by Dalya Moon
Tick says, “In my school, only the dorks hang out in the library.”
“Mm hmm,” Genna says as she gives me a look. Now I see what you warned me about, her look says.
“What did you get for Christmas?” I ask Genna to change the topic.
Genna's clothes always appear to be brand-new, but I'm fairly certain she's wearing new acquisitions from the Christmas holiday. Her jeans are marigold yellow, and form-fitting to her tiny frame.
“I already emailed you the full list,” she snaps as she runs a hand over her flat-ironed black hair. Genna's features are Asian, from her Chinese mother, but her coloring is lighter, from her Scottish father. Her hair's naturally wavy, but just on one side, so she irons it daily. “Tell me you got my email.” She stares blankly at me with her gold-brown eyes. Nothing with Genna is ever easy.
I pull out a chair for Tick and then one for me, next to Genna. “Tell me again anyway,” I say. “Plus Tick hasn't heard. Those yellow jeans are like sunshine, by the way. I wish I had the guts to wear something that bright.”
Genna wrinkles her nose.
Tick sits on her chair and pulls it up snug, right next to me. I detect a smell on my cousin—a cheap perfume smell, and I hope that isn't why Genna is wrinkling her nose.
“Your necklace,” I say, pointing at Genna's small cluster of impossibly-small, adorable charms. “You got some new charms, right? And what else?”
Next to Genna, Briana sniffs, twice, over her book. The waterworks have started. She wipes her cheeks with the sleeve of her pink hoodie and carries on reading.
“Earrings,” Genna says, pointing to her ears. She waits for us to compliment them before moving on to her jeans. She's only half done showing us her new things when the bell rings for class.
Briana stands and walks out without a word, the book held up in front of her, about ten pages from the end.
* * *
The school's administration feels it would be best for Tick to “shadow” me, so she's been assigned a locker near mine and she's following me to every class.
In English, she sits behind me, and she's so quiet, I nearly forget she's here. By the time we head off together to Drama, I'm back to my normal worries, like imagining the Tatiana dress hanging in the wardrobe closet. Regret blossoms in my stomach, and I feel bad about every chocolate bar, bag of chips, and slice of pizza I've ever eaten.
I put some quarters in the vending machine outside the theater and order up a treat to tide me over until lunch: Diet Coke.
Tick stands next to me and asks, “Why didn't you have breakfast?”
“I don't like to eat in the morning.”
Our Drama teacher stops on her way by. “Lainey, I don't like to hear such nonsense about not eating,” Mrs. Linklater says. She has her long, dark hair up in a high ponytail, revealing the bright blue butterfly tattoo on the side of her neck.
Tick's eyes widen, and I imagine her mind is whirring as she counts the six, no, seven visible piercings on Mrs. Linklater's face.
“I'll have a granola bar,” I say as I add more quarters to the machine and pick the granola bar with the most chocolate.
“I'm so glad to have another creative young person in my class,” Mrs. Linklater says to Tick. “Now, what are we calling you? It says Patricia on my paperwork.”
“I'm Tick. That's my name. I'm not a bloodsucker, though, I swear.”
Mrs. Linklater tilts her head back and exhales tinkling laughter, as though this is the most wonderful news she's ever heard. “Perfect,” she says. “We've already cast for the play, but we'll find you something in the chorus.”
As we follow Mrs. Linklater into the theater, I look down at the empty wrapper in my hands. I don't even remember eating the granola bar.
Mrs. Linklater leads the way down the steps to the stage, where we will sit cross-legged in a circle, as we always do at the beginning of Drama class.
I take a spot next to Genna. It's usually just the two of us, because Briana opted for Metalwork during this block. Tick squeezes in on my other side. I guess that makes it just the three of us, until lunch time, when it will be the four of us, at least until Tick makes some friends of her own.
Other people have been friendly enough, asking her where she's from, so maybe someone will take her off my hands soon enough.
Tick stretches her striped legs out and painstakingly pulls up the tights, all the way to her crotch, reaching under her skirt in a crude manner.
Genna elbows me and tells me to tell my cousin to behave.
I whisper back, “There's nothing I can do. At home, I told her not to slide down the bannister, and now she does it to spite me, I swear.”
Genna says, loud enough for everyone to hear, “I understand home schooling is a great option for some kids.”
Mrs. Linklater raises her hand and begins humming. I start to hum, and soon everyone is humming along with her. She drops her hand to utter silence. “Everyone, say hello to Lainey Murphy's cousin, Tick Murphy.”
Josh and Ty say in unison, “Hello-to-Lainey-Murphy's-cousin-Tick-Murphy!”
Everyone laughs, of course, because the name of this class should be the Josh and Ty Show. They're best friends, and they tell people they're twins, which is funny because Josh is white with light, sandy-brown hair and Ty is black with curly black hair.
I wish the boys wouldn't hog the stage so much, but their skits are funnier than the best comedy movies. Genna and I have tried to recreate them for Briana, but it never comes out half as funny.
Mrs. Linklater leads us through some vocal warmups and then tells us we'll be doing improv today. “Do you know the number one rule?” she asks Tick.
I feel sorry for her, getting put on the spot her first day, but to my surprise, she says, “The first rule of improv is no blocking. You can't say no. Like, if someone says it's raining, you have to play along, and move the scene forward instead of stopping it.”
“Excellent,” Mrs. Linklater says. “And good example with the rain.”
“I'm from Seattle,” Tick says. “Where it rains. A LOT.”
Josh asks, “How much does it rain?”
Tick starts to answer, but Ty and Josh say in unison, “A LOT!”
Ty asks Josh, “How would you express A LOT in inches?”
Josh holds his arms out wide. “A LOT.”
Tick frowns at them, and maybe it's the lighting here on the stage, but she seems to be blushing.
“Boys,” Mrs. Linklater says. “Save it for your performance. I'll put you up first, along with ... Genna, Lainey, and Lainey's cousin Tick.”
I lean over to Genna and whisper, “I hope people stop calling her Lainey's cousin soon.”
Mrs. Linklater gets up from her cross-legged seat in one smooth motion. She hands a slip of paper to Tick and whispers something in her ear. Tick puts the paper in one of the pockets of her purple dress.
Mrs. Linklater says, “Everyone else join me in the audience for what I'm sure will be an original.”
The five of us gather on Stage Left, so we can enter the stage one by one, as per the rules.
Genna sticks her front teeth over her lower lip. “Gah-huh, I'm gonna be a redneck.”
“We're basically doing Park Bench,” I explain to my cousin. “The first person out tells the next person what they are, with a clue.”
“What's the first person get to be?” Tick asks.
“Whatever they want,” I say.
Tick drops down to her hands and knees and scurries out onto the stage first. “That's great,” she says, loud enough for the audience to hear her clearly. “I've lost my freaking contact lens.”
“Oh-my-god,” Genna says to me. “I thought you were exaggerating. She is so odd.”
Ty and Josh ignore us as they dig through the trunk of props. Tick is still crawling around alone, and since no one else is doing it, I walk out and join her on the stage.
“Hello,” I say.
“Hello, janitor,” she says.
Jani
tor. I can do that. I stick out my chest and drop my voice to say, “Don't mind me, I'll just be emptying out the trash bins here.” I mime picking up some bins and emptying them into an invisible cart. “Anything I can help you with down there?”
Tick sighs. “I lost my magical contact lenses that enable me to see the good in everyone. What do you do when it seems like the whole world is made up of jerks and phoneys?”
I stop emptying invisible cans and stare at her.
Genna struts out from the side of the stage, carrying a huge pair of prop glasses. “Dahling,” she says, her voice dripping with imaginary diamonds. “I need to return these glasses, because they don't do the thing you said they would.”
Tick stands and dusts off her knees. “Mrs. Gemstone, those are Love Glasses. You're supposed to put them onto your husband, or your boyfriend, and say the magic words.”
“What magic words?” Genna puts on the prop sunglasses.
Just as Genna slides the sunglasses up her little nose, Tick says, “Banana juice.” Tick claps a hand over her mouth in mock horror. “Oh no. Now I've done it.”
The other Drama students in the audience laugh. I peer around to see what Josh and Ty might be doing behind me, but they're still off-stage.
“No, no, no,” Tick says, backing away from Genna in the glasses.
“That red hair,” Genna says emphatically. “So silky. So begging to be stroked.” She advances one step. “Those luscious lips.”
The audience laughs even harder. I can't believe this is happening. The class will politely clap for everyone, but they only laugh at Ty and Josh.
Genna's incredible to watch, completely locked into her character. She makes snarling-animal lips as she advances on Tick like a sleepwalker.
I step in front of Genna, and in my husky janitor voice, say, “Banana juice!”
Genna turns her back to me, moving clockwise so she doesn't show her back to the audience. “Mr. Janitor!” she exclaims, throwing a hand to her forehead and glancing back at me over her shoulder. “What nice wheels you have.”
I say, “It's not much, but it's paid for.” This gets another good reaction from the audience. I feel like electricity is running through my body and I'm lit up like a Christmas tree.
“Stop, Sir,” Tick says, grabbing my arm. “I have a confession. I put a spell on you this morning so you would forget, but you are not a janitor, you are ...” She pulls the piece of paper Mrs. Linklater gave her out of her pocket. “A hungry zombie.”
Genna looks me up and down and says, “That does explain the rotting smell.”
I pretend to scoop something up from the floor. “And it explains why this thumb of mine keeps falling off.”
The audience laughs again, and I swear if improv were always like this, I'd do it for hours. But the stage is usually hogged by—
Ty and Josh emerge from Stage Right, together. That's against the rules, but they don't care about the rules, and they get away with it.
“Look out, more zombies!” Tick yells.
The boys are wearing wigs, bright red ones, and floral-print old lady dresses. They must have run up to the costume department, which is also against the rules. “We are not zombies,” Ty says in a falsetto voice. “We are ladies. And we would like to buy some ladies' hats and shoes. We are from Seattle.”
“Yes, we are from Seattle,” Josh says in his own falsetto voice. “Where it rains.”
“A LOT,” Ty says.
“How much?” Josh asks.
“A LOT,” they both say together.
Over the laughter in the audience, Mrs. Linklater calls out, “And, scene!”
We freeze in our positions.
“Nice work everyone,” she calls up from the darkness beyond the stage lights. “Stars on all your future dressing rooms. Take a bow and we'll send up the next group.”
Josh and Ty run off to return the costumes.
The three of us make our way down the steps and sit in the front row, with Tick and Genna on either side of me. The guys return a minute later, out of breath, and sit behind us.
Loudly, Tick says, “Too bad some people had to be jerks and ruin a good skit.”
I shift awkwardly in my chair and shush her.
“Some people are so insecure!” Tick says, turning to look right at Ty and Josh. “They can't handle someone else getting just a smidge of attention, and they have to ruin it.”
I turn back and see Mrs. Linklater, her mouth open in shock. After a few seconds, she says, “That's enough, everyone, let's give the same respect to the next group as they gave you.”
The girls on stage are doing one of their regular bits about cranky old ladies talking about “kids these days.” Not the freshest material.
Genna pulls out her makeup bag and checks her makeup in her compact mirror, even though it's dark down in the audience and she probably can't see much.
I lean in to her, saying, “That was so mean that they made fun of my cousin. Completely uncalled for.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see Tick shift, listening in.
Genna snaps the compact shut. “Your cousin was asking for it,” she says. “When you dress weird like that and don't even make an effort to look normal, people are going to treat you like a freak. I mean, is she trying to be a Scene kid? Everyone's saying she's a poser.”
I turn to see Tick's reaction. She's staring straight ahead, even though she had to have heard Genna's not-so-quiet whisper. I should apologize, on behalf of my friend, but Genna's not exactly wrong. Maybe this is something Tick needs to hear.
From behind us, Mrs. Linklater calls the end of the scene and we all clap politely. The next skit is also all girls, since Ty and Josh are the only boys in the class. I slump down in my seat.
I'm hungry. And I can't stop thinking about what Tick said during the skit, about jerks and phoneys. Ty and Josh are jerks, but I still like them. Genna might seem phoney, but she's sweet, underneath the surface. Which one am I, jerk or phoney?
* * *
Tick is quiet on the walk home after our first day together at school. The sky is dim, and everything is flat, without edges.
As we walk past a Heritage Landmark plaque, I say, “Don't you love these old houses? Hey, that one's yours!” I point at the beautiful purple house on the corner. The owner sells honey during the summer, at a serve-yourself kiosk in the driveway.
“Yup,” Tick says. She's wearing fuzzy, purple earmuffs, and I wonder if she can even hear me.
There's nothing but the crunch of snow under our boots.
“History homework tonight,” I say.
“Yup.”
My stomach grumbles. I wonder what we're having for dinner. Not mashed potatoes, I hope.
“Have you ever been on a diet?” I ask.
Tick pauses to scoop some fresh snow from next to the shovelled sidewalk and puts it in her mouth.
“Diet ice cream,” I say with a smile.
She doesn't answer, but she does smile back.
I've never talked to anyone about my diet, but I suddenly want to unburden myself and tell her everything.
* * *
It started with the Tatiana dress.
As anyone who has seen my wardrobe can attest, Lainey Murphy doesn't wear emerald green. But, Tatiana, the fairy queen in our upcoming production of Midsummer Night's Dream, does.
I already did the hard part, auditioning for and securing the role of Tatiana. On opening night, however, I'll be Blah-tania, in a burlap sack, because no matter how hard I tried to suck my stomach in, the beautiful emerald gown with all the sparkling beads on the bodice wouldn't zip up.
Mrs. Linklater said it was for the best, because of the color of the forest set, but I could tell it was a white lie. She had that same look my mother did when she said it was “a good thing” I was out of Junior's sizes and into women's wear, because the jeans in the women's stores were “more elegant.” I was twelve.
After Mrs. Linklater left the costume room that day, I put the dress back on and
held it together down the back with giant safety pins. I stared at myself in the mirror and saw that thing people talk about: potential.
The green dress made my pale Irish cheeks appear rosy, and my lips full and red, without lipstick. Even my limp strawberry-blah hair took on a regal air. The boning on the tapered bodice created the illusion of a slim waist, and the full skirt completely hid my legs.
“Hi, I'm Lainey,” I said to the mirror, but that wasn't right. “Hello. My name is Elaina.” Alone in the dressing room, I paused to receive the inevitable torrent of compliments. “Oh, this old thing? Why, yes, I suppose it does bring out my green eyes. But wait, you're not looking at my eyes. You're admiring my ...” I leaned forward to show off a part of my front that never sees the sun.
That was how my obsession with the green dress began.
Seeing myself in that dress felt better than making the top ten on the Honor Roll.
The safety pins at the back were less than an inch long. “You just need to lose a couple of pounds, Elaina,” I told my reflection.
I had a difficult time exhaling enough to get the safety pins back out.
“Maybe a couple plus a few more,” I said.
* * *
When I tell my cousin about the dress, I leave out the part about talking to myself.
We're almost home, and Tick isn't giving me any reaction at all.
I remove one of my mittens, ball up some snow with my fingers, and lick it like an ice cream cone.
“This diet ice cream is delectable,” I say.
Tick stops and puts her hands on her hips. The words explode from her mouth, “A dress? Are you for real? You want to change your body for a stupid freaking dress?” She shakes her head and starts to walk again.
“Not just that. I could stand to lose a few pounds anyway.” My words come out clumsy-sounding, because I've been licking my snow cone, making my tongue numb.
“You're still growing,” she says.
Tick's as tall as me, and her figure has a nice shape, though I wouldn't say she's skinny. “What do you weigh?” I ask.
“This dress concerns me,” Tick says. “You may be suffering from Princess Syndrome. I'll have to talk to my mother to be sure.”