by Cheryl Klam
Simon doesn’t even look at me and I can tell he’s trying to avoid my eyes. What is going on here? No congratulations on the part, no I’m happy for you…zilch.
Even though he’s been acting weird lately and I probably shouldn’t be surprised, I am. After all, he, more than anyone else in this school (besides Lucy), knows how terrible last year was for me. He, more than anyone else, knows how badly I want to act and how much this part means to me. And he, more than anyone else, knows how I feel about Drew.
After class Simon doesn’t wait for me. Even though we always walk to lunch together, he takes off like a jackrabbit the minute it’s over. And that’s when I realize that he’s a class-A jerk.
I return my books to my locker and pull out my lunch, growing angrier by the second. I march into the cafeteria where I spot Simon eating by himself in a corner trying hard to pretend like he doesn’t see me. I tighten my grip on my lunch bag and head straight toward him. He looks up, surprised.
“What’s going on?” I ask angrily.
“I…ah…well…”
“Why didn’t you return my messages?”
“Sorry,” he says. “I meant to but I just got busy.”
Busy. Suddenly my anger is replaced by an ache deep inside and I’m blinking back tears, struggling to keep it together. The last thing I want is to start bawling in the middle of the cafeteria.
“I just…I was surprised I didn’t hear from you, that’s all.”
“Oh…,” Simon says. “Sorry. Congratulations on the play.”
“Thanks,” I mumble. I take the seat across from him and discreetly wipe my nose with my napkin before opening my sandwich bag and pulling out my breadless “sandwich” (a piece of rolled turkey), a punishment for all the doughnuts I’ve consumed.
“I volunteered to work on the set,” he says.
“You did?” I ask, surprised. From the way Simon has been behaving, I would’ve thought that he didn’t want to have anything to do with Drew’s play.
Catherine and Laura pass by our table. Even though I wave at both of them, only Laura waves back. “I’ll see you after school,” Laura says to Simon as she walks past.
“Laura’s going to do the set design with me,” Simon explains as he watches them walk away. No wonder Simon volunteered to do Drew’s set. He is doing it to be closer to Laura, not to be supportive of me.
“I have to go,” he says, making a point of checking his watch. “I have an appointment with my ophthalmologist.” He scoops up his lunch and practically runs toward the door.
I’m tempted to chase after him and tell him how he’s ruined my whole fantasy. Instead I take an oversized bite out of my one-hundred-calorie apple as I blink back tears and look across the table at the empty space in front of me.
“Lucy?” I call out when I arrive home. “Lucy?” I repeat.
The house is silent. My heart drops as I slowly trudge toward my bedroom. Now I really wish I wasn’t going out with George. The only bright spot to my date tonight (besides seeing Drew) was this fantasy I had about Lucy and I getting ready together. I’ve watched her get ready for parties with her friends a million times and it always looked like so much fun. Up until two seconds ago, I had big plans. Our recent squabbles would be forgotten as we laughed and shared secrets, rummaging through our closet, borrowing each other’s clothes and makeup.
I walk into my bedroom and…
Ah! Jesus!
I jump backward, clutching my chest in fear. But it’s not a burglar, nor is it a dead body. It’s just Lucy lying on her bed, dressed in yet another velvet sweat suit (blue this time), reading Backstage, the New York theater magazine. Even though you could read it online and a subscription to a hard copy costs $195, Lucy had been getting it delivered pretty much ever since she could read.
“Hey,” she says casually, not even looking up. “John Lloyd Wright just got cast in another play. I’m not surprised. He’s so brilliant.”
“You scared the crap out of me! Didn’t you hear me calling you?”
“I said hello back,” she says.
“You must not have said it very loud,” I say.
She just shrugs.
I take a breath. I’m about one hundred percent certain she’s lying, but I don’t want to get into an argument about something so lame, especially when I was so looking forward to being with her.
“I’m glad you’re home,” I say. “George is coming over in a couple hours.”
“Oh,” Lucy says, turning the page in her magazine.
Okay, she obviously isn’t feeling very social and so I’m going to give her the benefit of the doubt and assume that she, like me, has a pounding headache. Maybe it’s going around.
“So what do you think I should wear?” Even though it’s not looking good, I’m still hopeful that she’ll come around.
But Lucy just shrugs.
“Any ideas?”
“I don’t know,” she says, her eyes still glued to the magazine.
Okay, now I’m getting frustrated. “What’s the matter with you?”
“I’m reading.”
“You were the one who wanted me to go out with George. I thought you’d be happy for me.”
“I am.”
Ugh. I open our closet door and Lucy’s dollhouse falls on my foot. I’m tempted to kick it off but in the interest of sisterly goodwill, I bend down and gently place it out of harm’s way. “Can I wear your pink shirt?” I ask (in what, for me at least, is a very sweet voice).
“Which one?”
I pull out the T-shirt she found on a clearance rack at TJ Maxx for ten dollars and wave it in front of her.
“That’s my Michael Kors shirt,” Lucy says.
I try not to roll my eyes. “Are you wearing it?”
“No,” she says, as she begins to read her magazine again. “And neither are you.”
Ouch. Someone less determined might retreat, but not me. “Why not?”
Lucy sighs long and deep, as if I’m asking if I can borrow her brand-new one-hundred-and-seventy-two-dollar jeans. “All right,” she says finally.
“Forget it.” I put it back on the hanger. “I’ll just wear one of my old hoodies.” Lucy detests my hoodies and I know the thought of her sister looking like a ragamuffin in front of her friends will inspire her to take action.
“Whatever,” she says.
Lucy doesn’t care that I’m going to wear an old hoodie on my date with George? “I just didn’t think it would be such a big deal,” I say, once again trying to bait her. “Wearing that Michael whatever shirt.”
“It’s not,” she says simply.
I walk over to the foot of her bed and cross my arms over my chest. “Is this about the play?”
“What?” Lucy puts down her magazine. I’ve got her full attention now.
“The fact that I got cast in Drew’s play and you didn’t.”
Lucy sits up straight. She angrily tightens her lips and squints her eyes. I can tell by her fiery expression that she’s ready to dress me down. Not that I didn’t think mentioning the play would incite a riot. Truth of the matter is that I know exactly what I’m doing. I’d rather have a fight than endure another day of this ridiculous silent treatment.
But I forgot that Lucy isn’t the fighting type. “Oh please,” she coolly replies. And then hugging her magazine to her chest, she walks out, slamming the door behind her.
I give the dollhouse a kick, causing the balcony to fall off. I throw the balcony in the kitchen and then shove the whole thing back in the closet.
thirteen
audition (noun): a trial hearing given to a singer, actor, or other performer to test suitability for employment, professional training, or competition.
Up until now I have always wondered what the parties my sister went to were like. One thing is certain. I thought they would be a lot better than this.
Lucy and Drew aren’t here yet so I’m sitting by myself on a sleek leather couch in Danny Warner’s giant house watching
George and a group of music majors belt out Broadway tunes beside a baby grand piano. They’re each trying to sing louder than the other, each trying to be showier and peacockier and practically head butting one another out of the way.
“Megan,” George says, waving me over. “Come join us.”
“No,” I say. “That’s okay.”
“Come on,” George says. He puts his hands together like he’s praying and puckers his lips like a baby. “Please. One song for George.”
Ew. I hate baby talk and I especially hate baby faces.
I see him whisper something to Danny, who’s playing the piano. Danny begins playing a different tune as George looks in my direction. He puts a hand on his heart as he begins sing: “You are so beautiful…to me—doooooon’t you seeeeeeee? You’re everything I liiiiiiive for—”
“Okay!” I exclaim, jumping up and raising my hands as if surrendering. This is worse than Chinese water torture. “I’ll sing.”
“What do you want to sing?” he asks me.
Everyone is silent, waiting for my answer. They look at me in this impatient sort of way, like they want me to hurry up and sing so they can get back to trying to be the next Hilary Duff or whoever.
“But first,” I spit out. “I just have to…ah, get some water.”
I make a beeline out of there and into the kitchen. I practically sigh with relief when I realize I’m alone. As the crowd in the other room erupts into a rendition from West Side Story, I pour myself a glass of water and glance at the bowl of chips sitting on the middle of the table. I was so nervous about my date that I didn’t really eat much dinner. I did, however, eat two doughnuts when I got home, but as my father would’ve been quick to point out, doughnuts are loaded with fat, not protein. I gnaw on my thumbnail as I calculate the calories in my mind.
“Man, I hate these things.” I hear a familiar deep voice say.
I yank my thumb away from my mouth and spin around. Drew is standing in the entranceway to the kitchen.
Just the sight of him makes me go weak in the knees. “What things?”
“Parties,” he says, as he walks over toward me.
“Really?” My heart is clanging in my chest and the room is starting to spin. “I never heard of anyone who didn’t like parties.”
“Do you like them?” he asks, obviously surprised that some people might disagree.
I swallow back the lump in my throat as I try to think of a response that will totally wow him with my wit and intelligence. “I don’t know…this one seems a little, well, maybe not so good. But I haven’t been to many, to tell you the truth.” That’s the best I could do? That’s the response that was going to wow him?
He crosses his arms and leans up against the counter, about an arm’s length away from me. “You’re lucky. They’re all pretty much like this.”
I’m breathing again, but after my last lackluster response, I don’t trust myself to speak.
“I have a strategy. I try to find one person I can stand and talk to them until I’m bored. Then I wait a reasonable amount of time and I make my getaway.”
“How long have I got?” I say, thinking out loud.
A smile forms in the corners of his mouth. “How much time do you want?”
Even though Drew is staring right into my eyes—something he rarely does—I don’t look away. “I don’t know. I can be pretty long-winded sometimes.”
Holy crap. Am I actually flirting? How can I be flirting when I don’t know how?
Over the pounding of my heart I hear the music change gears as George starts to sing, “Theeeeeeeere’s a plaaaace for us, Soooomewherrrrrrrrrre a place for ussssss…”
“You’re funny,” Drew says, smiling. He sounds a little surprised.
Funny. I’m funny. I try to think of something to say that would prove his compliment is merited, but my mind is a blank. Where’s that hilarious retort when you need it? I’m so nervous the glass of water in my hand is actually shaking.
“Maybe we should find a quieter place. How about outside?” Drew nods toward the glass doors on the opposite side of the kitchen.
“Okay,” I say breathlessly.
Still holding on to my glass of water, I wrap my arms across my chest in an attempt to hide my shaking hands and deafen the sound of my heart thwacking against my chest wall. He pulls open the French doors and motions for me to go first. I step outside. It’s a warm fall night, nearly sixty degrees, but I wouldn’t have cared if it were freezing. Drew shuts the door and looks at me. After all the noise inside it seems extremely quiet. Almost too quiet. And dark.
Drew gives me a little grin. It seems like he’s still waiting for me to say something, something funny, something that reeks with hilarity, but what? My cheeks grow warm as I pretend to admire the little tiny landscaping lights twinkling in the yard. Funny, funny, funny. The only thing I can think of are the horrible jokes my uncle Stanley likes to tell at Thanksgiving.
“I thought you were long-winded,” he says, resting his arms on the balcony railing and surveying the view right along with me. “You seem pretty quiet to me.”
I drop my arms and lean over the balcony, balancing my water on the railing. “I’m trying to think of something funny to say,” I reply honestly.
“You don’t have to be funny on my account.”
“That’s good because all I can think of are ‘your momma’ jokes.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Your momma?”
“You know, your momma is so fat people jog around her for exercise. Your momma’s so old she ran track with the dinosaurs.”
“Huh,” he says, and goes back to staring into the yard.
Did I just tell Drew some “your momma” jokes from my uncle Stanley’s Thanksgiving table repertoire? “I’ve got some other things, but they’re not that funny.”
“‘Your momma’ jokes are hard to beat.” Drew sounds serious, but his smirk is giving him away. “But give it a try.”
He’s so close I can feel his breath on my cheek. I don’t look at him for fear that one more close encounter and I might fall over the balcony in ecstasy, dropping the two stories down and splattering across the stone patio.
“One is your combat boots.”
“Go on,” Drew replies.
“I noticed they’re the same ones you wore last year. Does that mean your feet stopped growing?”
“Seriously, this is your subject?” he asks playfully. “Maybe we better go back to ‘your momma’ jokes.”
It’s all the encouragement I need. I look him directly in the eyes and smile. “The second one has to do with plays, since I know you like them. I was trying to think of an intelligent question so I looked through Lucy’s playbooks, but I didn’t come up with anything.”
“You did this before you came tonight?”
I nod.
“You were trying to think of something to say to me?”
Uh-oh. I hadn’t intended on admitting that to anyone, especially to him. “I just meant, well, we’re going to be spending some time together because of the play and all and, well, I just wanted to make sure we had some things to talk about.”
“That’s sweet,” Drew says, grinning again.
A car door slams and we both instinctively turn toward the sound. I can hear kids talking and laughing and even though we can’t see them, I have a feeling it’s more drama students arriving for the party.
“So what about you?” Drew asks. “What kinds of questions would I ask you if I was trying to make conversation?”
“Food.” I immediately cover my mouth. Did I just say food? Oh man, I’m hopeless. “I didn’t mean to say that. Ask me again.”
“No take backs. So what’s your favorite food?”
It’s so ridiculous that I can’t help but laugh. “Sausages.”
Drew begins to laugh, too, and I’m filled with a surge of pride. “Can I ask you something?” I say.
“About my boots or my momma?”
“If you don’t like parties th
en why are you here?”
It seems like an obvious question but I can tell from the surprised look on his face he wasn’t expecting it.
“Good question. I’m trying to make myself do things because if I gave into my instincts, I would just be a hermit. And also because, well, sometimes I get lucky and find someone I really like talking to.”
Drew is looking me in the eyes again. My spirit starts to soar right along with my heart. Is he talking about me? Am I the person who is going to make him lucky? Please God, please?
Just then we’re interrupted by the sound of the glass door behind us sliding open. “Here she is!” George calls out, bounding outside to join us. He’s out of breath and rivulets of perspiration are beading on his forehead. “I didn’t want you to think I was ignoring you.” George gives me a peculiar look. “Aren’t you hot?” He reaches out and unzips my hoodie.
It’s an intimate act, a boyfriend-girlfriend thing to do, and from the expression on Drew’s face, it has not escaped his attention. Drew glances from George to me, as if he’s trying to figure out what the connection is.
“Hey,” Lucy says cheerfully to me, stepping out onto the deck. “I was wondering where you were!”
She gives me a big cheeser, like I’m the Mary-Kate to her Ashley even though I haven’t spoken with her since the incident in our bedroom and had no idea that she had even arrived. “Hey, Drew,” Lucy says, turning her significant charm on him. “So what are you guys doing out here? Let me guess—shop talk! No more of that!” She playfully wags her finger at Drew.
Drew laughs as the two of them share a meaningful gaze. It only lasts a split second but it still counts.
“Can I have a sip of your water, babe?” George asks me. Drew raises his eyebrows as if to say “Babe?”
I want to push Lucy off Drew and tell Drew that I don’t belong to George but instead I say, “Um, okay,” and do my best not to look repulsed as I hand him my glass.