felix, since both of their boyfriends have the personality of a cardboard box. But what made Oliver think Felix was an asshole? Felix was vain, yes, and certainly not subtle when he wanted something. He was loud and confident and ridiculously hunky—everyone thought so.

  Even if I could justify everything in my head, the churning didn’t stop in my chest. I lay awake—wide awake—rubbing a river pebble as if it were a rosary bead.

  So the next day at school was exactly the nightmare you would it expect it to be. I was groggy from the lack of sleep, physically numb from nerves over the show—literally, my hands were cold and tingly—and in the pissiest mood ever because of my ex-friends. I studiously avoided speaking to or making eye contact with Xiang during math, and I ate my lunch in the parking lot. (Actually, I ate a third of my lunch. I had approximately zero appetite.) I totally failed a pop quiz during chemistry because I couldn’t think straight, and then I forgot my copy of The Scarlet Letter in my locker, which meant that in English I had to look on with this girl who—I’m not going to say her name, so I don’t get sued or something—totally does not understand personal hygiene. Even after class ended, I kept sniffing myself, wondering whether it was possible for BO to be transmitted to others by air currents or something. Not cool.

  After classes, we still had a few hours before curtain, so Sister Mary Alice and Mrs. Murray summoned the whole cast and crew to Jerry Hall in order to address last-minute “weaknesses” in the show. They had ordered a bunch of pizzas and left them for us to graze on in the lobby, and it quickly became clear that nervous girls don’t eat, while nervous boys eat like there’s no tomorrow. Jimmy, Oliver, and Derek lingered near the food in a tight huddle, glancing over at me every now and then. I couldn’t tell if they were pissed at me or scared of me. Anyway, I was sitting with Felix on a radiator; he was scarfing a slice with one hand, his other arm draped over my shoulders.

  How did this even happen, that I went from having all these friends to . . . this? Well, at least Felix was here with me, and I tried to take comfort from his protective arm weighing down on me. It was a pretty heavy arm.

  I sipped a Coke absentmindedly, but then the sugar rush made me feel nauseous, so I stopped. I had to pee, and my butt was getting hot, but I figured I’d try to hold it as long as possible so I wouldn’t have to go, like, a dozen times before the show started. (Let’s not deconstruct that logic, OK?)

  During notes, Sister Mary Alice and Mrs. Murray didn’t have too much to say about me, so I sat in a middle row by myself while Foster, who played the role of Jack, redid his solo about a billion times. He kept screwing up the pacing. I looked over and saw Derek stooped over, with his head clasped in white-knuckled hands.

  Even in the midst of my own turbulent hell, I could see that Derek’s was worse. Poor guy.

  Felix, on the other hand, seemed totally not nervous. He was already wearing his shaggy gray Wolf suit, without the mask, so he looked like a hot half-Muppet. Even after my weird reaction on Wednesday, I still thought he was the most attractive person I’d ever seen.

  I glanced over at Oliver farther down my row, but he just looked straight ahead at Foster, uncharacteristically serious. Cold as ice.

  Whatever. There were only forty minutes left before the show, and I had other things to focus on. Mainly, not throwing up.

  In the girls’ dressing room, I found something poking out of my duffel bag. It was a folded invitation from Maria Kilkenny for the cast party at her house on Saturday night. On it she had scribbled, And be ready for our drunken “Memory” duet!!! Next to the invitation was a handmade card. Earlier, during the pizzas, I had seen Maria working in a back corner of the auditorium by herself, and I realized she must have made individual cards for everyone in the cast. Why didn’t I think to do something like that?

  Mine featured a pressed, dried flower glued to the cover. Inside was written in silver marker:

  Take extra care with strangers,

  Even flowers have their dangers,

  And though scary is exciting,

&nbs
p; Nice is different than good.

  Aww, so cute! The lyric was from my big song in the first act. This was such a thoughtful gesture, and it made me wonder why I hadn’t gotten to know Maria better during these past couple of months. She was funny! And theater-y! Maybe this blowup with Xiang and the guys was the best thing that could have happened to me, you know? Opened up my eyes to the people around me.

  I walked over to Maria and enveloped her in a proper hug, to the point where she seemed a bit taken aback. (People should hug more often and with gusto, so it doesn’t come as a shock.)

  “The party tomorrow will be amazing,” I said. “I’m so excited.”

  “Um, great! See you there,” she replied, recovering from my sudden outpouring of love.

  I double-checked my makeup in the mirror, carefully laced up my red cape, and headed out to my position in the wings. Oh, wait—was there enough time for a final bathroom visit? Yeah, I could make it.

  You know the sound of an audience quieting down, just before a show is supposed to start? First it’s the happy clatter of hundreds of people talking, then a slow ebb as people see the lights go down, and then just the last holdouts finishing their frantic, whispered conversations. As the ambient volume faded, I felt the pit of my stomach lift, as if I was suddenly released into free fall. And for the next two and a half hours, I would be at terminal velocity.

  Curtain up.

  Performances, especially opening-night performances, are totally different from even the most polished of final run-through dress rehearsals. Sister Mary Alice had recruited a bunch of seniors to sit and watch our last rehearsal, just so we would feel the pressure of an audience and start adjusting to their laughs and applause (and hopefully not their boos and rotten tomatoes). Even so, it wasn’t quite the same thing as a performance. From the first words spoken, something magical happens. It’s incredible how a bit of lighting, a few costumes, and some music can really take you somewhere else—in this case, the fantasy world of fairy tales. But, really, I think it’s the audience that does it. They expect to be somewhere else, and, well, that seems to be enough. Together, we all go there.