My Invented Life

by Lauren Bjorkman

  “Would you hold my hand if you saw me in heaven?” he sings, and right then the tension between us dissolves. I imagine him playing me like that, and my pulse accelerates.

  At the end of the song I hand him a coffee.

  “Can you teach me to play that?” I say, looking at his lips. All I’m asking for is one little espresso-coated kiss to help me forget Bryan.

  “Sure,” he says. He leans toward me, stroking my back with his long fingers.

  My invented life is such a happy one. Too bad reality keeps intruding.

  When I ask him to teach me the song, he pretends not to hear and starts putting the guitar back into the shaggy silver interior of its case. “Please.” I make a playful lunge for it.

  “Back off,” he snarls.

  My evil girlfriend theory is gaining ground.

  “Why did you play me a love song, then?” I say.

  “Clapton wrote that song for his dead son.”

  “Oh.”

  “Aunt S told you to hit on me. Am I right?” he says.

  Before I can answer, he marches to the door and kicks the doorjamb. “Stay away from me,” he yells on his way out. After he’s thoroughly gone, I jog home. The cold air plus something else makes my throat ache. I feel repulsive. Sapphire could probably explain it all to me. Unfortunately, I can’t tell her about our afternoon at the Silo because she’s Jonathan’s guardian. At age six, the scarlet T for tattletale puts a crimp on your social life. At age sixteen, a bout of flesh-eating bacteria would be preferable.

  When I get home, I go straight to Eva’s room. The door won’t open—a new PD thing—and she doesn’t answer when I knock and yell. Mom is working late. Dad tells me to leave Eva alone. I compromise by writing a note.

  Hey, Eva. I’m really sorry about Carmen. Can we talk? Something else happened today. Can we talk, pretty please?

  I go outside and peer through her window, the concerned-sister version of P. Tom. She’s lying facedown on her bed. I tape the note to the glass facing in so she can read it later.

  When I check the computer, our chat room is vacant. The house radiates quiet like a museum where the only sounds are from the patrons scratching their heads and the dandruff hitting the floor. I didn’t realize until Eva dumped me how many of my so-called friends were actually her friends.

  Before I finish sulking, Dad calls me to the dinner table. The T-shirt rock icon of the day is Robert Plant of Zep.

  “Serve yourself,” he says.

  “Is that texturized soy protein?” I ask, pointing at the MadCowDisease loaf.

  “It’s not vegetarian,” Elmo says. “The cow was, though. Before I cooked him.”

  I heap my plate with brown rice and a few token Brussels sprouts. Since my experience with the banana slug—eating one on a dare during a field trip to the redwoods—overcooked asparagus, okra, and other slimy vegetables are off the menu. Mom comes in as we sit down at the kitchen table.

  “I’m home,” she sings. “Where’s Eva?”

  “Hi, Roz. How was your day?” I mutter.

  “What was that?”

  “Eva’s in her room and won’t come out,” Dad says. “She refused to talk to me.”

  Mom makes a plate for herself. Her worry lines are deeper than normal. Dad looks at my heap of rice. “Vegetarians eat vegetables,” he says.

  “If only they could breed veggies to taste like Cheez Doodles,” I say.

  “A Brussels sprout a day keeps the doctor away,” Gethsemane says. “Any idea what’s up with Eva?”

  “She had a fight with Carmen at tryouts,” I say.

  As Mom stands up to go to Eva’s room, she glances at my barren dinner plate. “There’s some tofu in the fridge,” she says.

  I go to fry some up. At least she bought the firm kind I like.

  The phone rings while I’m loading the dishwasher. Mom is still in Eva’s room. She picks up the same instant I do. “Hello?” we say in unison.

  “Hi, it’s Sapphire. Can I talk to Eva? It’s about the play.”

  “Sure,” Mom says. “She’s right here. Roz, hang up.”

  “Bye.” Ever the serpent under the flower, I hit the mute button, move into the laundry closet, and close the door.

  Sapphire: Can we talk about what happened today?

  Eva: I got there late because my friend needed me.

  That’s all. I never told Carmen I wouldn’t audition for Rosalind.

  (Sniffle sounds.)

  Sapphire: I’m sorry about your fight. If you think the friend emergency threw off your reading today, I’d like to give you a second chance.

  Eva, in a sharp voice: What do you mean?

  Sapphire: (Raspy intake of breath) I mean . . . based on the readings as they stand, I will give the lead to Roz.

  The phone slips from my hand and falls into the empty washing machine.

  Eva: Really?

  (Metallic echo.)

  Monumental.

  I retrieve the phone from the barrel and hit the off button by mistake.

  No, this is not one of my crazy fantasies. I hop onto the dryer and dance like those sexy Brazilian soccer players when they score a goal in the World Cup. I wish I could call everyone with the good news. But I can’t. For one thing, it isn’t official. For another, it would be in bad taste because of the jealousy factor. A smidgen of empathy for Eva dims the glow of my pleasure, but I brush it aside. Does Eva feel rotten each time she beats me out for a role? I seriously doubt it. Still, when I see her online later that evening, I send her an instant message.

  Me: talk to me . . .

  Me: pretty plz, with sugar, whipped cream + 12 cherries on top?

  Eva: i don’t believe in sugar

  Me: melted chocolate then? *kisses her sister’s perfect big toenail*

  Me: u r leaving home in a few months . . .

  Eva: ok 2moro

  Eva: may b

  Chapter

  6

  Since the scooter craze ended years ago, I’m the only person in Yolo Bluffs who still rides one. As I zip to school the next morning, a fantasy bubble reading ROZ, THE NEXT JULIA ROBERTS hovers above my head. The Oscar statue in my hand feels heavier than expected. I crumple my carefully worded acceptance speech and babble an endless stream of thank-yous into the microphone. When I arrive at the Barn door, Sapphire hasn’t posted the playbill with my name on top yet. My bubble deflates.

  In homeroom, Carmen appears to be absorbed by Balzac in the original French. She takes no notice of me when I sit down next to her. She’s wearing a new silver skull earring in her left ear in a desperate attempt to look hip. True confession—I want one too. I restrain myself from asking her where she bought it, though. Mr. Beltz blathers on about college prep stuff completely unaware of the blotch of breakfast matter on his shirt. Maybe I can glean a clue about Carmen’s fight with Eva yesterday. I write her a note.

  Sup? You read well!

  When Mr. Beltz turns toward the board, I flick the folded sheet her way. She scrawls a quick answer and goes back to her book without looking at me. While I read the note, she wraps one of her long black tresses around her wrist like a bracelet. My short spikes turn away in envy.

  Desist your banal chatter.

  I scribble a response.

  My father was no prostitute.

  When I slide the paper near her elbow, she knocks it to the floor in what appears to be an accident. The bell rings, and she hurries out without a word.

  Eva said she’d talk to me today. I have no intention of letting her wriggle out of it, so I go looking for her at lunch. When I don’t find her among the bevy of cheerleader beauties in the cafeteria, I zigzag through every campus hideout I can think of. She’s in the gym stretching on the barre.

  “What’s the deal with you and Carmen?” I say. Small talk is such a time waster.

  “We’re peachy,” Eva says.

  “More like rotten peaches. Come on. Just tell me,” I say, ignoring every principle of persuasion. Coaxing my sister to
talk to me is another PD experience I have yet to grow accustomed to.

  “I have no idea.”

  Though I know this is a lie, I shake my head in a show of sympathy. “I can’t believe what she said at tryouts. That’s so messed up,” I say.

  Eva gives her hamstrings a short break. “I never told her I wouldn’t audition for Rosalind.”

  I recognize progress and tread lightly. “Who had the emergency yesterday?”

  “Carrie. She was suffering from a bad-clothes-day-slash-my-boyfriend-is-a-jerk emergency.”

  Carrie—another pep squad sylph I love to hate. I reserve my comments about Carrie’s Lands’ End wardrobe and brain-dead boyfriend so that Eva will keep talking to me.

  “Maybe Carmen asked Carrie to call you,” I propose, “so you’d miss the reading.”

  “She’d never do that,” Eva says. Her voice comes out flat and entirely devoid of conviction. I’m guessing the idea occurred to her, too.

  Just as Eva seems about to tell me something, I go and ruin it by sharing my current theory. “Maybe Carmen freaked because of the lesbian thing.”

  “You’re so dense, Chub.”

  The old Eva would’ve laughed it off. So true. Carmen’s been jealous since Madonna came into my life, though our affair ended months ago. Instead she throws a sweaty towel at my face with great force and accuracy. Who is this girl with no sense of humor, and what has she done with my sister? I give up on the diplomatic approach.

  “Carmen probably thinks you check her out when she’s naked. That you lust for her,” I say.

  Eva charges me and pins me against the mirror. What she lacks in size, she makes up for in athletic precision. “Wert thou not my sister, I would not take this hand from thy throat till this other had pulled out thy tongue.” Translation? I am a tad dense.

  “That’s Orlando’s line,” I whisper. “Or were you going to play the male lead?”

  The grip she tightens on my neck inspires me to choose my next words with care.

  “Unhand me,” I squeak. “I take everything back. Maybe I can find out what’s really going on with Carmen.”

  She releases the chokehold. “Okay,” she says. “But keep me out of it.”

  After my last class, I motor to the theater to check for the playbill. Nada. A gaggle of confused theater geeks loiters out front. Bryan and Jonathan are talking, or rather Bryan is talking and Jonathan is listening. Sort of listening while edging away. In fact, Jonathan looks like he’d rather be taking a trigonometry test at the dentist’s office. Should I go rescue them?

  I hear Bryan say, “Are you adopted? You know because . . . well . . . you’re bla—African-American.” This is all the proof I need that we’re meant for each other. I put my foot in my mouth on a regular basis too, though I don’t usually step in a cow pie first.

  Knowing from experience about Jonathan’s volatility, I wait for him to punch Bryan’s nose, which is a little on the pointy side and could use some flattening. Jonathan stuffs his hands in his pockets instead.

  “Dad’s black, and Mom’s white,” he says.

  “Oh, sorry, bro,” Bryan says.

  “I’m not your bro.”

  Abort mission rescue. I walk away, choosing to let Bryan think his awkward moment passed without witness.

  An hour later the screen door in the kitchen bangs shut. I put my ear against the wall that separates my room from Eva’s. I hear drawers open and close. She must be home, though I didn’t hear her car in the driveway. It coughs like a chain-smoking geezer when she shuts off the engine. I go to her room anyway, and find Bryan ransacking her top dresser drawer. He closes it when he sees me.

  “If you want to check out some really cute underwear, come to my room,” I say. The second the words leave my mouth, I turn away in embarrassment. “Do-over,” I yell from the hall.

  I go back to the door. “Oh, hi, Bryan,” I say. “Did Sapphire post the playbill yet?”

  His eyes are sparkling. “Sapphire never showed,” he says, playing along.

  I sit down on the edge of Eva’s bed. He sits next to me so close I can feel his warm breath on my cheek. Suddenly my biggest fear revolves around unsightly earwax.

  “How’s it going with your dad’s girlfriend?” I say to remind him of our last intimate conversation.

  “The worst.”

  “You should ask Nico for advice. His mom has a live-in boyfriend.”

  “I don’t want to talk to anyone else about it. It’s too private.”

  His skin smells of sun-dried wildflowers instead of cigarettes. The sexy scent soothes me and makes me stupid at the same time. Or at least that’s my lame excuse for what I say next.

  “Do you know that Eva . . . might be a lesbian?”

  He stares at me for a long moment. “You mean she’s gay? It doesn’t matter. You’re the one I’ve always wanted,” he says, wrapping his arms around me.

  Total drivel. One too many visits to Bryan Fantasy Land have wrecked my grip on reality.

  When I say, “Do you know that Eva . . . ?”

  Bryan says, “Eva what?”

  “Thinks she’ll get the lead in the play.”

  Bryan looks puzzled. “Of course she will. Slam dunk.”

  “Doesn’t it bother you?” I ask.

  He stands up and paces the room. “Going out with the most talented girl at school? No. But I wonder what she sees in me sometimes.” He sags like BlueDragon when he gets pushed away from someone’s tuna fish sandwich.

  “Not true. You’re brilliant. You got the lead in Hansel and Gretel.”

  “That was years ago, and it wasn’t Shakespeare.”

  “You’ll be better at Shakespeare,” I insist.

  He moves in close again. “You’re good for me, Roz,” he says in a husky voice.

  “What are you going to do about it?” I whisper.

  He looks at my lips. “I can’t.”

  “Can’t what?” If you could see dignity, mine would resemble a well-chewed doggie toy. I feel more humiliated than during my first pap smear.

  Eva’s car engine coughs. I throw her pom-poms at him, wishing that they were spiky instead of fluffy.

  Eva the Diva waltzes in. “What’s going on?” she says.

  “We were just talking about how perfect you are,” I say. “Ciao!”

  After retrieving the photograph of Bryan hidden under my bed, I search the back of the closet for the hockey stick Dad gave me, a mistake on his part six Christmases ago. My zeal for the sport far exceeded my skill. Eva went to the emergency room with a fractured toe, and she wasn’t even playing. I place Bryan on the floor, raise the wooden stick over my head, and slam down hard. “Take that, you dog-hearted horn-beast,” I say.

  When I hear Eva’s footsteps coming down the hall, I throw my quilt over the shattered glass and lie on top of it one second before she throws open my door. With nary a comment on my odd lounging spot, she perches on the edge of a chair piled with dirty clothes, holding her back as straight as an ice pick. She softens me up with the silent treatment.

  “What’s wrong?” I picture myself as an innocent daisy.

  “You’re a villainous contriver.” Translation? She knows me too well.

  “What?”

  “That’s Shakespeare. It means you are a sneaky twit. What were you two doing?”

  “Nothing,” I say softly. Saying too much in my own defense might come off as lying, which, admittedly, I’m doing. “What did he say we were up to?”

  “Nothing.”

  “See?” I reach for my toes to hide the relief on my face.

  She sweeps a stack of papers from my desk onto the floor. “I know what I know.” Her lips have a pale cast to them.

  Naturally I do the right thing, change the subject by pointing at the literature about gay teens that now blankets the floor. “Did you know that Amelia Earhart was rumored to be a lesbian?” Silence. As the void created by her nonanswer expands, I have no choice but to fill it. “And Margaret Mead. Even Plato
.”

  “Plato was a lesbian?” Eva says.

  “ROTFL,” I say. The furnace-air dries my throat. If only I could crack open the window, but I don’t dare leave the quilt covering up Bryan’s mangled picture. “Why don’t you want to talk about it?” I say.

  “I told you already. It has nothing to do with me.” She picks up one of the printouts and tosses it into the trash.

  “You shouldn’t be scared to come out.”

  Eva looks at me like I might start spooning applesauce into my ear any minute. “Maybe you’re fascinated with this topic because you’re the lesbian, Roz,” she says. “Maybe you should come out.”

  I laugh out loud. Boy-crazy Roz comes out as a lesbian? What a farce. Then I stop laughing. A minute ago Bryan made it abundantly clear he doesn’t want me. If I can’t have him, I don’t want a sorry substitute boyfriend. And girls are better than boys, actually. Prettier and easier to understand.

  If I came out at school, the limelight would be mine for once. My name would grace the Grand Marquee. ROZ PETERSON starring as the First Lesbian on the Yolo Bluffs HS stage. Sure, rumors float around that so-and-so might be gay, but no one shouts it proudly from the rooftops. I’d have the lead in a play written and directed by me. Pretending to be a lesbian is insane, of course, but as a person of the theater-geek persuasion, I pride myself on occasional acts of insanity.

  “You really are considering it, aren’t you?” Eva says. Do I detect a shred of admiration beneath her scorn? “You probably think it would make you popular.”

  “Do not!” I say. I hate that she sees how shallow I am.

  “You wouldn’t last a day,” she says, smiling at the idea of my pain and suffering. “You’d beg the parents to transfer you to a new school within a week. I dare you to try it.” She imagines me going up in flames and laughs with genuine pleasure. “Oh, and if you make another move on Bryan, your life won’t be worth living.” She exits like the divas in the old movies.