Babe in Boyland

by Jody Gehrman

“If she’s got the latest pop hit on there, also trying too hard, but in the other direction—like she thinks she’s got to be super-trendy just to be liked.”

  “I can see that,” I say grudgingly.

  “Those ones that sound like alien spacecraft? Forget it. She might be fun for a little while, but pretty soon she’ll be reading you your horoscope and spending every penny on 1-800-PSYCHICS.”

  “Sounds like you speak from experience.”

  He shudders. “And the reggae ringtone? Unless you want to spend every weekend at some dusty music festival where they sell patchouli soap and glass bongs, run the other way.”

  “Duly noted.”

  “It’s all true.” He nods. “The fine art of ringtone interpretation.”

  I smile up at the ceiling. The moon has cast an intricate pattern of shadows up there, and the wind stirring the trees outside makes the whole thing shiver. “Okay. So those are the red flag ringtones. Is there one you find acceptable?”

  I sneak a sideways glance at him. God, he really is perfect. His skin is so gorgeous in the moonlight; like blue-tinged cinnamon.

  “You know what I like?”

  No, I think, but please God tell me.

  “I like a phone that actually sounds like a phone. You know, that rings. Really rings. Like a phone.”

  I giggle, then hastily try turning it into a manly chortle. “Pretty old-fashioned of you.”

  “I guess so.”

  For a moment we both stare at the ceiling in silence, listening to the crickets, watching the shadows slide around the ceiling.

  “Girls should just be who they are, you know? Is that too much to ask?”

  I swallow hard. “Maybe.”

  He sighs. “Yeah, well, anyway. That’s what I like, and I’m sticking to it.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “For what?”

  “For being honest.”

  He rearranges his pillow roughly, flips over, and faces the wall. “If we’re going to be roomies we might as well try to get along.”

  “Yeah,” I whisper. “We might as well.”

  Chapter Eleven

  In the morning, I wake up a little after six, creep silently to the bathroom, and take a shower in the far stall. Nobody else seems to be up yet, thank God. I towel off quickly and reluctantly pull on my double-ply too-small sports bras, the undershirt, and my tighty whiteys. Just add sock. Then I dress in the borrowed uniform and try for ten frustrating minutes to tie the tie. It’s incredibly complicated. All I manage is a lame, lopsided knot that looks like a kindergartener’s effort with a shoelace.

  I come out of the stall, still rubbing my wet hair with a towel, wondering if I should use mousse in it or if that would seem too girly.

  “You’re a morning person too, huh?”

  I scream. Okay, totally out of proportion to the situation, but I can’t help it—I thought I was alone. Not only do I scream, I also jump like three feet into the air.

  “Whoa.” Tyler gives me an alarmed look. “What the hell was that?”

  “Sorry. Little twitchy, I guess.”

  He stands at the mirror in sweats and a T-shirt, shaving. “Good thing I’ve got a steady hand or I’d have sliced myself to ribbons. Never heard a guy scream like that.”

  I bite my lip. It’s too early to be a guy. I’ve never had a role I had to start playing the moment I rolled out of bed.

  “Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone.” His eyes land on my tie and he cracks up. “What’s that supposed to be?”

  My fingers fly to the mangled knot and I can feel my cheeks burning.

  “Here, I’ll do it.” He puts his razor down, wipes his hands on the towel draped over his shoulder, and reaches out to fix it.

  I mumble my thanks while he loosens the knot.

  “See, it’s just over, under, up, around, up and through.” He demonstrates. “You got that?”

  “Uh . . . sure. Thanks for letting me borrow your uniform, by the way. You mind if I use it this week?”

  “It’s fine. This weekend I can show you where to buy one, if you want.”

  I nod, feeling a twinge of guilt, since by then I’ll be long gone.

  He must see something in my face, because he flashes me a knowing look and says, “Money a problem?”

  “Oh, I—well, it’s not that, I just—”

  “It’s okay. Not everyone here is rich, you know. I’m here on a scholarship.”

  I feel like a liar, but I take the path of least resistance. “Yeah, me too.”

  “Nothing to be ashamed of. All it means is we’re here because of our brains, not our parents’ bank account.” He pats my shoulder. “See you at lunch?”

  “Sure. Okay. And thanks again.”

  Later in the day, after I’ve made it through my morning classes without incident and eaten lunch with Tyler, Max, and Earl without making a total fool of myself, I’m starting to feel almost confident. It’s one of those golden September afternoons, two parts summer, one part fall. The sky’s a deep, flawless blue and the air smells of apples mixed with ocean. It’s like the gods are saying yes to my crazy, harebrained scheme; they’re saying yes to my pursuit of answers; maybe they’re even saying yes to Emilio and me, though I’ve no idea how anything can happen with that, since—well, you know. Anyway, the point is I’ve almost survived my second day of school and a tentative trickle of optimism has started to bubble up inside me, the sense that I just might pull this off after all.

  Then I look at my schedule. Suddenly the gods have stopped saying yes and have started making really obnoxious farting noises. In my face. With their armpits.

  Fifth period PE.

  I’m a pretty good dancer. I kick ass in yoga and Pilates. For some reason, though, in spite of the extreme hand-eye coordination that runs in my family, I’m a walking disaster when it comes to balls. I mean it: tennis, soccer, volleyball, baseball, football, cricket—any activity with a round or even semi-round object renders me a total klutz. We’re talking dangerous levels of gawkiness. Seriously! I went to a party in the eighth grade at a bowling alley, and the birthday girl ended up with two broken toes because of me. Needless to say, we’re no longer friends.

  Something tells me PE at Underwood won’t involve dancing, yoga, or Pilates.

  When I get into the gymnasium the first thing I see is Josh and his minions shooting baskets. I actually feel like I might throw up. Because of my height, people have been trying to get me into basketball for years. That is, until they see me try to play. Once they stop laughing, they generally agree that b-ball’s not my game.

  To compound my anxiety, there’s the issue of the locker room. My stomach churns when I realize I’ll be expected to change in there. Luckily, the room is somewhat vast and cavernous, so I manage to find a dark corner where I can slip into the gym uniform I borrowed from Tyler without anyone noticing.

  Coach Vroman is your textbook sadist. His beady eyes peer out from behind plastic glasses, obviously taking piggish delight in our pain. He leads us through a series of warm-up calisthenics, then unleashes a huge bag of basket-balls on us and barks, “Layups!”

  I look around, mystified, then line up behind my class-mates. I don’t know how to dribble the stupid ball, let alone force it into a graceful trajectory toward the hoop. Everyone else—even Max, with his matchstick legs and his scrawny arms—manages to charge forward, leap, and release the ball somewhere near the rim. I watch as Emilio slams it right down through the net with a satisfying swoosh. I feel like a lowly worm peering up at them as they hurdle their bodies through the air.

  When it’s my turn, I’m so panicked I can hear my blood pounding in my ears. I want to be anywhere but here—anywhere! What can I do, though? There’s no escape. I bounce the ball a couple times and use all my concentration to keep bouncing it as I move forward. Okay, running’s not an option, but I think I can walk and dribble at the same time. Bounce, catch, step; bounce, catch, step. Yes! I can do this.

  I try not to noti
ce that the entire gym has gone totally silent. Everyone’s looking at me, but who cares? I’m doing this! I’m walking, bouncing, walking, bouncing. I’m almost under the basket now! All I have to do is shoot! In my excitement, I throw the ball down with more force than ever, feeling bad-ass. It ricochets off the floor at an angle and slams right into my crotch.

  All around me, the room goes, “Ohhhh!”

  I look up. Every face is staring at me, contorted into winces. Right. Ball in crotch equals excruciating pain. I’m such an idiot! Too late, I double over in pain.

  “Ouch!” I yell. I sneak a glance around. Nobody looks convinced, so I add, “My balls!”

  Okay, maybe too much? Another glance around tells me something about my performance is off. Josh has his hand over his mouth trying not to laugh, and Emilio is shaking his head. The coach blows his whistle and waves me over.

  “Sorry, Coach,” I say, jogging over to him. To my relief, the sound of squeaking tennis shoes and dribbling balls starts up again behind me. “My bad.”

  “New kid, right?” He studies me like I’m a fly in his soup.

  “Yeah.”

  “Haven’t played much basketball, I guess.”

  “Uh, not much, no.”

  “You hurt?”

  If an injury gets me out of this, I’m in excruciating pain. My hand flies instantly to my sock. “Yeah. Pretty bad.”

  “You want to sit for a minute?”

  “Okay.”

  “Over there.” He nods at the bleachers.

  I’m so relieved I could cry!

  As I turn to walk away, he slaps me on the ass.

  I spin around. “Hey!”

  “Problem?” His sweaty face looks annoyed.

  Just in time, I realize my mistake. The bizarre butt-pat ritual is totally normal among jocks. “No problem. Thanks, Coach.”

  On the way back to the locker room, Emilio jogs up beside me. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine.” I pick up my pace, head down, making a bee-line for my locker in outer Siberia.

  I don’t get very far, though. In fact, I’ve barely made it inside the door when a large pair of Nikes blocks my way. They’re planted in a wide stance. The tan, muscular legs would inspire serious admiration under different circumstances.

  “What’s up, spaz?”

  I look up slowly. Josh stares down at me, face glazed with sweat.

  I swallow, trying to remember how to speak. “Hey.”

  “Showers are this way.” He jerks his head in the direction of the group showers.

  My eyes flick over to the showers involuntarily. A few of the guys are already in there, turning on the water, their naked butts shockingly white, and—oh, God, I so didn’t need to see that! I feel a hot blush creeping up my neck.

  “Good game out there.” Josh leans in so close that I can feel little puffs of breath on my skin. “Man, your face is smooth as a girl’s.”

  My hand shoots to my cheek. “No it’s not!”

  “How old are you? Twelve?”

  As more guys file in, the smell of sweat fills my head, mixing with the steamy, soapy perfume of the showers. Voices bounce off the tiled walls and ricochet inside my head.

  “Mayer, leave him alone,” I hear someone say.

  “Dude’s like preadolescent.” Josh goes on scrutinizing my face with a fascination that unnerves me.

  Emilio comes over. “Give the guy a break.”

  I step back, adrenaline pounding through my veins.

  “You defending your little girlfriend?” Josh taunts.

  “Don’t be an asshole,” Emilio chides. “Guy’s having a rough day.”

  Josh eyes Emilio another second, but backs off. I scurry over to my distant corner of the locker room and change out of my gym clothes as fast as I can.

  That night in the prop closet I tell Chloe and Darcy about my aborted attempt to reinvent myself as Michael Jordan. They find it hilarious, which totally pisses me off.

  “Oh, yeah,” I cry, “laugh, why don’t you?”

  They do.

  “Hey! I’m the one on the front lines here. I’m knocking myself out trying to get answers to your questions. I don’t see you two doing much for womankind.” I fold my arms over my chest and glare at them.

  Darcy comes over and slings an arm over my shoulder. “Poor babe! We know you’re suffering.”

  Chloe shrugs. “Doesn’t sound so bad to me. A locker room full of naked Underwoodies?”

  “Who were taunting me!” I remind her, indignant.

  “Except Emilio.” Darcy nudges me. “You like him, huh?”

  “I—well—I think he’s really nice,” I say, flustered.

  Chloe’s jaw drops. “Oh my God! Natalie’s got a crush! Natalie, you never like anyone.”

  I can’t help grinning. “Okay, he’s dreamy.”

  “And you’re sharing a room with him!” Darcy pulls at her pink hair. “How hot is that?”

  “It’s very unnerving, actually!”

  “Does he fart in his sleep?” Chloe wants to know. “I bet he does! Eugh! So gross. I take it back—you are suffering!”

  “What is it with you and flatulence?” I say. “It’s just gas—it’s not deadly.”

  “Change of subject.” Chloe clutches her stomach. “Unless you want me to puke all over the props.”

  “Yeah, actually, we need to focus.” I walk over to a mirror propped up on one of the utility shelves and examine myself, finger-combing my hair. “How can I be more of a man? I need street cred.”

  Darcy comes over and examines my profile. “You could use some piercings.”

  “Not at Underwood. Try again.”

  “I’ve been doing a little research. I brought supplies.” Chloe produces her aluminum makeup box from her enormous Louis Vuitton bag. She does makeup for the Mountain View High shows. She’s really good at it. Now she undoes the latches, all business. “It should be easy. What you need is stubble.”

  “Stubble?” I can’t help sounding less than enthusiastic.

  “You’re too baby-faced. They can’t respect you if you look like a child. We’ll just cut up some wool crepe”—she pulls a braid of brown, hair-like stuff from her box—“and apply it to your cheeks with stoppelpaste.” She shows us a small tube of waxy-looking stuff. “I read about it on the Internet.”

  I consider this. “Will they be suspicious, though, since I didn’t have any before?”

  Chloe shakes her head. “Not at all. Guys grow facial hair. It’s what they do.”

  “But can she sleep in it?” Darcy asks.

  “Yeah, like do I keep it on all the time, or reapply it every morning?”

  She pulls out a hair dryer and hands it to Darcy. “Warm up the stoppelpaste with this. Otherwise it won’t go on smoothly.” She’s so focused on her task now, I wonder if she even heard the question. She’s got scissors out and is cutting the wool into tiny bits.

  “Chloe? This is kind of elaborate. I won’t be able to do it on myself in the dorms. Can I sleep in it?”

  “I’m pretty sure,” she says. “If it gets funky I’ll just touch it up each night after rehearsal.”

  I grin at her. “Thanks. You’re the best.”

  She shoots me a look. “Whatever. You know I can’t resist a makeover challenge.”

  It takes about forty minutes before Chloe will even let me peek in a mirror, but as soon as I do I can tell I look way better. The stubble adds a certain elusive, rugged charm to my face while simultaneously making my jawline stronger and more defined. I never realized how much a guy’s overall attractiveness rests in his jaw. In a little over half an hour, Nat aged like three years and upped his hotness factor by several notches. He’s no Zac Efron, but he’s not bad.

  “I should have thought of this earlier,” Chloe chides herself as she adds another layer of tiny hairs, trying to perfect the look.

  “It’s okay,” I say. “Nat’s a work in progress.”

  We’re all three scrunched together on the beanb
ag, since there aren’t any other comfortable places in the closet to sit. Chloe’s using a big, soft makeup brush to apply the tiny bits of stubble to my chin. Darcy’s curled up next to me, texting. It’s nice being close to them, to tell you the truth. It seems like Nat never gets touched—well, unless you count Coach Vroman’s pat on the ass today (ew!). Guys are way more careful about keeping their distance from each other, I guess. The Bay Area is known for its progressive sexual politics, but that doesn’t necessarily change anything. It might be the most liberal place in the world; it’s still weird for guys to reach out and make contact, which is kind of sad.

  “I miss you two,” I say softly.

  “What are you talking about?” Chloe’s eyebrows pull together as she applies another patch of stoppelpaste. “You’ve only been here two days and you’ve seen us every night.”

  “Time moves more slowly here. It reminds me of summer camp in that way—every day seems so intense.”

  Darcy looks up from her phone. “Because it’s foreign. Your brain’s trying to adjust. It was like that when I went to Israel with my mom.”

  “Yeah.” I nod. “It’s like I’m in a foreign country.”

  “Well,” Chloe says, still concentrating on my stubble application. “While you were off in a foreign land, Darcy’s been falling into bad habits again.”

  I turn to look at Darcy, but Chloe pulls my chin toward her again. “You’re not back with Rob, are you?”

  She cringes. “I had a brief relapse, but nothing fatal.”

  “They made out in the recording studio,” Chloe reports.

  “And I feel terrible about it, but we’re not together or anything. He just—it was a moment of weakness.” She stares at her lap. “I miss him. But I know I have to get over it.”

  I shake my head. Darcy deserves so much more than what he gives her. She knows it. I know it. We all know it. I guess sometimes it takes a while for the heart to get the memo from the brain.

  I pat her knee. “You will. It takes time.”

  Chloe puts her makeup brush down and examines me, her eyes moving over my face like an artist skimming the canvas, searching for flaws. “I think you’re done.”