My Invented Life

by Lauren Bjorkman

  “I’ll bet Eva won’t like it when she finds out you have to kiss Roz,” Mandy Wannabe says to Bryan. “In the play, I mean.”

  “Kissing a dyke doesn’t count,” he says.

  Life has a way of flushing perfection down the toilet. I stuff down the upwelling of tears. Eight years ago, my psychology-impaired swim instructor told me I looked ugly when I cried.

  “I don’t believe in dykes,” I say. No one laughs.

  “I have a brilliant idea,” Carmen twitters like a bird on caffeine. “Roz can play Rosalind as a man, and I’ll play Rosalind as a woman.” She adjusts her sweater to reveal more skin.

  “Ooh la la,” Bryan says. He sweeps up Carmen in the classic Hollywood style to kiss her.

  Another incident written and produced by Personal Nightmare, Inc.

  What really happens? Nothing. When Carmen offers to play Rosalind as a woman and bats her sludgy eyelashes at Bryan, he turns away from her. Here are the facts. Carmen looks good, even with mascara waterfalls running down her face. Bryan loves to flirt. Eva is conveniently absent. So his indifference surprises me. I’m delighted, of course, but confused. We disperse without further ado.

  When the lunch minute rolls around, I consider where to go. Theater-geek central seems a less appealing option after Bryan’s dyke comment. So I bravely dive into the cafeteria. While in the slop line, I use my peripheral vision to scout for a table that is far, far away from where Eva and her cheerleader lovelies are on display. The cafeteria lady taps her tongs against the vat of shriveled chicken wings to get my attention.

  “Oh, frog legs,” I exclaim. “My favorite. Do they come with a portobello Cabernet sauce?”

  The boy in line behind me gets it, but the server’s face doesn’t change. Years of standing over bad-smelling steam would dull my funny bone too.

  “Aren’t you required to serve a vegetarian option?” I ask.

  “My name is Clara, and I will be your waitress this afternoon. Would you care to try our potato and chard soup with pesto garnish?” She adjusts the white cloth hanging over her arm.

  If only. My five-star fantasy makes my stomach growl.

  “This is vegetarian.” She taps a bin containing the skeletal remains of green beans.

  “I’d like to lodge a complaint,” I say.

  She cracks a smile at last, but the flavor is more horror flick than comedy. She gestures me to the kitchen behind her. “Ask for Felicia,” she says.

  Felicia is a full twelve inches shorter than me and exudes the authority of a turbocharged pit bull. A pretty pit bull, despite the plastic bag over her hair, the rubber gloves, and full-length apron. I try the mannerly approach.

  “Are you Felicia?”

  “Yes.” Her look says: Now you know. Shove off. You’re in my way.

  Luckily I own a fake thick skin to wear over my thin one. “I’m Roz. Pleased to meet you.” I offer my hand in a friendly way. She looks at it like something I fished from the garbage. “I understand you’re very busy. Still, I was wondering. Would it be too much to ask for a vegetarian main course?”

  “Try the salad.”

  I’m making headway. She’s gone from one-word answers to three-word answers.

  “A person could starve on salad alone.”

  “Maria!” she yells. “More rolls.” After she barks a few more orders, she looks me up and down. Her eyes gleam with what I take to be admiration for my persistence, plus a hint of amusement. “Okay. Feeding all you hungry kids is a lot of work. If you volunteer to work here, I’ll think about it.”

  “Deal,” I say.

  The way the other women in the kitchen laugh at this is a bit concerning.

  I’m three minutes late for rehearsal. The few stragglers in front of the Barn fall silent when they see me. An unattractive pair of boxer shorts—plaid and XXL—flaps in the breeze over the door. A poster board underneath reads ROZ’S SKIVVIEZ. I walk past my so-called undergarment as if it were a silken banner proclaiming LONG LIVE PRINCESS ROZ.

  The prank has Eva written all over it. We did one like it in reverse two years ago after her then-boyfriend hooked up with another girl at a party. Except we used a satin thong edged with pink lace. Rehearsal season will be long this year. To boost my confidence for my grand entrance, I imagine myself as Marilyn Monroe in mink.

  “I don’t believe in underwear,” I announce to everyone in the Barn.

  Eva looks at me with the same level of interest she’d bestow upon a passing housefly. I land next to Eyeliner Andie. The odor of herbal smoke seeping from her wool coat says she’s high.

  “Congrats on Audrey,” I say. “It’s an awesome role.”

  “Thanks,” she says.

  When nothing more seems forthcoming, I consider several subtle openers that could lead to mentioning the lesbian chess camp book. “I read that romance you gave Eva,” I say at last. Subtlety is one of my lesser talents.

  She bites down on a loose press-on nail and yanks it off with her teeth.

  “I loved the part where they dressed up like two queens for the costume party,” I say.

  “What?”

  “Never mind,” I say. “Have you read anything good lately?”

  “Lesbian Fashion for Dummies. Your dyke-do,” she says, giggling, “was big in 1986.”

  I tug at the beaver fringe at the back of my head, wishing it would come off like a poorly attached weave. Just in time, Nico rolls our way—a Greek column on wheels. Eyeliner Andie hugs his hand between her cheek and shoulder. His fingers are nice, with well-kept nails squared at the ends. Her hands are tiny by comparison.

  Sapphire calls for our attention. “Most of you have heard this speech many times, so I’ll cut short the part about my expectations—punctuality, perfect attendance, hard work, respect, and—the big one—no gum.”

  Bryan saunters to the wastebasket and spits out his gum. Carmen laughs.

  “I’ve just learned from administration that they’ve hired a contractor to renovate the Barn . . . ” Cheers. “ . . . starting on Valentine’s Day.” Two gasps and one boo-hiss. “We’ve already lost two rehearsal days this week, so our timetable will be tight. We’re using a pruned version of the play, but that still means daily rehearsals, long hours, and additional work at home and on weekends.” Groans. “I know you’re up to the challenge. So let the fun begin!”

  I escape to a private corner to eat a few bites of cottage cheese before going onstage. Stomach growls are a major source of embarrassment, third only to passing gas and spitting on fellow actors. Bryan goes on first as the rebellious Orlando under the thumb of his oldest brother. I watch from the sidelines, and my bones soften like a chocolate bar left on a car dashboard in the summer. He should be against the law.

  By the time he finishes his scene, there’s no part of me left unmelted. I attempt to resolidify because Eva and I are on next. I’ve already memorized the first act, so I expect to nail Rosalind right away. But when I start speaking, Eva opens her eyes in alarm and shakes her head at me. Did I say my lines wrong? I don’t think so. Eva’s performance so unnerves me, though, that I hesitate in the wrong places and falter where I should sound confident. Worse yet, midscene I forget my lines altogether.

  “I would we could do so . . . forsooth.”

  Before I can shout for someone to cue me, Carmen recites the entire line perfectly.

  “I would we could do so; for her benefits are mightily misplac’d, and the bountiful blind woman doth most mistake in her gifts to women.”

  On the fourth run-through, Sapphire’s patience has run its course.

  “Roz. Why are you off book when you don’t know your part yet?”

  Carmen recognizes the opportunity like a thirsty leech recognizes rosy flesh. “I know the part from beginning to end. Let me play Rosalind today.”

  Beslubbering canker-blossom. For a second her audacity takes my voice away, but then the perfect counterattack comes to me in a flash. Sometimes I amaze myself with my own brilliance.

&nb
sp; “Carmen, could you please put on a coat,” I say. “The problem is . . . you’re so sexy I can’t concentrate.”

  Carmen flushes a shade of red so bright that even the whites of her eyes turn pink.

  “Roz!” Sapphire says. Stainless-steel sushi knives come to mind. “One more outburst like that and you’re history.”

  My chest aches from the unfairness of it all. Sapphire is turning a blind eye to what’s really going on. Can’t she see how Eva and Carmen—who aren’t even speaking to each other—have teamed up to wreck my performance? Still, I know that neither whining nor witty comebacks will get me anywhere. I take the script she offers me.

  The scene runs smoothly after that. By the time Bryan comes to the palace for his wrestling match with Charles, I’m in the zone and can enjoy the part where we fall in love at first sight. I summon him from across the arena. He strides beneath my balcony—just a chair for now—to speak with me.

  Me/Rosalind: Young man, have you challenged Charles the wrestler?

  Bryan/Orlando: No, fair dykeness. He is the general challenger . . . .

  When I open my mouth, nothing comes out. Et tu, Bryan?

  Sapphire whacks Bryan over the head with her notebook. “Enough!” she says. “What did you all have for lunch? Mexican jumping beans smothered in hormone sauce? Tomorrow the serious work begins. You’re dismissed.”

  As the geeks disperse, I chase after Eyeliner Andie because she’s the only one I want to talk to. Normally I avoid waif types that make me feel like a giantess. Fee fie foe, no fun. But there’s a difference between her and the others. For one, she lacks that Morning Talk Show Host perkiness I detest. She has this otherworldly quality, like her body is just incidental to her life.

  “What did you think of your first rehearsal?” I ask when I catch up with her.

  “Interesting.” She stops walking and lowers her voice. “Do you want to know who did the boxer shorts?”

  “I know already,” I say. “Eva.”

  She nods and shakes her head in an ambiguous Mona Lisa way.

  “Then who?”

  “You already know,” she says. I can’t tell if she’s being sarcastic. “Does your girlfriend ever come to Yolo?”

  “Rarely,” I say.

  “What’s her name?” Her voice has been getting warmer as we talk, approaching tepid.

  “Candy,” I say without thinking, and then scramble to make my lie more convincing. “Well, that’s just her chat name. Actually her name is Carmella. We met on the Web.” For one crazy second, I think Andie might ask to meet her. “We kind of broke up,” I say. “Long-distance love, you know.”

  “I know,” she says. “See you around.”

  Chapter

  9

  Outside the theater, the drizzle brings out the smell of old leaves, eau de decaying maple. I don my cheap plastic rain poncho. Eyeliner Andie has disappeared. She’s a spirit girl who can vanish at will. Weirder yet, Nico pops out of nowhere like a gopher from a hole.

  “Where’s Andie?” I ask because Spirit Girl and Gopher Boy appear to be an item.

  He shrugs. “You were great in there,” he says. He kicks a rock out of a puddle. “Andie says . . . Andie thought . . . Well, Andie has this idea that . . . ”

  I grow impatient. “What?”

  He studies the water beading on his boot. “Nothing.”

  Life would be much easier if people’s real agendas scrolled across their foreheads as they talked. Of course, in that case I’d be screwed.

  “Okay, bye,” I say. I leave him there, maneuvering my scooter around the puddles. The drizzle turns to rain. When I look back at him, he hasn’t moved at all, not even to put up the hood of his jacket. I wonder what he wanted to tell me.

  At home, a dozen vegetarian cookbooks from the UC Davis library are stacked on the kitchen table. It’s sweet that Mom thought of me, but I’m a tad ambivalent about becoming one of her projects. I bookmark a few recipes at random so she’ll imagine I spent an hour poring over them instead of plotting ideas how to get back at Eva. Which is what I embark upon immediately after holing up in my room.

  The ancient Save the Whales poster on my wall sparks an idea, and I scour my desk drawers for blank bumper stickers. I used to print my own slogans on them, things like RECYCLE OR DROWN IN GARBAGE. In my final campaign, I waged war against people who park illegally in handicapped spaces. I lurked in our supermarket parking lot hoping for a chance to use my I’M TOO LAZY TO WALK bumper sticker. When I saw a man jog into the store from the blue zone, I slapped one onto the back of his car. I didn’t notice the geezer in the passenger seat until the man returned with a newspaper and unloaded a wheelchair from the back. Can you spell mortification?

  This time I’ll be more careful. While I print up a batch, I listen for Eva the Diva’s return from cheerleading practice. The front door slams, and I follow the trail of sound—the refrigerator door sucking shut, the rustle of a plastic bag of tortilla chips, and the clang of a glass bowl on the kitchen counter. Eva’s room door opens and closes. By the time I get there, it’s locked.

  “Lesbian Report,” I announce in my loudest voice short of yelling.

  She opens the door fast. “Do you want the whole neighborhood to hear?” she says.

  The sight of Marshmallow curled prettily on her pillow irks me.

  “So what’s your deal messing me up onstage?” I ask. “I could tell Sapphire.” But I won’t, and she knows I won’t. I push past her and shut the door behind me.

  “If you’re truly star material, Chub, nothing should faze you.”

  The skin in the middle of my back prickles, and I peel off my shirt. “Well, I’m not giving up the lead, if that’s your plan.”

  “Doing a striptease for P. Tom?” she asks.

  “Something’s crawling on me.”

  Eva turns my shirt right side out and throws it at me. “Lesbian Report, huh? Just give it to me and get out.”

  I have her attention. “Okay,” I say, thinking fast. “I had this freaky dream last night. I was looking for a cute guy to dance with at this party. But there were only girls around me—on the sofa, in the kitchen, on the porch. That’s when I realized I was at a lesbian party.”

  “That’s it?” Eva says. She straightens her gymnastics trophy.

  “No,” I say. “I felt really out of place at the party. Like I had a secret I couldn’t tell anyone. After I woke up, it hit me. Lesbians who aren’t out must feel that way at regular parties.”

  Eva looks like she wants to bean me with a trophy. I hope she doesn’t use the volleyball league one because it’s four feet tall. “You made that up, Chub. You think that if you pretend to be understanding, I’ll tell you what you want to hear.”

  “Whatever,” I say. “Next L Report item. I talked to Eyeliner Andie about your lesbian book.”

  “That pothead? You can’t believe anything she says.”

  “She acted like she didn’t know what I was talking about.”

  “Oh,” Eva says. She pauses. “Maybe someone else lent me the book.” She turns toward the barre. I meet her eyes in the mirror.

  “There’s a rumor that Andie is a lesbian,” I say. “Do you think it’s true?”

  Eva’s gaze slides away from mine. “How would I know?”

  “Just tell me. Anything. I won’t judge you. It’s not like it matters if you’re a lesbian. Or if she is. A lot of people choose that lifestyle.”

  “Lesbians don’t choose to be lesbians,” she says between her teeth.

  “It’s just an expression,” I say. “You hear it all the time. A lifestyle choice blah, blah, blah.”

  “Just because you hear something, doesn’t make it true. You don’t get anything.”

  “Fill me in, then,” I say.

  “Even if I had something to tell, I wouldn’t tell you.” She counts off twelve deep pliés before continuing. “Remember that time with Elaine?”

  “You mean in the fifth grade? I’d never, ever, ever do that now,�
� I say.

  “The lady doth protest too much, methinks,” she says. Translation? One teensy mistake earns you a life sentence at Diva Penitentiary with no parole. Not even for family members.

  Mom was all over me for my sloppy cursive that year. I didn’t see the point of writing neatly. I could type already. So when I saw Eva copying her friend’s homework paper, I told on her. That way the parental disapproval would be distributed more fairly. See, Mom? Eva’s not perfect either.

  Anyway, Eva got in the last word. She spilled a full mug of cocoa on the diorama I’d left on the kitchen table. The next day, my math homework succumbed to spontaneous combustion. I apologized profusely to prevent further destruction and promised never to tattle again. She forgave me back then, so why bring up the whole thing now?

  Marshmallow rubs her fuzzy cheek on Eva’s knee. Traitor.

  “If you won’t talk to me because you don’t trust me, that means you are a lesbian,” I say. Sometimes I’m so clever it hurts.

  “Ask Dad to cut off your tail tonight. It looks beyond stupid.”

  I pick up Marshmallow and gather myself to exit in a huff. Before I make it out the door, a change comes over her.

  “Cheerleading practice is canceled tomorrow,” she says. “You can give me the L Report after rehearsal. Meet you at the Silo.”

  There’s a touch of spring thaw in the Ice Maiden’s bosom after all. “Okay,” I say.

  Dad agrees to remove my beaver tail after dinner. The snug Bob Dylan T-shirt he has on reveals his most recent acquisition. A paunch. He seats himself on a crate on the back porch and positions me in front of him. The scissors feel cold against my neck. “So,” he says, “what’s the real story with your hair?”

  “It’s not a story. I cut it for a role,” I say. “I’m playing a woman who pretends to be a man in the school play.”

  Dad continues snipping. “You look like a woman even with short hair,” he says. “A beautiful young woman at that.”

  My throat tightens at this drop of honey, and my judgment falls victim to his sweetness.

  “How would you feel,” I say, “if one of your daughters grew up to be a lesbian?”