Play Me

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Play Me Page 10

by Laura Ruby


  “Right here is where we’ll cut to you pouring a bag of sugar all over the ground,” Rory says.

  “And we could play that old song, ‘Sugar, Sugar,’” says Joe.

  “What song?” says Rory.

  “You know the one I’m talking about.”

  “No, I don’t. I wouldn’t ask if I did.”

  “It goes, Sugar, ah, honey honey.”

  All this talking about Sugar reminds me of my personal triumph, that is, turning away a hot girl of my own volition. I must be some kind of superhero. I hope Lucinda appreciates the effort. I pet Tippi Hedren and she purrs.

  “What’s with you and the weird songs?” says Rory. “That one doesn’t go with Riot Grrl at all.”

  “I don’t know if we really need to go over this now anyway,” I say. “We’re meeting the MTV people in a few days. They’ll probably give us some direction.”

  “You’re talking like it’s a done deal,” Joe says.

  “They said they want to produce the show,” I say.

  “I thought you said that they might be interested in producing the show. And besides, we’re the producers.”

  “We’re the producers of a video that is currently playing alongside clips of some double-jointed dude who can fold himself inside a suitcase,” I say. “I’d rather be co-producers of a real show, wouldn’t you?”

  “How do you know that they’ll even give us that much credit?” Joe says. “Maybe we’ll get some lousy ‘based on an idea by…’ credit line and that’s it.”

  “Can we go hear what the woman has to say before you go all apocalypto on us?” Rory asks. “I think you’ve been reading that thing way too much.” He waves at the Bible Joe is clutching. “You’ve got doom on the brain.”

  “I’m just trying to be realistic.”

  I snort. “You sound like my dad. This could only be what we’ve been talking about since we were fourteen years old. This could fund future JFM projects.”

  When I say that, Joe looks at the ground. “But maybe you’re not planning to do any more JFM projects.”

  His head whips up. “I didn’t say that.”

  “You’re thinking it. Are you going to tell me that if we win this contest, you’ll give up college?”

  “I’ll give up college,” Rory says. “I’d give it up in a second.”

  “I’m telling you that I think the fact that we do everything ourselves will impress more people down the line,” Joe says.

  “Which people?” I say. “And when?”

  “Why are you in such a hurry?” Joe says. “We haven’t even graduated yet.”

  “That’s just a technicality at this point.”

  “Darren Aronofsky didn’t make Pi until he was in his mid-twenties.”

  Rory is getting annoyed. “So? Who the hell cares what Aronofsky did? And Pi was a mess. It’s an insult to mathematicians.”

  “Pi was visionary,” Joe says. “And you can’t do math to save your life, so what’s it to you?”

  “Why can’t we just go hear what they have to say? If you don’t like it, then we’ll talk, okay?”

  Gina narrows her eyes and peers at me through the slits. “What’s going on with you?”

  Tippi’s purring is so loud she sounds like a tiger after eating an antelope. “Nothing.”

  “Yes, there is. You’re way too mellow.”

  “I’m always mellow.”

  “You’re too mellow.”

  “Yeah,” says Rory. “Even Tippi is mellow. And she’s never mellow.”

  “I’m fine, guys. Everything’s cool.”

  “You’ve got a new chick, don’t you?” Rory says.

  “No,” I say.

  “Yes, you do. You have that new chick look.”

  “No chicks here,” I say.

  “I’m just a wild animal!” says Tippi Hedren.

  “Sorry, Tippi. And, uh, Gina.”

  Gina stares at me. Her dark eyes make me feel creepy, like she can crawl around in my brain and see that there’s someone else in there. I turn on the beat-up TV in the corner, the one that makes everyone look green. There’s an Ultimate Fighting competition on. For a minute, I watch two guys try their best to kick the crap out of each other, their faces pink and pulpy.

  “Whoa! Sam Stout can really take a punch!” says one of the announcers.

  “You don’t get to be a kickboxing champ by being a wuss,” says another.

  Gina sneers. “When these guys have given birth, they can talk to me about wusses.”

  “You’ve never given birth either,” says Rory.

  “Fine. When these guys have had a single menstrual cramp and not cried like a baby, they can talk to me about wusses.” She flicks her cigarette to the floor and grinds it under her boot. “I’m going to get a soda.” She stomps out.

  “Tactful as always, Ed,” Joe says.

  “What are you talking about? What did I do?”

  He doesn’t answer my question. It seems he won’t be answering any questions. “Do you mind if I take a look at the camera till she comes back? I’m thinking of buying one.”

  “Really? What for?”

  He shrugs. “For this thing I want to do. No big deal.”

  Rory, who had been sprawled across the ratty velvet couch, says, “Hey, if you’ve got any good ideas, man up and spill. We could always use some new ideas.”

  “It’s nothing,” Joe says. “It’s not even a show or anything. Not for Jumping Frenchmen. I just want to talk about religion.”

  Rory frowns. “You want to what?”

  “I’ve been reading the Bible a lot, right? There’s all kinds of stuff in there. Lots of stuff that people don’t talk about. I want to talk about it.”

  “You’re going to give Bible lessons on camera?”

  “No, I’m just going to talk about what I’ve read, that’s all. What I think about it. Nothing intense.”

  “Right, Joe. Talking about the Bible is so not intense.”

  “It’s not like that. Never mind. Like I said, it’s nothing for Jumping Frenchmen.”

  For four years, we’ve worked together. Not once have any of us done an independent project. We didn’t need to. We didn’t want to. And now we’re in this contest, we’re going to meet with MTV about producing this show, and Joe refuses to answer my question about deferring college, yammering on about the Bible. What does that say about his commitment? What does that say about him? Makes me wonder. Maybe he doesn’t want this to work out. Maybe he’d rather we go down in flames or just go down period and he can get on with his much more meaningful, artistic, and intellectual life.

  “I don’t want to talk about the Bible. I want to talk about Eddy’s new chick,” Rory says. “Who is it? Wait! I know! That groupie girl that Gina was so pissed about. She was hot.”

  I shake my head. “No, not her.”

  “Who, man?”

  “Forget it,” I say.

  “You. Must. Spill,” Rory says. He’s bouncing up on the balls of his feet like the Meatball. There’s nothing that Rory likes to talk about more than girls. His girls, your girls, that guy’s girls, all the girls that walk the face of the earth.

  “It’s nobody you know,” I say. “Or at least, nobody you’d expect.”

  “You’re killing me,” says Rory. Even Joe seems mildly interested.

  A voice in the back of my head tells me there’s just been the one kiss and I shouldn’t say anything, shouldn’t jinx it, at least not yet. And I know that Joe’s crushing on her too, and do I really need the Carved Pumpkin Boy to be even pissier? But I want to talk about her, I want to say her name out loud. And who cares about Joe? He doesn’t seem to be thinking much about us, either. Any of us.

  I say: “Lucinda Dulko.”

  “Huh?” Rory says, screwing up his face. “Sports chick?”

  “What?” says Joe.

  Rory thinks about this for a minute. “I’d give that girl about a 7.69.” Rory’s always very precise about his ratings. “She gets credit
for the onions but points off for covering them up. Nice face, but sci-fi eyes. Plus she’s got big calves.”

  “She doesn’t have big calves.”

  “Yeah, she does. Bigger than yours.”

  “You’re an idiot,” I say.

  Joe says, “No way.”

  “No way what?” I say. “The calves?”

  “No way Dulko would go out with you, Ed.” His voice is low and quiet, but he’s smiling ominously, like he’s channeling Jack Nicholson.

  “We just went out on Saturday. We’re going out again this weekend.”

  “She’s not your type,” Joe says. “Give it up.”

  “What’s my type, Joe?”

  He says, “Why don’t you leave her alone?”

  “Why?” I say. “You got a thing for her?”

  “I don’t have to have a thing for her to know that all you’re going to do is…” He trails off.

  “All I’m going to do is what? What do you know about what I want to do?”

  At this, he shakes his head. “Are you sure Dulko knows about this? Are you sure this isn’t some fantasy of yours?”

  “Screw you.”

  “Why? You run out of girls or something?” He grabs his Bible and walks out the door.

  West Side Story

  I don’t have classes with Lucinda, I don’t have lunch with Lucinda, my locker’s on the other side of the world, and though I would never tell any one this, I don’t have her number and the Dulkos are unlisted. I wait all week to play tennis. It’s a long week. Joe is barely speaking to me, Rory won’t shut up. Thankfully, nobody says anything in front of Gina, so I don’t get any more bottles launched at my head.

  Today Lucinda’s wearing a white tank top and shorts. She has her racket and her water bottles. There’s no lipstick or fishnets or tattoos or cleavage. No hair spray or eyeliner. No twirling of the hair or glancing out of the corner of her eyes or any of what girls usually do.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “Hey,” she says. She smiles. I want to kiss her hello, but I can’t be sure she wants me to. I punch her on the shoulder, a little punch. She laughs and whacks me in the butt with the racket. Then before I can think to do anything more friendly, she jogs to the other side of the court.

  She beats me again, but this time it’s 6–1, 6–4.

  “You’re getting better at this,” she tells me when we’re done. We sit on the bleachers by the side of the court, drinking from the water bottles she’s brought. She smells like baby powder and sweat.

  “I let you win that time,” I say. “Next time I won’t be so nice.”

  “Who says there’ll be a next time?”

  “What do you mean?” I say it too hard and too fast and now she knows.

  She knows.

  I want to pour the water over my head.

  But she says, “What are you doing for dinner?”

  “No plans.”

  “Want to come to my house?”

  “Are you cooking?”

  “Ha! That’s funny. No. Not unless you want a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. My brother’s cooking. He’s a chef. Well, he’s studying to be a chef. But he’s a great cook. And he loves it when I bring new people over to eat his food. There’s always a ton of it.”

  I have no idea if she wants me to meet her family or if this is some kind of date or just an excuse to get rid of extra food, but I’ll take it.

  “Sure. I’m in.”

  “How’s six?”

  “That’ll work.”

  She scoops up her racket and stands in front of me. I’m facing the sun and have to squint up to see her. She’s still slightly sweaty from the game and her white skin gleams, searing my retinas.

  She’s there long after she’s gone.

  When I get home, the Meatball is sprawled in my bed with a pillow over his face. I’m not sure if he’s asleep or dead. Dead, I figure.

  I throw the pillow to the floor. “Meatball! Are you okay?” I put my ear to his chest and check for a heartbeat. Thump, thump, thump. I check for a pulse next, pressing my fingers on the side of his neck. And then I start CPR, knotting my hands together and pressing them into his breastbone, one, two, three, four times.

  “You’ll have me up on my poor paralyzed legs in the very next scene,” says Tippi Hedren from her cage.

  Meatball speaks without opening his eyes. “You’re supposed to give me four short breaths too.”

  “Yeah, I know,” I say.

  Now he opens his eyes. “Don’t you love me?”

  “Forever and ever. But not in a kissing sort of way.”

  He sits up. “You’re a funny guy, Eddy.”

  “That’s what they tell me.”

  “You didn’t talk to Mom this morning.”

  “I was busy this morning. Things to do.”

  “She was worried about you. You don’t skip her phone calls.”

  “Like I said, Meat, I had some things I had to do. For work, you know. She should understand that.”

  “Maybe you could tell her about it next time,” Meat says.

  “Maybe.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m getting some stuff ready. I need to take a shower and get changed.” I flip through my closet for a shirt. I pull out an orange one with stripes.

  “Blue shirt,” says Tippi.

  “I don’t want to wear blue, Tippi.”

  “Who cares what kind of shirt you wear?” the Meatball says.

  “I care,” I tell him.

  “Tippi’s the one who cares,” Meat says. “You don’t care.”

  “Today I care.”

  “Why?”

  “’Cause I’m going out later,” I tell him.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To a friend’s house.”

  “Whose house? Rory’s house?”

  “No, not Rory’s.”

  “Joe’s house?”

  “No,” I say.

  “So then whose house?” He goes quiet, folding his hands on his lap. “Are you going to a girl’s house?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Girls smell.”

  “Yeah,” I say, ruffling his hair. “They smell good.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Talk to me in about five or six years. You might change your mind.”

  He sighs. “I’m doomed.”

  “What do you think of this one?” I’m wearing a brown shirt that my mom sent me for Christmas.

  The Meatball peers up at me. “I think it’s a shirt.”

  “Does it look good?”

  “No, it looks like a turd.”

  “Thanks, Meat.”

  He picks the pillow off the floor and puts it back on my bed. “I don’t want you to go.”

  “Sure you do. That way you get Marty and Dad all to yourself.” If Meatball was here, Marty was around somewhere.

  “You haven’t played Dance Dance Revolution with me yet. You said you would. I’m getting very good at it. Dad and Other Dad said so.”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “You have to promise.”

  “I promise,” I say. “I will play video games with you tomorrow.”

  “Everything’s always tomorrow.”

  “Until it’s today.”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  “Never mind. I have to go now, Meat.”

  “To see the smelly girl?”

  “Yes, to see the smelly girl.”

  He sits up and stares at me. “You’re going to kiss her, aren’t you?”

  “I hope so.”

  “I’m just a wild animal,” Tippi Hedren says.

  “Well, it’s nice to see you choosing some nice clothes. What’s the occasion?” Marty stands in the doorway. He has a key to our house so he can show up with the Meatball whenever he wants.

  “Eddy’s going to see a girl,” the Meatball says.

  “You’ll be back for dinner, right?” Marty says. “Your dad will finally be home for once; r
emember I told you I was coming over? I thought we’d all eat together. I’m making pasta. Four cheese.”

  I don’t remember him telling me anything. I hold the shirt up and check the mirror to make sure my shirt’s more chocolate than turd. “I’m sorry, Marty, but I already told my friend that I’d go over to her house.”

  He crosses his arms and leans against the doorjamb. “I’m sure I mentioned it. Just the other day.”

  “I don’t think so. And anyway, I really want to go to my friend’s house.”

  “Who’s the friend?”

  “Nobody you know. Someone from school.”

  “Oh,” he says. I can see that he’s all disappointed, but I don’t know what else to say. There’s no way I’m blowing off Lucinda so that I can hang out with Marty and my dad, who are so depressing that my brain cells threaten to fling themselves out of my ears.

  “I can’t convince you?” says Marty. “I’m baking a chocolate cake. You can bring your friend here. Your dad is a little sad. Today would have been his twentieth anniversary.”

  “You mean today would have been his anniversary if Mom hadn’t divorced him to marry you and then left you to go to Miami.”

  “Well, when you put it like that,” he says.

  “There’s another way to put it?” I say. I like Marty. I like my dad. But if you’d told me that they were going to become best buds after my mom dumped them both, I would have said you were out of your mind. It seems more like the kind of situation that lands you on daytime talk shows, swinging punches.

  “We were also hoping that we could talk to you about your plans,” he’s saying. “Show business is so unstable. Why not at least go to school and study film? You could still make your own movies on the side.”

  “Et tu, Marty? I don’t want to make movies on the side. I want to make movies, period. And I don’t need to waste four years just to make everyone else feel better.”

  “Can’t convince you of much these days, can I?”

  “Marty…” I say.

  “Never mind. Go. Enjoy yourself.” He thinks for a second. “But not too much.” He looks pointedly at the Meatball as if the kid is some kind of human cautionary tale.

 

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