My Invented Life

by Lauren Bjorkman

  “Did you know that Nico’s from Mexico?” Andie asks.

  “You don’t have an accent.”

  “I don’t believe in accents,” he says in an Antonio Banderas accent. “Besides, I moved here before I could talk.” He tells this to the sugar dispenser.

  “His mom is Mayan,” Andie says. She sounds like a used car salesman selling her used boyfriend. Notice the antilock brakes and rear suspension. Maybe she read my mind, heard my unkind thoughts about him. My knee jostles my tote and tips it over. The famous lesbian novel, Annie on My Mind, falls out. I had wedged it in at the top of my bag to pique Eva’s curiosity.

  Eyeliner Andie picks it up off the floor. “Do you like it?” she asks.

  “It’s good. A little old-fashioned.”

  “Classics are fine, but I’ve got something more current.” She opens her green poodle purse with buttons all over it and takes out a book called Boy Meets Boy. “Way cool. And funny too.” Her lovely Egyptian eyes bore into me. “There’s a lot more where that came from. My bedroom’s practically a library. You should check it out sometime.”

  She’s coming on to me. In a single, graceless motion, I knock my coffee onto the floor with my forearm. The barista gives me a look that says “They don’t pay me enough to mop up after a clumsy ditz like you.”

  “I don’t believe in coffee.” I throw a pile of brown napkins on the puddle.

  Nico collects the soggy heap to deposit into the trash. While he’s across the room, Andie whispers into my ear. “Can you give Nico pointers on acting when you come over?”

  Oh. She didn’t want to compromise my virginity. She wanted acting lessons for Nico.

  “Why wait?” I say. Nico comes back to the table. “We are going to do a little acting practice.”

  “Good idea.” He looks at me at last. His irises are chocolaty brown.

  “Let’s start with body language. I’ll act Carmen. Since I can’t do that hair-nibbling thing, I’ll do her posture.” I stand up. “Ever notice how she throws back her shoulders?” I thrust out my chest and strut like a Flamenco dancer.

  “That’s so totally her!” Andie says.

  I sultrify my voice. “Oh, Nico, you said your lines so beautifully.”

  Nico flushes. Pink looks good on his dark cheeks.

  “Why don’t you say your first lines as Silvius? Be Silvius in love with Carmen, the shepherdess who won’t give you the time of day.”

  He drones dutifully, “Sweet Phebe, do not scorn me; do not, Phebe! Say that you love me not, but say not so in bitterness. The common executioner, whose heart—”

  I cut him off. “You sound like a corpse.”

  “I’m not into Carmen,” he snaps.

  “Despite what the tabloids say, actors who perform love scenes together aren’t usually in love with each other. Imagine you’re wooing Andie instead.”

  Nico looks at his watch. “I have to go. I told someone . . . I promised my . . . Later.” He launches himself out of the Silo without turning back. Eyeliner Andie chases after him.

  “Is it something I said?” I yell.

  “I’ll call you tonight,” she says before dashing out.

  While scooting home in the twilight, I obsess over the details of my afternoon with the mysterious Andie, from the color of her lip liner to how she looked at me when I talked to her. I could write a different book—Andie on My Mind.

  When I get home, everyone is already seated at the dinner table. Eva gives me the evil eye. What now? Did she call Jada to verify my locker-room story?

  Dad brings out his signature dish—split pea soup. I ladle myself a bowlful, discarding the chunks of former pig butt that float to the top. I don’t bother being discreet about this. Elmo’s mini freak-out over my hypothetical lesbianhood has made me a touch peevish toward him. I don’t like the way he’s been looking at me lately, either.

  “Sorry. I forgot,” he says to me.

  “That’s okay. I’ll feed the ham bits to Marshmallow,” I say.

  “How did rehearsal go?” Mom asks Eva.

  “Fine. The usual,” she says.

  If the parents knew one tenth of what goes on beneath the surface of our lives, they’d be riveted. We’re quality programming. Time to turn up the heat on our lukewarm dinner conversation.

  “Not fine,” I say. “I couldn’t talk after Eva tricked me into eating a red-hot chili pepper.”

  This gets Mom’s attention. “That doesn’t sound like Eva.”

  “I told you it was an accident,” Eva says. There are daggers in her smile pointed at my heart. Translation? Two can play the Shock the Parents game. I brace myself. “Carmen called . . . .”

  Uh-oh. This has to be about my SAVE THE GAYS! bumper sticker. But I’m not the kind of girl who lets herself be done to death by a slanderous tongue without a fight.

  “Carmen called? I thought you weren’t talking,” I say.

  My ploy works. Gethsemane switches to her patented overreaction mode. “You still aren’t talking?” she asks.

  “It’s only been a few days, Mom,” Eva says. “Something must be going on at home because she quit cheerleading.”

  “Did she tell you why?” Mom asks.

  “No.” Eva frowns. She tosses out the next words like a fast series of needle-sharp darts. “She told me she saw Roz with Bryan at rehearsal.”

  I’m in trouble in so many ways I can’t keep track. I turn to Dad to change the subject. “Did Janis take a vacation?” I ask him.

  “Janis?”

  I point to his plain green T-shirt. “Janis Joplin. Isn’t that her shirt?” My desperate joke generates zero laughter and provides only the briefest of diversions.

  “She saw you kiss him,” Eva says.

  “Did not!”

  “No catfights at the dinner table. They spoil my appetite,” Dad says.

  “Roz, did you?” Mom says.

  “I’ve never chased after Eva’s boyfriends.”

  “Except John and Marcus,” Eva says.

  Dad takes his bowl into the kitchen.

  “Those were ex-boyfriends. Anyway, Carmen’s full of cra—crabmeat.” I’m lying, of course, but only a little, since I regretted kissing Bryan afterward. “Carmen’s after him herself. She stuffed a Frisbee up his shirt at lunch.”

  Mom looks bewildered. She couldn’t be more confused than if a new scientific study proved that broccoli causes cancer. Eva stares at me in disbelief, and then laughs so hard, soup sprays from her mouth.

  “What’s so funny?” I ask.

  “Carmen absolutely detests Bryan.”

  “What?” Open your eyes, sister.

  I finish my soup while Eva persists in her delusions. “When I got together with Bryan,” she says, “Carmen didn’t talk to me for two weeks.”

  “It was hard for her because she didn’t have a boyfriend,” Mom says.

  “Or maybe she wanted Bryan for herself,” I say.

  Mom kicks me under the table.

  After dinner Eva readies herself for miniature golf while I clean up the kitchen, my punishment for refusing to go. I run water into the empty soup pot. I do remember Carmen icing out Bryan when he linked up with Eva. New boyfriends have a way of dominating a girl’s time, a thing a best friend can resent. The front door closes. I leave the pot to soak overnight and go online. Andie is connected. Here’s my chance to ask her directly if she’s crushing on me.

  Me: want 2 play mini golf 2nite?

  Andie: only if i can kill myself 1st *checks drano supply*

  Me: never mind

  Me: what happened at the silo 2day?

  Andie: a lot

  Me: do u like nico?

  Andie: like or like like?

  Me: like like

  Andie: hmmm

  Me: does he like like u?

  Andie: maybe

  This is going nowhere.

  Me: there’s a rumor that u r a lesbian

  Andie: lesbian schlesbian i hate labels *gnashes teeth*

  Andie:
i fall in love with who i fall in love with

  Me: so u r bisexual?

  Andie:

  Me: so u like girls sometimes, I mean

  Andie: doesn’t every1?

  Me: i mean like like

  Andie: who do u like like?

  Me: i dunno

  Andie: rehearse with me at Nico’s 2moro? I’ll get u at 10

  Me: ok

  Andie: ttyl

  I’m a chicken. A confused chicken. The conversation leaves me wondering about labels, though, and why Andie hates them so much. After all, labels help you figure out how to behave. Like, say you’re on a date with a brainy dude. You’re more likely to impress him if you mention an article from Wired than one from Cosmo. Or if you’re a girl attracted to girls—aka a lesbian—you don’t waste your time and heart crushing on a straight girl. Then again, I don’t like being labeled as Eva’s big-boned, less-talented little sister.

  I log on to a gay teen Web site to learn more about categories and chase down a link to Alfred Kinsey, a sexologist in the 1950s. Yes, they had sex back then, despite the goofy clothes. He’s dead now, but in his warm-blooded days he researched sexuality. He wrote that sexual orientation is a continuum. He even created a scale for people to rate themselves: 0 = exclusively heterosexual, 1–5 = the gray area in between, 6 = exclusively homosexual. Who knew there was such a big gray area?

  I know I’m not a 6, but who says I couldn’t be a 1?

  Chapter

  12

  After a night of patchy sleep, my eyelids feel as squishy as overripe apricots. I should ease up on the late-night self-questioning. Though I’ve already lost four pounds on my new diet, hauling my body out of bed reminds me of wrestling bags of compost from the pickup last spring for Mom’s garden. Eyeliner Andie will be here in an hour.

  I spend the entire morning mismatching accessories in a vain attempt to develop a funky new look. I shouldn’t have bothered. Andie arrives at my door wearing a fake fur hat and snaky black eyeliner—Cleopatra goes Cossack. Does my heart beat a little faster when she arrives? Her boots have stiletto heels that wobble when she walks.

  “A car, a car, my kingdom for a car,” she says.

  “It’s only two blocks from here,” I say. Our progress is slow. Andie takes off her boots for the last half block. Nico’s house is a dusty blue color with cobwebs on the window screens, fronted by dull grass and one small olive tree. It has an erased look, except for the bright green front door with mysterious symbols painted onto each of the six panels. I’ve never been inside before. I knock.

  Nico opens the door right away, and as I slide by him into the house, I estimate that I outweigh him by several pounds. The seating arrangement in the living room is original—two chairs shaped like hands surrounded by floor pillows. A basket of rocks and bones (animal bones, I hope) sits next to an umbrella stand.

  Nico takes us into the kitchen to meet his grandma. She scowls at Andie and me from under her visor cap before offering us mugs of hot chocolate. Nico sprinkles his with spices from a small wooden bowl. I do the same. The flavors battle on my tongue, but my good upbringing makes me take a second sip.

  “Delicious,” I say.

  “And you think you’re such a great actress,” Andie scoffs.

  “Thank you,” I say to Nico’s grandma.

  “I’m going out,” she mutters. “Behave.”

  Nico collapses into a hand chair while Andie and I sit together on the big pillows. “You two look good like that,” he says. Or is this his flirty twin brother?

  Andie smooshes her cheek against mine. My heart clangs in my chest like a clumsy thief in a dark garage. Andie like likes me. Imagining a crush on Andie in the privacy of my mind is totally different from having a real girlfriend with real hands and real lips. I do the reasonable thing—hide my panic with efficient action.

  “Let’s get to work,” I say.

  Oblivious to my mini freak-out, Andie extracts a small pipe from her bag. “May I?” she asks. “I can concentrate better when I’m high.”

  “Pot messes with your memory,” I say. “Once my ex-boyfriend went onstage stoned. He said his lines okay. Sadly, they were lines from a different play.”

  “That was Marcus, right?” Andie says. “I thought he was Eva’s ex.” She holds a lighter to the bowl and inhales. After a few seconds, she exhales through the open window.

  “Put that away,” I say in my tyrant voice.

  Andie hurls a loose pillow at my chest.

  “Pillow fight,” Nico yells. He charges, whacking me over the head.

  “Get him,” Andie says. I body-slam him with my floor pillow while she pummels him from behind.

  Nico knocks me over. “Bombs away,” he shrieks.

  I bump into the porcelain umbrella stand. It topples. When Nico rights it, I see that a wedge of pottery has chipped off the rim. This is the fourth time I’ve broken something in less than a month. Sierra would be able to explain it. I’ll have to email her with the whole crazy story.

  “Grandma will kill me.” He fetches a bottle of glue to reattach the shard. “Fight’s over,” he says when he finishes the repair. “Time to kiss and make up. Ladies first.”

  Andie puts her hands on the back of my neck and pulls my face toward hers.

  NOT. But would I kiss her back if she did?

  When Nico says, “Time to kiss and make up. Ladies first,” Andie laughs so hard she can barely stay upright.

  “So that’s your perverted plan,” she gasps between giggles. “Sorry. No free show for Nico. Roz is cute, but she’s not exactly my type. Don’t think you’re getting any kisses either.”

  Her rejection hurts my shallow ego. “What’s your type?” I ask.

  “More toward the Goth.”

  I slip into a bad German accent to cover my feelings. “Thiss iss a sserious rehearssal. Makink out iss abssolutely verboten. Infractionss vill be punisht by floggink.”

  Nico shakes his hair over his eyes. Good-bye, flirtatious Nico; hello, sullen Nico.

  “Let’s go powder our noses.” Andie drags me down the hall, pushes me into a room, and shuts the door.

  I look at the messy bed, dirty clothes draped on a chair, and dresser drawers not quite closed. “Why did you bring me into Nico’s room?” I say.

  “To show you something.” She points to a group of candid photos tacked to the bottom of a poster from our last school play. They’re all of me. “Nico likes you. Like likes.”

  “So he’s really into lesbians?” I say. Is this a test?

  “Maybe.” Her lips curve into that Mona Lisa smile of hers. She follows it with an exaggerated wink that wrecks the effect. We go back to the living room.

  Nico positions the umbrella stand with the damaged side toward the wall. Andie puts away her pipe and plays Phebe in Nico’s scene, scorning him most passionately. Nico says his lines with two emotions—forced anger and fake enthusiasm. I coach him on voice control, body language, and the scenery of the mind. After that he’s slightly better than terrible.

  When Andie woos me in the second half of the scene, I freak out again because I kind of like it, which means maybe I’m falling for her. But at the end of the scene, she hugs herself and rolls around on the floor making kissy noises. “But I love myself best of all,” she says.

  “New scene,” I say. While Andie is still in full hysteria mode, Nico’s grandma returns from her errand and fixes her piercing scowl on the umbrella stand.

  “Maybe you should go,” Nico mumbles.

  We gather our things in silence and hurry outside. The slippery leaves on the brick walk squish under my shoes. I fan myself with my script.

  “Want to go somewhere and smoke?”

  “Pot gives me a headache,” I say primly.

  “Come anyway. I’d love the company.”

  “I have to reorganize my closet,” I say. She said I wasn’t her type, and though one part of me feels relieved, the other part of me feels hurt. Okay, I admit it. Girls aren’t a lot easi
er to understand than boys, after all.

  By nightfall I’ve forgiven Andie for rejecting me. It’s not her fault that I’m as un-Goth as Mary Poppins. I have to learn to accept the way things are. Andie and Nico go around like a couple. Andie likes me. Maybe Nico like likes me, while I don’t know how I feel about either of them in the romantic sense. But I wish I could redo the scene on the sidewalk outside Nico’s house when Andie asked me to hang out. She’s my closest friend at the moment, though I barely know her. How pathetic is that? She’s online, so I IM her.

  Me: hey, sorry bout 2day *slinks with tail between legs*

  Me: i was feeling bitchy

  Andie: no big

  Me: thnx *pops a bottle of bubbly*

  Me: i think carmen is just pretending

  Me: she doesn’t really like like nico

  Andie: no duh

  Me: she’s covering for her tete a tetes with bryan

  Andie: not

  Me: then y pretend? *bites pinkie nail in confusion*

  Andie: u r a smart girl

  Andie: u figure it out

  Me: y do u know so much?

  Andie: i observe people, i notice things

  Me: aren’t u speshul

  With a friend like Andie, who needs adventure? Prozac could come in handy, though. After signing off, I send the world’s longest email to Sierra. In it, I confess all that I’ve done and cross my fingers that she won’t take a month to answer back.

  Chapter

  13

  On Sunday afternoon when Eva returns from her piano recital, I dangle a salacious Lesbian Report as an incentive for her to drive me to the outlet mall. She agrees without hesitation. Soon enough I figure out why. The inside of her car acts as the perfect soundproof bubble. She chews me out the second I slam my door closed.

  “You think rehearsals are bad now? If you don’t leave Bryan alone, it’s going to get worse.” Rant. Rant. Rant.

  “I’m no threat,” I say. “I’m a dyke, remember?”

  She ignores this, punctuating her long tirade with abrupt and unnecessary stomps on the gas pedal. The crazy accelerations make the point rather effectively. I’m guessing that lesbians aren’t usually this touchy about their boyfriends. My theory about Eva’s sexual orientation—thin and shaky to begin with—enters its final death throes and expires on the threadbare carpet at my feet.