Babe in Boyland

by Jody Gehrman

  “Hello?” I’m careful to pitch my voice in the guy register.

  On the other end, a long stream of Spanish erupts. The voice is female. It doesn’t take a linguist to figure out she’s crying and swearing. My stomach drops. Does Emilio have a girlfriend he never mentioned—maybe someone back home? I sit up straighter and grip the phone with both hands.

  “Uh, I’m sorry, but this isn’t Emilio,” I say when she takes a breath.

  Pause.

  “Who is this?” Her English has a faint accent; she sounds suspicious.

  “Nat Rodgers. I’m his—”

  “Ay Dios, you’re the new roommate, aren’t you? Mierda! I’m so sorry. I hope you don’t speak Spanish.”

  “I don’t,” I reassure her.

  “I’m Erica, his sister. I got so used to him being alone, I forgot all about you.” She laughs, but I can still hear the tears in her voice. “How embarrassing! Is he there?”

  “No. He’s at the library.” Now that I know she’s his sister and not his girlfriend, I find I like her much better.

  “Oh. That’s why his cell’s off, I guess.” Her disappointment is palpable.

  “Is it an emergency? Do you want me to run over there? I could have him call you in a few minutes.”

  She sighs. “Oh, not really. Just, you know, relationship drama.”

  “I hear you.” It seems presumptuous to offer my services as emergency hotline counselor, and yet I’m reluctant to just hang up. She seems so upset. “Guy trouble, then?”

  “Yeah.” With that, she bursts into tears. It sounds like the kind of crying that’s been going on for hours; she’s a little hysterical, the poor thing.

  When she seems more in control I say in a tentative voice, “Do you want to talk about it?”

  She goes silent for a beat. I guess my offer must surprise her. “What’s your name again?”

  “Nat Rodgers.”

  “I feel bad. You probably have homework and—”

  “No, really.” I look at my notebook, filled with pages and pages of barely legible notes. It’s not like I’m going to spin that straw into literary gold any time today. “I’m not that busy.”

  “It’s my stupid boyfriend, Julio. He’s such a capullo, he broke up with me and I’m the last to know!”

  An hour later, I have the full story. Apparently, Emilio’s from East LA. It surprises me that he never mentioned that, though I’m not sure why; I should know by now that guys don’t always volunteer even basic information about themselves. Erica took the GED last spring and became an au pair in Sausalito. Her boyfriend, Julio, was still in LA, but had promised to move north as soon as he’d saved enough money. They planned to rent their own place in the city, since Erica was having a tough time with the family she worked for. She liked the kids but hated the mom. Anyway, the despicable Julio started seeing Erica’s best friend—or ex-best friend, as of today. Erica heard it from her cousin, who spotted them kissing at a movie theater last night. Every now and then Erica lapses into a quick burst of mournful Spanish, which makes it more tragic, somehow.

  It occurs to me that in one conversation with Erica I learned way more about Emilio’s family than I’ve gleaned after living with him for three days.

  “You’re such a good listener.” She’s just recovered from another good cry, during which I made soothing sounds the best I could. “Better than Emilio, even! He would’ve lost patience by now.”

  “Oh, no,” I say, “it’s nothing.”

  “You got a girlfriend?”

  “No.” Oh, God. All at once this entire conversation seems like a very bad idea. “I mean, yes. Sort of. It’s complicated.”

  “You must be very popular with the girls.”

  “No, I’m a disaster with girls.”

  She chuckles. It’s a low, husky sound that reminds me a little of Emilio’s laugh, except femmier. “Come on! You know how many guys can deal with a girl in crisis? Almost none. And you offered! Most boys would run screaming, they hear somebody’s sister crying hysterically on the phone. I really appreciate it.”

  “No problem,” I mumble. My cheeks are burning up. She’s totally flirting with me.

  Emilio walks in then, looking incredible in faded jeans and a black T-shirt. The sight of him fills me with lust and relief in equal parts. I jump up and shove the phone at him. “It’s your sister.”

  “Erica?” His brow furrows.

  “Yeah.” I don’t want to be rude, though, so I say into the receiver hastily, “Hey, here’s Emilio, see you later!” before pressing the phone into his hands again.

  He looks puzzled. I’m too embarrassed and panicked to explain, though. Besides, I figure he’ll appreciate a little privacy. I wave good-bye and duck outside, then clamber down the stairs. I do a couple laps around campus, breathing in the warm, salty air and glancing up occasionally at the puffy clouds drifting overhead like brilliant white ships.

  I let myself back into our room about twenty minutes later. For some reason, nervousness thrashes around inside my belly like a trapped animal. Emilio is at his desk studying his lines. He looks up at me and smiles.

  “So, you met my sister.”

  “Sort of,” I mumble.

  “She was impressed.”

  I try making a dismissive noise in my throat. I hope it’s man-speak for I don’t want to talk about it. No such luck. Emilio either doesn’t understand the cue or willfully ignores it.

  “You know, Josh is having a party Friday after we open.”

  I don’t say anything. Under different circumstances, hearing a guy I like broach the subject of a pending party would get me all fluttery for sure. Somehow, though, I doubt Emilio plans on taking me as his date.

  “I wasn’t really invited,” I say.

  “So, I’m inviting you.”

  “Isn’t it for the cast?” I don’t know how big Josh’s house is or how many guests will be there, but if Summer is one of them, I can’t risk going.

  “The cast, and the people they invite.” He picks up a Nerf football and starts tossing it back and forth. “Maybe you’d like to take my sister.”

  I just raise an eyebrow.

  He laughs. “What’s wrong? Just one girl too boring?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I heard about the prop closet.”

  I groan. “Wait, you heard about that and now you’re fixing me up with your sister?”

  His face goes serious. “She’s not that kind of girl.”

  “So then why are you—?”

  He waves a hand at me dismissively. “Just because you like to have fun doesn’t mean you can’t treat a nice girl the way she should be treated. Am I right?”

  “Yes. True. But the whole prop closet story was—”

  “None of my business. Which is why I didn’t bring it up.”

  I think about that. “Wait, but you did bring it up.”

  “Whatever. You’re getting hung up on details. The point is, I scored you a date with my sister. That’s no small thing. She’s beautiful. And she’s the sweetest. You’re going to thank me.”

  “I’m sure she’s great, but . . .” But I’m a girl. A straight girl. And the only person I want to go out with is you.

  “What?” His expression darkens, and a muscle pulses in his jaw. “You don’t like Mexican girls?”

  “Oh my God, no!” I cry. “Nothing like that. I’m just . . . shy.”

  He pauses, considering me. To my relief the anger drains from his face, replaced by an earnest, confiding expression. “I’m her brother, which means I don’t let her go out with just anyone. Take it as a compliment. Anyway, it’s not like you have to marry her. Just distract her—she’s really upset over this Julio guy. Hijo de puta. I’m so going to kick his ass.”

  “I’m honored,” I say, truthfully, “but this Friday isn’t going to work.”

  “Okay.” He nods, unfazed.

  “Great. Thanks for understanding.”

  “How about tom
orrow night?”

  “Emilio!”

  “What? You can take her out to coffee. It’s a three-dollar, two-hour commitment, tops.”

  I sigh. It’s starting to look like there’s no graceful way out of this. I’m already so tangled up in lies, what’s one more tiny deception?

  “All right, tomorrow night.”

  “That’s my man.” He puts out a fist and I punch it.

  He goes back to studying, and I hunch over my notebook once again. My thoughts are more jumbled than ever, though. I can’t eke out even one decent sentence.

  “Are you taking Summer to the party?” I blurt before I can stop myself.

  He looks over his shoulder at me, surprised. “Maybe. It’s not really that kind of deal.”

  “What kind of deal?”

  “The whole cast will be there. It’s not like I have to invite her.” He squints at his script again.

  “You do like her though, right?” I run a hand through my hair, thinking of how much longer and sexier hers is.

  “I don’t know. I heard she has a boyfriend.”

  “Robbie Herbert,” I say quickly, not thinking.

  He turns around to face me. “How do you know?”

  “Um, well, I heard that, anyway.”

  “From who?”

  “Uh . . . where did I hear that?” Think, Natalie, think! “My cousin! Remember, she goes to school with her.”

  “Oh yeah. You said that.” He stares moodily at the floor.

  I fiddle with my pen. “Are you in with love her?”

  “In love?” He says it like it’s a completely foreign concept. “I don’t know, man.”

  When I dare to look at him, he’s eyeing me suspiciously. I guess the L-word isn’t used much among people with Y chromosomes.

  I try to remedy the slip with a dash of manliness. “Would you tap that ass?”

  He’s just taken a sip of water and he almost chokes. “Oh, man, don’t.”

  “What?”

  “Look, I know English is your first language and everything, but don’t go messing with booty slang until you’ve got the hang of it, okay?” He shakes his head, grinning. “‘Would you tap that ass.’ That’s just wrong.”

  I find myself smiling back, glad to be done with the subject of Summer Sheers. “Okay. If you say so.”

  “And go easy with my sister. You don’t need to be tapping nothing until you know her better—maybe not even then.”

  I roll my eyes. “Believe me, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

  If only he knew.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Psst! Nat. You awake?”

  I’m dreaming, of course, fast asleep. Rachel Webb and Chas Marshal ask me in snide tones where my Story of the Year entry is. I slap it onto the table before them in triumph, thinking, Ha! That’ll show ’em. Their eyebrows arch in unison. I look down to see what I’ve presented is a bulky pair of tube socks.

  “Nat? Wake up.”

  My eyes fly open. There’s a figure towering over my bed, fully dressed. I flinch, startled.

  “It’s okay. It’s me, Emilio.”

  “Wha? Arrgh.” I’m always very articulate at—I blink at the clock—two in the morning.

  “Come on.” He crouches beside my bed. I notice, even in my groggy state, that he’s so close I can smell the salt on his skin. That wakes me right up.

  “Where are we going?” I ask.

  “It’s a surprise.”

  Okay, I know this is dangerous. Surprises aren’t exactly welcome when you’ve got everything to hide. The excitement in his voice is contagious, though. I find myself rolling out of bed. As usual I’ve gone to sleep in sweats and a hoodie, for maximum boob camouflage. All I have to do is pull on my tennis shoes.

  “Seriously? You won’t tell me where we’re going?” I whisper.

  “Just follow me.”

  We say nothing and try to move without sound as we make our way down the stairs and out the back door of the dorms. Once outside, the warm night air envelops us, smelling of pine and dry grass. Even now, in the middle of the night, the heat of the day clings to the parched earth. Every few minutes, though, a breeze wafts inland, carrying with it the cool, moist kiss of the ocean.

  “This way,” Emilio whispers.

  I follow him down the footpath that leads to the New Media building, but before we’ve gone far he veers toward the forest.

  “Where are you taking me?” I ask again.

  “I told you. It’s a surprise.”

  We walk a little farther without speaking, just the sound of the crickets in our ears and the occasional hoot of an owl. Our feet move soundlessly through the spongy, well-manicured lawn.

  When we reach the edge of the forest I hesitate. “Are we going in there?”

  I can just make out his white smile in the darkness. “You scared?”

  “No.”

  “Well, then, shut up and follow me.”

  I can’t see that I have much choice, when he puts it that way. The last thing I want is for Emilio to think me a wuss. I crave his respect more than anyone I’ve ever met in my life.

  Whoa.

  I flash on all my crushes before this, from the unnamable longing I felt for Todd Wright in the fifth grade to the halfhearted interest I took in Paul Pacaud last summer. I wanted them to like me, to lust after me, to worship me, even, but for some reason respect wasn’t a huge consideration. I was too busy trying to seem hot to ever be myself. Now, stripped of my lip gloss, my shiny hair, all my girly trappings, the thing I want most from Emilio is for him to get who I am and respect that.

  There isn’t much time to analyze this train of thought further, though. It takes all my concentration just to follow his faded yellow T-shirt through the maze of shadows and trees. The moonlight can’t penetrate the thick canopy of foliage, and I can barely see. As we walk, every snapping twig, every flurry of movement in the underbrush has me jerking my head around, jumpy as a cat. Once, a bat swoops close to my face and I can’t stifle my yelp of surprise, though it sounds babyish, even to me.

  “Easy there, cowboy.” Emilio chuckles softly.

  “A bat almost got caught in my hair!” I say indignantly.

  “So naturally you scream like a girl.”

  We go on walking, and eventually we’re able to move side by side instead of single file. The trees are less dense, and a little moonlight trickles through the branches, casting patterns of silver lace here and there on the ground. Our footsteps fall into a rhythm, the cadence so exact we could be one person. Neither of us says anything for a while. This is how guys do it, I think: less conversation, more action.

  In the distance, I can just make out the gentle gurgle of running water. I cock my head.

  “You hear that?” he asks, sounding happy.

  “Yeah. What is it?”

  “We call it Dead Man’s Creek. Don’t know if that’s the official name or not.”

  I shiver. “Why do you call it that?”

  “Don’t know. To scare the freshmen, I guess. Or maybe because of the corpses they’re always finding there.”

  “The—?”

  He laughs and starts running ahead. “Come on! We’re almost there!”

  It’s hard keeping up in the dark. Emilio’s fast, his agile form weaving through the trees and bounding over rocks like a fleet-footed stag. Luckily, I’m a much better sprinter than I am a basketball player, so I run as fast as I can and manage not to lose him.

  I’m not sure how deep into the forest we go. All I know is just as I’m starting to pant and wheeze, wondering how much longer I can keep it up, we pass under a big redwood tree and stop short.

  “What do you think?” Emilio asks, sounding maddeningly unaffected by our race. “You like it?”

  There before us is a swimming hole, about twenty feet in diameter. Its banks are studded with rocks and ferns. The glossy surface glitters in the moonlight. It’s breathtaking.

  “Yeah,” I murmur, strangely touched. He wan
ted to show me this—me, and nobody else. “It’s—wow.”

  “I know! Isn’t it awesome?” He starts peeling off his shirt, his movements hurried. When he reaches to unbutton his jeans I grab his arm.

  “Wait! What are you doing?”

  He looks puzzled. “Going for a swim.”

  “Now?” My voice sounds strangled. “Here?”

  “Yeah, of course. Why, what’s wrong?”

  My mind races. “Um, is that a good idea?”

  “It’s still warm out. Why not?”

  I rack my brain for a way out of this. “It is. Warm. It’s just that . . . well, in my family, um . . . this will sound stupid.”

  “Don’t worry—just say it.”

  Even as I open my mouth, I’m not sure what will come out. “We’re religious.”

  “Uh-huh . . .”

  “Very old-fashioned. Practically Amish.”

  He looks confused. “Okay . . .”

  “And very modest. I mean, like no nudity. Ever. In our house.”

  He widens his eyes in sudden understanding. “Is that why you took a locker way the hell away from everyone else?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And why you never change when I’m in the room?”

  I nod. This is so good! I’ve unwittingly stumbled on the perfect explanation for my chronic fear of nudity. “You noticed? Yeah, that’s why.”

  His brow furrows. “So you’re like . . . ashamed?”

  “Well, you know how it is when you grow up a certain way, and . . .” I trail off. Since there have never been any guys in our house, my mom and I have always been very clothing-optional. In the summer, we’re practically nudists. I decide the less I say about this fictional puritan family of mine, the better. “It’s just awkward for me.”

  “Okay.” He stands there, bare chest gleaming in the moonlight, one button of his fly undone. I feel a distinct swoon coming on, but I keep it under control.

  “You think I’m a freak?” I ask quietly.

  “No, man, not at all.” He claps me on the back. “Listen, we just won’t look, okay? Once we’re in the water you can’t see anything, anyway.”

  My heart pounds. “You promise not to peek?”