Babe in Boyland

by Jody Gehrman

  “No offense—I’m just asking.”

  “She’s ten times better than Summer Sheers,” I say, “that’s for sure.”

  He thinks for a moment. “What’s her name?”

  I swallow. “Natalie Rowan.”

  “She was Summer’s understudy, right?”

  I nod.

  “Summer mentioned her. Said she’s pretty bad.”

  “Really?”

  “Said she’s kind of a prima donna too—hard to work with.”

  “Oh yeah?” I say through clenched teeth. “What else did she say?”

  “Don’t remember. I just got the idea they don’t get along.”

  “Right.”

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks.

  “Like what?”

  “Like you’re about to tear my head off. I didn’t say it, Summer did.”

  I take several deep breaths and force a smile. “Anyway, the point is, Natalie can do this role.”

  He sits up straighter. “You really think she would?”

  “Tell you the truth, she doesn’t like Summer much either. I think she’d enjoy the chance to prove what she can do.”

  “Awesome. Should I text Mr. Pratt? Oh, no, I guess you better check with her first, right?”

  I nod. “Good idea.”

  I pick up my cell and call Darcy.

  When she answers she says, “I’m working on Chloe, but she’s still a little pissy.”

  “Hi Natalie,” I say pointedly.

  “What? Are you going crazy or something?”

  “This is Nat.”

  She says, “Oh, I get it. You’re with someone?”

  “Yeah, I’m here with Emilio, my roommate, and he tells me Summer Sheers just bailed on opening night for The Importance of Being Earnest.”

  “No way!” she shrieks. “Is this for real?”

  “That’s right. So I told him my cousin, Natalie, can do the role of Cecily in her sleep.”

  “Oh my God! Seriously? You’re going to do it? That’s crazy!”

  “But you’ll probably need some help from your friends Darcy and Chloe with hair and makeup.” I look over at Emilio, who wears a worried frown.

  “Hair and makeup?” he whispers. “Why, is she disgusting? Summer said she’s pretty manky.”

  I shoot him an annoyed look. “No, she’s not ‘manky.’ Summer’s just jealous.”

  “This is so exciting!” Darcy squeals. “Terrifying, but cool. What happened to Summer?”

  “Audition in LA.”

  “Beeatch!” Darcy proclaims.

  “Exactly. Anyway, Natalie, do you think you can get Darcy and Chloe to help out, or are they still pissed at you?”

  “Hey, I was never pissed,” she says, indignant. “And this’ll be just the thing to snap Chloe out of it. You know she can’t resist a makeover.”

  “Okay, great. Tomorrow, right after school, can you meet them in the girls’ dressing room?”

  “Right on,” she says. “See you then.”

  I put the phone down and grin at Emilio.

  “She’ll do it?” he asks.

  “Oh, yeah,” I say. “She’ll do it. You can text Mr. Pratt now if you want.”

  He picks up his phone and starts texting. After just a few seconds, though, he pauses to look at me appraisingly. “What’s she like?”

  My heart flutters wildly, but I try my best to exude confidence. “You’re going to love her. Trust me.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Okay, look,” Chloe says the next afternoon in the girls’ dressing room. “I’m trying not to be mad.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  Her eyes widen. She’s not prepared for this softer, kinder me. Historically, fights between Chloe and me tend to be rare but epic. We both have terrible tempers and colossal abilities to hold grudges. That usually leaves poor Darcy working overtime like a frenetic Switzerland, trying to help mend the rifts between us superpowers. It’s a slightly dysfunctional triangle, but familiar.

  Now, though, I’m tinkering with the ancient balance of our friendship by giving in right away. Her astonished expression tells me I’ve got the advantage of surprise, so I press that.

  “I never should have messed with you and Josh.” I squeeze her shoulder. “If you don’t want to listen to my impressions of him, you shouldn’t have to.”

  She looks suspicious. “You did more than share your impressions.”

  “You’re right. I totally interfered. That was wrong of me. I’m sorry.”

  Chloe cuts her eyes to Darcy, as if asking her to vouch for my sincerity.

  Darcy beams at her and pats me on the back. “I think it’s great she’s admitting she screwed up. Especially since she was only trying to do the right thing, right Natalie?”

  “It’s true,” I tell Chloe. “I thought I was helping, for real.”

  She just looks from Darcy to me for a long moment, mystified by this radical new approach. “Fine,” she says at last. “Let’s get to work. It’s going to take a lot to make you into a convincing girl.”

  “Don’t push it,” I warn.

  She tousles my hair. “Just kidding. Give me an hour; you’ll be so gorgeous, you won’t know what hit you.”

  If this was a movie, now would be the time to cue the montage. It would be a cross between the Princess Diaries makeover and the Rocky training sequence: me removing my stubble; Chloe applying these intricate, very realistic false eyelashes; Darcy altering Summer’s costume to fit me; me hamming it up in a shiny black wig Chloe stole from Mountain View High’s costume shop; the two of them frantically showing me the blocking. Underneath it all you’d hear a soundtrack with a driving, slightly manic beat by some hip girl singer, thus infusing the images with feel-good emotions as light and sweet as cotton candy.

  Let me tell you, the montage is there because the reality is incredibly tedious. It takes hours of painstaking work and squishes it down into forty seconds of frothy fun. My afternoon has been hell. I’ve subjected myself to more primping, cramming, and correcting than anyone in the history of high school theater. It’s an Oscar Wilde triathlon, requiring enormous patience and endurance. By the time we get to the actual performance, I’ll be too exhausted to stand, let alone deliver lines.

  Chloe and Darcy have gone to great lengths to ensure the boys will never recognize me as Nat. They’ve made me way girlier than Natalie ever was. I’m wearing a long wig a couple shades darker than my natural hair color. My makeup is flawlessly applied; my eyes look huge and doe-like, my cheeks a delicate pink, my complexion smooth and creamy as ivory, my lips full and lush. My costume is surprisingly flattering: high, stiff collar, a body-hugging waistline that makes the most of my limited curves, a snug little jacket, all of it in a pale violet that looks great with my dark hair and eyes. If I screw up every cue and get the blocking ass-backwards, at least I’ll look good while I’m doing it.

  Though the afternoon is grueling, I have to admit it feels fantastic being a girl again. Getting gorgeous via Chloe and Darcy’s labor-intensive ministrations is kind of like going on a chocolate binge after weeks of subsisting on saltines. Cecily is an über-femme character, so every minute spent rehearsing that role means letting my softest, pinkest self come shining through. I let my voice climb soprano-high, let my laughter trill coquettishly. I flutter my lashes and indulge in coy, ladylike hand gestures. It’s so unexpectedly liberating to exaggerate every womanly instinct rather than tamping them all down. I never really appreciated how great it is being a girl—how much more we can get away with. I feel unbound, expansive, free; who ever would have guessed that playing a Victorian debutante could be so weirdly therapeutic?

  At five we’re almost done with my eyelash touchup when Emilio sends me a text. I read it while Chloe continues to meticulously apply one little clump of lashes at a time—a much more difficult process than the Halloween costume variety, but (she assures me) infinitely more realistic.

  Tried to find you but you’ve disa
ppeared. Hate to ask, but can you take Erica to the play tonight and the party after? She’s bummed about last night.

  “Shit! I forgot to call Emilio’s sister!”

  “Move and I’ll murder you,” Chloe warns, staring at my eyelid with the concentration of a brain surgeon.

  “How did that go, anyway?” Darcy’s at my feet, hemming my dress.

  “Total disaster.”

  “Really? Why?” She speaks with only half her mouth, since the other half is occupied with pins.

  “Tell you later. Right now I have to deal with Emilio.”

  I type: Can’t take her to the play, but I can meet her at the party.

  Before I hit SEND, though, I ask, “Can you guys turn me back into Nat after the show, before the party?”

  “Why?” Chloe wrinkles her nose. “Don’t you want to go as a girl?”

  “Emilio wants me to take his sister, which means good-bye Natalie, hello Nat.”

  “What? Like you do everything he says?”

  I sigh. “I know. It’s pathetic, but for some reason I can’t say no to him. Can you fix me in time to get to the party?”

  Darcy looks thoughtful. “I think it’s a good idea, actually. In costume and with all this makeup, none of the guys will recognize you, but if you go to the party as Natalie they’ll probably figure it out. We’ll be fashionably late.”

  “Okay,” Chloe breathes. “Man, the things I do for you.”

  I hit SEND. Darcy’s right; it’s too risky showing up at the party as myself. Going as Nat might allow me some form of good-bye with Emilio, however convoluted and awkward. My nose prickles the way it does before I start to cry. The thought of seeing Emilio for the last time makes me feel like I’m standing at the edge of a cliff, staring into the dizzy abyss below.

  “Christ, you’re not going to cry, are you?” Chloe asks in alarm. “You’ll ruin your makeup, and then I’ll have to kill you.”

  I swallow the lump in my throat. “No. I’m fine.”

  Darcy looks up at me, takes the pins from her mouth. “You really do like him, huh?”

  Before I can answer, a text comes through from Emilio. I hit READ.

  Thanks, man. You’re the best.

  It takes an iron will to hold the tears back, but I manage. Chloe’s being quite literal when she promises to murder me if I shed even one.

  Mr. Pratt paces the stage with glazed eyes, looking vaguely crazed and distinctly sleep-deprived. His bleached blond hair stands up at unnatural angles and his skin has an unhealthy sheen.

  It’s six o’clock; the show starts at eight. We’re going to run through my scenes as quickly as possible, focusing on the blocking. I’m standing in the wings, having dashed to the bathroom for a quick pee—nerves reduce my bladder to the size of a lima bean. The other members of the cast are assembled onstage, waiting. Darcy and Chloe sit on the couch, Emilio stands by the fireplace stage right, Josh sits in a high-backed chair sneaking furtive glances at Chloe. Ms. Honaker, who plays Miss Prism, my governess, stands primly near Josh’s chair. Max, Earl, and Tyler sit on the floor stage left. I know we’ve got very little time to get this right, but still I hesitate, terrified someone will recognize me. Nobody else is in costume yet, but I’m fully decked out; we’re counting on the elaborate stage makeup, wig, and Victorian garb to make it impossible for anyone to realize I’m Nat.

  Mr. Pratt looks at his watch. “As you all know, Summer got called away for an audition at the last possible moment.”

  “Ditched us,” Josh mutters.

  “Yes, well, be that as it may, we have very fortunately secured a replacement for her tonight, Natalie . . . ?” He looks at Darcy and Chloe.

  “Rowan,” Darcy supplies.

  “Natalie Rowan, who knows the part well and will join us any second. Since I’m playing Reverend Chasuble I can’t be on book, but Earl has generously offered to provide prompts from the booth in case anyone gets stuck.”

  I summon all my courage, stand tall, and make my entrance.

  Mr. Pratt turns to me. For a fraction of a second, I think I detect a flicker of recognition in his bloodshot eyes, but then I see only relief.

  “Here she is now! Natalie Rowan, our savior.”

  I walk to Mr. Pratt’s side, keeping my eyes on him. Then I turn and survey the cast, heart racing. Ms. Honaker beams at me. Darcy winks. Chloe smirks. Josh lowers his chin and gives me a long, appreciative once-over. Earl and Tyler stare at me slack-jawed, while Max wears a tight little smile.

  Finally, I let myself look at Emilio. He drinks me in with his dark, shining eyes. His expression is carefully guarded. It’s like peering through a window in bright sunlight; I can sense movement, but the glare keeps it too opaque to reveal any details.

  “Hey, everyone.” I use my natural voice. “I know this isn’t ideal, but I’ll do my best to help out.”

  Mr. Pratt puts a hand on my shoulder. I swear there’s a knowing sparkle in his eyes, and my breath catches. Oh, God, he’s going to out me right here, right now. Once again, though, the expression gives way seamlessly to pure gratitude.

  “Excellent.” He removes his hand from my shoulder and rakes it through his disheveled hair. “We’ve got lots of work to do, folks. Let’s get started.”

  Chapter Twenty

  “You’re amazing.” Darcy’s gloved hand squeezes mine tightly just before I go onstage for the second time. “So much better than stupid old Summer Sheers.”

  “Is my makeup okay?”

  She studies me a moment in the dimly lit wings. “Perfect.”

  This is my big proposal scene with Emilio’s character, Algernon. So far, the show’s run so smoothly it’s almost scary. Just before I went on for the first time I thought my heart might explode, it was beating so recklessly; as soon as I felt the heat of the stage lights on my face and heard my voice saying my first line, though, I knew I could do it. It was like my whole body filled with helium. I became instantly buoyant, invincible. Every line popped right out of my mouth before my brain could get in the way.

  “Knock ’em dead,” Darcy says, giving me a little push.

  I step out onstage, my heart rate accelerating once again. My stomach feels like it’s inhabited by a litter of newborn kittens. Before I know it, though, I’m saying my lines, and Emilio’s answering, and we’re cutting through the dialogue like a sailboat slicing across the open water. The audience loves us; I can feel them hanging on our every word.

  I know what’s coming, though. It’s like the roar of a waterfall getting louder and louder, pulling us toward it, drawing us in. The kiss. The one bit of blocking we didn’t rehearse this afternoon.

  “What a perfect angel you are, Cecily.” Emilio kneels before me, his eyes searching my face.

  “You dear romantic boy.”

  That’s his cue. He stares at me, his face filled with both fear and wonder, like a child watching a lightning storm. I lick my lips. A trickle of perspiration slides down the back of my neck. Everything’s in slow motion. My senses are so heightened, I can smell our makeup, our sweat, the waxy-clean scent of the recently mopped stage. Our bodies seem to be connected by an intricate net of electric impulses, crackling threads pulling tighter as our faces inch closer, our lips almost touching now. Finally, after what seems like hours but must be seconds, our mouths meet. His lips are unbelievably soft and warm. Behind my closed lids I see explosions: fireworks unfurl slowly against a tangerine sky. I lose all sense of the world beyond the crush of his mouth on mine, the melding of our tongues, the pressure of his hand on the back of my head, pulling me in to deepen the kiss.

  I have no idea how long we linger there, getting drunk off each other. The moment hangs suspended, weightless. Then someone in the audience sneezes and my awareness snaps back to the stage. He seems to regain consciousness simultaneously and reluctantly we pull apart.

  I’m dizzy. Opening my eyes, his expression reflects my own dreamy surprise.

  As Mr. Pratt instructed, I run my fingers through his sho
rt, dark hair. “I hope your hair curls naturally, does it?” The line doesn’t make a lot of sense, since his hair is way too short to curl, but the audience doesn’t seem to mind.

  “Yes, darling.” His voice is husky. He clears his throat. “With a little help from others.”

  After the curtain call, backstage, everyone is cranked. We all hug and laugh and scream with such self-congratulatory jubilance you’d think we just launched a space shuttle or cured cancer or something.

  Mr. Pratt wraps me in a bear hug so tight I can barely breathe. “You saved us, you brilliant girl!”

  “Ah, it was nothing.”

  “Nothing? It was amazing! You didn’t flub a single line. I have half a mind to drop little Blondezilla and put you in for the run of the show.”

  “Thanks,” I say sincerely. “That means a lot to me. You’re a great teacher, by the way.”

  He stops short. His eyebrow, several shades darker than his platinum hair, quirks sardonically. The chaotic hoots and spastic laughter of the cast and crew continues unabated all around us.

  “A great teacher, huh?” he repeats slowly.

  Scheisse! My hand nearly flies to my mouth when I realize my mistake, but I manage to halt the motion just in time.

  “How would you know?” he asks, narrowing his eyes.

  “Of course you’re a great teacher—everyone says so. I’m sure it’s true. And you taught me the blocking so easily. You’re obviously really good at explaining things. I wish I could go to Underwood! I’d love to take your class,” I babble.

  “I bet you would.” He nods, a mysterious smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

  Chloe and Darcy pounce on us then, their hats torn from their heads and their faces flushed with triumph. They engulf me in a fierce hug. Over their shoulders, though, I can see Mr. Pratt backing away, wearing a crafty, knowing expression that makes me nervous.

  “You kicked ass!” Chloe says. “And man, those eyelashes still look awesome, even though you sweated like a sumo wrestler.”

  “Shut up,” I laugh.

  Darcy leans in closer and says in a conspiratorial tone, “That kiss in Act Two?! Holy shit. I thought you guys might set off the fire alarm!”