The Trouble With Flirting

by Claire Lazebnik

  “Yeah, you were great,” Marie says unenthusiastically. “But I just don’t see how Charles can legally cast you. The rest of us had to audition and pay to be here and everything. I mean, we’re getting a lot of instruction, right? That’s the whole point of this. We’re paying to learn. I mean, I want you to join us, Franny, of course—I think you’d be a great addition to the cast and all that. I just don’t think you should get your hopes up that this is definitely going to happen, because it’s really possible someone might complain about how it’s not fair.”

  “Let’s hope no one does that,” Harry says, shooting her a dark look.

  “Wilson was really unhappy he lost the role,” she says, with a toss of her head. “You can’t really blame him—”

  “Are you kidding me?” Julia says. “He told me like two minutes ago that he’s getting way more stuff to do as Feste, which is what he wanted. And it wasn’t like you were in our cast originally, either, so I don’t understand why this is so hard for you to accept.”

  “I’m fine with it!” Marie snaps. “I must have misunderstood what Wilson was saying.” She turns to me. “I totally want this to work out for you, Franny. Will your aunt be okay with it, though? I mean, you keep saying there’s so much work for you both to do.. . .”

  I just shrug and say, “We’ll see,” but I’m wondering what Charles and Amelia are saying to each other and getting more nervous with every second. I can’t stop watching the door. I’m trying to stay cool about it, but the truth is, if she says I can’t do it, I’m going to be crushed. I want to be part of a show—I’ve been on the outside looking in for long enough.

  Charles finally enters the dining hall a little while later, gets his food, and sits down at a table with a couple of the other directors, which makes me even more nervous. Not that he said he’d come looking for me . . . but wouldn’t he, if he had good news?

  When I’m done eating, I bus my tray and then try to look nonchalant as I walk by his table. He calls out to me.

  “We’re all set,” he says.

  “Really?” I come closer and scan his face to make sure he’s not joking. “Really?”

  He nods, a little wearily. “I’m not going to say the negotiations were easy . . . but we worked it out. I promised I wouldn’t take up too much of your time, so we may have to do some intense rehearsal cramming, but it’s a go, if you’re up for it.”

  “So up for it,” I say, and we high-five.

  “I promised I’d write out a rehearsal schedule for you and submit it to Amelia for her approval.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “Hey, you’re the one doing me a favor here. No worries.”

  “Thanks,” I say, and head toward the door. I give a little skip—I get to perform! I get to be in a play with my friends!

  I hear my name and look around. Isabella catches up with me. “Do you have a second?” she asks. She smells like cigarette smoke and perfume. She’s wearing short fawn-colored boots with white denim shorts and a striped top. Her hair is put up in that sloppy-chic knot she usually wears, and she has on her elegantly sloping sunglasses. Just once I’d like to see her in a baggy top with sweat stains at the armholes and unflattering pants that make her look hippy. I’d like her better if she weren’t always so perfect.

  I think I’d like her better anyway. I’ll never know for sure—I doubt she’ll ever not be perfect.

  I tell her I have to get back to work, but she’s welcome to walk me over to the theater.

  “Perfect, I’m headed there myself.” She falls into step next to me as we walk along the path. “So are you going on this trip Sunday to Portland?”

  “What is it?”

  “There’s going to be a bus into town,” she says. “With a few different drop-offs so we can go to whatever neighborhood sounds like the most fun to us. Alex and I already signed up. We don’t want to do anything major, just wander around, do some shopping, eat at a nice restaurant.. . . Some people are going to see a movie in one of the big malls, which sounds like a waste of an exploring opportunity to me, but whatever. Anyway, Harry’s interested in going with us, but he said he doesn’t want to feel like a third wheel all day, so I think you should come too.” She touches my arm lightly. “He’s always asking me about you, you know. You’re his favorite topic these days, like whether I think you’re as nice as you seem and whether I’ve noticed what pretty eyes you have—stuff like that.”

  I shake my head wordlessly. I don’t know what’s going on here, but it fits with what Alex was telling me—that Isabella thinks Harry and I could become an item. But it’s not going to happen.

  She reads my silence as coyness. “You don’t believe me, do you?” She gives my arm a jovial squeeze. “I should have known. There are girls who think every guy in the world has a crush on them, and then there are girls who can’t believe any guy would have a crush on them and miss all the signals.”

  I’m pretty sure I’m neither of those types. “Look, Isabella, I know Harry’s a good friend of yours, and he’s a lot of fun. But he’s also . . .” I stop, uncertain how to put it.

  “The kind of guy who flirts with anything that moves?” she supplies.

  I nod, surprised by her honesty.

  “I know, I know.” She rolls her large, expressive eyes. “Believe me, I know. There’s like this long trail of wreckage behind him at our high school. Girls always think he likes them more than he does, and it gets him in trouble all the time. Just look at Julia and Marie.” She dismisses them with a flick of her long fingers. “Anyway, the point is, you’re right—he’s a total flirt. But that’s just what he’s like on the surface. Deep down, he’s a good guy.”

  “I’m sure he is,” I say politely, even though I’m not.

  “Anyway, I didn’t mean to turn this into a big deal: there’s no pressure on you if you come with us. I’m not setting you guys up or anything—I just think we’d all have fun as a group.”

  “I’d like to go, but I’m kind of scared even to ask Amelia. I’m already cutting into my work time with this rehearsing thing—”

  “I’ll talk to her for you,” she says confidently. “I can always get people to do what I want.”

  “That must be nice,” I say.

  “I may be exaggerating slightly.” We’re almost at the theater. She stops abruptly and turns to me. “Can I ask you something?” I nod, and she says slowly, “This may sound weird, but I’ve noticed that you and Alex . . .” She hesitates, then starts again. “I mean, I know you’ve known Alex and Julia since middle school. Maybe that’s why sometimes I get the sense that you and he . . .” Another pause. “You’re obviously good friends, which is great. But I was wondering—is there anything I should know about you guys? Because I’m starting to really like him.” She gives a short laugh. “Big surprise, right? I haven’t exactly been hiding it. And I don’t think Alex is the kind of guy who would . . .” She stops. “It’s just that you two seem really close, and if there’s something I should know—”

  “No worries,” I say. “We’re just friends.”

  “You sure? I see you two talking sometimes.”

  This sucks—why am I stuck in the position of having to reassure her? She’s the one he’s chosen. But whatever. I say, “Honestly? I think he’s totally one hundred percent into you.”

  She nods slowly, absorbing that, studying me intently like she’s trying to hear something I’m not saying. “I hope you’re right,” she says simply, before walking me the rest of the way to the Sweatshop, where she turns on the charm for Amelia.

  It takes less than five minutes for her to get her way. She compliments Amelia on the costumes, tells her how lucky Mansfield is to have found her, launches into what good friends she and I have become, then says, “Now, you have to let Franny come with us on Sunday, because it’s the only day all summer that we get to explore Portland and it won’t be fun without her.”

  To my astonishment, Amelia just nods and says, “Of course she should go.�
�

  “All set,” Isabella says to me with a satisfied smile as she leaves for rehearsal. “I’ll tell Harry and Alex you’re coming.”

  Once she’s gone, Amelia’s attitude flips 180 degrees. She grumbles about how much work she has, how she needs me 24/7, how it was bad enough knowing she’d be losing so many of my work hours to play rehearsals, and do I even appreciate what a sacrifice she’s making just so I can have some fun and—

  I say, “Fine. I won’t go.” As soon as the words are out, I feel disappointed—the idea of not going makes me realize how much I actually do want to go.

  Amelia waves her hand. “I already gave my word that you can go, and I don’t break my word.” The way she emphasizes I is almost an accusation: like I’ve somehow betrayed her by making this plan to go out for a few hours one day. I decide I’m done offering to stay. She grumbles some more under her breath as I take up my stitching, and it’s so annoying that I actually ask her to turn on her folk music.

  What’s truly scary is that I think I’m starting to like Joan Baez and Joni Mitchell. Pretty soon I’ll be drinking herbal tea and wearing homemade skirts and spending my free time adding tassels to sofa cushions.

  Just shoot me now.

  scene three

  I haven’t had a lot of opportunities to dress up, so on Sunday I decide I might as well put on the one nice summer dress I brought with me. It’s dark green and tight across the bodice, with a narrow waist and full skirt—very 1950s. I found it at a thrift store. I don’t think it’s actually vintage—I think it was designed to be retro—but it’s still pretty nice. I want to pair it with my sexy spike heels—the only good shoes I’ve brought—but I’m worried we’ll have to walk a lot, so I stick to comfortable sandals. I use a curling iron to create waves in my light brown hair and put on some makeup. I check myself out in the mirror. Not bad. I’ve spent a lot of time this summer staying cool and comfortable in shorts and ponytails, so it’s a nice change to go for pretty instead of practical.

  I meet up with Isabella near the dorm. She seems very pleased that I’ve made an effort to look nice.

  “Harry’s going to melt when he sees you,” she says.

  “He won’t care,” I say. “We’re just friends.”

  She smiles a little smile and shrugs.

  As we fall into step, heading back toward campus, I wonder why she seems to want something to happen between Harry and me. She’s his best friend, so I’ve got to assume she’s on his side and that he’s into the idea. And if that’s true—if Harry told her he likes me—how do I feel about that?

  I’m not sure. Like I told Julia, I don’t trust the guy, but I’ve come to like him more than I thought I would when I first met him.

  And he’s very good-looking.

  And maybe you can have fun with someone you don’t trust, so long as you remember you don’t trust him. My mistake with my previous boyfriends was caring more than they did. Couldn’t it be fun to have some kind of summer fling where neither of us takes it seriously at all?

  An interesting thought . . .

  Alex and Harry are waiting in front of the dining hall, close to the bus that everyone’s already starting to board.

  “Any chance you two pretty ladies might be interested in spending time with some manly men?” Harry asks as they greet us.

  “We were hoping to do better,” Isabella says with a toss of her head. “But there’s no shame in settling, I suppose.”

  Alex touches her arm. “You look nice.”

  “Nice?” she repeats. “Try harder, Alex.”

  He flushes adorably. “Really nice,” he says.

  “Next time, try this,” Harry says. He reaches for my hand. “Franny, I didn’t know what beauty was until I saw you walking toward us a minute ago.”

  “I like his better,” I say, pulling away. “At least he sounded like he meant it.”

  “I meant it,” Harry says, almost irritably. But a guy like Harry Cartwright doesn’t stay unhappy for long. A moment later he’s hauling me onto the bus with an enthusiastic “I call window seat!” So I guess we’re sitting together. Alex and Isabella take the bench across from us.

  Julia is sitting with Manny Yates a couple of rows behind us. She waves at me when I glance back and gives a little head bob in Manny’s direction: Look who I’m with! I give her a thumbs-up before settling down in my seat.

  Once we’re buckled in, Harry slides as close to me as our seat belts will permit. He glances at my face. Then he laughs and gives my leg a friendly pat. “Relax, Franny,” he says. “It won’t be that bad.”

  Our group gets dropped off in some random little neighborhood that supposedly has lots of good shopping and restaurants. We’re the only ones getting off there.

  It’s cute, with a small-town feel even though I’m pretty sure it’s technically still part of Portland. There are a few crisscrossing main streets lined with small boutiques and cafés. It’s a nice place to wander around and explore on a warm and cloudy summer day.

  Alex and Isabella soon move ahead of me and Harry, holding hands.

  Harry and I walk behind them. Not holding hands.

  “So,” he says after a moment. “How’s life?”

  “Really?” I say. “‘How’s life’? Harry, we see each other every day. You have to come up with a better conversation starter than that.”

  “I know, I know. You’re right. Can I have another shot at it?”

  “Sure. We got nothing but time.”

  “You don’t have to sound so glum about it.” A pause, while he thinks. Then: “Okay. I’ve got one. Do you think Pluto should still be considered an actual planet in its own right?”

  “Much better. And yes, I do. I had to memorize the planets when I was in third grade, and it was one of them, and I don’t like having to relearn things.”

  He gently knocks his elbow against mine. “If you want Pluto to be a planet, it’s a planet, as far as I’m concerned.”

  Isabella looks over her shoulder at us, grins, and whispers something to Alex, who looks back and doesn’t grin, just observes us for a moment, then faces front again.

  “Whose idea was this outing?” I ask.

  “Isabella’s,” Harry says. “But she was doing it for me.”

  “You have a special fondness for corny little neighborhoods with lots of tiny shops?”

  “No, for corny little girls in green dresses.”

  I look down at my green summer dress. “My goodness,” I say. “I do believe you mean li’l ol’ me!” Then, in a more normal voice: “You said you wouldn’t flirt with me, Harry.”

  “I just called you corny and said you were wearing a green dress. That’s, like, the least flirtatious thing anyone’s ever said.”

  “I’m willing to believe it’s the least flirtatious thing you’ve ever said.”

  “Why are you so hard on me when I’m so nice to you?”

  “Why are you so nice to me when I’m so hard on you?”

  He claps me on the shoulder. “Nicely played, Pearson! You win that round. But the game isn’t over yet. Hey, look . . .” He pulls me over to look at a store window. “If you had to buy just one of these cupcakes, which one would you get?”

  I point to one that’s thick with chocolate frosting. “That one. You?”

  He shakes his head, like he’s amazed. “The. Exact. Same. One. It’s like we’re the same person, Franny.” He glances down the street. “We’d better hurry up—those guys are getting away from us.”

  We’ve walked a few more blocks when Isabella and Alex stop suddenly, wave at us, and point to the store they’re in front of. They go on in, and when we reach the spot, I see it’s a used-book store.

  “Shall we?” Harry says, and I nod eagerly. We push through the door and into the store, which looks small at first, because it’s so narrow and crammed with books and old wooden tables (which are also crammed with books), but as we wander down the main aisle, I see doors leading off the sides and back of it and realize it�
�s a lot bigger than it looked.

  Isabella is flipping through books on a shelf that says DRAMA/THEATER—big surprise there—and calls to Harry as she pulls one out. He comes over and she shows him the cover, with a smile at some private joke. They share a lot of those.

  I wander on to the back room, where the walls are lined with fiction. I used to love reading novels before high school ruined the fun of it for me, forcing me to read one assigned piece of literature after another. I just want to read for pleasure again, because something looks interesting and not because it’s going to be on an AP exam. And now that it’s summer, I could actually do that—although the SAT prep book my mother made me pack keeps peeking out from under my laptop. But I’ve gotten very good at ignoring it.

  After a while, I feel someone come up beside me. It’s Alex. “Find anything good?”

  I show him the stack in my arms. “Lots. But I don’t know if I should get them—I don’t really want to lug them around all afternoon.”

  “I’ll carry them for you. I don’t mind. I like doing things for you, Franny.”

  I feel my cheeks turning hot. Is that just a friendly thing to say? Or is he saying I’m special to him? He’s holding out his hands, like he’s ready to carry the books right away, and waiting for me to respond. I shove the books back onto the shelf together. “It’s okay. I don’t really need any of these.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah. Plus I should be saving money.” I turn around. “I’m ready to go if everyone else is.”

  We find Isabella leaning against a case marked COOKBOOKS, leafing through something.

  “Wow,” Alex says. “A cookbook? That’s so unexpectedly domestic of you.”

  She shakes her head with a laugh and shows us what she’s reading: it’s a coffee table book of haute-couture fashion. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

  “I’m not disappointed,” he says. “I’m relieved. The world has been restored to order.”

  She makes a face at him, and he laughs and kisses her lightly on the lips. Right. They’re a couple. And a very affectionate and adorable one at that.