Babe in Boyland

by Jody Gehrman

  Right. Not Nathan, obviously.

  Okay, how about Mick Matheson? He’s never had a crush on me, he’s sweet, harmless and . . . time suckage personified. The boy could put a horde of rabid zombies to sleep with his monotone voice and bland, incredibly obvious observations. Yeah, that’ll make for some scintillating reading. Not.

  This is getting ridiculous! I’ll never have my exposé by next Monday if I keep putting this off. Chas’s and Rachel’s smug faces pop into my mind. They think they’re serious writers, real journalists with a future, whereas I’m just a chick churning out brain candy for the unsophisticated masses. How can I show them they’re wrong unless I write something with real depth and insight? How can I even keep writing my column knowing how ignorant I am about the inner workings of guys? I’ve got to plow ahead and interview someone—anyone! Who cares who it is? I squeeze my eyes shut, wave my finger around, and point it randomly. When I open my eyes again, I’m staring right at Tony Brown.

  And he’s staring at me.

  “What’s up, Natalie?” Tony’s a surfer with shaggy, unkempt hair and a boyish smile.

  “Hey.” Time to take the plunge. “Tony, can I ask you some questions?”

  He leans closer. “Huh? Music’s too loud.”

  “Yeah. Want to go outside?” I’m definitely not going into Darcy’s bedroom with Tony Brown. Outside will have to do.

  Tony waggles his eyebrows and follows me out the sliding glass doors to the deck. It’s balmy out, the September heat lingering like it always does for the first few weeks of fall semester. I lead him to the corner farthest from the keg, where a couple deck chairs sit near the railing. I brush the leaves off one and sit. Tony yanks the other chair as close as he can to mine and drops into it, knees splayed, grinning.

  “You look good tonight. That—what do you call it?” He gestures vaguely at my neckline.

  “Um . . . halter top?”

  “Halter top!” I can tell he’s had a few beers. “Looks good on you.”

  “Oh, thanks.” I’m glad it’s dark enough out here to make my blush less obvious. “So, I’m working on this article? It’s about, um, guys?” I can hear myself doing that annoying up-speak thing, turning statements into questions. I clear my throat.

  “Yeah?” His smile looks forced now. “What about guys?”

  “I’m trying to understand how they think and—you know—why they do what they do.” I pull out my digital recorder. “Is it okay if I interview you?”

  He shoots the recorder a suspicious glance. “I guess.”

  “Great!” I fish my notebook and pen from my purse, press RECORD, and smile at him with friendly interest. “Okay, first question: When you say you’re going to call and you don’t, what happened?”

  He squints at me, confused. “I never told you I would call.”

  “No, not you and me—in general, say, if you were to tell a girl you’d call, and you didn’t actually call her, what might be the reason for—”

  “Did Jen put you up to this?”

  Now it’s my turn to look confused. “Jen?”

  “I didn’t promise I’d call her. Just because you ask for someone’s number, it’s not like you’re engaged or anything.” He takes a swig from his beer and scans the crowd around the keg.

  “I’m not accusing you of anything! It’s a hypothetical—”

  “She’s seeing Randy now anyway, so why should she care?”

  I purse my lips, holding in my frustration. This isn’t going well. He’s obviously defensive. Maybe the questions are too accusatory? But I can’t help it if the stuff we want to know is mostly about their maddening habits. I’ll try a different angle; what’s the least negative question? Something neutral.

  “Forget that. It was stupid.” I flash what I hope is an alluring smile and lean forward. “What do you really look for in a girl?”

  His eyes dart toward my cleavage, which is pretty minimal, though the top I’m wearing makes the most of what I’ve got. “Uh, look for?”

  “Yeah. Honestly. What do you find most attractive?”

  The goofy, slightly buzzed grin he wore earlier returns. He looks at my hair. “I like brunettes. A lot. You’ve got great hair. It’s so long and . . . shiny.”

  “Thanks. What else?”

  He swallows. “I like a girl with long legs. Like yours. You ever think about modeling? You can make serious bank—”

  “What about . . . you know . . . other qualities? Like personality-wise.”

  He frowns in concentration. “Well, I don’t know you that well, but you seem really nice.”

  “Tony!” I cry in frustration. “This isn’t about you and me or you and Jen, okay? It’s research! Can’t you just answer me honestly?”

  He looks hurt for a second, then sudden understanding widens his eyes. “Ah, I see where you’re going with this . . .”

  “Yeah? So you’ll be straight with me? No bullshit?”

  “No bullshit.”

  I scan my list of questions and blurt out the first one that catches my eye. “Is it true that guys think about sex every eight seconds?”

  He puts a hand on my knee. “Around you, more like every second.”

  “This isn’t working,” I say, pushing his hand off my leg.

  “Natalie, you’re cute. I like you. What more do we need? This whole interview thing is just getting in the way. Why overthink it?” He leans forward, his lips moving in for the kill.

  I jump to my feet. “Forget it!” I shove the recorder, notebook, and pen into my purse. “Forget I ever asked.”

  I push through the crowd around the keg and head to the bathroom. I don’t really have to pee, but I need a moment to regroup after my disastrous first attempt at a serious interview. I close the door behind me and study my face in the mirror. Is there something about me that’s sending the wrong signals? Maybe I shouldn’t have worn this top.

  I go to Darcy’s room and find a light gray cardigan to put on over my halter top. Then I try on a pair of reading glasses she keeps by the bed. I check out the effect in the mirror. The glasses make me dizzy if I look through the lenses, but if I peer over the top of the frames I’m fine. A little less kegger bimbo, a little more serious reporter. Why not? My first technique bombed miserably, so this time I’m going to be all business.

  As I’m making my way through the shadowy yard toward the house, I spot Kevin Snodgrass toting a bag of garbage outside. He tosses it in the big gray bin, then looks down at it regretfully.

  “What’s wrong?” My question makes him jump. “Sorry—didn’t mean to startle you. What are you looking at?”

  “Oh, nothing. I just know there’s probably lots of recyclables in there. I should have sorted through it first.”

  I don’t know whether to laugh or hug the poor guy; he’s so earnest and sincere. Is that why he’s also so unsexy, or is it the belted chinos? Maybe I should interview Kevin. Okay, so he’s not exactly on Mountain View High’s Most Desired list, but if anyone’s going to cut the games and give it to me straight, it’s him. I can start with pure-hearted, unsophisticated Kevin and work my way up to the sexier players once I’ve got my reporting chops down, right?

  “Kevin, do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

  He pushes his glasses up onto the bridge of his nose and blinks at me owlishly. “About what?”

  “Well, I’m working on an article about the way guys think. Would you help me out with an interview?” I concentrate on keeping my tone completely straightforward—no flirtation, no nothing, just what-you-see-is-what-you-get.

  “Is it for a class?”

  “Journalism. You know, for the school paper.”

  He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Natalie, I’d like to help you out, but I don’t think I can.”

  “Why not?”

  “If you quote me as an expert or something, Brent and those guys might hassle me even more than they do now.”

  “Brent and those guys” translates as jocks. The kind of guy
s who are forever compelled to deposit the Kevin Snodgrasses of the world into garbage cans.

  “It would be anonymous,” I assure him. “I totally respect your need for privacy.”

  “Still, they might find out.” He’s already backing away from me. “Sorry.”

  “Wait, can’t you just—?” But it’s too late. He’s already ducked inside.

  Gawwwwd! What am I supposed to do? My potential sources either fear me or feel me up. All those guys who posted complaints about my cluelessness should witness this! Here I am, busting my butt to get a few measly insights, and you’d think I’m after classified information or something. I mean really, what the hell? Is being a guy so fascinating and controversial that they have to protect their trade secrets at any cost?

  I hear the doorknob rattle on the back door before it flies open with extreme force. Chuck Hughes stumbles out, burping with such force it sounds painful. He zigzags unsteadily across the grass, obviously wasted. Chuck Hughes is always the super-trashed-puking-guy at every party. Ever since junior high, he’s ended up in someone’s bushes by midnight. Nobody ever invites him, but he’s got bionic party-sensing powers; he can sniff out a keg from a hundred miles away.

  Okay, I really don’t feel like talking to Chuck Hughes, especially because of the potential puke factor, but watching him weave his way across the yard does give me an idea. Tony wouldn’t be straight with me because he had sex on the brain, and Kevin wouldn’t talk because he didn’t want to snitch. Maybe my best chance at honest dishing is with someone too inebriated to make a play or to fear the consequences. In vino veritas, right? So maybe in Budweiser there’s a little truth too.

  “Hey, Chuck,” I call. “Come over here a second, will you?”

  He stops his loopy waltz across the lawn and looks around, confused. “Huh?”

  I walk up to him, eager to get this over with. If I wait for his damaged brain cells to locate me and command his legs to carry him in my direction, it could take hours.

  “What’s up?” I’m going for home-girl casual this time.

  “Natalie,” he says, stumbling over the syllables. “How you?”

  “Not bad. Listen, I want to ask you something, okay?”

  He makes a gun with his fingers. “Shoot.”

  “What’s the surest way to tell the difference between a guy who’s being sincere and one who’s just looking to score?”

  He sways unsteadily for a long moment, blank-faced.

  I wait as long as I can stand to wait. “Chuck? Did you hear me?”

  “Sorry, whaz the question?”

  I repeat myself, enunciating so clearly I feel like an ESL teacher. Again, he just stands there, looking like a stunned bear in the moonlight. Finally he rubs his face. “Yeah. Okay. We’ll pretend this never happened.”

  “Wait, what? It’s a question. Can’t you just answer it?” My tone has gone from home-girl to strained patient to totally irritated.

  He points an accusing finger in my direction and bellows, “You trying to take advantage of me! Just because I’m wasted doesn’t mean I’m stupid!”

  I throw my hands up. “Whatever!”

  I storm back into the house, searching through one crowded room after another for Darcy or Chloe. I need a reality check here. What the hell am I doing wrong? What are these guys so scared of revealing? That’s when I feel a cool hand on my arm.

  “Natalie! It is you. Didn’t recognize you at first in those glasses.”

  I turn to see Summer Sheers and hastily take off the borrowed specs. She’s wearing a pink tube top, a short skirt, and her signature shoes: high-heeled pale brown Dolce & Gabbana boots. Her mounds of glossy blond hair are meant to look windblown and tousled but have obviously been meticulously arranged over her tan, luminous shoulders. Her lips are so coated in lip gloss it looks like she just polished off a whole tub of fried chicken.

  “Hey, Summer.”

  She smiles an innocent, sympathetic smile. “I didn’t know you had vision problems. That must be a drag.”

  I shrug. “I was just trying them out. How’s the play going?”

  Summer’s in The Importance of Being Earnest at the boys’ prep school just outside of town, Underwood Academy. Tons of girls from our school auditioned for only three roles; Darcy, Chloe, and Summer got cast. It’s a pretty rare opportunity to meet guys from Underwood, who are rumored to be cuter, smarter, and way more chivalrous than the losers at our school. I didn’t even try out. We did the same play last year at our high school, and I got stuck as Summer’s understudy. Despite learning every single line and fervently praying she’d get a bad case of dysentery, I never even got to perform. That’s when I decided to stop focusing on theater and start pouring more energy into my writing.

  “Oh, it’s great!” she gushes. “I’m learning so much. It’s amazing how much more in depth you can go when you play the same role a second time. Plus the guys at Underwood are so hot! Why didn’t you audition? You already know all the lines.”

  My stomach churns. “I knew you’d get it.”

  She slaps my shoulder playfully. “Nuh-uh!”

  “Obviously. You’re great in that role.”

  I despise the rituals of fake friendship Summer and I enact whenever we meet. I wish we could just claw each other’s eyes out and call it a day; instead we put on huge, radiant smiles and spout compliments until my teeth hurt from the saccharine sweetness of it all.

  “Oh, I think you’d do it beautifully,” she says. “We’ve got to get you back on the stage. I heard we’re doing A Midsummer Night’s Dream in the spring. Won’t that be fun? You would be an amazing Titania.”

  Translation: You don’t stand a chance.

  “We’ll see . . .” I hope my enigmatic grin masks my murderous impulses. “Oh, you better get in line for that keg. Looks like it’s running out.”

  She swivels toward the keg crowd and I make my escape.

  This party is turning out to be the turd-encrusted cherry on the top of my shit-shake of a day.

  Chapter Four

  “Come on!” Darcy spoons batter onto the waffle iron and laughs. “It couldn’t have been that bad.”

  “Oh, it was worse!” I’ve just finished recapping my disastrous foray into investigative reporting. “The whole night was a total bust. Either they told me what they thought I wanted to hear, or they were suspicious and clammed up. Nobody said anything worth writing down.”

  It’s almost two in the afternoon on Saturday, and we’ve finally finished cleaning Darcy’s house, erasing all signs of the party so her parents won’t freak when they come home Sunday night. Now we’re finally getting around to breakfast. I’m washing and slicing the strawberries while Darcy makes waffles and Chloe brews another pot of French press Sumatra.

  “Call me crazy,” Chloe says, “but maybe a kegger isn’t the most scientific environment for research.”

  I wave this concern away. “If they’re not comfortable telling me the truth after a couple beers, they sure as hell won’t open up anywhere else. No, I don’t think the environment was the problem.”

  “So maybe it’s your technique.” Chloe’s always eager to offer a little brutal honesty.

  “Maybe, but I doubt it. I tried all kinds of approaches: sexy, friendly, intimidating—nothing worked. I’m starting to think there’s an invisible force field that prevents honest communication between X and Y chromosomes.”

  The waffle iron beeps and Darcy opens it, impales the waffle, deposits it on a plate. “Chloe, you take this one. If you get too hungry you’ll be bitchy.”

  “Don’t you mean bitchier?” I correct.

  Chloe shoots me an evil look and takes the plate from Darcy. She smothers it in strawberries and syrup, pours herself more coffee, jumps up on the counter beside me, and digs in. I watch, envious, breathing in the sublime smell.

  “Oh, and to make things worse, I had a delightful conversation with Summer.” I make my voice all fluttery like hers. “‘It’s so amazing playing Ceci
ly again! It’s just amazing what you can learn when you do the same role twice.’ I was like excuse me, I just puked inside my mouth.”

  Chloe swallows hard and glowers at me. “Hello! Some of us are eating.”

  “I wish you were in the show with us instead of her,” Darcy says. “You should have auditioned! You totally would have gotten it.”

  “She didn’t last time,” Chloe says.

  “Thanks!” I bump her with my shoulder.

  Chloe holds up a hand. “You didn’t let me finish! I was going to say you didn’t get it last time because you let Malibu Barbie psyche you out. She’s not half the actress you are and you know it.”

  “Being in a show at Underwood is so fun, Natalie.” Darcy’s tone is sincere—she’s not rubbing it in, just telling it straight. “The campus is gorgeous and their theater’s so big. Their guys are better actors too.”

  “It’s true. Plus they’re much more hygienic.” Chloe licks the syrup from her lips. “I challenge you to find anyone half as perfect for me as Josh. He’s so polished.”

  “And clean,” I remind her.

  Darcy giggles. “He’s almost as anal as her.”

  “What is it with you people?” she scolds. “First ‘puke,’ now ‘anal.’ You know how sensitive my gag reflex is.”

  Chloe has an incredibly weak stomach. In the sixth grade, when we got a perfunctory lecture on menstruation from Mrs. O’Malley, Chloe threw up. There have been countless other incidents over the years. Just about any mention of bodily fluids or the digestive process sets her off.

  “Maybe you could go to rehearsal with us sometime at least,” Darcy suggests. “I know you’d love the campus. And the guys. You ready for your waffle?”

  I just sit there, blinking at her. I’m getting an idea. A wonderful, awful idea.

  “Natalie?” Darcy asks. “You okay?”

  “Why didn’t I think of this before?” I spring off the counter and do an impromptu Snoopy dance. “Oh, God, it’s brilliant! It’s so perfect!”