by Jody Gehrman
Since the play opens tomorrow night, the cast has dress rehearsal jitters. Their call is at six. It’s five thirty now, and I’ve managed to secure my spot on the catwalk, hidden from view. Emilio told me he and Summer are meeting early tonight to run lines. Naturally, I couldn’t resist the temptation to torture myself by spying on them.
So far, though, my spying hasn’t revealed much at all. They really are running lines—speeding through them in the flat, emotionless tone actors use when they’re just reassuring themselves they know every word. Of course, it’s a great relief to see there isn’t some steamy behind-the-scenes romance going on. Not at the moment, at least. I find myself getting kind of sleepy and bored, just sitting up there while they recite their scenes in monotone murmurs. Last night’s swimming hole adventure left me simultaneously exhausted and wired all day.
That’s when Summer interrupts the speed-through with something that wakes me right up.
“This is where we kiss,” she says casually.
Emilio looks at her uncertainly. “Right . . .”
Just so you know, it’s totally not the norm to run blocking when you’re doing a speed-through. There’s no time. The whole point is to rattle off the lines as fast as you can without pausing for anything. That’s why it’s called a speed-through—hello!
“I think we should run that,” she clarifies. “I’m not sure we’ve got it right.”
“Oh. Uh, okay.” Emilio looks distinctly uncomfortable. “The lines, or . . . ?”
“No, the kiss.” She unfolds herself from the chaise longue with maddening dancer’s grace and crosses to where he’s been pacing nervously stage left. One finger trails down the front of his shirt while she gazes up at him, all innocence. “We want it to be perfect, don’t we?”
I could kill Summer Sheers! I could just throttle her skinny neck with my bare hands. Riveted by the sight of them, faces drawing nearer, I mutter under my breath, “Beeatch!”
“Now, now, let’s not be catty.”
I practically jump out of my skin! Jerking around, I see Mr. Pratt standing calmly beside me. Where the hell did he come from? A quick glance back at the stage tells me neither Emilio nor Summer noticed. They’re locked in a kiss that could steam your pores wide open.
Gleghh! Did not need to see that.
“Mr. Pratt,” I say, forcing my eyes away from the train wreck below. “I didn’t hear you come up.”
“Nat, I’m going to ask you a question. I want to make it clear you can be honest with me, okay?” There’s a gentle quality to his voice I never noticed before. Spying on his rehearsals or sitting in his Dramatic Literature class, what struck me most was his sardonic, bossy manner. Now, though, his soft brown eyes search my face with an imploring look.
“Sure. Go ahead,” I whisper, desperately cutting my eyes to the stage to make sure Summer and Emilio can’t hear us.
Mr. Pratt notices this and lowers his voice even more, speaking into my ear. “Why are you up here?”
“Uh, because . . .” Improvise, Natalie, improvise! “I really want to be an actor but I’m too shy.” I say this in such a rush the syllables tumble over each other and practically render the sentence unintelligible.
He nods, his face unreadable. For a long moment his eyes lock on mine, and I fear he’s pulling some sort of Jedi mind trick. It’s like he can see right into my soul. Finally, he breathes, “That’s bullshit.”
“Wh-what?” I stammer.
“We both know why you’re up here.”
“We do?”
He just nods solemnly, his eyes urging me to fess up. God, what’s he saying? Does he know I’m really a girl? Does he have some sort of hypersensitive director’s intuition about these things? How long has he known? Will he blow my cover? My mind backflips through these frenetic questions like a coked-up cheerleader.
“Nat, everyone has feelings they’re uncomfortable discussing.”
“Right . . .” Where’s he going with this?
“Some of us can pick up on those feelings, though. We understand them. You see what I’m saying?”
“Maybe.” I dart a glance back at the stage. Still kissing. Shoot me now.
“I just want you to know that whatever’s going on inside your head, it’s probably normal.”
I nod uncertainly.
He lowers his chin and gives me another meaningful look. “I’m going out on a limb here, because I was once in your shoes. A nice old guy did the same for me, so I’m returning the favor. Let’s be honest; you’re here because you have feelings for Emilio.”
Blood rushes to my face. “I—well—we’re roommates.”
He closes his eyes a moment, as if in sympathy. “That must be very challenging.”
“No, he’s great. I mean . . . we’re friends.”
“Nat, you do realize it’s a dead end, right?” He puts his hand on my back in a fatherly way.
“What is?”
“You can be friends all you want, but at the end of the day you’ve got to face that a guy like him”—he nods at Emilio—“is never going to be interested.”
I steal another look at the stage: still kissing! Very open-mouthed kissing. Man, is she trying to swallow him whole?
“I can see it’s difficult for you,” Mr. Pratt whispers, “but you’ve got to face facts. Emilio Cruz is as hetero as they come.”
I just nod, unable to speak.
“Someone like Max, on the other hand . . .” He trails off, but his expression says it all.
“I see what you mean,” I mumble. My mind is racing. It’s much better he think I’m gay than female, sure, but he’s so kind and sincere I feel like a total schmuck deceiving him.
“Not that you have to act on anything until you’re good and ready,” he adds urgently. “Believe me, you’ve got your whole life ahead of you.”
“True.”
“Once you’re out of high school, the world opens up like a, like a . . .” He searches the air, then gestures before us like he’s conjuring a magical tableau. “. . . a curtain rising on the first glorious scene.”
“Wow. Cool.”
He nods again at Emilio and Summer on the stage. Their lips are finally starting to separate, their bodies peeling apart reluctantly. I feel like I’ve been punched.
“If you keep falling for the Emilios in this world, you’re going to make it hard on yourself. That’s all I’m trying to say.”
I swallow, forcing the words out. “Yeah. I see what you mean.”
“Do you?” He slaps my knee. “Excellent! So glad we got to chat.”
“Thanks.”
Not only am I crushed after witnessing the sickeningly gratuitous, steamy rehearsal kiss, now I also feel guilty about lying to Mr. Pratt. He so clearly just wants to help; that’s something too few adults can honestly claim. How do I repay him? By totally deceiving him. I’m a first-rate scheisse.
Not long after he’s left me alone to lick my wounds, something happens to distract me from my misery. Chloe stumbles into the theater, clutching her stomach and looking ill. She’s followed immediately by Josh.
“Chloe! What’s the matter?” Josh calls after her.
Chloe makes an incredulous sound. “You’re disgusting!”
“Come on, don’t be like that.”
Mr. Pratt, who has just climbed down from the catwalk ladder, puts on his reading glasses to study a clipboard. “What’s the problem, duckies?”
“She’s fine,” Josh says, wrapping an arm around Chloe, who pushes him away. “There’s no problem.”
“He farted!” Chloe says, pointing at Josh accusingly. “Super-loud!”
Mr. Pratt sighs and scribbles something on his clipboard. “Let’s try to act our age, people.”
“You don’t understand,” Chloe says, one hand over her nose. “I have a weak stomach.”
Just then Josh farts. Chloe yelps and runs out the side doors. The rest of the cast, most of whom have straggled in by now, titter.
“Mr. Mayer, a
re you having gastrointestinal difficulties?”
Josh nods. “Kind of. I ate seven bean burritos.”
Oh my God! I bite my fist to keep from cracking up. I don’t know whether to feel guilty or exultant. I settle for a little of both.
“Good Lord.” Mr. Pratt runs one hand over his face. “All right, enough with the sixth-grade antics. Come on, people. Chop-chop! We have a show to put on!”
During the dress rehearsal, Chloe, Darcy, and I communicate via text. They’re not in very many scenes together, so when one is busy the other is usually available, creating a sort of tag team text session that’s imperfect but nonetheless serviceable. We agree to meet up in a little alcove behind the theater during their ten-minute break at intermission. Of course, it would be more convenient to meet in the bathroom that’s been designated the girls’ dressing room, but we can’t do that because Summer could barge in at any moment, struck with the sudden urge to admire her luscious hair.
How I hate Summer Sheers right now! She doesn’t know the real Emilio. She’s just kissing him because he’s cute. I’m willing to bet she doesn’t have any idea that his sister is heartbroken, or that his childhood friend Gustavo is dealing drugs, or that he has a theory about ringtone interpretation. She doesn’t deserve to kiss him! Her aim is to turn him into another accessory. It’s all about her. Summer’s way too self-absorbed to comprehend the deep, rich magic of Emilio Cruz. She has no idea what it’s like to lie beside him in the moonlight staring at the shadows on the ceiling, or how his voice sounds as it spills across the surface of a deep, still swimming hole at three a.m.
As we crouch in the shadowy alcove littered with illicit cigarette butts, I can smell Chloe’s breath; she reeks of Altoids. I’m guessing she chomped her way through several dozen to combat the sour aftertaste of vomit. I feel a slight pang of guilt, knowing I’m at least indirectly responsible for making her puke. She and Darcy are both in costume. They wear elaborate dresses with high, lacy collars, dainty gloves, and massive hats. Darcy’s hot pink hair is covered with a gray curly wig; Chloe’s hair drapes over her shoulders in elaborate sausage curls.
Chloe hands me a pink striped Victoria’s Secret shopping bag. I refrain from commenting about her choice of containers—surely, though, she could have chosen something less conspicuous, given my circumstances.
“What’s this?” I ask, peeking inside.
“Stoppelpaste, wool crepe, scissors, makeup brush—everything you need for your five o’clock shadow.”
“So you can look hot on your date,” Darcy adds, nudging me. I texted them about meeting Erica later tonight, which they find hysterical. So glad my misery amuses them.
“You don’t think people will notice I keep sprouting and losing my facial hair randomly?”
Chloe sighs and another whiff of curiously strong mintyness hits me. “I told you, that’s what boys do—they get hairy, they get unhairy, repeat.”
“And eat bean burritos until they burst, apparently.” Darcy giggles, turning to me. “Did you hear about Josh?”
“I witnessed some of it from the catwalk.” I hope I don’t sound as culpable as I feel.
Chloe covers her mouth, as if the very mention of it makes her want to puke all over again.
“What was he thinking?” Darcy wonders aloud.
“What did he say about it?” I ask.
Chloe narrows her eyes to slits; for a moment I think she knows it was me, but then I realize her hostility is aimed at Josh. “He claims he did it for me! He heard I have a thing for guys with gas. Can you imagine? Talk about misguided!”
“Listen, Chloe, I’ve been meaning to say something about Josh . . .”
She blinks at me. “Yeah?”
“Well, I kind of know him a little better now. As a guy?”
“Uh-huh . . . ?” Something about the way she says this warns me she’s less than receptive.
“He just wants to sleep with you!” I blurt in a rush.
“Wait, what are you talking about?”
“Don’t fall for him, okay? He doesn’t care about you as a person.”
A light dawns slowly in her caramel eyes. “Wait a second. You put him up to that, didn’t you?”
“Not exactly . . .”
“You did too! You deliberately fed him misinformation. Why would you do that?”
“Chloe, I know it seems weird, but—”
“Weird?” she echoes, pissed now. “It doesn’t seem weird. It seems psychotic!”
“I was trying to help!”
Darcy places one hand on Chloe’s shoulder and the other on mine. “Everybody calm down.”
“He thinks you’re a slut!” Okay, not my most tactful moment, but Chloe’s rising anger makes me nervous. “That came out wrong. Sorry. I had to do something.”
She shakes her head at me in disbelief. “You’re jealous.”
“Whatever.”
“Why else would you be such a bitch? Just because a cute guy likes me and not you doesn’t mean you can get in the way!”
Darcy looks from Chloe to me with increasing helplessness. “You guys, please don’t fight.”
“Yeah, Chloe, that’s it.” My tone is now edged with bitter sarcasm. “I’m jealous. Sure wish I could have guys like Josh lining up to use me.”
“Shut up!”
“I have inside information,” I say, frustrated. “Trust me, he’s sketchy.”
“Trust you?” she scoffs. “Yeah right, after the stunt you pulled? Ha!”
A door at the back of the theater swings open, and I shrink farther into the shadows instinctively. Mr. Pratt peers across the darkness in our direction.
“Girls? Why are you skulking? You better not be smoking—it’s hell on your voice, not to mention your complexion. Intermission’s over. And I don’t want you out here in your costumes anyway. Chop-chop!” He disappears and the heavy door slams behind him.
“Come on, Darcy.” Chloe gives me a dirty look before flouncing off.
“I’ll work on her,” Darcy mutters, squeezing my hand. “Got to go. Good luck tonight!”
“Thanks.”
I trudge back to the dorms, ineffectually attempting to keep the bright pink Victoria’s Secret bag hidden under my blazer. I get several weird looks from the guys I pass, but try to ignore them. I feel totally confused and defeated. Guess that’s the last time I’ll try protecting Chloe from an opportunistic scumbag. Fat lot of good it does me. God, what a fabulous evening this is turning out to be: gender identity counseling from Mr. Pratt, the repulsive stage kiss by Summer and Emilio, hated on by my best friend. And now, as my reward for enduring all this, I get to go on a date with my soul mate’s sister.
Did I say soul mate? I meant roommate.
Obviously. If Emilio were my soul mate, he would never kiss Summer like he did tonight.
Would he?
Chapter Seventeen
I barricade myself in the dorm room, knowing Emilio will be at rehearsal all evening, but locking the door just in case anyone else happens by. It takes me almost an hour to get the stubble thing right, and even then I’m not one hundred percent sure it looks authentic. The whole time, my mind keeps playing snippets of the day in quick flashes like a bunch of random film clips spliced together: Chloe’s eyes narrowed to slits, Josh farting, Summer standing on tippy toes for her kiss, Mr. Pratt blinking at me in sympathy. All of us have our wires crossed and crisscrossed so many times it’s impossible to untangle the mess. It really does seem like the entire human race might as well be conversing with hand gestures and grunts, for all the success we’re having. I thought the main chasm was between men and women—guys and girls, whatever. Now that Chloe’s so pissed at me just for trying to protect her, I’m starting to wonder. Maybe all human beings are destined to misunderstand each other, regardless of our chromosomes.
It’s so hard to be truly honest with people, and even when you are there’s no guarantee they’ll appreciate it. I think about my Dr. Aphrodite column. For more than a year
I wrote what girls wanted to hear—what I’d want to hear in their shoes. It was so easy, I didn’t even know I was doing it. People would much rather be fed candied lies than bitter truths. Who knows? Maybe that’s the natural order of things. Chloe sure as hell would be happier right now if I’d just let her go on thinking Josh really cared about her. Who am I to go against nature, insist the mating dance change? Maybe illusion and artifice—lies, even—are a necessary part of romance.
As I’m brushing on another layer of stubble, my eyes fall on a photo Emilio keeps taped to the corner of the mirror. He looks about thirteen; he’s at the beach, his arm draped casually over the shoulder of a chubby-cheeked kid about his age. They both wear sunglasses and matching Batman T-shirts. This must be Gustavo, his best friend from home. I think of our night at the swimming hole, when he told me about Gustavo and how hard it’s been for him to make friends here at Underwood. Once again, that mixture of uneasiness and longing swells up inside me. I know there’s something real between us—a fragile bond we can barely afford to acknowledge. Yet that bond is built on a foundation of half-truths and lies.
That’s the thing I can’t quite figure out. I’m obviously not being honest with him; he doesn’t even know my real name! Yet somehow, in spite of that, I feel more myself around him than I’ve ever felt around any guy.
How does that even make sense? I’m totally lying to him, and that enables me to tell the truth? It’s a conundrum wrapped in an enigma.
I’m still fretting over these questions like a dog chasing its tail when I finish my facial hair application and check myself one last time in the mirror. I’ve traded my Underwood uniform for street clothes: a black T-shirt, button-down shirt over that, and the boy jeans I got at Macy’s with Darcy and Chloe. I pose for myself a few times. Once I’ve assured myself no boobage shows, I try to decide if I qualify as hot. Even with the facial hair I’m still a long way from rugged, but some girls might consider me attractive in a slightly effeminate, nerdy sort of way. I add a blue baseball cap at the last minute, hoping it might render me a little more butch.
