Babe in Boyland
Page 4
“What?” they ask in unison.
“Underwood! I’ll get my story at Underwood!”
Darcy tilts her head sideways. “You’ll interview guys there?”
“Why would they tell you any more than the ones you talked to last night?” Chloe asks.
“Because I won’t interview them as a girl.” I lower my voice to a dramatic whisper and lean toward them. “I’ll go undercover . . . as a guy!”
I wait for this to sink in. As it does, their eyes light up and all three of us start cackling madly like the witches from Macbeth, the second carafe of Sumatra and my brilliant idea hitting our systems simultaneously.
“It’s so Shakespeare!” Darcy cries, clapping her hands. “Like when you played Portia in The Merchant of Venice, remember?”
“Wait, you’re not seriously considering . . . ?” Chloe trails off.
“I can pull it off, right?” I glance down at my chest. I’m wearing a T-shirt, no bra, and there’s very little there to write home about. “It’s not like my ample breasts will get in the way.”
“It’s so James Bond!” Darcy twirls around like a little girl. “Undercover! Secret agents! We can have code names and communicate via walkie-talkie.”
“Cell phones might be less conspicuous, 007.” Chloe rolls her eyes, already recovering from her brief brush with enthusiasm and returning to her natural state of bitchy skepticism. “Hold on, though. How are you going to get in? Even if they believe you’re a guy, it’s not like you can just enroll. You’ve got to apply and stuff, don’t you?”
That stops us all for a moment.
“I have an idea,” Darcy says. “This is probably unethical, but my cousin Granger is a seriously accomplished hacker. I bet he could get into their system.”
“Would we have to pay him?” I ask.
She scoffs. “It’s all he does. He lives for it. He’s twelve and he has access to FBI files! I’ll see if he can fix it so they’ll think you’re a new student.”
“We’d have to move on it fast,” I say. “The deadline’s coming up.”
She pulls her cell from her pocket. “I’m on it.”
“So we’re really doing this?” My voice edges up in excitement.
“Hold on, hold on.” Chloe puts a hand up. “How are you going to miss school without anyone noticing?”
“I don’t have to be gone long. A week, tops.”
“What about your mom? Everyone at Underwood lives there, you know. You can’t just go home at night. Won’t your mom get worried if you’re missing for days on end?”
“She can say she’s staying with me,” Darcy puts in. “I’ll cover for her.”
“And homework?” Chloe demands.
“You guys can get me my assignments and I’ll make it up later.”
Chloe purses her lips, considering. I bump my hip against hers playfully.
“Come on! You know you love it. If I pull this off we’ll be legendary.”
“Hmm . . . I don’t know.”
“Where’s your spirit of adventure?” I ask. “It’s a mad-cap scheme full of intrigue and danger! What’s not to love?”
“Umm . . . the fact that it’s completely misguided and insane?”
“Exactly! That’s what’s so great about it. So are we doing this, or what?”
“I’m in,” Darcy says without hesitation.
Chloe’s lips curve into a reluctant grin. “It’s twisted and probably doomed to failure, but if you’re determined, I guess I have no choice.”
I squeal and jump around while Darcy calls her cousin.
If we really want to pull this off we’ll have to haul ass. Story of the Year entries are due at five o’clock a week from Monday. That means I have to get in, get out, and get the thing written in eight days. Even though my rehearsal time is tighter than usual, especially for such a demanding role, I’m kind of glad. This has to do with what I call the eating-insects-on-a-dare principle. The crazier the idea, the less time you can afford to spend thinking about it. If I hesitate to consider all the possible ways this stunt can go horribly askew, I’ll never have the nerve to show up at Underwood Monday morning. It’s now or never.
Saturday night Darcy, Chloe, and I talk strategy over Chinese takeout and Diet Coke. Darcy’s cousin Granger is all over the hacking challenge. He’s promised to call as soon as he’s made headway. In the meantime, we’ve got our work cut out for us. I make a quick to-do list in my notebook:1. Extreme makeover: haircut, etc.
2. Vocal training: lowered voice, typical male speech patterns
3. Costume: assemble suitable boy clothes until uniform can be obtained
4. Body language: walk, gestures, handshakes, spitting
5. Plan for absence: Decide how to keep normal life at bay for one week
“At last,” Darcy says when she sees number one on my list. “I’ve been dying to cut your hair for ages!”
Oh, God. I feel a little sick to my stomach as she pulls me toward her room. Chloe trails after us with a stack of Vogues. Darcy produces her gleaming silver scissors, holds them close to her face, and slices the air a couple of times dramatically like a serial killer testing her weapon of choice.
“You can’t escape, my pretty,” Chloe cries in her Wicked Witch voice.
Darcy creeps toward me, scissors outstretched.
I back away. “Lots of guys have long hair, right?”
“Not the boys at Underwood,” Darcy says.
“Couldn’t I just . . . wear a hat?”
She stops stalking me abruptly and lowers her chin to give me a look. “Are you committed to this role?”
“I’m committed! I am.” I swallow my instincts and scramble over to the little cushioned stool before Darcy’s dressing table.
Darcy puts on her black hairdresser’s PVC apron. (I’m serious—she’s way into this stuff. If she doesn’t make it as a famous character actress, she will definitely be hairdresser to the stars.) She tucks her scissors into the pocket and stands behind me. Running her fingers through my hair in a professional manner she studies my reflection in the mirror.
“Hmm,” she says, cocking her head this way and that.
Chloe holds up a picture from Vogue of a runway model with a shaved head. “I think we should go all the way.”
I cringe. I’m not obsessed with my looks or anything, but I do have certain strengths in the beauty department. I’ve got great legs, big hazel eyes, a full mouth, and long, shiny hair. Of those four assets, I have to say it’s my hair I’m most attached to. I guess that’s because my body is already so boyish, what with the total lack of hips and barely there boobs, that my hair is hands down the most feminine thing about me. Without it, I really will look like a boy.
Of course, that’s the whole point. Still, I can’t help but feel like we’re about to amputate the girl right out of me.
“Don’t worry,” Darcy chuckles. “This is going to look awesome.”
“We’re not shaving it, right?”
Chloe holds up another picture, one of a male model with slightly choppy short hair. “More like this, maybe?”
Darcy turns and studies the photo. “Uh-huh. That’s good. Really short in the back and sides, with a little more fullness through the top. We could throw some highlights through the front—”
“No highlights,” I say. “Just the cut.”
Darcy shrugs. “You’re the boss.”
She grabs a spray bottle and wets my hair with one hand, combing it carefully with the other, all the while studying me from various angles with a look of intense concentration.
I close my eyes. “God, just do it.”
“Relax. It grows back.”
“I know, I know. It’s just—”
A snipping sound stops me mid-sentence. My eyes fly open. A huge shank of hair is missing from the right side of my head. I squeeze my eyes shut again. “Oh, God.”
Chloe says in the Moviefone voice, “She was a woman, struggling to know the hearts of men . . .”
None of us say anything for a little while, and the only sound in the room is the rhythmic snip-snip-snip of the scissors mixed with the light flick of paper as Chloe flips through Vogue. I gaze into the soulful, tortured eyes of Jim Morrison as his various incarnations assess me from the ceiling and walls. He offers no comment.
“It’ll be liberating, right?” I say to no one in particular. “Guys have it so easy. They don’t really worry about how they look. They just spray on a little Axe and go.”
Chloe snorts. “Not all of them. I’ve dated guys who spend more time on their hair than I do.”
I press on, undeterred, trying to convince myself as my shiny hair piles up on the floor. “In general, though, they’re less neurotic than we are, don’t you think? They worry less. Short hair will be my first step toward experiencing male power and freedom.”
“Yeah,” Darcy says. “You’ll get to know what it’s like to live hairspray-free.”
“Just don’t become a gel addict,” Chloe warns. “That’s not a good look.”
After an interminable wait, Darcy says, “You ready for this? Step one in male-ification: makeover magic.” She spins me around on the swivel stool so I’m facing the mirror again. “Ta-dah!”
The girl in the mirror instantly freaks me out. It’s me, but it’s not me. The glossy waves around my face are now gone. What’s left stands up from my scalp in boyish disarray. I stare, unable to speak.
“Say something,” Darcy urges me. “Do you love it? I love it.”
Chloe appears beside her in the mirror, her smile huge. “Nice work, Paul Mitchell! Gorgeous.”
“I—wow—it’s really . . . short,” I finally manage.
Chloe says, “Jeez, Nat. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I think I’m kind of attracted to you.”
Darcy tousles my damp hair playfully. “God, it’s so flattering! Your eyes look enormous.”
It’s true. With all that hair gone, there’s nothing to hide behind. My cheekbones are more pronounced, my eyes wider, my lips fuller and pinker. I’m all . . . face.
“I’m such a genius,” Darcy muses happily. “Now if only I could get you to pierce your nose . . .”
Darcy’s cell chirps and she reaches under her apron to fish it from the pocket of her jeans. She glances at the display before answering. “Granger? What do you got?”
Chloe and I lock eyes in the mirror while Darcy paces around with the phone, going “uh-huh” and “right” and “okay.” It reminds me of waiting for a cast list to be posted, fidgeting helplessly as the thing I’ve been obsessing over is about to be unveiled.
Darcy finally presses a button and puts her phone back in her pocket. I swivel around to face her; Chloe and I both stare at her expectantly. For a terrifying moment her expression is so serious I know it didn’t work and we’ve just mutilated my hair for no reason.
Then she breaks into a glorious smile. “He did it! You’re in.”
Chloe squeals.
“Really?” My heart’s racing. “How? What did he do?”
She holds up her hands. “The kid’s a little Einstein, man. I don’t ask for details. All I know is your name’s Nat Rodgers and they should be expecting you in the Admissions office Monday morning.”
It’s really happening. We’re actually doing this. I feel sick and amazed and thrilled all at once. Operation Babe in Boyland is officially launched.
Chapter Five
Sunday morning we drive to Corte Madera to shop for my disguise. Luckily, Underwood has a uniform, so I just need one basic guy outfit to get me through the door. I’ve been practicing speaking in a low, manly voice, using my breath the way our drama teacher taught me back when I played Portia’s cross-dressing scene. In the car on the way to the mall Chloe and Darcy agree it’s a passably convincing register for Nat.
“No matter what, though, you can’t slip into your normal girl voice,” Darcy warns. “You’ve got to keep it guy-like all the time.”
Chloe puts on her blinker and steers her Honda toward the mall. “Maybe Nat should be shy. If you don’t say much, you’re less likely to get caught.”
“Yeah, but then will I really get answers?” I ask. “You think just being there, I’ll magically understand all there is to know about them? Won’t I have to get, you know, chummy?”
“Ooh!” Chloe says, parking her car in a shady spot. “You’ve got to find out if Josh likes me! He’s so yum!”
“I’m not doing this so I can fix you up with Mr. Clean,” I grumble.
“Why are you doing it, then?” She yanks her keys from the ignition and touches up her lipstick in the rearview mirror.
“To create a deeper understanding between the sexes,” I say. “To answer the questions girls have asked about guys since time began.”
She twists around to look at me in the backseat. “Well, I’m a girl, and I have a question: Does Josh like me?”
“Fine,” I say, opening the car door. “I’ll see what I can find out.”
In Macy’s, Chloe gets distracted by the shoe department, but we remind her sternly we don’t have time for cute fall boots. We make our way to men’s clothing. Aside from passing through en route to the bathroom, I’ve never even visited this department; it’s totally foreign. As we’re looking at button-down shirts a paunchy, middle-aged man with thinning hair approaches and asks if he can help us find anything.
“We’re shopping for her twin brother,” Darcy says, pointing at me. “She’s going to try some stuff on, just to make sure it all fits. Him, I mean. Fits him. Nat. Her brother.”
“All right, excellent,” the man says. “Let me know if I can be of help.” His face clearly says, Damn kids.
In the dressing room, we get the giggles at the way the jeans hang below my butt crack. When I find some that are baggy enough to be guy-like but not so loose that they’ll end up around my ankles, we pair them with a plain white button-down shirt. At their insistence, I walk up and down the hall outside the dressing room a couple times while they coach me on how to move.
“You’ve got to slouch more,” Darcy says. “Your posture’s too femmie.”
Chloe nods. “Think gangsta, you know? Lean down into it.”
I try, but they’re still not satisfied. An old guy comes out of a dressing room carrying a bunch of sweaters and scowling at us, which sets us off giggling again. When we recover I resume my practice walk, but even I can see in the mirror that it’s not convincing. Something’s off, but I can’t put a finger on it. Chloe studies me, shaking her head, then suddenly her face lights up with inspiration.
“I know what you need!”
“What?” I recognize that gleam in her eye, so I’m instantly suspicious.
“It’s all a matter of props. Darcy, go get us a pair of socks.”
“Socks?” Her forehead scrunches up in confusion.
“Hurry!”
Darcy runs out and in a few minutes she comes back with a pair of black cotton socks. “Does it matter what size they are?”
Chloe just laughs at that and hands the socks to me. “Here you go. Instant junk.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You want me to stuff it down my pants?”
“Yeah! Remember, you’ve got a package down there now.”
I glance around quickly to make sure nobody’s around, then stuff the pair of socks into the appropriate spot—more or less, anyway. It occurs to me that I’m not completely confident about placement. I mean, obviously I’m familiar enough with male anatomy to know the basics, but I never really thought about how they arrange it under clothing—how it hangs, so to speak. Once more I check to make sure nobody’s come into the dressing room, then I adjust the socks, examining their barely visible outline in the mirror.
“You can hardly see it,” I say. “You really think it’s necessary?”
Chloe breathes out the long-suffering sigh of someone fo
rced to interact with people of vastly inferior intelligence. “It’s not about the bulge; it’s about the way it feels. Go ahead, try the walk again.”
I do, and before I’ve even taken three steps Darcy gasps. “God! That’s it! Chloe, you’re a genius.”
She’s right. I can feel the difference, see it in the mirror. There’s just something about having that bulge between my legs that makes me move more convincingly. I might not have the manliest strut on the planet, but it will definitely pass.
Chloe nods. “By George, I think you’ve got it.”
I laugh and walk around some more, enjoying my new macho competence. “I always wondered what that expression meant.”
They both look at me, puzzled. “What expression?” Darcy asks.
“Cock of the walk.”
They groan in unison at my bad joke.
As they hang up clothes and debate which ones I should get, I turn back to my reflection for one last look. It’s so weird how the person staring back at me is familiar and yet isn’t Natalie, almost like I really am looking at my long-lost twin. For the first time since we decided to attempt this crazy stunt, Nat Rodgers seems real to me. He seems like a person I can try to become.
We stroll through the outdoor mall sipping iced coffee drinks. Mine is a caramel-soy latte, Darcy’s got a java chip Frappuccino, and Chloe takes hers black. The sunshine is warm on my head and face. I decide I really like my new short hair—it’s lighter, cooler, easier. It looks good too; even in my ratty T-shirt and jeans I catch two or three guys checking me out, which is nice. Their glances, along with the gorgeous blue sky, my loyal girls, and the caffeine rush, boost my overall confidence in the rightness of the world.
“So you’re going to tell your mom you’re at my house, right?” Darcy asks.
I nod. “Seems like the best plan.”
“Doing what, though?” Darcy’s muses, twisting her straw in circles.
I take another sip of latte and consider. “Maybe we could say we have a huge project due at school and it’ll require super-long hours. I’ll say we procrastinated or something.”