by Cheryl Klam
“Yeah.” He grins. “I do.”
I shake my head. I can imagine Lucy snickering to herself. I take a quick look around to make sure no one is hiding behind the garbage cans.
Drew stands in the rectangular open space in between the old set screens stacked against the wall and the table saws. “This is our stage,” he begins.
Since I’m an adult (not really) and a professional (not really), I stop staring at my boobs and put the Campbell soup incident behind me (not really) as I walk over to him.
Drew is suddenly all business and we begin running our lines, doing the blocking as if there’s nothing unusual about our location at all. I have to admit that Drew might be onto something about this whole rehearsing in the production studio thing. I am better than I was onstage. I’m even better than I was in the classroom. I interrupt him once to ask if we can do the actual performance in here, but he just smiles at me and keeps going. Even here, though, I’m still nervous, and by the time we get to the first kiss at the bottom of page five, my knees are so wobbly I have to keep a hand on the table saw just to steady myself.
Drew stops and sets down his script. He crosses his arms and leans against a stool. “I have an idea. I’d like to try this exercise with you that I saw a teacher use once to help an actress get through a love scene in a play. It’s a little like hypnosis. Are you game?”
“You’re not going to make me act like a chicken, are you?”
Drew just smiles and I’m prepared to squawk. “I want you to remember the last time you felt really, really attracted to someone. Close your eyes and think about him…try to picture him in your mind.”
Not a hard assignment, considering my one eye is still open.
“Keep your eyes closed,” Drew advises. “And we’re going to switch gears. I want you to picture a hot fudge sundae.”
I close my eyes tight, attempting to visualize my sundae. It’s in a big parfait glass, loaded with whipped cream, no nuts, and no cherry. Four scoops of creamy chocolate-chip cookie dough loaded with thick hot fudge.
“Take a bite,” he says. “Think about how good it tastes, how good it feels on your tongue…sliding down your throat. As it melts, I want you to commit every sensation to memory as if this is the last hot fudge sundae you’re ever going to have and you want to remember every single second, every single detail.”
In my mind, I see Drew that first day of school, sitting on the window ledge, reading a dictionary. His hair is tousled, his backpack swung over his shoulder.
“Now, I want you to think about your crush. I want you to imagine touching your lips to his. I want you to savor his lips just like you did that sundae, enjoying the touch, the feel, the sensation…and then, when you’re ready, I want you to become the character of the Girl. I want you to kiss me.”
I open one eye. Drew is standing across the room from me, his arms slightly behind him while he leans against the table saw as casually as if he is going to play ball with a friend, as in, I’ve kissed so many girls, what’s one more?
I close my eyes again as my heart continues to clang at warp speed.
Focus.
I open my eyes and stand up straight. I take a deep breath and begin to march toward Drew like a soldier entering a battlefield.
“Okay, stop,” he says. “You look terrified.”
I tuck my shaking hands behind me as I flash him what I have the feeling is an idiotic grin. He bites his lower lip as he looks into the distance, thinking if it looks like a doofus, talks like a doofus and acts like a doofus, it’s a doofus.
“Just forget about the whole sundae thing,” he says finally. “It was dumb anyway. I want you to tell me how to work the miter saw.”
“The miter saw?”
“That one,” he says, pointing to the saw beside me. “The one you used to make the star.”
I breathe a huge sigh of relief. Kissing scene postponed! “Well, first you…” I begin, as I head toward it.
“Don’t show me,” he says. “Just stand still and tell me.”
Huh?
He nods, encouraging me to continue.
“All right.” This is going to be a little tough, but I’m not about to complain. Anything is easier than a stage kiss. “First, you need to turn it on.”
“Okay,” he says, walking toward me.
“What are we making?”
“Let’s do a star again.”
“Well, you’re going to need a board. Not too thick. Maybe…oh, an eighth of…”
He takes my hand.
Whoa. I’m staring at our hands locked together.
“How thick?” he asks.
His other hand is on my cheek. HIS OTHER HAND IS ON MY CHEEK.
“Like an inch, two inches?” he asks.
I close my eyes. Think miter saw. “Since you’ve never done this before, I wouldn’t go more than an eighth of an inch.”
“Why?” His face is about two inches from mine.
I can feel his breath on my face. Oh God. Oh God. Houston, we have a problem.
“Why?” he repeats.
Miter Saw, miter saw, miter saw…
“If it’s too thick…,” I begin. Houston? Are you there?
He’s getting closer. Five, four, three…
“Too thick and you won’t be able to rotate the…” Houston, if you can hear me, abort! Abort, abort…
But it’s too late. The Eagle has landed.
His lips are soft and warm and taste a little like peppermint. The kiss is nice and dry, gentle and sweet. Not nearly as passionate as my make-out sessions with my pillow, but not at all platonic, either. Either way, my toes are literally curling.
Drew steps back and looks at me, giving me a sly grin. “See? Nothing to it.”
I smile and then I lean against the table saw so I don’t collapse and die of happiness.
I’m at the top of Federal Hill Park, skipping toward home gleefully, when I see Simon. He’s sitting on the front steps of our row house, reading Moby-Dick. Once again he’s retired his shorts and sneakers and is wearing jeans and loafers with a crisp-looking button-down shirt under his corduroy jacket.
I blink twice, convinced that I’m experiencing some sort of apparition, because it can’t possibly be Simon sitting there in front of my house since he has gone out of his way to avoid me since the whole Catherine incident.
“Hi,” Simon says, standing and giving me a little wave as I walk down the hill toward him. We meet halfway, across the street from my house.
“Can we talk for a minute?” he asks.
Even though he sounds pretty serious and I’d really like to enjoy my kissing high a few more minutes, I nod and follow him back toward the park and up the hill. I’m pretty sure I don’t have a choice. Listening to your best friend even if you don’t want to hear what he/she has to say is like the number one BFF rule.
We sit side by side on a bench overlooking Key Highway, the Inner Harbor, and his apartment building. “I just wanted to tell you that, well, I’m sorry,” Simon says. “I have been acting like a jerk lately. I just—I’ve been going through kind of a tough time. I’m…I’m trying to deal with a couple of things.”
I know I could really go off on a tangent with all this stuff that just came out of his mouth, like what kind of tough time and what things are you dealing with, but even though I kind of have to listen to Simon, I don’t think the best friend manual requires that you totally trash your good mood by getting into a serious tête-à-tête. I’ll have to check, but I’m willing to swear that I just have to listen.
And so I say cheerfully, “I’m sorry, too. I didn’t mean to lose my temper like that.”
“Catherine deserved it. She was being a bitch. She can be like that. I’ve talked to her about the ways she was treating you and she agreed it wasn’t anything you’d actually done to her. She’s just jealous. Ignore her.”
The news that Simon spoke to Catherine on my behalf, that he actually stood up for me, is actually a little surprising since
he’s been such a jerk lately. But why bring up that unpleasantness now. What’s past is past, right?
“It’s not all Catherine’s fault,” I say, doing my best to be gracious. “I’m still trying to feel my way, you know? Everything is different this year.”
“It’s hard to be beautiful? Harder than it looks, at least?”
I hate it when Simon uses his sarcastic voice. (Well, that’s not exactly true. I hate it when he uses it on me.)
I’m just about ready to start swinging the nasty retorts when he says, “So how was practice today?”
All right. I was willing to forget about the nasty retorts (they weren’t that good anyway), but there is no way in hell I’m going to regal him with the truth, specifically the truth about Drew. “Good, I guess.”
“You…you haven’t talked too much about Drew lately.”
“I haven’t talked to you too much lately.”
“I know,” Simon mumbles. “I miss you.”
Poof. Just like that all my anger fades away. Unfortunately, so does any remnant of Drew-inspired happiness. I stare back at the water and we’re both quiet for a minute.
A fly lands on his jacket and I attempt to change the direction of our conversation by playfully brushing it off. “Hey, by the way, I saw the set you’re working on for Drew’s play. It’s looking great.”
Even though the scenery for the senior productions was usually pretty simplistic, Simon’s was head and shoulders above the rest. He had designed a night backdrop that was covered in wildflowers. He was even making a battery-operated lamppost.
“If you want I can stop by and give you a hand,” I offer.
“Maybe when I’m done with practice one day.”
“Sure,” he says. “That would be nice. Oh, by the way, my mom loved your new design for the living room. She said she should pay you instead of her interior decorator.”
“Ha, ha! Okay, great!” It comes out really forced. Like it’s obvious that I’m not sincere. “Oh, and I’ve got a compliment for you as well. Guess who was talking about you at lunch the other day? Marybeth. She was saying how great she thinks you look with contacts. She said she never noticed until now what cute eyes you have.”
“Really?” he asks with a sad smile. “That’s nice, I guess.”
When I get home, Lucy isn’t there. On the kitchen table is a handwritten note explaining that she is going out to dinner with Marybeth and will see me later. I tell myself I really shouldn’t care. After all, in spite of Lucy I’ve had a pretty good day. I kissed Drew, left my mom a very long-winded, ecstatic message, and had a nice talk with Simon. So what if my sister can’t stand the sight of me?
I make myself a tuna fish sandwich with lite mayo as I try to ignore the Lucy-inspired pit in my stomach. I think about what Lucy said about being charming and nice and then I think about George. I grab my sandwich and head to the computer, determined to deal with him once and for all.
After several drafts, I type an e-mail that I’m pretty sure is good:
Dear George,
I’m really sorry but I can’t go out with you on Thursday night. In fact, I can’t go out with you at all. I think you are a GREAT guy and wish you all the best.
Sincerely, Megan
I’m just about to press Send when I hear the front door open. “Mom?” I call out.
“Just me,” Lucy replies.
I check my watch. It’s nearly eight o’clock and I haven’t heard from Mom since I left her that message. I can’t help but feel disappointed. So much for her sharing my excitement over my first (stage) kiss. Still, I’m happy that at least Lucy is home.
“What did you get?” I ask cheerfully as she walks in the bedroom carrying a Bebe’s bag.
“Pants,” she says. “They were on sale. We stopped there before dinner.”
“Where did you go to dinner?” I ask.
“Cheesecake Factory,” she says.
As Lucy is well aware, I absolutely love the Cheesecake Factory. In the old days she probably would’ve said something like I was thinking about you the whole time or I brought you back some cheesecake. But it’s as if she’s forgotten that I’ve ever even been there, not to mention that it’s one of my favorite places on earth.
“Hey,” she says, motioning toward the shirt under my hoodie.
“Is that my shirt?”
“It was in our share pile.”
Lucy doesn’t say anything more, but I can tell she’s not too happy by the way she turns away from me. I curse myself for wearing the shirt. I knew it was hers but since she lets me wear some of her other shirts, I didn’t think she’d care. Still, it was a dumb thing to do, especially considering the sorry state of our relationship.
“Will you read this?” I ask, motioning toward the computer screen. “It’s to George.”
Lucy leans over my shoulder and reads it. “That’s not a letter. That’s a bitchy note. Have you not been listening to a word I’ve been saying to you? You have to be bend over backward to be nice now or people are going to hate you.”
“I know, I know,” I say defensively. “I really do understand what you’re saying. Honest. But what’s nasty about this?” I glance at the note again as I begin to chew on my thumbnail. “I say he’s a great guy.”
“I don’t understand why you don’t want to go out with him,” Lucy snaps. “He’s cute and popular…he’s funny…”
“He’s kind of annoying. And also…he has girl hair.” I’m stunned that I remember what Simon had said last year.
“Girl hair?” Lucy asks, wrinkling up her nose and raising her eyebrows like I had just spoken in tongues. “You don’t like him because of his hair?”
I never should have brought up the girl-hair thing. I know it sounds superficial, I should’ve just stopped at annoying. But I’m not about to back down. “I would think you, of all people, would understand. Remember Andy?” I say, mentioning the guy who asked her to the fall festival the previous year. “You said you didn’t like him because of his hands.”
“This isn’t the same thing. Not even close.”
“Why?”
“Because a year ago you would’ve been counting your blessings to be fortunate enough to be asked out by someone like George!”
“I see,” I say calmly, yanking my thumb away from my mouth. “So, as far as you’re concerned, Miss Pathetic BuckTeeth Fatso on the inside is lucky that I even caught George’s eye. I’m so sorry to disappoint you, Lucy, but he’s…he’s not my type.”
“How would you know what your type is when you’ve never gone out with anyone? When, up until yesterday, you’d never even kissed anyone?” she adds.
It’s a low blow, but Lucy doesn’t seem to realize it. She is just standing there giving me her cool-as-a-cucumber icy glare.
I forget all about my vow to be nice. As far as I’m concerned, the gloves are off. “Well,” I say, “you’ll be glad to know that my kissing ability has improved significantly. Drew and I worked on our kiss all afternoon and according to him, I’m a natural.”
“Good for you,” she snaps.
But I don’t gloat. I send the e-mail to George as Lucy gathers her pajamas, her pillow, and her comforter and leaves the room, shutting the door behind her. As I look at the bulletin board crammed with all her theater pictures, I can’t help but feel overwhelmed by a sense of nostalgia and longing for simpler times, when my dream of looking like Lucy hadn’t come true yet.
nineteen
rehearsal (noun): a practice session, usually private, in preparation for a public performance.
Dear Megan,
I know you’re a novice in love and life and I fear I have frightened you by my exuberance. All I can say is that your smile continues to haunt my sleep. Go with me to the fall festival. It is the only way to soothe my restless soul.
G
“That’s pathetic,” Simon says, as he finishes reading George’s note. “Oooh. I am haunting your dreams, wooooo.”
“Woooo,” I say, but i
t’s a halfhearted, sick to my stomach, wooo.
A week has passed since I sent George that e-mail and I haven’t spoken or communicated with him at all. I was just beginning to relax and not run in the opposite direction when I saw him. But his note put me back on high alert. As a result, even though it’s been raining off and on all day, Simon and I are eating our lunch on the steps of a deserted church a block away from school. “What’s it going to take for old Wayne Newton to get the message?” Simon asks.
“Wayne Newton?”
“Tony Roberts.”
“Tony Roberts? The giant you-can-do-it guy?”
“That’s Tony Robbins. I was trying to think of some big Broadway singer.”
“Kristin Chenoweth,” I say.
“What’s it going to take for old Kristin to get the message?” Simon asks.
“I wish I knew.”
I take back the note and stick it into my purse. I rub my half-frozen hands together. Baltimore has been suffering through a totally schizoid fall with hot, sunny days sandwiched in between unusually cold and damp weather. Today it’s freezing cold, and even though I’m wearing two hoodies underneath my giant raincoat from last year, I’m still shivering.
I pick up my turkey sandwich (that was made as designated by my Lucy diet: whole wheat bread, mustard—no mayo) and a glob of mustard slides off the sandwich onto the step. As I wipe it off with my napkin, I’m happy that no one (besides Simon) is there to witness my messy eating. “I have to say I’m surprised. I thought this whole dating thing was a dead issue.”
“What does Lucy say?”
“She’s not really talking to me these days,” I say, choking down a bite. I really hate mustard. “We’ve gotten into fights before but nothing ever like this. She’s really ticked about the way I’ve handled this whole George thing.”
“I guarantee you, Lucy couldn’t care less about George. She’s just jealous,” he says matter-of-factly as he leans back and tucks his hands into the pocket of his brown corduroy jacket. Simon is an incredibly fast eater, and as per usual, he’s already finished with his lunch.