“No kidding—I’d have definitely gotten the lead then. Charles is my director,” Julia adds, turning to me. “He’s a graduate student at NYU.”
“I think all the directors are graduate students,” Vanessa says. “And they all did this program back in high school.”
“Jillian was supposed to be in my cast too,” Julia says. “Our missing fourth roommate.”
“She still hasn’t shown up?” I say.
Julia shakes her head and lowers her voice. “Charles said there was a sudden death in her family—that’s all he would tell me—and so she’s not coming.”
“That’s so sad,” I say.
“I know,” Julia says, and Vanessa nods and we’re all quiet for a moment because it feels like we should be.
Vanessa breaks the silence. “This may be a heartless question, but does it matter that your cast will be short an actor?”
“Charles said he’ll figure it out. He said he’d have most of us doubling up on roles anyway—I guess he’ll just have more of that. Oh, there’s Alex.” She waves at her brother, who’s entering the common room side by side with Isabella.
“I’m so excited!” Isabella says when they reach us. “I love Measure for Measure! I feel like someone just handed me a gift. And it doesn’t suck that Alex is in my cast.” The two of them bump fists. “Oh—there’s one of my roommates. I have to ask her something. Be right back.” She slides away. Gracefully, of course.
“Hey, Franny,” Alex says, noticing me now that Isabella’s gone—or at least that’s what it feels like. You only really notice the moon when the sun goes down, right? “What have you been up to?”
“Not much.” I tilt my head back so I can look up at him. “So you’re in Measure for Measure too? I don’t know anything about it.”
“It’s an amazing play.” Then he says to Julia, “Shove over.” She makes a face at him, but she and I both slide down so he can squeeze in at the end. He turns back to me. “It’s, like, the coolest Shakespeare play of all, and I’m not just saying that because I’m stuck with it. I wrote a paper on it last year for English.”
“What’s it about?”
He describes the story to me, and it’s so noisy in the room now with everyone piling in there that I miss half of what he’s saying, but I don’t care because I’m just enjoying the fact that we’re crammed tightly together on the sofa, our legs pressed against each other, and he’s paying attention to me and me alone.
I know it’s silly, my getting all swoony and ridiculous over a guy so quickly, but it’s not really a sudden thing. You don’t forget the first guy who gave you a flower (even if it was from his sister’s bouquet and he never said a word about it, just handed it to you and walked away), especially if you already thought he was kind of sweet and dreamy.
You know those little ducks that imprint on the first thing they see walking by them after they’re born and will just follow that animal around, whatever and whoever it is? I think maybe when I first started noticing boys, Alex was the one I noticed first, and I got a little imprinted on him. And now that I’m seeing him again all these years later, I have to say I had good taste back in eighth grade.
I realize I have no idea what he’s been saying for the last couple of minutes—I’ve been too busy gazing dreamily into those handsome blue eyes—so I drag my attention back to his words. “. . . but the good characters do some really lousy things in the play and some of the supposedly bad characters are totally likable, so it’s hard to know who to root for. At the end, someone says we should only be judged on our actions, not on our intentions or beliefs—but it’s not clear whether Shakespeare actually believes that or not.”
“I don’t know,” I say. “It seems like if you shoot at someone and miss, you’re still guilty of something.”
“Yeah, I agree. Our director, Ted, says he wants us to think about all this stuff the whole time we’re working on the play and decide where we come down on it—whether we’d want to go through life being judged solely on our actions or on our intentions. Or whether both matter equally.”
“I love thinking about stuff like that.” I’m feeling a pang of envy. I wish I could be in a play. It’s not just that the people around me are excited about the shows they’re in and bonding over who’s in which cast and talking about what roles they might get—it’s also that it sounds so cool. I mean, I don’t go around reading Shakespeare in my free time or anything, but the few shows I’ve read or seen have stayed with me, and everything Alex just told me is reminding me why. “But I don’t see how we can ever really judge people by—”
“Well, look at this attractive group,” someone interrupts loudly.
I look up to see Harry Cartwright sauntering toward us, hands in his pockets, shoulders slouched just so. He’s probably studied every issue of GQ to get the right air of casual indifference. He waits a beat, making sure everyone’s attention is focused on him.
“I mean, really—just look at you all,” he says. He points to Vanessa. “You are like the epitome of hipster chic. And you”—to Julia—“are total classic gorgeousity, like a movie star, and you”—turning to me—“you’re Miss Smith after she takes off her glasses and suddenly everyone realizes how pretty she is. And you”—to Alex—“well, you’re just butt-ugly and should get up off this sofa and let someone sit here who’s actually worthy of these lovely ladies.”
“I have a suggestion where you can sit,” Alex says.
“No need to be explicit about it.” Harry suddenly throws himself across all our laps so he’s lying on his back, his head resting on Julia’s knees, his body and legs spread out on the rest of us.
“Get off!” Alex says, shoving at Harry’s feet.
Harry raises them off Alex’s lap and crosses his ankles on the arm of the sofa. “I’m comfortable, and there’s nowhere else to sit.” He folds his arms behind his head and flutters his eyes up at Julia. “You guys don’t mind, right?”
“I am so close to dumping you off,” she says, and bounces her knees a couple of times so he has to grab her leg to keep from falling.
“That’s not nice,” he says. “If you’re not careful, I’m going to go in search of a more friendly lap.”
“God forbid,” she says, but I notice she also stops bouncing.
Not only has Harry’s arrival put a stop to my private conversation with Alex, but he’s also been followed over by the ever-attentive Marie.
“You are such a total loon,” she says, gazing down adoringly at him. “That can’t be comfortable.”
He pats his flat stomach. “Come perch right here and find out.”
“Don’t you dare!” Julia says. “We’d be crushed.”
“Thanks a lot,” Marie says, crossing her arms tightly.
“That wasn’t a you’re so fat comment,” Julia says. “It was a my legs can’t support another ounce comment.”
“Are you okay?” Alex asks me.
“Yeah.” Harry’s legs across my lap don’t bother me—I just don’t see why he always has to be the center of attention.
And apparently someone else thinks it’s her turn there: Marie clears her throat and says loudly, “So you guys know how I was put in the Winter’s Tale cast?”
“Were you?” Julia says indifferently. “Harry, get your elbow out of my stomach.”
“Get your stomach out of my elbow,” he replies.
“I hate that play, so I wanted to switch—” Marie says.
“You can’t do that,” Vanessa says. “Right? I mean that was the first thing they told us. No switching.” I don’t know where or how she got a pen, but she appears to be writing the word Shakespeare in big bubble letters on Harry’s forearm.
“You get what you get and you don’t get upset,” Julia says with a giggle. “Remember that, Alex? Our nanny used to say that all the time.”
“Didn’t work,” Alex says. “You still got upset.”
“Which is why I always got the biggest piece of cake. Squeaky wheel.”<
br />
Harry says to her, “When you talk I can feel the vibrations in your stomach.”
“Anyway,” Marie says, raising her voice even more, “I just wanted you guys to know that I’m going to be in Twelfth Night with you.” She pokes Harry in the ribs. “Isn’t that great?”
“Great.” He curls his free hand into a fist and raises it up from his lying-down position. “Our cast totally rules! Power to the people.”
Julia and Vanessa exchange a look. Vanessa bends back down over her artwork with a shrug, and Julia says, “They really let you switch?”
“Charles is so nice,” Marie says. Her thick light hair is pulled back in a ponytail, which makes her amber eyes look enormous. I had an American Girl doll who looked like her. I can’t remember which one. Nellie? Kit? Definitely not Josefina. “We’re going to have a blast.”
“It’s just they said we absolutely couldn’t switch, not under any condition.” Julia’s voice is suddenly unusually high and strained. “Are you sure they said you were going to be in our cast?”
“Yeah, totally. And some girl named Diane is going to take my place in Winter’s Tale.” Marie pokes Harry again. “Anyone want to grab a soda or something from the dining hall before curfew?”
“What time is it?” I ask. I can’t get my cell phone out of my pocket to check because Harry’s legs are pinning me down.
“They told us to always wear a watch,” Marie says, then puts her hand to her mouth. “Oh, sorry—I forgot. You’re not actually in the program. I’m such an idiot.”
Alex says, “It’s nine thirty. You don’t have to go yet, do you, Franny?”
“Not yet,” I say, because I don’t care if I’m late and Amelia gets mad at me—not if Alex wants me to stay.
Isabella chooses that moment to come back to our sofa. I’m not particularly happy to see her, especially since Alex looks up eagerly as she approaches, but she’s not here for him. She catches Harry’s eye and makes a gesture: index and middle finger extended, pressed together, raised toward her mouth. He instantly rolls off our legs and onto his feet, eliciting a chorus of “ow”s from his human cushions. “So sorry,” he says jauntily. “As you were, folks.” He and Isabella head toward the front door.
“Wait for me, guys!” Vanessa jumps up and runs after them.
“What was that about?” asks Marie, watching them go, a little annoyed furrow between her eyebrows.
“Cigarette break,” I guess.
Julia rises to her feet. “Brianna’s in my cast,” she says, nodding across the room toward a tiny redhead. “I’m going to go say hi.”
“I’ll come with you,” Marie says instantly. “Now that I’m in your cast, I should meet everyone in it.”
Julia gives a reluctant nod. I’m guessing the whole point of talking to Brianna was to discuss the unfairness of Marie’s switching casts when they’d been told it was against the rules.
They leave. Alex and I are alone on the sofa. We’re still sitting very close from being crammed in with the others, but neither of us shifts away.
“You don’t smoke, do you?” he asks.
I shake my head. “My mother sniffs me whenever I walk through the door. She’d know in a second if I smoked a single cigarette, and she’s already listed the things I would have to give up if she ever finds out I have, like the use of her car, my cell phone, my happiness and freedom . . . Plus my big brother told me that if I’m ever stupid enough to start smoking, he will never talk to me again.”
“That’s a threat?” Alex says. “If Julia said she’d never talk to me again, I’d be lighting up within seconds.”
“I like my brother. He’s a good guy.” I’m hoping he’ll ask me more questions about William, who’s one of my favorite topics, but a graduate student appears at the entrance to the common room and calls for quiet. He’s tall and thin, with thick black glasses (not unlike Vanessa’s, come to think of it).
“Just a quick announcement, guys,” he says, and Julia shouts, “Go, Charles!” He acknowledges her with a salute and continues: “I’m just reminding you that you all need to be in your rooms at eleven, with lights out at midnight. It may sound early to you right now, but, trust me, we’re going to be working you so hard, you’ll be grateful for every minute of sleep you get. One of us will flick the lights at ten fifty, so wrap up your conversations then and head up. Tea, cocoa, and soda are available in the dining hall until ten thirty every night, so feel free to wander over there and grab some—just get back in time.” He glances around. “This is all very cozy. Glad to see you’re making friends. Just remember: sleep is also your friend.” There’s a collective groan at that, and Charles says, “Hey! This is my A material. It’s not getting any better than this.” He raps on the wall with his knuckles. “Eleven o’clock, guys. Don’t make us come fetch you after that. You won’t like us if we do, I promise.” He walks back out of the room.
Alex stands up and extends his hand to me. “Want to go get something to drink in the dining hall?”
“Sure.” I let him pull me to my feet. His hand is warm and dry and squeezes mine briefly before releasing it, which is nice, but I’d rather have stayed on the sofa with him a while longer.
I’m even more bummed when we get outside and see Isabella, Harry, and Vanessa heading toward us. Alex instantly invites them to come with us to the dining hall and somehow ends up walking next to Isabella, while I fall back between Vanessa and Harry, both of whom now smell like dirty ashtrays.
It’s getting late anyway, and there no longer seems to be a good reason to risk pissing off Amelia, so I say a general good night and move off.
Alex is too busy listening to something Isabella’s saying to do more than raise his hand in a distracted farewell.
scene five
This isn’t awkward at all,” says Lawrence as I measure his inseam.
“I prefer to think of it as friendly. Really friendly.” I write down the measurement and then thread the tape measure around his waist. Short as he is, I’m still a couple of inches shorter. I blame my mother for that—she barely makes five feet. I’m a couple of inches taller than her and a lot thinner. She says that’s because I take after my father’s side of the family (“they’re all crazy skinny”), but I’ve seen photos of her at my age, and her body was just like mine. The problem is, she eats when she’s not happy.
These days she eats a lot.
That reminds me: I should call her tonight. I text her pretty regularly, several times a day, just stuff about what I’m doing and eating—nothing too exciting since there’s nothing too exciting to report—but I know she likes to hear my voice from time to time too.
“So what’s my costume going to look like?” Lawrence asks.
I gather up the measuring tape. “Can’t tell you.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t know.”
“Tell me as soon as you do. Don’t let them make me look stupid, okay?”
“No problem,” I say. “I’ll take care of it, because it’s all up to me. Everyone here listens to what I say. I’m pretty much the girl in charge. No one has more power than the costume assistant, you know.”
“Shut up,” he says, and cuffs my shoulder affectionately. Lawrence and I have hung out together a lot over the last few days, and he gets me.
I’m starting to get him, too, and so, since we’re alone in the little dressing room in the Sweatshop, I lean closer and whisper, “How are things going with you-know-who?”
“We talked until one last night,” he whispers back.
I raise my eyebrows. “Just talked?”
“Just talked. It would be too weird to do anything else. I mean, we’re roommates.”
“Yeah, I guess so. Raise your arms.” I pass the tape behind his back and measure his chest.
“Don’t tell me what the number is,” he says. “Everyone makes fun of my concave chest at school.”
“It’s not concave.” But it is pretty narrow, so I write down the number w
ithout inflicting it on him.
“Anyway,” he says, leaning back against the wall, “I’m kind of jealous of Alex and Isabella. Me and Raymond—we have to share a bedroom and a bathroom, and that’s just awkward. Especially since they keep serving us Mexican food at dinner . . .” He grimaces. “Stupid burrito night. But Alex and Isabella can just see each other when they’re looking their best, so it’s easy for them to stay romantic.”
“Okay, you’re done,” I say flatly. I’ve suddenly lost the desire to goof around with him. “Tell someone else in the cast to come in here, will you?”
“Sure. Thanks, Franny. See you at dinner?”
I nod. He leaves with a friendly wave, and I slowly—very slowly—roll up the tape measure so I can stall the moment when I have to leave the dressing room and face Amelia out in the office again. I just need a minute.
You know how sometimes you know something, but you pretend you don’t? To yourself, I mean? Lawrence just made me realize I’ve been doing that. For the last few days, Alex and Isabella have managed to sit next to each other at every meal and wander off alone together after dinner, except when she sneaks out for a smoke with Harry and/or Vanessa.
That’s when Alex comes to find me. At least once or twice a day he and I have these amazing talks, reminiscing about people we knew in eighth grade and telling each other about our families. Like I know that he wants to be an architect but that his father wants him to go into law, and that his mother has all these little dogs she’s more comfortable talking to than she is to people, even her own kids. And he knows that my parents try to act like they’re still friends and that I pretend I think they’re still friends, but that it’s obvious they can’t stand to be in the same room together anymore.
Stuff like that. I mean, we really, really talk.
But only when Isabella’s not around.
I get it. She’s beautiful. And sophisticated. And cool. I’m none of those things. But Alex really opens up to me, and that seems like something that could outlast a momentary crush. We’ve all been together only a few days. Isabella makes a stunning first impression, but there’s the whole tortoise and the hare thing, right? And who’s more of a tortoise than me?
The Trouble With Flirting Page 5