Babe in Boyland Page 11

  “Wait a sec,” Darcy says. “I have something to contribute to Nat’s new, manlier look too.”

  I put my hands over my head. “No more haircuts! It’ll take forever to grow out as it is.”

  “Nope. Something much, much better.” She smiles wickedly, reaches into her messenger bag, and pulls out an extra large pair of tube socks.

  I laugh. “No!”

  “Yes! Nat needs a bigger package.”

  “Oh my God,” I groan. “I’m a junior in high school, not a porn star!”

  Chloe nods solemnly. “She’s right. You need a penile implant. Size does matter.”

  Let me just say it’s late; we’re punchy. We get the giggles. Chloe’s holding me down and Darcy’s on her knees, trying to zip up my fly after having just stuffed the enormous sock into my pants.

  That’s when we hear the closet door open.

  We look up, startled. There’s Josh Mayer, his expression utterly surprised.

  For a second we all freeze: me with the absurd sock straining against my fly, Chloe using both hands to pin my shoulders against the beanbag, Darcy kneeling in front of me. We’re quite the tableau, I’m sure.

  Chloe breaks the silence with one of those suppressed laughs that sounds like a cat struggling to hock up a hair-ball. That sets Darcy off too. I cover my mouth with one hand, wanting to laugh but also terrified that we’ll ruin everything.

  Josh blinks once, says, “Uh, sorry to interrupt.” Then he turns around, walks back out, and shuts the door behind him.

  “Scheisse!” I whisper the second he’s gone. “What do I do now?”

  “Be cool,” Chloe says. “I don’t think he knows anything.”

  My eyes widen. “Really?”

  She holds her hands up. “Who’s to say Nat isn’t hanging in the prop closet with his favorite drama sluts?”

  Darcy cracks up again.

  I look at my watch. “Oh God! It’s ten fifty-six and curfew’s at eleven. I’ve got to go!” I yank the sock from my pants and toss it at Darcy.

  “Uh-oh,” Darcy says, “there goes your manhood!”

  “You guys are terrible!” But of course I can’t really be mad. They’re the best friends in the whole world. I turn to Chloe, a new thought just occurring to me. “You don’t think this will screw up your chances with Josh, do you?”

  She shakes her head, her expression blasé. “In my experience, a little competition never hurts.”

  I say my good-byes quickly and sprint all the way back to the dorms.

  Chapter Twelve

  It’s morning break and I drag myself over to the vending machine for really bad coffee. God, I miss Starbucks. I seriously think I’m going through caramel-soy latte withdrawals. I need caffeine though, even if it does taste like something excavated from a Dumpster and strained through an oily rag.

  I tossed and turned for hours last night, my head filled with anxious dream fragments. They all featured Josh discovering me in various compromised positions and me getting kicked out of Underwood in disgrace. Emilio’s face showed up repeatedly too, his eyes great dark pools of disappointment. Then I would wake and see him sleeping beside me, the beautiful lines of his body gilded with moonlight.

  If there’s a hell, I suspect it involves sleeping five feet away from somebody you’re strongly attracted to but cannot touch.

  Nobody’s dragged me from my morning classes with accusations, though. That means either:

  Josh suspects nothing.

  Josh does suspect but isn’t sure, so hasn’t done anything about it.

  Josh knows but hasn’t ratted me out, at least not to administration. Yet.

  Cradling my piss-poor coffee, I shuffle out into the courtyard, squinting into the dazzling sunshine. I spot Tyler, Max, and Earl seated at a picnic bench. They’re still the closest thing I’ve got to friends, unless you count Emilio, and he’s not anywhere in sight. I sit down next to Earl. He’s poring over an astronomy textbook while Max and Tyler talk about The Importance of Being Earnest, which opens in two days. They have very minor parts; they play the servants of Josh’s and Emilio’s characters. Still, they’re totally into it. I admire that. No matter how small the role might be, I still think you should play it with everything you’ve got. Even if you’re the understudy.

  Max’s hair looks especially poufy this morning. It glistens like reddish gold cotton candy in the sun. “When Josh says, ‘Merriman, order the dog cart at once,’ he always forgets the second part of the line, ‘Mr. Ernest has been suddenly called back to town.’ If he does that Friday I won’t wait for it—I’ll just come in with my ‘Yes, sir.’ Otherwise it’ll look like I screwed up.”

  “Try running sound,” Earl complains, not looking up from his textbook. “Nobody ever gives me the right cue.”

  Tyler rolls his eyes. “That’s because you’re so picky. A cue is still a cue, even if it’s not the exact words in the script.”

  Earl shakes his head in disgust. “That girl—the one playing Lady Bracknell?”

  “Darcy?” Tyler says, then blushes. Just saying her name, he blushes! Interesting . . .

  “She always gets that one line wrong. It drives me crazy.”

  Tyler frowns. “But she gets the gist of it.”

  Max gapes at him. “The gist of it? Is she trying to improve on Oscar Wilde’s work? The poor man’s spinning in his grave!”

  “You sound like Mr. Pratt,” Tyler says.

  “Because Mr. Pratt is right!” And then Max blushes.

  My, my. These guys may not talk too much about relationships, but they sure do blush at telling moments, don’t they? Maybe that’s the key to understanding the opposite sex; I could invent a science, call it blushology.

  “Ow!” Max grabs his hand. “I just got a splinter from this stupid table.”

  “Oh, let me see.” I reach across and cradle his hand in mine without thinking. “Hold on, I’ve got some tweezers.”

  “You have tweezers . . . on you?” Tyler asks, a note of disbelief in his voice.

  “Sure.” I dig through my backpack until I find the zippered hemp bag where I keep my essentials: ChapStick, Advil, Rescue Remedy, that kind of stuff. I locate the tweezers and pull them out. When I look up again all three of them are staring at me suspiciously.

  “What?” I say.

  “What is all that stuff?” Tyler asks, peeking into the pouch like it’s full of tarantulas.

  I feel a twinge of panic. I could have sworn I got all the tampons out of there. I look back inside the bag to be sure; yep, it’s feminine hygiene product-free. Guys use tweezers, right? ChapStick is perfectly gender neutral. Why are they all looking at me like that?

  “It’s just . . . stuff,” I say.

  “Stuff?” Max echoes.

  “Yeah.” I deepen my voice and splay my knees wider. If it’s possible to swagger while seated, I do. “Just shit I carry around. You got a problem with that?”

  “Hey, Natman!”

  I turn around and my panic gives way to incredulity. Josh and his entourage are strutting across the courtyard. They’re all grinning at me like I just won American Idol or something. Wow. Who knew facial hair could be so crucial?

  As Josh draws near he holds a fist up and I, unsure of what else to do, punch at it awkwardly.

  “Dude!” he says.

  I try a knowing laugh. “Dude!” I say back.

  “Man, can I talk to you a minute?” His expression is conspiratorial.

  I just chuckle. What the hell is going on? “Me?”

  He punches my arm, laughing. It kind of hurts—actually, it really hurts—but something tells me not to bring that up right now.

  “Sure.” I get up from the table and follow him a little ways away from the others. I glance uncertainly over my shoulder at Tyler, Max, and Earl, but they look just as amazed as I feel.

  “I don’t know exactly what was going on in the prop room . . .” He trails off.

  “With Darcy and Chloe?”

  “Obvious
ly, man. What, you think I wanted to quiz you about the inventory?”

  I shake my head, trying to figure the best way to play this. “We were just messing around.”

  He nods, blue eyes boring into mine like he’s trying to see into my soul. “Two at a time? I didn’t think you had it in you.”

  I rub my jaw in what I hope is a man-of-the-world gesture, then notice tiny pieces of wool sticking to my fingers, which I hastily conceal in my pocket. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

  He continues staring at me. “You’re a freak.”

  “Hey—”

  “But I like you. And so do the bitches at MVH, apparently.”

  I want to slap him for that, but stop myself. I’m finally getting somewhere with the upper crust; this is no time to ruin everything by giving in to feminist impulses. Instead I move my head back and forth like a cocky prizefighter. “What can I say? I got a way with the bitches.”

  I so can’t believe I just said that.

  He snickers. “Don’t know what they see in you.”

  “I’m sensitive.” I leer at him like this is code for something pornographic. “They like that.”

  He slaps me on the back so hard I nearly fall over. Then we walk over to join the others. Everyone looks at us with expectant faces, as if we’re world leaders emerging from a summit meeting.

  Josh nods at me, swipes me upside the head. “This guy’s okay.”

  His friends laugh, but it’s not the humiliating laughter I heard yesterday in the locker room. It’s different. Their eyes shine with something like respect.

  Here’s the weird part: Even though I know it’s all based on an absurd, convoluted misunderstanding, their laughter lifts me up like a warm, effervescent river and carries me right along. It’s completely illogical and messed up, but after the beating my ego took the last couple days, it feels so good to do something right with these guys for a change.

  Josh reaches out his fist again. I punch it with a little more confidence this time.

  The chimes sound then, alerting us to the end of break. Josh leads his pack into the Hammond House, some of them turning now and then to get another look at me. I wink and flash the hang loose sign.

  Tyler, Max, and Earl haven’t moved. They’re staring at me, slack-jawed.

  “What?” I ask, all innocence.

  “Nothing,” Tyler says.

  “I’ll get that splinter out at lunch if you want,” I tell Max.

  “Sure,” he says.

  I go to grab my zippered pouch and the Rescue Remedy falls out.

  “What’s that?” Tyler asks, picking it up.

  “Rescue Remedy. It’s homeopathic. You want some?” He thinks about it for a second, glances at the last of Josh’s friends as they disappear into the building. “Sure.”

  “I’ll take some,” Max says.

  Earl nods. “Yeah, me too.”

  In drama class, Mr. Pratt breaks us into pairs and asks us to perform scenes he’s selected from various plays. To my horror and delight, he partners me with Emilio. I feel giddy when he hands us a photocopied scene between Antonio and Bassanio from The Merchant of Venice.

  “I love this play!” I gush. “People don’t do it that often because of the whole anti-Semitic thing, but it’s got such cool roles.”

  Emilio looks a little surprised. “So you’ve read it, then?”

  “Oh, yeah. I was in it.”

  He scans the script. “Who were you?”

  “Portia,” I blurt without thinking.

  His dark eyes fasten on my face. “Isn’t that a girl?”

  I have to think fast. Something about Emilio makes me let down my guard, which is something I can’t afford to do here. “Yeah, she’s a girl. I mean, she plays a guy for one scene, but . . .” I get distracted by the weird wobbly feeling his intense gaze produces in the pit of my stomach. Concentrate, Natalie! “We did it the way they did in Shakespeare’s day—you know, with guys playing all the roles, even the female ones.”

  “Really?” He studies me with even more interest. “Wasn’t that kind of embarrassing? Playing a girl, I mean?”

  “No way,” I say, indignant. “A great role is a great role.”

  Emilio appears to consider this. I wonder what he’s thinking. Have I lost all manly credibility with him now? Did I ever have any to begin with? God, why did I bring it up? Step one in making your roommate think you’re a complete freak: Admit you not only played a girl but enjoyed it. Great, now he’ll probably get all homophobic on me and sharing a room will be totally awkward.

  “That takes huevos, man,” he says at last.

  “Sorry?”

  “Huevos, cojones.” When I still look at him blankly he clarifies. “Balls. Nobody gave you shit for that?”

  I feel myself swelling with pride. He thinks I have cojones! Okay, it’s a twisted sort of compliment, given my actual anatomy, but the point is he respects me. “Sure, some people did, but I didn’t worry about it.”

  Mr. Pratt comes over to check on us. “Have you read the scene?”

  I shrug. “I know the play pretty well.”

  “Yeah, me too.”

  I look at Emilio in surprise. He elbows me. “What? I can read! I like Shakespeare.”

  “Okay, great.” Mr. Pratt rubs his hands together, dark eyes shining. “So Antonio and Bassanio. What do you know about these two?”

  “They’re friends?” I offer.

  “That’s right,” Mr. Pratt says. “In fact, these guys have a friendship most of us only dream about.”

  Emilio nods. “Antonio’s totally got Bassanio’s back.”

  “Right! How do you know that exactly?” Mr. Pratt asks.

  “Because he risks everything for Bassanio,” Emilio says. “He’s already invested all his money in those ships, so he’s got nothing, but when Bassanio shows up he’s like, ‘Sure, use my credit.’”

  Mr. Pratt looks pleased. “Exactly! That’s how much Antonio loves his friend, right? He’s willing to risk his life just to be sure Bassanio can have whatever he needs.” He pauses, taking us both in. “Do you have any friends like that?”

  We’re both a little taken aback by the question. It’s a classic drama teacher move, though; one minute you’re talking about Elizabethan merchants, something totally removed from everyday life, the next you’re being asked to reveal your innermost secrets. That’s how they get you to play a role convincingly—by connecting the experiences of the characters to your own.

  I glance at Emilio, who just studies his hands, brow furrowed.

  “Friends like what?” I know what he means, but I’m stalling, unsure of how to answer. Natalie has friends she’d do almost anything for, but Nat? Nat has Tyler and company, who are better than nothing, but I hardly think I’d give up a pound of flesh for them.

  “Friends you’d risk everything for—even your life.”

  Emilio still doesn’t look up, but he says, “I guess I used to, back home. Not really here.”

  “Yeah,” I say, relieved to have an easy way out. “Me too.”

  Mr. Pratt looks from Emilio to me and back again; I can’t read the expression on his face, exactly. It’s some complicated combination of concern and compassion, I think. Who knows, though? Maybe he’s just thinking about his next cigarette.

  “So imagine, then, or remember the friends you had before. Concentrate on that feeling—respecting and caring about someone so much, you’ll do anything to make them happy. Yeah? You got that?”

  We both nod as some roughhousing across the room draws Mr. Pratt’s attention. “Hey! Careful, duckies. You knock over that suit of armor and you’re dead.” He darts across the room, fingers raking through his unkempt hair.

  In spite of the swelling noise all around us as guys rehearse their scenes, an awkward silence settles between us. I make an effort to break it. “You want to be Antonio? You seem more like him.”

  He grins crookedly. “How so?”

  “I don’t know.” What I m
ean is that Emilio has Antonio’s style. He has a certain poise and dignity you just don’t see very often, especially in males under thirty. He has Antonio’s gravitas, his regal bearing. I don’t say any of this, of course. Instead I mumble, “You just seem more . . . mature.”

  “Okay, cool. So you’re Bassanio—the dude who’s so whipped he’ll risk his best friend’s life just to get a good look at Portia,” he teases. “Cold!”

  “No, man. It’s not like that.” I try on a little swagger. “I’m just confident with the ladies, is all. I know she’ll fall for me, so it’s not really a risk at all.”

  “Whatever you say.” He treats me to one more lopsided grin before we pick up our scripts and start to rehearse.

  Chapter Thirteen

  That afternoon I sit on my bed, hunched over my notebook and scribbling furiously. The side of my hand is ink-stained, but I’m concentrating so hard I barely even notice. My head is filled with a jumble of messy thoughts, half of which are splayed haphazardly across the pages. I’m trying to get it all down, no matter how crazy or illegible the sentences might be. I write about watching Chloe and Darcy at rehearsal the other night—how different they seemed from the girls I know and love. I write about the weirdly exhilarating power I felt today when Josh and his friends looked at me with such respect, even though that respect was totally misguided. Mostly, though, I write about Emilio: his smell, his eyes, his laugh. In some ways I feel so at ease around him, so free and weirdly myself. That doesn’t make any sense, though. He doesn’t even know my real name.

  I’ve been here three days, and still I don’t have any of my seven burning questions answered. At this rate, it’s hard to imagine I’ll have enough material to fill out one good paragraph, let alone a lengthy investigative article. I mean, yes, I have plenty of thoughts, observations, and Emilio-fantasies to jot down in my journal, but none of that qualifies as investigative reporting, does it? And yeah, I could write a ha-ha, look at the clever prank I pulled off type piece, but that’s not really journalism, is it?

  The phone on the nightstand rings, making me jump. Emilio’s at the library. It has to be for him—nobody I know has this number. I stare at it a moment. What if it’s Summer? Would she recognize my voice? I tell myself not to touch it, then watch as my hand snakes out and snatches it up on the fourth ring.