Babe in Boyland Page 8

  “I’ve been putting out fires every five minutes. I expect a bronze best friend plaque at the end of all this. Actually, make it solid gold—I deserve it.”

  I bite my lip, suddenly worried. “What kind of fires?”

  “You know, just covering—telling teachers you’re sick, stuff like that. I ran into your mom downtown and she was like, I thought you and Natalie were working on a school project?”

  I wince. “What did you say?”

  “I went into this detailed explanation about how you were back at my place cutting up newspaper for a papier-mâché model of the central nervous system. She was like I thought it was a history project so I made something up about a cross-discipline history-biology research thingy.”

  “You think she bought it?” I’m imagining the scene: my mother’s baffled face, Darcy talking a mile a minute.

  “My explanation was so convoluted—who would go to the trouble of making up something that confusing? So yeah, I guess she took my word for it.”

  “Thank God.” My mom’s pretty chill—or oblivious, depending on how you look at it. She trusts me and doesn’t pry, usually. Then again, I’ve never pulled a stunt like this before, so I can’t be totally sure her usual cluelessness will hold all week.

  “Chloe’s like yanking the phone from me. She’s dying to talk to you.”

  “How sweet . . .” I say, touched.

  “Not really. She wants to know if Josh likes her.”

  I snort. “Figures. Listen, I’m going to sneak into the theater tonight and meet you after rehearsal, okay? Is there someplace over there that’s private?”

  “There’s a funky little prop closet just down the hall from the greenroom. Want to meet us there? We should be done before ten.”

  “What about Summer, though? Any chance she’ll walk in on us?”

  She scoffs. “Are you kidding? Like that prima donna would get anywhere near a dusty old storage room. Besides, she always leaves right when rehearsal’s over. I think she gets a ride from her sister or something.”

  “Cool. See you then.” I put my phone back in my pocket and look west again. The sky has gone from mauve to neon pink as the sun moves in slow motion toward the sea. The clouds smeared along the horizon are a luminous peach.

  I may not be in like Flynn with the coolest Underwoodies, but I’m here, right? My disguise is working and I’m in their midst—I should be proud of myself for getting this far. I do need to make the most of every minute, though. Hanging out with Tyler and company doesn’t seem very promising. Maybe just spying on the ruling class will provide me with some answers. Josh is in the play, so apparently sex gods do theater around here; that means I can skulk in the shadows while I wait for Chloe and Darcy to be done, maybe learn a little more about what Josh and his brethren are really made of.

  Walking back across campus I run into a cluster of the stringy-haired guys Tyler referred to as frustrated metal heads. They’re making their way toward the woods, lighting up cigarettes with quick, furtive glances over their shoulders. I ask them where the theater is and they flick their long bangs in the direction of the Hammond House. I pass some guys playing soccer in the tawny light and a couple of scrawny kids hunched over a chessboard at a picnic table, looking like little old men.

  I’m not prepared for the Underwood theater; not by a long shot. As I make my way inside, I actually catch my breath in surprise. Luckily, nobody’s in there yet, so I’m free to check it out unobserved. It’s one of the most unbelievable venues I’ve ever seen. There are at least five hundred red velvet seats, including two balconies—both a dress and an upper circle. The arched ceiling is a creamy white carved with swirling designs like a wedding cake. Paneled walls line the front of the house, complete with art deco sconces shedding fans of gold. The stage is amazing: It’s framed by a proscenium arch elaborately painted with gods and goddesses cavorting through muted, jewel-toned gardens. Merlot-colored curtains are drawn, revealing a set that’s nearly done. A crystal chandelier casts a pool of lemony light on the gleaming hardwood stage, and elegant Victorian furniture fills out the space.

  Wow. What I wouldn’t give to act on a stage like that! The auditorium at our high school looks like a shoebox compared to this. I can feel my old drama instincts kicking in: the empty stage beckons. I check my cell phone to see what time it is. Darcy said rehearsal starts at seven. It’s only six forty. I’ll just stand up there, feel the space, remember what it’s like, then scurry back to the shadows before anyone arrives.

  I make my way quietly up the stage left steps. The house lights are on, so it’s not like being onstage during a show—there’s no blinding hot flood turning everything before me into a sea of black—but still, I can feel it. The magic. I remember the long hours I spent rehearsing for this play, learning the part of Cecily, walking through the blocking in my room at night since I didn’t get to rehearse it very often with the cast. I knew that role inside and out. It was such a drag that I never got to play it even once. Usually our drama teacher gives the understudy one show, but Summer pitched a fit when he suggested it, stomped her little D&G-clad foot like a toddler, so he caved. Jerk.

  I cross down stage right, imagining the whisper of my silk skirts against the floor. I can see myself playing that first scene, set in the garden of Uncle Jack’s manor house. My governess, Miss Prism, is trying to persuade me to sit down and attend to my lessons. “But I don’t like German. It isn’t at all a becoming language. I know perfectly well that I look quite plain after my German lesson.”

  “Summer? Is that you?”

  I whip around to see Emilio emerging from the wings. I almost scream, but stop myself just in time.

  “Oh, hey. It’s you.” His brow furrows. “I thought I heard Summer in here rehearsing.”

  I look around. “No. I heard someone too, though. A girl. Not me. I didn’t say anything. Maybe she’s um . . . in the greenroom.”

  “Okay. I’ll look.” He doesn’t move, though. “What are you doing here? You act?”

  “No! Not really. I just saw the stage and thought I’d check it out.”

  He nods at the gorgeous stage. “Pretty cool, huh?”

  “Oh my God!” I gush. “It’s the most spectacular theater I’ve ever seen! It’s like so huge and so incredibly . . .”

  He gives me a funny look, and I trail off. Too much enthusiasm again. Got to get a handle on that.

  I wipe the smile off my face and try for nonchalance. “Anyway, I heard you guys are doing a play. You in it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What role?” I ask, wondering why Darcy and Chloe never mentioned him.

  “Algernon.”

  “You’re one of the leads!” I say. “That’s great.”

  He looks at his shoes shyly. God, he’s adorable. “So you know the play?”

  “I—yeah. Somewhat. Here and there. Might have seen it once.”

  “Yoo-hoo! Anybody here?” The sound of Summer’s voice heading toward us sends my heart bumping around inside my rib cage like a trapped hummingbird.

  “On the stage!” Emilio calls, turning back to face the wings. “I thought I heard you.”

  Scheisse! Summer can’t see me here or I’m so completely screwed! I scurry into the wings stage right just as she enters stage left.

  Behind me, I hear Emilio say, “Hi. You look great.”

  “Thanks. So do you.”

  “Uh, meet my new roommate—” Pause. Emilio’s tone becomes puzzled, a little embarrassed. “He was right here.”

  But I’m nowhere to be seen, of course. I can’t afford to be. I climb the ladder to the catwalk, where I hope to watch the rehearsal without being noticed. Luckily, it’s the ideal setup for spying. The T-shaped metal walkway suspended above the stage is perfectly placed; I can see everything, but it’s far enough above the stage to be draped in shadow, so anyone who might happen to glance up will still be oblivious to my presence. Score!

  “Are you talking to imaginary friends?” Summer’s
flirtatious tone is cloyingly sweet. “Was that Bunbury?”

  Oh, she’s so clever, with her witty little reference to the script. I’ve always hated that about certain theater types—constantly working lines from the play into conversation, using them as inside jokes. It’s like they don’t have any witticisms of their own without ripping off some poor dead playwright. Summer’s the epitome of that. From up here I can see the top of her head, shiny, golden hair spilling out in every direction. She’s got the kind of hair that’s maddeningly vibrant and versatile. One day she’ll blow-dry it straight and silky smooth, the next she’ll wear it in alluring, fairy tale princess ringlets. Today it’s sort of in between: loose waves cascading over her shoulders. Now that I’ve chopped mine off I’m even less equipped to compete. Not that I have to. That’s why I stopped auditioning, so I won’t always be competing with her. God, I despise her.

  “I was hoping you’d get here early.” Summer takes a couple steps toward Emilio.

  “Really?” He looks down at the stage. Oh, wow! Emilio’s shy. Look at him; even his scalp is blushing. He’s completely irresistible. “You ready for tech week?”

  Summer does her patented hair flip and moves closer. She’s so after him! Last I checked she was dating Robbie Herbert. Skank!

  “It’s not that big of a deal. You just stand there while they adjust the lights. This show isn’t very technically demanding anyway. It should be a breeze.”

  “It’s really my first play.” He’s still staring at his shoes.

  One more step, and she’s practically in his lap. “So you’ve done, what? Film and TV before this?”

  He chuckles. “No! I’ve never done anything.”

  “I don’t believe it!” Her hand lands on his shoulder. Totally moving in for the kill. “That’s impossible.”

  “Unless you count a Christmas pageant ten years ago. I was Shepherd Number Four.”

  She opens her mouth and laughs like it’s the most hilarious thing any human being ever uttered. I mean, sure, it was cute, but she’s overplaying it a bit, isn’t she? God, do I laugh like that when I’m flirting? If so, somebody shoot me now.

  When she finally catches her breath she squeezes his arm and leans in even closer. “Oh, you’re so talented! You’ve got to pursue it. It would be criminal not to. I can totally introduce you to my agent. She’s with William Morris? In LA? She’ll get you jobs like that.” She snaps her manicured fingers. “It’s so hard to find good Latino actors.”

  Ew! Did she really just say that? I try to gauge Emilio’s reaction, but whatever he’s thinking doesn’t show on his face.

  Suddenly the doors at the front of the house burst open and a man’s singsong voice calls out, “Where are my people? I need my people!”

  I turn and watch as Mr. Pratt, the drama teacher, struts down the center aisle. His wild bleach blond hair looks even messier than it did this morning in class. He wears designer jeans, a cashmere sweater, and an impeccably cut sports coat—very chic. Behind him a host of others stream in: a harried-looking man toting lights, a fat twenty-ish guy with an enormous plastic soda cup, Ms. Honaker, Tyler, Earl, and Max. Finally, bringing up the rear I spot Josh and Chloe, followed by Darcy. My people! I want to clamber down the catwalk and hug my two best girls, but of course I stay where I am.

  “Ms. Honaker,” the blond man says in an imperious tone. “I trust we’ll be in costume tomorrow night? You ladies will need time to adjust to those elaborate hats, you know.”

  “I’m used to them, Mr. Pratt,” Summer calls from the stage. “I’ve done the show be—”

  “Yes, we all know, darling. You’ve done the show before.” His tone is catty. I like him! Anyone who talks to Summer like that is a friend of mine.

  “I’m just saying . . .” Summer grumbles.

  “Yes, you’re ‘just saying,’ aren’t you?” He folds his arms and squints at Summer and Emilio, who are still onstage. “What are you two doing up there? I hope you’re not rehearsing behind my back!”

  “No!” Emilio says. “We’re just hanging out.”

  “Ah, the dreaded ‘hanging out.’ You’re not flirting, I hope! Or God forbid anything else. It completely destroys onstage chemistry if you’re groping each other in the wings.”

  I swear Emilio turns so red he looks like he might require medical attention.

  Mr. Pratt gets down to business then, ordering everyone around. He spends lots of time talking to the fat guy with the mega-soda, the tired guy, and Earl—his crew. It’s the first night of tech week, which means a lot of boring standing around for the actors. They gather onstage but don’t get to run scenes all the way through the way they would at a normal rehearsal; instead they go from cue to cue, saying a line and then waiting endlessly while people run around changing gels and spiking set pieces. It’s a total drag.

  I have to say, though, observing it from this angle is kind of fascinating. Since there’s so much downtime in between cues, I get to eavesdrop on the conversations that inevitably bubble up in the long pauses, even though Mr. Pratt keeps telling them in no uncertain terms to shut up.

  Chloe’s really working it with Josh. Of course I’ve seen her in action before, but this is different. Usually I’m—well, there. As another girl, I mean. When you’re part of a scene, it’s a lot harder to observe it. Now I get to sit back and analyze her flirting style with perfect objectivity. Every single time Josh tries to engage her in conversation, she either ignores him or responds with the snarkiest retort possible. It’s sort of shocking, actually. I can’t believe I never noticed it before! She’s incredibly bitchy. And yeah, okay, so bitchyness is sort of her style, even around Darcy and me. Here’s the difference, though: With us, there’s always an underlying affection and loyalty. With Josh, it’s just . . . bitchy. Yet it has an almost magical effect on him. The more she abuses him, the more determined he becomes to win her over. Either he gets off on the thrill of the hunt or he’s a masochist.

  “You coming to my party Friday night?” Josh asks her as they wait for the lighting guy to adjust the upstage Fresnel.

  “A party on opening night?” she sneers. “Isn’t that bad luck or something?”

  “Not if you’re there,” he says.

  Now he’s Prince Charmalot. I think of what a jerk he was to me today—well, Nat, anyway—and roll my eyes.

  “I don’t know.” She examines her nails. “I might be busy.”

  “Come on! You’ve never been to my house before.” He puts a hand on her elbow. “I can take you up to my room and show you my etchings.”

  Chloe makes a sound in her throat. “Cheesy!”

  “See what you do to me? I’m forced to use really bad pickup lines.”

  She ignores this and studies her split ends with intense concentration. If I didn’t know better, I’d seriously think she was giving him the brush-off. How does she manage that? Not to be unkind, but of the three of us, I always considered Chloe the least promising at acting. Now I see she’s really quite convincing when she’s writing her own script.

  Tyler comes over and hands Chloe a shawl. “Ms. Honaker thought you might want this.”

  Chloe shoots him a withering glare. “Why?”

  “Uh, because your costume has a—you know—”

  “A shawl,” she says, like she’s addressing child, “it’s called a shawl.”

  “Yeah. So she wants you to get used to it. As a prop.”

  She looks utterly disgusted. “It’s a costume element, not a prop.”

  “I just meant—”

  “Whatever, manservant! Here, I’ll drape it over me. Does that make you happy?”

  Josh laughs.

  “It’s n-not me,” Tyler stammers, “Ms. Honaker. She wants—”

  “Yeah. I got that,” Chloe says in a tone that clearly says You’re dismissed.

  Okay, can I just say? My friend Chloe? Nowhere in sight. Her evil twin? Very much present. I mean really, what was that? When she’s Cruella with Josh it doesn’t bother me�
��the guy’s been nothing but rude to me all day. But Tyler? He’s smart and kind and obviously just trying to help. He’s even cute if you really look at him! Those pretty gray eyes? The expressive eyebrows? And Chloe, my friend since the second grade, who deep down has a very big, very generous heart, has sweet little Tyler so freaked out he’s stammering. Articulate, funny Tyler develops an instant speech impediment—that’s how intimidating she is.

  How’s Chloe ever going to get with anyone but assholes like Josh if she behaves so bitchily? And if she gets screwed over by him, who can she possibly blame except herself?

  Darcy’s way on the other side of the spectrum. While Chloe treats every guy like something disgusting she’s just scraped off the bottom of her shoe, Darcy treats them like the strangers her mom warned her about. Josh doesn’t pay any attention to her, and she doesn’t dare attempt to engage him in conversation. Tyler, though, seems kind of interested. He keeps making lame jokes and checking out her reaction with sideways glances.

  “Hey, what if Lady Bracknell had pink hair?” Tyler suggests.

  “We’re getting Darcy a wig,” snaps Ms. Honaker impatiently. “It should be here tomorrow.”

  Darcy’s eyes dart from one face to another, but she says nothing.

  “I know, but I’m just saying, it would be cool. This proper old lady with hot pink hair? Maybe we should set the whole thing in the eighties. Jack could be like a hair band dude, and Algernon could be a break-dancer.”

  This gets a tiny smile from Darcy. I totally expect her to join in with casting and costume ideas—she loves bad eighties everything—but she looks at the floor and stays silent.

  Frankly, I’m mystified. I know for a fact that Chloe and Darcy are two of the coolest girls in existence. Yet who are they around guys—at least these ones? Chloe’s PMS personified and Darcy . . . well, Darcy’s not saying a word. She’s been silent all night, except when Mr. Pratt orders her to say a line. My colorful, fearless friend has displayed the personality of a potato.

  Why have I never really noticed this before? Sure, I know Chloe can be harsh and her flirting style’s a bit acerbic. I know Darcy often gets shy around guys she doesn’t know. That’s part of why she’s wasted so much time clinging to Rob, I guess; he’s one of the few guys she feels comfortable around. But watching Chloe and Darcy tonight is so eye-opening. It’s like seeing them for the first time.