by Alex Flinn
Violet could have gotten a nose job.
She could have gotten a boob job, her eyelashes dyed, braces, makeup.
But you can’t get surgery to grow six inches in two years, which is what she did.
The change is like magic.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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7
I have Oliver! rehearsal every day after school. It’s a great Violet-avoidance ploy, but also, I’m admitting to myself that I’m not completely miserable about being Oliver. In fact, I’m glad Laurel got me to try out. I’ve always thought I hated being the center of attention. Now I realize I hate being the center of attention for my looks. I’m sick of everyone fawning over my hair, my eyes, liking me because of how I look—or hating me for the same reason. But, as Oliver, with a cap covering my hair, I’m getting attention for my singing and acting. Not that I want to be an actress or anything, but it’s fun for now.
Yesterday, we practiced a scene where Oliver’s locked in the funeral parlor alone, overnight. At tryouts, people sniffled when I sang “Where Is Love?” Now they flat out bawled. It feels great that people care so much.
Today, we’re practicing a scene Laurel’s character is in. It takes place in the funeral home too. In it, a bully named Noah is picking on Oliver. He’s a lot bigger, so Oliver just takes it. But then, Noah insults Oliver’s mother, and Oliver goes nuts on him, pushing Noah into a coffin and kicking him. Charlotte, Noah’s girlfriend, runs in screaming her head off. Laurel had to scream at the audition, and that’s why she got the part. She’s a great screamer. Once, she saw a marine toad eating dog food on her patio, and she screamed so loud the neighbors called 911.
I can so relate to Oliver getting mad at someone insulting his mother. Violet always makes little comments about mine when Dad isn’t around to hear. Like last year, the lady next door commented that I was growing up pretty, just like my mom. Violet said yeah, Dad had been so taken with Mom’s beauty (yes, she’d actually said, “taken with”—she talks like that) that he hadn’t noticed how dumb she was. Mrs. Hernandez acted like maybe she’d heard Violet wrong. I felt like one of those cartoon characters, when they have smoke coming out of their ears. But, of course, blowing Violet up was out of the question.
Now, when Tedder Strasky, the guy who plays Noah, says to Oliver (me), “Your mother was a real bad ’un,” I just picture Violet’s face on Tedder’s body, and I launch myself at him as hard as I can. I figure I can’t really hurt him because Tedder’s at least a foot taller than I am and outweighs me by a hundred pounds. But, to my surprise, he gives a yowl that doesn’t sound like acting and falls on his butt, then slides to the edge of the stage. Goose and Willow are sitting in front, but they clear out real quick when Tedder goes barreling toward them. Tedder just sits there, winded, so I can’t push him into the coffin.
When Mrs. Connors yells, “Cut!” Tedder turns to me.
“Man, you’re strong, girl. I did not see that coming.” He looks annoyed, even though he’s trying to laugh.
“Oh, sorry.” I look down. “Guess I really got into the part.”
“No, it was good. It was kinda hot. I just wasn’t prepared.”
I ignore the “kinda hot,” but say, “Thanks.”
“Try not to maim the other actors, Celine,” Mrs. Connors calls.
“Will do.” I turn away, blushing, but not before I see Goose take his seat again and give me a thumbs-up. He mouths a word: warrior. Yeah, that’s me. I roll my eyes.
We try it again, and now Tedder’s ready for me. Connors says, “Remember what it was like when she took you by surprise. That was really good.”
I’m hoping we’re going to finish up with the funeral home scene so Laurel’s mom can drive me home, and I don’t have to bother Dad or, worse, Violet. But after I punch Tedder in the gut (gently) for the fourth time, Mrs. Connors says, “Good work. I think we can move on.” She calls Goose onstage for the scene where Oliver and the Artful Dodger first meet.
“Thank God,” Tedder says. “Do I get padding for the actual show?”
Everyone laughs, but I apologize again. Even though I think he’s being a big baby at this point.
“Don’t worry about it, little girl. I can handle you.” I don’t think he’s totally kidding.
“You’ve got some real anger management problems, huh?” Goose says when he comes onstage.
Well, I do, but I say, “I feel really bad.”
“Don’t. Strasky’s exactly like the character he plays. He was a huge bully in middle school. He actually did steal people’s lunch money. It’s not just a cliché. It would almost be worth playing Oliver to get a chance to beat him up.”
“You could take him,” I say. “He obviously has problems dealing with someone with a low center of gravity.”
“I think he had trouble dealing with a girl—he couldn’t just break your face. But I like that: low center of gravity. I’m not short. I just have a low center of gravity.”
“Go out for wrestling,” I suggest.
“Can’t mess up my pretty face for showbiz.” He poses like one of those guys on the Abercrombie bag—except with a shirt.
Mrs. Connors calls for us to start. She blocks the scene up to the song and runs through it a few times. Then, she glances at her watch. “We’ll start ‘Consider Yourself’ tomorrow.”
I look at my watch too. Five-thirty. Too early for Dad to pick me up, perfect for Violet. I start down the steps.
“What?” Goose was walking toward Willow, who stayed to wait for him. But he stops and looks over his shoulder at me.
“Hmm?” I turn back.
“You sighed.”
“Oh, nothing. It’s just too early for my dad to pick me up, and Laurel just left. It’s okay, I can walk.”
“I was just about to offer you a ride.” He looks at Willow. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“No, no,” Willow says in a fake Cockney accent. “We can give ’er a lift. You ’av to talk Cockney, though.”
“What? Oh . . . um, I only live a wee bite awie from he-ah.” It sounds more Irish than Cockney, but Willow nods. I remember what Violet said about speaking in a British accent during My Fair Lady rehearsals.
“We’re gonna stop at Tawget first,” Goose says. “Ye mind?”
“No, that’s fine.” I have to outline a chapter for chem, but I’d still rather get home closer to when Dad does.
“Why are we goin’ to Tawget awl of a su’in?” Willow asks as we walks out.
“’Member wot I tole you?” Goose says.
Willow grins. “Oh, it’s a prahnk.”
“Not a prahnk,” Goose says. “A sociological experiment.”
“You ’av way too much time on your hands,” Willow says.
I laugh. Goose does seem to have a day with a few more hours in it than everyone else’s. In addition to the timber prank, the other day he got someone to hide a walkie-talkie in the dropped ceiling in the dressing room, then talked into the other one, yelling, “Let me out! Let me out!” Half the cast thought he was stuck up there.
“I’m still cracking up about the ceiling thing,” I say.
“See there,” he says to Willow. “And she is a h’independent observer.”
Willow musses his hair. “I ’eard about this school where these kids released three pigs, labeled one, two, an’ faw. The principal spent the ’ole day, looking fer number three. You should do that.”
“As soon as I find someone to give me three pigs. Do you ’av any pigs, Celine?”
I shake my head.
“Maybe for the experiment, we shouldn’t do the accents,” Goose says. “It kind of makes us seem . . . weird.”
“You think the accents make us seem weird?” Willow says, �
�not, say, your personality?”
“I think that’s a good idea,” I agree, relieved.
We’re in the school parking lot. Goose holds up his keys, and a blue Civic beeps. I’d assumed Willow would be driving, which was stupid. Still, I wonder how he reaches the pedals.
“Special pedals,” he says, reading my mind.
“What?” I say.
“My car,” he says. “I call her Nelly. She has extended pedals. People always wonder how I can reach. So I’m saving you the trouble of asking or rubbernecking from the backseat.”
“That’s cool,” I say, embarrassed at being so obvious. And average.
We get in the car, a typically messy boy’s car with crumpled assignments and McDonald’s fry wrappers. “Sorry it’s such a mess,” Goose says. “I drive my brothers and sister around sometimes.”
“Sure, and they’re always leaving their chem homework.” Willow uncrumples a paper she almost sat on. “You’d get better grades if you handed this stuff in sometimes. And fasten your seat belt.”
“God, stop being such a harassenger,” Goose whines, but he does the seat belt. “Mrs. McKinney said she’d take the homework late. She loves me. Everyone loves me.”
“Don’t know how you talked her into that,” Willow says. “But remind me to staple it to your forehead tomorrow.” She mimes stapling it.
“So what’s the sociological experiment?” I ask.
“Yes,” Willow says, “what is this grand idea that’s keeping me from studying for my gov test tomorrow?”
“Selfies with strangers!” Goose says. He’s turned toward me, backing up the car, so I guess he sees the blank look on my face as well as I see the grin on his. “You go to a public place, walk up to people, and take a selfie with them. Someone else films their reactions.”
“And you don’t get beat up?” This is so not something I can do.
“Not so far. I only did it once before. A few people got weirded out, but others thought it was funny.”
“I’ll get the person with a can of pepper spray.” Still, I wish I were like him. I’ve spent my whole life hating when people looked at me. Goose seems to love being the center of attention. It must be cool to be so comfortable in his skin. “Can I be the one filming it?” I know I’m a geek, but I suspect Goose wants an audience more than anything else anyway.
“We take turns,” Willow says. “It wouldn’t be fair otherwise.”
“Besides, you ladies are so hot, people’d probably rather have their picture taken with you than me.”
Willow slaps Goose’s shoulder. “Just for that, you’re going first. That way, if we get thrown out for harassing people, there won’t be any photographic evidence of me being there.” But she’s laughing.
“Gladly,” Goose says.
We’re near Target now, and I feel a little nervous, but also, sort of anticipating. Goose pulls into the parking lot and parks near where an old lady is loading bags into her car. “How about her?” Willow asks him.
“The old lady?” Goose asks. “Easy.”
Before I can even process what he’s doing, Goose is out of the car and running up to the old lady. “Smile!” he yells.
“What?” the old lady says as he stands next to her. She’s not much taller than he is, and at first she looks a little freaked out. “What are you doing?”
“Just a picture?” he asks. “Please? And I’ll help you with your bags.”
Finally, the old lady smiles, and Goose snaps the picture with his phone. Willow’s filming the whole thing.
“Why do you want my picture?” the old lady says.
“No reason,” Goose says. “You look beautiful. Can I help you with those?” He grabs one of her bags by the handles.
The old lady looks a little confused, but when Goose puts the groceries into her car, she smiles again. “Aren’t you sweet?”
“Yes. Yes, I am. Can we all get a picture with you?”
She notices me and Willow, who is still filming. “Oh, aren’t you pretty girls? Of course. You made my day.”
We gather around. Goose takes a selfie of all of us, and we finish helping the lady with her bags. She tries to give Goose a dollar, but he says, “Free service.”
“Well, bless you,” she says.
We walk away, Willow saying, “It’s easy if you’re going to offer to load their bags.”
“What can I tell you? I’m just a wonderful person,” Goose says. “Now, I’m blessed too.”
“I don’t know,” I say. “It could have gone another way, and she could have kicked him in the face when he touched her groceries.”
“She did seem a little like a ninja,” Willow says.
“I’m nonthreatening,” Goose says. “We shouldn’t approach anyone with kids, though. They’ll think we’re pervs.”
“Good thought,” I say.
Willow goes next, accosting a nerdy-looking guy our age in the entrance. He’s happy when she runs up next to him to take a picture.
“He was looking at your boobs,” Goose says when she comes back. “That’s easy too.”
“He was not looking at my boobs. Why can’t you acknowledge my gifts?”
“I see your gifts. And so did he. Show me the picture then.”
Willow gets out her phone and glances at it. “Okay, so he was looking at my boobs. At least I didn’t have to do chores for him.”
Next, we go to accessories and try on knitted hats and scarves. “Ooh, put on that red hat,” Goose says. I put on a red hat and a striped scarf that looks like Where’s Waldo? It’s silly, but Goose takes my picture. “Model it, darling!”
Willow takes another photo with a different rando who also looks at her chest, but when Goose tries to take one with a girl our age, her boyfriend shows up and gets mad. We take more pictures of each other too, and a selfie of all three of us. Then, we head for the grocery section.
Goose says, “Your turn, Celine.”
“Hey, I’m just along for the ride.”
“No such thing as a free ride,” Goose says. “You need to come out of your shell. You’re in theatah now.”
“You’d better do it,” Willow says. “Otherwise, I’ll never get home to study for my test.” Willow looks around for a target. “How about her?”
She points to a woman. I can’t tell how old she is, except she’s older than us. She’s in the frozen food section. She’s wearing sort of a crazy outfit, a long, green, velvet skirt, black boots, and a black turtleneck. Her dark hair comes to her waist and has one purple streak. I’d actually love to get a picture of her to show Laurel. She’d like her style. And she looks nice.
“Okay,” I tell Goose. “I’m going in.”
I ready my phone, then run up to the woman, trying to be as confident as Goose and Willow. “Selfies with strangers! Smile!” And I snap her photo.
“Oh, look at you,” she says. “So pretty. Is this some kind of school project?”
“Yes. Sort of.”
“Okay. Well, glad I can help. What’s your name?”
“Celine.” I am sooo embarrassed. “Celine Columbo.”
“Columbo.” Her eyes narrow in recognition. “Any relation to Greg Columbo?”
“He’s my father.” Great. Now, she’ll report back to Dad, and he’ll think I’m on drugs. “How do you know him?” Hoping she’ll say she hasn’t seen him in years.
“Oh, I haven’t seen him in years. I’ve known him since he was a boy, though.”
Which is weird, because she doesn’t look as old as Dad, nor does she have that Botoxed look of the fake-young. But then, I could say the same about Violet.
“Listen, we were just messing around,” I say.
“I know. I’m Kendra, by the way.” She backs up a few steps, staring at me, a weird expression on her face. “My, you are lovely, Celine. I’d heard
you were, but I never imagined.” She reaches up and touches my face, just staring at me. “So sweet and innocent.”
Weird. I back away. “Listen, I have to go. You won’t tell my dad you saw me, will you? I can delete the picture if you want. We were just kidding around.”
Goose, who has been uncharacteristically silent during this encounter, comes up to me now. He says, “Hey, Celine, we should get going. Sorry, ma’am.”
“Not a problem,” Kendra says. “I won’t say a thing to your dad. I doubt I’ll see him anytime soon.” She turns and goes back to choosing a bag of peas. We hightail it around the corner.
“Oh, God, kill me now,” I say. “That was crazy embarrassing.”
“What? I really liked hearing about how lovely you are,” Goose says.
“Yeah, so sweet and innocent,” Willow says. “So she’s crazy? There’s lots of crazy people. We’ve all done it, now let’s get out of here.”
She seems a little annoyed so I say, “Yeah, we should go.”
We do, but Goose teases me the whole way home. I don’t mind.
Goose drops Willow off first because she keeps griping about studying. My house isn’t much further. Now that we’re done talking about the prank, I can’t think of much to say. I always get this way, tongue-tied around new people. It actually takes longer than I thought because Goose makes a wrong turn. Fortunately, he talks for a while, about the play, about how they’re having the cast party at his house, and it’s going to be awesome. But then, there’s silence. I say, “Thanks for driving me home. I hate having to ask my stepmother. And thanks for taking me with you. It was so much fun.”
“Did you really think so?” He stops at a stop sign and looks at me. Sitting, we’re almost the same height. It’s mostly his legs that are short. “You seemed nervous.”
“I was. I’m not good at talking to strangers. But I think it’s important to face your fears.” I think of my mom, how facing her fears had killed her. “I mean, sometimes, like being afraid of talking to people. Or stage fright.”
“You’re afraid of me?” He shakes his head. “No one’s afraid of me.”