The Cutting Room Floor

by Dawn Klehr

Though it’s absolutely the last thing I want to do, and though this makeover session is likely to include more praying away the gay, I give in. I have to get closer to Tori and her dad, and I need to find out if that Degas statue is the one that belonged to Ms. Dunn.

  “Okay, okay.” I play along.

  She claps her hands. “Yay, this is going to be so fun.”

  “Fun.” I pretend to agree.

  After rehearsal, Tori’s waiting for me in front of the school. She drives an SUV—a shiny blue monstrosity that was waiting for her in the parking lot on her sixteenth birthday. She waves and I jump in.

  “Thanks for picking me up,” I say, hoping nobody from rehearsal is watching.

  The seats in Tori’s car are warm, and I don’t have to use all my weight to shut the door like I have to in Dez’s car.

  “Sure,” Tori says. “But can you get a ride home? My dad won’t let me out after nine.”

  “No problem.” I rack my brain. I can’t really tell anyone I need a ride home from Tori Devlin’s house. It’s not that far—I’ll just have to run.

  We drive past the school toward Main Street and hit a pothole the size of a small car. A loud screech rings from the back as the fender scrapes across the asphalt.

  That’s going to leave a mark.

  “Sometimes I really hate this town,” Tori says through gritted teeth. “I’m so tired of everything falling apart.”

  I bite back a laugh. She has no idea.

  Tori weaves through the rest of the potholes like we’re in a video game. We only hit two more. Miraculously—though of course it isn’t a miracle at all—the closer we get to her house, the better the road conditions are. As we pull into her development, there are no potholes to be found.

  “Welcome to Casa de Devlin.” Tori smiles and holds the door open to a massive foyer. I walk in and immediately slide my shoes off, worried that I’m going to mess up the perfection. Everything is shiny and new and I feel like I’m in a museum. There’s even a marble table in the middle of the room with a huge arrangement of flowers.

  “Want a pop or something before we get started?” she asks.

  “No, that’s okay.” I’m not going to risk spilling something in this place.

  “Well then, come on up.” She heads for the stairs.

  “Aren’t you going to give me a tour first?” I ask.

  I need to get downstairs to look at the statue.

  “It’s just a house, Riley. Trust me, it’s not that exciting. Come on.” She pulls me by the arm and hauls me up the grandiose staircase.

  I try not to worry. I’ll just take it slow and find a way to get down to the rec room when we’re done.

  Tori’s bedroom is almost bigger than the locker room at school, and far more impressive. She has a walk-in closet bigger than my entire room and an adjoining bathroom with a whirlpool tub. It’s in the bathroom where we set up shop.

  “Okay, Riley, let’s see,” she says, pushing me into her vanity chair. She sits on a little stool with wheels, like one from a doctor’s office. She looks pretty official.

  “Your skin is gorgeous,” she says, about an inch away from my face. The girl has no sense of personal space. “You’re doing the right thing here—just a little translucent powder is all you need. But you do need some definition in your cheeks. Here, go like this.” She sucks in her cheeks to strike a sickly-looking-model expression. “I want to see more of your cheek bones.”

  I do what she says. After all, she is in a doctor’s chair.

  “Hold there, Riley. We need blusher.”

  Tori holds my hair in one hand, reaches into the toolbox of cosmetics with the other—Mom would be so jealous—and asks, “Powder or cream? Cream.” She answers her own question as she takes the little jar, dabs her fingers, and gets busy on my cheeks.

  Then she moves on, to work on my lips and eyes and hair.

  After what feels like hours, Tori is done. Until I reach my hands up to touch my hair.

  “Oh no,” she says, grabbing my hands to inspect my nails. “This will not do.” She throws down my hand like it’s a piece of garbage. “Ew, Riley, ever hear of a mani? We need some Kiss press-ons.”

  “Fake nails?” I ask, looking at my hands. They did look pretty bad, but fake nails? Come on, this isn’t the nineties and I’m not going to be in a rap video.

  “These aren’t your mama’s press-ons.” Tori laughs. “Look at these beauties with the silver and black crackle design. This is you, Rye. Total rock and roll. And they’re short. They won’t bug you at all.”

  Well, I’ve come this far.

  I give her my hand and she peels and sticks. After about five minutes, it’s finally time for the big reveal. Tori does a little drum roll and spins me around to the mirror.

  I’m shocked by my reflection. After all that time at Tori’s hands, I was sure I’d come out looking like a drag queen. But the makeup is soft and subtle. Pretty. My hair hangs in loose waves and the nails really do look badass.

  I can’t say anything.

  “I know, right?” Tori says with a squeeze.

  “It’s actually awesome,” I tell her.

  Tori looks pleased. She explains her technique so I can recreate the look on my own. She packs up some supplies for me.

  “Oh, the clothes.” She looks me over. “We can’t forget about the clothes.”

  “Well, I like your shirt. Where did you get it?”

  “You know what?” She tugs at the bottom of her shirt. “It’d look great on you.”

  She pulls the shirt over her head, exposing her pale pink bra.

  And wow, she has an incredible body.

  I bite the inside of my cheek. I really am a charity case.

  She hands me the shirt and grins. I quickly divert my eyes and try not to think about the fact that Tori Devlin is standing in front of me half naked.

  “No,” I tell her. “Don’t be crazy. You don’t have to give me your clothes.”

  Tori covers herself with a sweatshirt and then hands me another bag. It’s stuffed to the top. “Riley, I don’t even wear this stuff. There should be enough in here to get you through a week of school.”

  As she walks me out, I try to come up with a reason to go down to the rec room, but Devlin is in the foyer. He’s reading the mail with the world’s nastiest scowl on his face.

  “Tori.”

  “Yeah, Dad?” She cowers in front of him.

  “Do you know what this is?”

  “No.” Her voice shakes a little.

  “This is college rejection number three for you.” He whips the paper in front of her face.

  She looks at me and turns bright red.

  Devlin’s eyes follow hers and eyes me up and down. “Who’s this?”

  “Riley Frost,” Tori says.

  “Frost,” he ponders. “Your father works at the community college, right?”

  I nod.

  “Well that’s where my daughter is going to end up if she doesn’t hit the books. Excuse us, will you?”

  He doesn’t have to ask me twice. I give Tori a quick wave, slip my shoes on, and I’m out the door. When it closes, the yelling begins.

  My heart aches for Tori. Tori, of all people. It was the way Devlin looked at her. I’ve seen that look before. And I’ve seen the fear on the other side of it.

  Tori looked so small that it makes me want to go back in and help her. Just like I wanted to help Dez, all those years ago when his mom’s boyfriend got rough with him.

  Instead, I freeze. I do the same thing I did with Dez when the yelling began behind closed doors—I chicken out and head for home.

  My walk quickly becomes a run.

  To this day, I’ve never asked Dez what happened during that time.

  Just like I’m sure I will never ask Tori.

  D
EZ

  FLASHBACK SEQUENCE

  EXT. DESMOND AND HIS FATHER RIDING IN THE CAR—DAY

  POV shot as seen from young DESMOND’S eyes. We see DESMOND’S hands run across the dash, play with the radio, roll down the window. We see his father as DESMOND looks up at him. His dad smiles and sings to the radio. We see the passing neighborhood through the car window. It’s well-kept, with tree-lined streets, families walking, kids riding bikes.

  JUMP CUT:

  The camera moves to DESMOND’S POV in current time. We see him looking out his car window. It’s the same neighborhood, years later. Homes are boarded up, yards are overgrown, rusted-out cars sit in driveways on cement blocks. DESMOND runs his hand over his beat-up dashboard.

  JUMP CUT:

  Young DESMOND sees an auto parts store out the window as his father pulls the car up. DESMOND walks into the store with his dad.

  JUMP CUT:

  DESMOND pulls into the same store in current time—now a dingy, worn building.

  END FLASHBACK

  After rehearsal, I go to the auto parts store. My car smells like a fast food joint and I’m low on fluids. Plus, Mom needs a bunch of stuff for her car. It reminds me of all those mornings with Dad before he left. He was always tinkering with the cars. I must’ve been about four years old when I started helping him. My stomach turns at the memory.

  Inside the store, Mr. Michelson is taking down his campaign signs.

  “Hey, Mr. Michelson,” I say. “You still have a few weeks to go. Why are you taking down the signs?”

  “Oh, Desmond.” Mr. Michelson rubs his head. “I’ve decided to withdraw my name from the race.”

  “Why?”

  We both know he didn’t stand a chance—but still, why quit now?

  “Mayor Devlin has this thing wrapped up.” Mr. Michelson fakes a smile.

  “You don’t know that, not yet.”

  “It was my own fault,” he mutters, shaking his head. “I should’ve known.” He talks as if to himself, like he’s forgotten I’m here. Then he looks up at me and clears his throat. “Now, what can I get for you?”

  This news will only add fuel to the fire in Riley’s investigation, so I’m not going to be the one to tell her. I give Mr. Michelson a sympathy smile and gather a fuse, coolant, oil, window wiper fluid, and a stack of those tree-shaped air fresheners.

  It’s still early when I get home, so I hit the garage. Bernie’s already in there with Mom’s car hood up.

  “Great minds,” I say, holding up the bottle of oil—identical to the one Bernie just emptied.

  “Desmond.” Bernie peeks out from behind the hood, his face and hands filthy. “Almost done.”

  I hate myself that I feel a sense of disappointment that I didn’t get to Mom’s car first.

  It’s stupid.

  Once Bernie’s finished, he comes over to my car and leans under my hood with me as I pour in the coolant. “I got a fuse and wiper fluid too,” I tell him.

  “You’re a good man, Dez,” he says, draping an arm around me. “I took care of it, but hey, keep the extra in here. Those things don’t go bad.”

  I nod and close up my hood.

  “This one, on the other hand … ” He pats my battered Beemer and laughs.

  “Hey, even the Mona Lisa’s falling apart,” I say, doing my best Tyler Durden impression.

  “Let me guess,” Bernie says. “Reservoir Dogs?”

  “Fight Club,” I correct him, ready to head out.

  Bernie props himself up against my car. “Got a sec?” he asks, which is code for Let’s talk.

  Shit, what does he know?

  That’s where a guilty conscience will take you every time. To paranoia town. I feel my back bead with sweat and I’m sure he’s going to bust me for something.

  “Ah … sure, yeah,” I say.

  “I want you to know that I appreciate the things you do around here. Helping your mom, it’s really great.”

  My guilt melts away. This has nothing to do with my meddling.

  “I don’t know any other way,” I say.

  “I know, and I don’t think your mom could’ve done it without you.”

  “It was just me and Mom for so long, I had to pitch in.”

  There was no choice.

  “I’m here now, Dez.” Bernie pats my shoulder. “And I don’t mean that in a way that says I want to take your place, or your Dad’s place, or any of that. I’m here to help, to put in my third.”

  “You do help, Bernie. A lot.”

  I want to tell him more. I want to tell him how nice it is that I never have to worry about Mom anymore, how I like having him around, how things are good now. It’s too bad my mouth can’t form the words.

  “Good,” Bernie says, and I’m happy the few words I did give him are enough. “I’m glad. I know you and your mom are like a well-oiled machine, but I want you to take a breather. Stop worrying so much. Dez, this is your senior year and you’ve been spending way too much time at home. Go out, have fun.”

  “Wait—you’re telling me to go out more?”

  It’s completely pathetic that he has to tell me to get my lame ass out of the house.

  But also … it’s pretty cool.

  “Yes, I know, I can’t believe it either. How many parents have to tell their kids to go out?”

  It rolls off his tongue so easily. I don’t think he even realizes what he said, that he thinks of me as his kid.

  For some strange reason, that feels good.

  The next morning Riley sends me a text that says her dad’s driving her to school. She needs more time because of a wardrobe malfunction.

  Things, they are a changin’.

  I realize that’s the understatement of the century when I catch up with Riley during study hall. Normally we get to spend our free period in the film classroom, but Homer wants to make sure we’re not letting our other studies fall behind so he insisted we go to study hall this week.

  As I walk in, I see Riley. She’s sitting alone and staring at the clock.

  I freeze.

  She doesn’t just look good. No, this is something else entirely. Her hair falls in loose waves down her back and her face almost sparkles. She’s wearing a little gray dress with tall boots. It’s like girly with attitude and I can’t take my eyes off her. The dress is fitted on top, hugging her in all the right places, and it flows out at her knee. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Riley in a dress, and even though most of her legs are covered, the few inches of skin above her knee has me blowing out every last bit of air in my lungs.

  She is off-the-charts model gorgeous.

  It’s just an act right now, of course, but as Riley says, life imitates art. I’m hoping that’s the case, because I definitely like what I see.

  I clear my throat and close my mouth, trying to pull it together before taking the seat next to her.

  “Hey,” I whisper, wondering if I should say something about her new look or play it cool.

  Fuck cool.

  “So what was the wardrobe malfunction?” I ask. “Because you, my friend, are a work of art today.”

  “Really?” She scrunches up her nose.

  “No lie. What’s the occasion?”

  “Today is the big scene, and I want to kill it.”

  “And the wardrobe malfunction?” I ask, trying to keep my mind from roaming in the gutter. I imagine the Janet Jackson episode where her shirt was ripped open during the Super Bowl.

  “These damn things,” Riley says as she holds up her hands. Her nails are decorated in black and silver polish.

  I usually don’t notice things like nail polish or makeup or what have you, but all of this on Riley? I’m starting to see the appeal.

  “I could barely get dressed this morning,” she grumbles. “Everything took twice as long.
Really, Dez, it’s such hard work being a girl. I’m exhausted.”

  She tells me about her morning, acting it all out. By the end, we’re both doubled over laughing. Mrs. Moser shoots us a wicked snarl.

  We take out our books and folders and pretend to study. But when Riley grabs her book, the black nail from her pointer finger flies off and lands on the floor. Her face turns bright red and she looks at me and groans, “What the hell?”

  I start to chuckle. I can’t help it.

  Riley slams her hands down on the table and pushes herself up to collect the runaway fingernail. As she drags her hands away, another nail pops off. And then another.

  Now I’m busting a gut. The look of disgust on her face makes it even more comical.

  Flustered, she looks around and begins collecting the fingernail remnants and shoving them into her pocket. I’m laughing and shaking so hard, Riley punches me in the shoulder and Mrs. M. shushes me again.

  Sorry, I mouth to Mrs. M. I point to the door. She nods, so Riley and I head out to regain our composure.

  “So much for my new look,” Riley says as we sit down in the hallway against the lockers. “Who am I trying to kid with all of this, anyway?”

  “Well, the nails might not be your thing.” I bump her with my shoulder. “But I’d say the rest of it is working pretty damn well.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. I don’t know, though. Those nails are awfully entertaining.”

  “Glad I could be the source of your entertainment,” she says, but now she’s laughing too. “Why would people wear these things? I don’t get it.”

  We sit there laughing together until Libby finds us.

  “Hey,” she says.

  “Hi,” Riley answers. “What’s up?”

  “Same ol’,” she says to Rye, giving me the cold shoulder. “What about you? You’ve been MIA the last few days.”

  “I know, I’ve been busy with the film and homework and—”

  “And shopping, from the looks of it,” Libby interrupts. “And hanging with the Rollers. I hear you’re going to Tori’s Halloween party.”

  “You know why I’m doing this,” Riley says.

  “Yes, for your art. I know. It just seems you’re enjoying it a little too much.”