Truth & Dare

by Liz Miles

CHER: Howth camp?

  EVE: Huh?

  CHER: CAMP!

  EVE: (lights up) Camp was totally totally, amazing. So I was cast as Sandy, in Grease, ’cept it was this role reversal experimental thing where Sandy was a boy and Danny was a girl. I mean, I never really thought about it before but you know both of those names could really go either way, kinda androgynous, you know? So anyway, I was Boy Sandy, and this amazing guy—super hot, super cool, also super gay, major pity—was Girl Danny. So we just played around with the whole idea of changing for someone you like, like you know how in Grease, at the end of the movie, Sandy totally changes into like that hard-core chick and wears the black leather jacket and Afros out her hair and wears the super tight leather pants and smokes and stuff?

  CHER: Tho Boy Tandy did that inthtead?

  EVE: Kinda. Well. It was a bit different than that, but yeah, pretty much, it’s kinda hard to explain. I’ll show you the DVD okay. Oh, Cher, I so wished you were there! I totally missed you and with no computer and only snail mail it was like I missed everything. So what did you do all summer?

  CHER: (points to headgear)

  EVE: That’s it?

  CHER: (points to headgear again)

  EVE: Didn’t you see Newman or George?

  CHER: (blushes) NO!

  EVE: The whole summer?

  CHER: (blushes deeper, points to headgear)

  EVE: So no one has seen you?

  CHER: (eyes fill with tears)

  EVE: This is worse than I thought. I’d hug you but I don’t want to get caught …

  CHER: (shrugs large shoulders)

  EVE: What about the play?

  CHER:

  EVE: Can you take that thing off for auditions?

  CHER:

  EVE: Just please don’t bring up the chair thing again, okay?

  CHER: (drool slides down chin)

  EVE: (wipes it off with her sleeve) Oh fucksicles.

  As the bus rumbles through our tiny NorCal foothill town passing 4WD trucks with gun racks and RVs filled with grandpas on fishing trips, and my teeth clang together like cymbals, I try not to think about being cast as a piece of furniture in my first play. It was a long time ago, and who cares if it was the jumping off point of twenty-five more plays of being typecast as inanimate objects, right? And Eve’s being super sweet. Super supportive. It’s just … somewhere in the deepest Hades of my stomach, molten lava burns with jealousy as I listen to her ramble on and on about the hot guys she hooked up with and how she got a standing ovation on closing night. It’s not what you’re thinking; I don’t hate my best friend. I mean, look at her! Listen to her! And no, I’m not in love with Eve either, in a creepy, she-stalker sort of way. I just want to be Eve and am woman enough to admit it. To myself anyway. And I’ve read enough pop psychology books (under the covers, by light of flash) to know it’s not really because of who Eve is. She’s innocent. She was just born that perfect vanilla-smelling way. It’s because of who I am: a total loser. Someone who, fresh out of the shower, still somehow smells rotten. Someone who is bound to have a whitehead on her chin when talking to the hottest guy at school. Someone who inevitably trips on her eighth-grade graduation gown (fuchsia might I add) as she walks up the one step to the podium. Someone who at birth was destined to be the only girl in high school forced to wear headgear at the age of sixteen.

  “HEADGEAR GIRL, AGE SIXTEEN” should be the headline of some cheesy rag instead of the real-life story of a real live girl, but here I am in the flesh. A live specimen. A pedigree geek-freak.

  Which is why I like theater. It’s the only place I fit in and, even if I don’t get the best roles—Tree in Forest, Maid #3, Butt-half of a Donkey, Soldier Who Dies in Act I, Set Changer Dressed in Black, Servant #2 with no lines—at least they let me in the door. At least they don’t shoosh me away. At least in theater class, I exist.

  And I know what you’re thinking: Oh, yeah, here comes the story of the classic geeky girl who’s wearing headgear on the chilly first day of school but when she gets it off in the spring, flowers will bloom and she will look like Angelina Jolie. I’ll be crowned Prom Queen next to Brad Sherman, who’s a shoo-in for the real Brad, and blah blah blah. Sorry to disappoint. But no, this isn’t that story.

  So now you’re probably thinking: if it isn’t that story—the one where the gorgeous girl takes off her glasses and brushes her hair and suddenly she’s one of Leo DiCaprio’s model girlfriends—then this must be the story of the ugly girl who has the great personality so everyone loves her and she is the most popular girl at school because beauty is inner and all that other totally false crap? Nope. Try again.

  I don’t have an interesting personality. I’m not the class clown. I’m not even funny at all. (At least not intentionally.) So basically I’m the worst kinda geek imaginable: I’m Napoleon minus the Dynamite. How’s that for a description?

  • • •

  Things go from bad to worse when we get to school.

  In the hallways, I’m greeted by either shocks of disgust or open mouths wagging in complete disbelief. Eve graciously walks next to me toward our first-period drama class, where our favourite teacher from last year, the way-awesome Ms. Tea is sitting on the stage flipping through some notes. We’re the first ones here. Thank God.

  Ms. Tea blinks and wiggles her tiny pug nose slightly when she sees me, but quickly and only once. Either she’s an incredible actress (for sure) or she’s been pre-warned via the office via my mother not to balk and run away at the sight of me (most likely).

  “Good morning, Cher. Good morning, Eve.”

  “Morning, Ms. Tea. Did you have a good summer?” Eve sing-songs her way into the front row as her white eyelet skirt floats through the air behind her.

  “I did, thanks. How about you girls? How was camp, Eve?”

  “Utterly. Ridiculously. Fabulous.”

  “That good, huh?”

  Eve nods like a bobble doll. “The play we did, it was like this reverse Grease where Danny …”

  While Eve fills an attentive Ms. Tea in on her adventures at musical camp, trickles of other kids enter the theater. I glance toward the door each time—peripheral vision, of course—half hoping he is, and half hoping he isn’t, in this class.

  I get back into listening mode, cuz obviously I can’t be in talking mode. “We’re doing Wild Oats this fall. But I don’t think we’ll do role reversal.”

  “Seriously?” Eve gushes, “Cuz I know how to do it. I may be able to take a lead role and assistant direct. Did I tell you I directed a one-act at camp? It was so amazing and …”

  While Eve fills Ms. Tea in on directing the one-act, I stare straight ahead wondering how in the world I’ll even get cast as furniture in this show.

  What’s the show? Wild Oats. Perhaps it’s about a farm. I could be a fence.

  A barbed-wire fence? They could build it around me like that human toilet costume George wore last year and I could just stick my face through a cutout hole. I don’t need any lines. I won’t even have to move my neck for that.

  I open my mouth a millimeter. “There any fentheth in Wild Oath?”

  The normal females stop talking and look over at me.

  Ms. Tea’s eyes are warm. “What did you say, Cher?”

  “I THED, ARE THERE ANY FENTHETH IN THE THOW?? I COULD BE A FENTH!”

  Eve throws her delicate fingers to her forehead. “Fences, Cherrie? She’s saying the word fence, Ms. Tea. Right, honey?” She looks at me like I’m a pathetic stray dog she’s found instead of her best friend. Then she tilts her face back toward our teacher. “She wants to be a fence.”

  I don’t want to be a fence. I said maybe I could be a fence.

  “Cher? I don’t know if there’s a fence in this show. You can still try out for a normal role.”

  “But with thith thing on maybe I …”

  Eve leans forward and stares intently. “It’s totally bizarre Ms. Tea and it’s probably because I’ve known her my whole life, or maybe it�
��s just because I’m so good with dialect and learning foreign accents and stuff? But I can translate Cher’s new headgear voice into regular English. I can do it the whole semester. For the show even!”

  A burble of giggles fills the stale theater air and I see George out of my peripheral vision laughing it up.

  “Paris, girl, you rock. And uh, Sonny, why is your face caught in a bear trap?”

  “Headgear.” Eve nods with a shrug.

  George’s green eyes dance. “You said it was bad. But wow, baby, wow!”

  “George!” I say, in my one happy second of the day.

  “Boy George! You made it back for auditions! How was your summer and I have to have to tell you about camp …”

  George, with his bushy eyebrows, straight-legged chinos and crisp pink polo shirt is the picture of upper-crust cool and class. “Cher, even stuck in a bear trap you are lovely as ever.” He kisses my hand. “And darling Paris, I see you have a new chihuahua in your bag?”

  Eve pets the stuffed animal tucked into her fluffy white purse. “You like?”

  George grins. It’s so great to see him. “I likesy. Yes, I do.”

  Eve’s eyes widen. “Cher, scoot over one so Georgie can sit down. Thanks. So I can’t believe you were in Europe all summer! How was France? Totally amazing, I’m sure? The clothes! The food! Did you bring me anything? Next year you and Sonny and Newman have to come to camp—of course we couldn’t all room together, but we could be counselors and at night we could sneak out and …”

  As Eve fills George in about sneaking smokes on rickety piers under starlit skies, on jealousy-inducing backstage love triangles and on late-night skinny dipping, I suck on the metal rod across my lips, suck back some drool and try and wish myself there, minus this face-cage and plus summer-tanned Jesse.

  “Where’s Newman?” Eve asks, like she can read my mind. My stomach bursts into flames and I almost choke on my own spit.

  George gently picks an eyelash from Eve’s dimpled cheek and holds it in front of her bubblegum lips to blow and make a wish, which she does with a giggle. “Just passed him on his board,” George says to me, patting my bumpy knee and trying to avoid staring at my mouth. “He’ll be here, Sonny. Promise.”

  Can a stomach really do an Olympic vaulting event?

  “Whyth he telling me? I don’t care.”

  “She doesn’t care,” Eve explains loudly. I glance toward the door. It’s not too late to run. To hide. To try and avoid the inevitable. Stop beating heart. Now.

  George faces our teacher. “Ms. Tea, it’s so fabulous to see you after such a long summer. I just wanted to let you know that Mr. Newman is on his way. Yes, I’m offering a pre-apology that you can accept upon his arrival.”

  Ms. Tea raises her eyebrows in our general direction.

  “Jethe,” I say.

  “Jesse,” Eve translates from George to Cher back into real life.

  When Ms. Tea waves her hand through the air, it’s not in a condescending way like the other teachers do, like they want to fill in the moving air with a roll of the eyes and the word “kids” uttered sarcastically. Ms. Tea just means, “Whatever, guys.” She finds us amusing and talks to us like we are people instead of teenage alien life forms, which is so rare and why we love her. And let me explain something else to avoid further confusion:

  All of us drama-geeks have nicknames.

  They started last year. Boy George made them up, handed them out and they stuck like ABC gum.

  I’m Sonny because of the obvious: Sonny and Cher, as in, “Ha ha ha, I haven’t heard that before.” George even made us a duet in last year’s talent show, but I had to be Sonny and he was Cher with the full wig and high heels and “I Got You Babe.” The audience was roaring at our bellbottoms and my thick brown stache that Jesse helped me attach with makeup glue, so I accept the Sonny cuz when Jesse says my name it sounds more like Sunny, like maybe he thinks of warmth and happiness and daisies when he thinks of me, which is … okay, totally fine.

  Eve’s George-name is Paris, as in not the famous city with the Eiffel Tower, but as in everyone thinks she’s the most popular girl at school because she’s rich and gorgeous and skinny, but inside she’s really a sweet drama-geek like the rest of us. So it’s just in jest because she’s not at all like the real drink-driving, stints-in jail, slutty, not-the-city-in-France, other famous Paris.

  Boy George named himself, although he bares no resemblance to the cross-dressing, VH1 “Bring Back the Eighties,” “Karma Chameleon” singer at all. His real name is George and he looks like your average prep. Clean-cut hair in that popular style where it sticks up a little in the front with gel, polo-shirt wearing, tucked into tan chinos, retro topsider shoes, preppy boy. He’s on the tennis team and the yearbook committee and is, of course, the king of drama club. The “Boy” in the “George” thing is meant to be ironic because he’s always insisting he isn’t gay even though he has a soprano voice, listens to the Cats soundtrack on his iPod on repeat and I think drools over Jesse (especially when he wore that white tank top to play Stanley) but then again you’d be dead not to.

  Jesse is Newman, because, chills, I can hardly think it without swooning—George thinks he looks like the young Paul Newman, which he totally does. When George first named Jesse “Newman”, I hadn’t seen any YPN (Young Paul Newman) movies. Then I rented some.

  Okay. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid? My dream in life is to re-enact that “Raindrops Keep Fallin’ On My Head” bicycling scene with Jesse one day. The only part of that amazing movie that made no sense was how the girl could stay with grumpy Robert Redford when it was so obvious YPN had the hots for her? Then again, both YPN and RR being in love with you? Not a problem I’ve ever had to deal with.

  Then the jail movie? Where YPN is wearing the blue jail jumpsuit that matches his denim-blue eyes and he’s talking about the eggs in that “come hither” voice? COME ON!

  I’ve never seen blue eyes like that in my life.

  Except on Jesse. Which is why Boy George is always right and is meant to be completely worshipped at all times.

  So that was pretty much our group last year: Boy George, Newman (YPN), Paris and me, rocking on faux velvet chairs and lovin’ life, pre-headgear.

  But that was last year. B.F. Before Freakenstein. And I have no idea what’s going to happen now.

  The first three theater audience rows fill up quickly with laughing and chatter, and “What did you do all summer?” So far it’s not that bad. ’Course no one can see me, except Ms. Tea facing me on the stage.

  Ms. Tea stands up. “Welcome to Advanced Drama!”

  Hoots and hollers come from the whole class. We all adore Ms. Tea, who’s dressed today in a long, flowy floral skirt that looks like it’s from Indonesia or somewhere. She’s twisted her long, black hair into a floppy bun on the top of her head with a multicolored scarf. Her feet are bare, as always.

  “For those of you new faces out there, I’m Helen Teacake. I wouldn’t mind if you called me Helen, but the administration would, so please call me Ms. Tea.”

  The class laughs. Told you everyone loves her.

  “Take off your shoes, if you’d like,” she continues. “Make yourselves comfortable. I want you all to feel at home here in our theater.” A scrambled ruckus begins as sneakers are ripped off, followed by a lovely green-room/locker-room scent that isn’t all bad because it reminds me of last year and this theater, my favorite much-better-than-real-home place in the world. I take a deep breath to take it all in: smelly socks and dusty plush seats. It’s the first time I’ve felt okay since they strapped me into this thing.

  I slip out of my pink Converse Hi-tops, and hope my bare feet don’t reek too badly. After surveying for ABC gum, I tuck my feet under the red, velvety theater chairs.

  Eve slips out of her sparkly flip-flops. I watch her rosebud-pink toenails wiggle gleefully in the air.

  Ms. Tea continues. “I hope you all had a fabulous summer and are excited for this fall’s th
eater arts class. I know I am.”

  Eve’s hand flies up.

  “Yes, Eve?”

  “Can you announce the play, please, Ms. Tea?”

  “It’s called Wild Oats and it’s a comedic western.”

  The class buzzes as Eve’s hand shoots up again.

  Ms. Tea shoots me a wink. “Yes, Eve?”

  “When are the auditions?”

  She clears her throat. “Monday next week.”

  Ms. Tea lets out an exaggerated sigh as my BFF since preschool’s hand flies up again. This time she doesn’t call on her, because she’s watching the door slide open as Jesse slips in.

  My heart nearly leaps out of my silver mouth when I see him. His dirty blond hair is longer than it was last school year, grazing the collar of his pink TEEN IDOL shirt where he’s written in black marker below the pop singer’s silk-screened face, “SUCKS.” I cover my metal mouth and smile, fidgeting around to ensure Eve’s head is blocking me. I sneak another peek. Only Jesse could get away with that. I mean, we know it totally sucks, but Teen Idol is totally popular. But since he’s Jesse, he can get away with anything. His chipped, yellow skateboard is tucked under his arm, and as my eyes can’t help but slide down his body, I notice he’s wearing his old Converse, too.

  Gulp.

  “Sorry, Ms. Tea,” Jesse says in his way-too-cute voice. “I crashed my board on the way to school.”

  I’m sure Ms. Tea’s raising her eyebrows suspiciously, but I can’t take my eyes off Jesse. “Are you all right, Mr. Blake? After your accident?”

  “Sure thing, Ma’am.”

  Jesse and Ms. Tea have this thing. It started when we did A Streetcar Named Desire last year. Jesse played Stanley, Eve played Blanche DuBois, and I played Cop #2. A dialect coach taught us southern accents and since then, Jesse speaks only with a southern twang while we’re in class.

  Ms. Tea grins coyly. “Do you need to go to the nurse’s office?”

  Jesse looks down at his skinned knees. “No need for that, Ma’am. Just internal injuries.”

  Our teacher shakes her head, laughing. “Take a seat then, Mr. Blake. I’ll let you off with a warning this time, but if you’re ever late for one of my rehearsals it’s straight to the office for you.”