Babe in Boyland

by Jody Gehrman

  I drive off campus into town and park in a dark corner of the lot behind Java the Hut, thinking what a disaster it would be if someone (my mom, for instance) recognized my car and decided to pop inside for a chat. I picked this place in particular because nobody I know ever goes here; it’s a little grungy and the baked goods are inevitably stale. It’s a few minutes after nine as I come in through the back door, quickly scanning for familiar faces.

  To my relief, there’s only a twenty-something barista behind the counter with a book, a middle-aged guy glued to his laptop, and a girl about my age sitting alone in the window, sipping a 7UP nervously.

  As I approach, trying hard to walk like a guy, she stands, smoothing her hair.

  “Hi, I’m Erica.” She wears an electric blue blouse, jeans, and rhinestone jewelry. She’s short—maybe a little over five feet tall—and curvy. Her long dark hair has been carefully arranged with pretty rhinestone clips. She has Emilio’s eyes, except hers are about three shades lighter, milk chocolate to his semisweet.

  I offer her my hand. “Nat Rodgers. Nice to meet you.”

  “Thanks for not hanging up on me the other night.”

  “Oh, no problem.”

  “Most guys would have run screaming.” She smiles a pretty smile and sits back down. “Glad I didn’t scare you away.”

  I try to ignore the guilt I feel about fooling her like this. She radiates hope, expectations, a palpable optimism that makes her seem needy and delicate as a baby bird. Here she is, looking at me with eyes wide, mascara-darkened lashes blinking. I feel sick.

  “I’m going to get some coffee.” I gesture vaguely at the counter. “You want anything?”

  “No, I bought myself a soda.” She looks down at her lap. “I didn’t know if you’d show.”

  Is it my imagination, or was that a subtle reprimand? God, did I screw up already? I’m like seven minutes late and I lost points?

  “I can pay for it if you want,” I say, awkwardly pulling some dollars from my pocket.

  Her disdainful look tells me my potential boyfriend score dropped again. Pretty soon I’ll be below zero. “That’s okay. Really.”

  I hurry away from her, shooting a wistful glance at the exit. God, I so don’t want to be here. Obviously I don’t want her to like me like me—that would make things even more complicated than they already are. All the same, it’s a bit humiliating to be judged ineligible within five minutes of meeting her.

  I order at the counter, pay the bored barista, and fill my coffee cup with decaf. In the meantime, I sneak a couple glances at Erica. She spots her reflection in the plate glass window and furtively tries to rearrange one of her clips. I feel a pang of empathy, knowing that self-conscious anxiety that permeates first dates. I want to tell her to relax, she looks fine, but I know it won’t help. Why do we girls obsess over our appearance so much? It’s like we really believe getting our hair and makeup just right will make all the difference. As if any guy worth our time would fail to see our beauty because a rhinestone clip is arranged at a wonky angle.

  I come back to the table with my coffee, this time determined to make a better impression. She’s bound to give Emilio a full report, right? I don’t want her telling him I’m a complete loser.

  “So,” I say, taking a seat across from her, leaning on one elbow in what I hope is a suave yet sensitive posture. “How are you feeling about the thing with Julio?”

  Bingo! This appears to be my one selling point as a date: a willingness to listen. I figure it worked for me on the phone, I might as well try it again. Sure enough, like a racehorse hearing the shot, she’s off and running, telling me all about the warning signs she ignored, the series of small betrayals leading up to this huge one, the debilitating fury she feels whenever she thinks of him. All I have to do is nod and murmur.

  I can see the resemblance between her and Emilio. Her face is fuller, her features softer, but there’s a quality to her smile—a certain radiant warmth—that reminds me of him completely. She sure is a lot more forthcoming than he is, though. Her willingness to dish is one hundred percent female. As she moves from Julio to her life story in general, I perk up, anxious to learn more about Emilio’s past. In half an hour I gather way more information about the Cruz family than I learned from Emilio all week. She tells me about the other brothers and sisters (all five of them), their father’s death six years ago, their mother’s obsession with Emilio becoming a doctor. It’s like Emilio showed me a bare-bones sketch, while Erica offers up a full-color portrait. And yet I can’t say Erica’s version is more intimate. Emilio doesn’t say much, yet there’s a depth and a power to the things he does share. Every time he’s revealed something to me over the past week, I’ve had the profound sense of having earned something precious.

  Eventually, Erica pauses in her monologue and blushes prettily. “But I’ve been going on and on about myself. What about you?”

  “What about me?”

  My temporary reprieve from the scoring session is now over. Her brown eyes bore into me once again, searching my boyfriend potential with the intensity of lasers. “What do you like to do?”

  “Uh . . .” My mind goes utterly blank under her scrutiny. “I don’t know.”

  She purses her lips. Definitely not the right answer. “Do you play sports?”

  I scoff. “Me? Yeah, right! No, I’m super-clumsy.”

  “Do you party?”

  “Not much,” I say. “Beer makes me stupid.”

  “So what do you do?” She folds her arms across her chest, daring me to impress her.

  “Well, let’s see . . .” I feel so paralyzed by her expectations. It’s terrifying. I decide to stick close to the truth. “I like to act—do theater—mostly drama, though occasionally musicals.” That doesn’t sound manly enough, does it? I backpedal. “But only the edgy musicals, not the sappy ones. Musicals with lots of death and destruction in them—hardhitting social themes.”

  Her expression doesn’t change. I plow on.

  “Oh, and I like to write. I think I want to be a journalist. Professionally, I mean. Though who knows? It doesn’t pay very well. And I might not be good enough.”

  “What kind of stuff do you write?”

  “Mostly about relationships,” I say automatically.

  “Relationships?” The slant of her eyebrows tells me this is suspect.

  I can understand her skepticism; I liked this guy freshman year until he told me about his passion for self-help books. Hearing him talk about his inner child was such a turn-off.

  “Between governments,” I amend, “political parties—not like love or anything. Is that what you thought I meant? No, I leave that stuff to you girls.”

  At this her eyebrows shoot straight up. “What ‘stuff’ exactly?”

  “You know, hearts, flowers, romance. Us guys don’t get into that shit.”

  All at once she looks crushed. Two seconds ago she was the stony-faced director at the audition where you act your ass off and don’t even earn a curt nod; now she’s the baby bird again, tears pooling at the base of her lashes, threatening to ruin her carefully applied mascara.

  Instinctively, I lean forward. “What’s wrong?”

  “You seemed different on the phone.”

  “Different, how?”

  Her bottom lip quivers. “Sensitive.”

  It’s at this moment that I recognize afresh the insanity of my situation. Here I am, working extraordinarily hard to impress this girl, someone I never wanted to go out with in the first place. Yet every moment I sit with her I get drawn further into her web of expectations. She has this enormous power—the ability to pronounce me man or worm—yet the guidelines about how to win her favor are maddeningly unclear. She wants me tough as Vin Diesel yet cuddly as a kitten. How can I be both at the same time? How did I even get roped into trying?

  These thoughts evaporate when I glance up and see who just walked in. Emilio. And two steps behind him, in her signature boots, blond hair shining like a sha
mpoo commercial, smile bright as a Whitestrips ad, is Summer Sheers.

  !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  Instantly I drop to the floor.

  “Nat?” I hear Erica say. “What the . . . ?”

  Okay, this is bad. I’m crawling around amidst straw wrappers and scone crumbs. There’s no way I can get to the door without Summer recognizing me. I’m screwed.

  “Um, seriously,” Erica says, peering under the table at me. “What are you doing down there?”

  Step one: Stand up. Thwack! My head slams into the underside of the table. Jesus Christ! Since when do I specialize in slapstick? I force myself to ignore the throbbing pain and stagger to my feet.

  “Contact lens,” I mutter. “Popped right out.”

  “Did you find it?”

  I don’t answer; I’m too busy clocking Emilio and Summer’s progress in my peripheral vision as they head toward us. One false move and Summer will know it’s me. I keep my back to them. Erica looks from her brother to me in startled confusion.

  “I’ve got to go,” I mumble.

  Erica frowns. “Go? Where?”

  “Hey you two,” Emilio says from behind me, but I refuse to turn around.

  “I’ll call you,” I mumble to Erica. No idea where that came from—just seems like the thing to say. Then I dart for the door, my head low, grateful for the baseball cap.

  “Where you going?” Emilio asks. “Hey, Nat!”

  I pause at the door, still not daring to turn around. “Sorry—an emergency,” I say in the deepest, least recognizable voice I can manage, before scurrying outside, heart pounding.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Emilio gets back to the dorm minutes before curfew. I’ve had almost an hour to cook up an excuse for bolting; I’ve even rehearsed it in front of the mirror a couple times, trying to strike just the right balance between explaining and groveling.

  I’m sitting on the bed with my cell at the ready; as soon as I hear his footsteps in the hall I snatch it up. He lets himself in and I glance up, trying to look distracted, as if I’m thoroughly embroiled in a heated discussion that’s been going on way too long.

  “No, Mom . . . I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can make it to the funeral.... It’s such short notice, that’s why. . . . Well, I think Aunt Marsha will understand, don’t you? It’s almost midterms. I can’t just fly to Chicago tomorrow! I’ve got class.”

  I risk a peek at Emilio. He’s taking off his shoes. I can’t read his expression.

  “Okay. I love you too, Mom. Bye.” I put the phone down and force the air from my lungs, hoping to sound depleted and mildly depressed. “Sorry I had to bail on you guys so abruptly. My uncle died. Mom called to tell me while I was hanging with Erica.”

  Emilio looks up. “Really?”

  “Yeah. Terrible. He’s been sick for a while, but nobody thought he’d go this soon.”

  He appears to mull this over as he peels off his shirt. God, does he have to do that right this second? I need all my concentration to keep my lies straight. He’s merciless, though. Completely oblivious to my squelched whimpers, he unbuttons his jeans and lets them drop to the floor. Burgundy boxers hang loose on his hips. His body couldn’t be more divine.

  “That’s weird,” he says.

  “Mm?” I tear my eyes away from his rippling abs.

  “Erica said nobody called while you were at the café.”

  “Called? Did I say called? I meant texted.”

  “She said you never even looked at your phone.” It’s not like he’s accusing me, exactly—in fact, I can tell he wants me to offer up an explanation he can believe. Still, he’s not going to buy some trumped-up excuse that’s obviously just that—an excuse. I don’t blame him.

  All at once I’m so exhausted by my lies. It feels like they’re stones piled on top of me, a tremendous weight rendering me immobile. I long to fling them all off, send them flying in every direction. I could just blurt it out right now: Emilio, I’m a girl.

  I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.

  “If you don’t like her, it’s okay,” he says, running a hand over his face.

  “Who?”

  “Erica! Come on, man, what’s wrong with you?”

  “She’s nice. Really,” I say weakly.

  “So why are you feeding me this bullshit about your dead uncle?”

  Our eyes meet and lock. The muscle in his jaw pulses.

  “Emilio,” I say in a low, steady voice, “there are certain things I can’t tell you right now. I want to, but I can’t.”

  “Like what?”

  I groan in frustration. “You’re right, okay? I don’t have a dead uncle. Sorry if I hurt Erica’s feelings. I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

  “So don’t then.”

  “It’s not as simple as that.”

  “You totally ditched her. It was rude, man.” His eyes blaze.

  “I know, but you’ve got to trust me when I tell you I had no other choice. I’m not going to lie to you—”

  “You already did.”

  I sigh. “I’m not going to lie to you again. I had to leave right that second, and I had a good reason, but I can’t tell you what it was.”

  He stalks around the room for a moment, clearly angry but trying not to be. His hands are shoved deep into his pockets. Finally, he stops at the foot of my bed, studies me, and says, “Okay. You had your reasons. Fine.”

  “Whatever happens, I want you to know I really like you. You’re a great friend. Seriously. Okay? Will you keep that in mind?”

  He sits on his bed, regarding me warily. After a long silence he says, “You okay?”

  I collapse back into my pillow. “It’s just been one of those days. I’ll call Erica tomorrow and tell her I’m sorry.”

  “She’s not doing too great right now, what with Julio and all that.”

  “Yeah. Shit. Sorry.”

  He doesn’t respond; he just crawls under the covers. After a moment I do the same. We turn out the bedside light and stare at the ceiling, neither of us speaking. I think about how understanding he’s being, despite my bizarre, erratic behavior. In contrast, I wonder what it’ll take to patch things up with Chloe. I ask myself why everyone seems mad at me today. Then I think about all the ways I screwed things up in the last twenty-four hours, despite my best intentions, and that pretty much answers my question.

  I’m just starting to fall into that state between waking and sleeping. The world behind my eyelids is slowly sucking me in, sparks dancing in abstract, pre-dream shapes like a moving Kandinsky. I’m yanked back to reality when a shrill beeping explodes on the bedside table. Assuming it’s my cell phone, I reach for it instinctively. Instead of finding my phone, though, I feel warm flesh—aaagh! The light flicks on and I see Emilio’s hand groping for his cell. He picks it up and studies the screen, rubbing his eyes.

  “No way.” He sits up in bed, his bare chest erupting out of the crisp white sheets.

  “What is it?”

  “Scheisse.”

  Oh, wow. He used my signature curse. I must be rubbing off on him a little. The idea fills my heart with molten happiness. I blink at him sleepily, unable to wipe the goofy grin off my face.

  “What happened?” I ask.

  “It’s Summer.”

  That gets rid of the grin instantly.

  “What a mess.” He’s texting, his face creased with concentration. “She’s got an audition tomorrow in LA.”

  “But you guys open tomorrow.” I sit up, hugging my knees.

  “I know! And the audition’s at four o’clock. There’s no way she can get back in time.”

  “She can’t do that! She doesn’t even have an understudy, does she?”

  He shakes his head, still texting. “Nope.”

  We’re silent for a moment while he sends another missive. Almost instantly, he gets a reply. “She says her agent’s making her go. It’s for a huge movie and the role’s perfect for her. She’d be playing Sarah Jessic
a Parker’s daughter.”

  “But then you guys are totally screwed.”

  Another pause as several texts fly back and forth between them. Finally, he puts it back on the nightstand, shaking his head. “She’s leaving first thing in the morning.”

  “That’s horrible!”

  “‘Can’t pass up the opportunity.’” The way he says it, I can tell he’s quoting her.

  “Still . . .”

  “We’ll have to cancel the opening.” He looks dazed. “My mom was going to come up. She’s got her tickets already—and only one night off work.”

  “Oh my God!” In my distress, my voice creeps up to a much girlier register. He shoots me a look. I force it back down. “Dude! That sucks.”

  Wheels inside my brain are turning. I know the role of Cecily. Of course I do! I know it so well it’s practically encoded in my DNA. I’m not familiar with Mr. Pratt’s blocking, but I’m usually pretty good at intuiting that stuff, and with a little coaching I could stumble through. But wouldn’t that be risky? Would costuming and makeup be enough to keep the guys from recognizing me? Maybe, maybe not. It would only be one night, though. And anyway, tomorrow’s my last day at Underwood. The story’s due Monday. Even if they recognize me, it will be too late to interfere; my research will be complete. I sneak a peek at Emilio, who is staring into space, a forlorn expression on his beautiful face.

  I take a deep breath. “I might have an idea.”

  He turns his head toward me listlessly. “What?”

  “Well, remember that cousin I mentioned?”

  “Yeah . . .”

  “She . . . um . . . she knows the role. Really well. She learned it as an understudy once.”

  “For real?”

  I nod. “At Mountain View High. She still knows it, I bet.”

  “Yeah?” He considers. “She any good?”

  “Hell yeah.”