Bryan’s burning looks promise future passion of the backseat variety, and I let myself enjoy the fantasy. It distracts me from my other worries. His constant wooing—the sad puppy eyes and brows teaming up to beg for my love—gratifies me after so many months of longing for him. Then again, now that he’s abundantly available, his platinum glow fails to blind me to the same degree. Is Andie right that I want only what I can’t have? Or maybe I’ve finally recognized the real Bryan, not the guy he plays on TV.
When we finish practicing our bows, Carmen asks me to stay after. I hate unrehearsed death scenes, but I can’t think up an excuse to leave.
“Who knew you had that kind of talent?” I say the second we are alone.
She blushes, but I detect hostility beneath the profusion of pink. I quickly pluck a tissue from my bag and wave it like a surrender flag.
“Can’t we be friends?” I say.
“How long have you known about my mom?” She picks up the broom and does a frantic sweeping thing with it.
“A few days, but I haven’t told anyone. Not even Eva.”
“Why not? You usually blab everything.”
She should be thanking me for my discretion, kowtowing to my feet, offering to massage them. In scented oil. Three times a day.
“I’ve turned over a new leaf,” I say. I cough a little from the dust she’s stirring up.
“But you told my mom I was directing the play.”
It’s my turn to pretend sweeping. I snatch the broom away and hand her my surrender flag. “Not on purpose. It just slipped out.” I hide in my cloud of dust waiting for the prick of death. When it doesn’t come, I keep on talking. “Your mom really cares about you. My mom hardly notices me.”
“Want to trade?”
I think about Mom in SuperMode—faster than a speeding bullet. But Felicia can leap tall buildings in a single bound and would squash her like a bug.
“I’ll pass,” I say. “Not much gets by Felicia. That’s a quality I don’t need in a mom.”
Carmen blows her nose in my surrender flag. I take it as a sign that our feud is over. We’ve become the keepers of each other’s secrets.
“I’ve got to go,” I say.
“Can I ask you something first?” Carmen says. “Why hasn’t Eva shown her face at rehearsals? Is she really sick?”
“No,” I say. “She’s been hiding in her room practicing Rosalind’s part. I think she plans to steal the role from me.”
“No way.” She hesitates for a moment. “I might try that, but Eva? She would never stoop that low. Don’t you know her at all?”
I do, actually. Despite Eva’s imperfections, her feet barely reach the ground.
Home suffers from unearthly quiet. The parents are still at work, and Eva has become a hermit. I turn on my computer for company. Electronic messages are solace for the lonely. Among the spam, unread horoscopes, and unsigned petitions, two gems await me in my inbox. I read the email from Sierra first.
hey girlfriend
i loved hearing your news, well except for the
troubles with eva. lezzie roz made me laugh so hard i
got a stomachache AND peed my pants. i crazy time
miss you. breaking glass means bad juju btw.
something in your life has gotten out of whack. i
threw some cards and they said be yourself.
i love u . . . but not like that you perv ;) !!!!
xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo S
I read her message over and over like a hundred times. It’s a relief she thinks I should be myself. But then again who is that? And maybe I should be 98 percent Roz instead of 100 percent. Drop the 2 percent that wants to tell Felicia that Carmen prefers girls. Tact can be a good thing once in a while. Not to mention staying out of other people’s business occasionally. I read the email from Jonathan next.
pixie
i read that coming out story u gave me . . . mine went
nothing like that . . . lol . . . .
i told a friend . . . he spread it around . . . my
girlfriend broke up with me . . . .
2 boyz tried to beat me up . . . teacher broke up the
fight . . . .
i told my mom who told my dad . . . .
they sent me to our church . . . when that didn’t
work . . . they called Aunt S . . . .
the rest is history . . . .
my dad doesn’t want me in the house until i’m
cured . . . .
back on monday
pyro
All the messy tears I’ve stuffed away into my basement over the years come pouring out after I read it. Parents are supposed to accept their children no matter what—tend their autistic offspring, love their ugly losers, and defend their murderer sons on death row. Jonathan is OH-SO lovable. I will never judge a person who keeps his or her sexuality private. Not anymore, anyway. When I get a grip on myself, I reply to his email.
to thine own self be true. your friends here love the real you.
I’ve become part of something bigger after all. It hurts more than I expected. The soulful tune playing on my stereo blends with the mixed-up feelings tumbling around inside me. Everything that’s happened in the last few weeks comes into focus. Not that I understand it better. I am sure that Jonathan is my friend, though. He’s seen my dark side, and he still cares about me. There should be a word for that.
I dry my tears. Too bad I forgot to ask Sierra for advice on my love life. Of course, the pertinent details change more often than the daily special at a sidewalk bistro. Now that Nico and Andie have glommed into a bizarre unit that could be called a couple and Eva broke up with Bryan for real, should I go for him? I want to have someone to call my own. Despite his bad behavior he has this bizarre effect on me. I can’t entirely eliminate him from my system, type “format H,” and reboot my heart.
Thus the Bryan voodoo doll is born. A few socks, the blond hair from my old Barbie, a little twine, a magic marker, and voilà, mini Bryan. Sierra would be so proud. First he woos me. Goddess sweet and yet divine, such a girl is Rosalind, etc. Then I slap him around some and make him kiss my unwashed feet. Voodoo doll Bryan has eyes only for me.
Eva fails to show for rehearsal on Friday, and this is worrying. Her mental health day has stretched into a week. She won’t answer the taps on her door or the notes I’ve pasted to her window. Opening night is a mere week away. She could be suffering from PTBS (Post Traumatic Bryan Syndrome). Or is this about my lesbian act at school? In any case, I have no doubt I am to blame somehow.
Andie and Nico keep on treating me like I’m barely there, without the decency even to notice me ignoring them in return. RoZ iZ despiZed. Just days ago Andie said she liked me. And Nico defended me when Bryan called me a dyke. He laughed at my jokes. Okay, so he also ate what looked like a gift from BlueDragon in front of all the theater geeks. Still, he looks good with Andie’s waif arms around his torso.
“Should the couples be seated or standing whilst they await your arrival?” Carmen asks me. Luckily for my ever-shrinking ego, now flea-sized and in danger of vanishing altogether, Carmen has asked me to sit with her in homeroom again. And she consults me constantly during rehearsals.
“Standing,” I say. “That shows their anticipation.”
She jots a note on her script and calls for some chairs. She makes me feel as if we’re doing this together, that I’m her codirector. I return the favor by taking her side in arguments and complimenting her ideas. When we finish, she says, “Are you going to the Silo, perchance?”
“What? By myself?”
“With me,” she says. The idea of Carmen as my actual friend has yet to take root. It rotates around my consciousness like when BlueDragon circles a spot on the grass. A person wonders if he will actually lie down before the lunch minute is over.
“Let’s go,” I say. She bikes slowly alongside my scooter.
“Sorry,” she says, pointing her chin at the DykeByke graffiti.
&nbs
p; “Sorry.” I nod at the bald spot on her frame. I wonder if she’s going to apologize for the threatening alien sign. She doesn’t.
When we get to the Silo, she stands at the counter to order while I settle us at a table. “My notes are in the side pocket of my bag,” she says.
I’m hungry, but a muffin at the Silo costs a small fortune. You’d think they were made from beluga caviar and gold dust. So I unzip the top of her sports duffel to search for free snacks.
“I said the pocket!” Carmen yells. As she sprints toward me, I stop going through her things to look at her. Wherefore the sudden panic?
“Any munchies in here?” I hold up a plastic grocery bag.
She snatches it away from me and it rips open, scattering a hundred gum wrappers onto the floor. Juicy Fruit gum wrappers, to be precise.
Chapter
22
I watch Carmen as she stoops to sweep up the gum wrappers. Top-quality acting is always worth observing. The clenched expression on her face changes to bewilderment. I anticipate her accompanying lines. Where did these come from? I never saw them in my life. Or, Is there a law against chewing gum? But the inexplicable happens. Tears spring to her eyes as she lets the wrappers slip through her fingers onto our table like dirt onto a coffin in an open grave. Okay, I’ve never seen a coffin in an open grave, but her face does say mournful.
I help her along. “You’re the Peeping Tom,” I say.
“WE are. Were. It was Eva’s idea.” She flattens one of the wrappers using the edge of the table. “The Birkenstocks too. When we were . . . friends.”
What is this—National Confession Week? I didn’t spike her coffee with truth serum. I swear.
“Wow,” I say.
“You know how tedious it can be around here. We’d look into windows, scatter gum wrappers, and try not to laugh too loudly.”
“Did you ever see anything . . . interesting?”
“You wouldn’t believe how many people pick their noses when they think no one is watching. Once we saw Mr. Duncan with his hands down his pants. I thought I’d die. We never went back.” She blushes and looks down at the tabletop.
“Weren’t you afraid of getting caught?” I ask.
“Not really. We’d go to houses with the TV blaring.” She takes a sip of coffee. “Promise you won’t tell anyone. Police officers have no sense of humor. And my mom less than that.”
“I promise.”
When Carmen smiles, I feel good that she trusts me. BlueDragon finishes circling and settles down for a nap. We have become friends.
On Saturday morning I make myself quinoa hot cereal for breakfast with chopped nuts, soy milk, and a distinct lack of syrup. If this weren’t bad enough, Mom comes in and frowns at me. “You did something to upset Eva,” she says.
Is she referring to my secret date with Bryan? Or snagging the lead in the play maybe? But I thought Eva had broken up with him, and I can’t be blamed for acting well. Oh, there’s that other little thing—coming out as a lesbian at school.
“No,” I say.
Mom gives me a look. She’s been using that ESP of hers again. “An apology is worth a thousand words,” she says. “You should talk to her. She’s not contagious anymore.”
“Fine. But you’ll have to make her let me in first,” I say. “Her door is barricaded.”
Mom goes to Eva’s room and taps lightly. When there’s no answer, I say, “See?”
“It’s Mom. Roz has something she’d like to say to you.”
Eva opens the door right away.
“All you had to do was knock,” Gethsemane says.
“I have a surprise for you,” I say. “Just wait here.” I dash to my room, retrieve a certain something, and return with it tucked under my shirt. Mom has retreated to give us privacy. I lock Eva’s door behind me just in case.
“You’re pregnant?” Eva asks.
“Ta da!” I whip it out. “A Bryan voodoo doll. You can work out your aggressions on it.”
Eva studies the lumpy socks and patchy hair. “Looks like someone worked him over pretty well already.”
Now comes the hard part, the part where years of acting can be nifty because I don’t exactly mean what I’m about to say. I adjust an earring and nibble delicately on my pinkie nail. “I’m sorry I flirted with your boyfriend.” I stare at a spot on the wall before shifting my gaze to the floor.
Eva laughs, a startling sound to be sure. “You were crushing on him first. I knew that before we hooked up.”
I drop the act. “You did?” Who knew the depths of her depravity?
“It was pretty obvious.”
“Did you even like him?”
“Of course. He’s a sexy beast. Just the right sort of devil to help me get over my breakup with Brad Pitt.”
I tackle her and pin her to the bed. “Folly-fallen scullion,” I say, trying to get my fingers around her neck.
She slides out of my grip. “It started out as payback, Chub. You know, for Marcus and John and—”
“Stop,” I say. According to my memory banks, I pursued only TWO of her ex-boyfriends. If there were more, I don’t want to know. “And don’t call me Chub.”
“What should I call you?”
“Slim,” I say. I pick up the Bryan doll from the floor. I might have future use for it. “Since you don’t want him . . . may I?”
Eva laughs so hard it’s contagious, and we run around her room shrieking and throwing things like we used to. Soon I’m lying on the floor covered in socks, pillows, and stray sweaters trying to catch my breath. As the last convulsive giggle leaves my chest, I look at Eva sitting next to me. Her hair is tousled, and she looks twelve years old.
“Why did you lie to me when you got your period?” I ask.
“I lied?”
“I found tampons in your room, and you said they were for cleaning your ears.”
“Oh, that. I guess I thought it would mean a lot to you to be first.”
I go a tad gooey when she says that. The days when she looked out for me were sweet. Maybe if I give her what she wants most, I can bring them back. “Are you still mad I got the lead?” I say.
“Obviously you bribed Sapphire for the role. But what I want to know is how you got your hands on a million dollars.”
“Ha! I earned it fair and square,” I say. “But you can have it. It’s yours.” My offer comes out through gritted teeth and doesn’t sound as gracious as I planned.
“Roz?” Eva says. She folds me into a long hug. “You really do love me.” When she lets go, her eyes are wet. “I can’t believe what you just said. But that’s not what I want.”
“I don’t understand. I heard you rehearsing my lines in here.”
She wipes her face on her sleeve. “I wasn’t rehearsing for the play.”
“What were you rehearsing for?”
“Nothing.”
“This nothing that you so plentifully give me,” I say. Translation? She will never open up to me. They say you learn more from your failures than your successes. Well, I learned something today. Failure sucks.
I pace her room, stopping to fluff a pom-pom here and straighten a trophy there. “Okay, okay! I’m sorry,” I say, not acting this time, except to control the excesses of my jumpy body parts. “I’m sorry I came out at school.”
Like superglue, she hardens in seconds. “What were you thinking?”
What WAS I thinking?
“I didn’t mean to offend anyone,” I say. “I wanted to join a cool club, I guess. And to show you that people are more tolerant than you think.”
“Tolerant? Like you?” She picks up her foot behind her back and stretches her quad.
“What do you mean by that?”
“Who wants to be tolerated, anyway?” She holds her arms out and rotates them in small circles. “I want to be accepted. People who can’t accept others don’t love themselves.”
“I love myself,” I say. With a few reservations. I can see it now, the worst-selling self-help
book of all time—I Love Myself . . . Almost.
“Good for you.” She bends over to stretch her hamstrings, resting her palms on the floor and making it look easy. “Only it’s not always about you.”
What are we talking about exactly?
Eva’s cell phone rings, Pachelbel’s Sappiest Canon. She pushes me out the door before answering it.
Chapter
23
Eva skips yet another day of school. I envy my sister her strange powers over Gethsemane and Elmo. Now that I have friends, though, I look forward to going to school. And I wouldn’t miss today in exchange for a future Emmy. Jonathan will be back, and I mean to drag him off into a corner of the Barn to lavish him with love (Platonic, of course). Our new friendship means a lot to me.
At rehearsal Carmen foils my plan by whisking him onto the stage to work through the scenes we postponed during his abduction. Despite his haunted look, he moves across the stage without stumbling over wires or half-remembered lines. I should get his autograph before he becomes famous. Not to sell, either, but as proof that he knew me before he had a shelf lined with Tony Awards.
When Sapphire comes in, I intercept her. “Watch Carmen a minute before you go up there,” I whisper.
As we observe together, Carmen listens to suggestions from the other players and makes decisions with quiet authority, so unlike her usual bossy mode. She maneuvers the scene off its lazy backside and ratchets the tension into high gear.
“Oh, my,” Sapphire says.
“Yes,” I say. “You should let her finish out the week.” It feels good to put my slithery serpent mind to a less selfish use for once.
“Good idea.”
Sapphire seems cheerful about this, so I risk a second good deed. “How did it go?”
“How did what go?”
“Will Jonathan’s parents take him back?” I ask.
“He told you about his parents?”
“I think they’re horrible,” I say.
Sapphire crosses her arms tight and scrunches her shoulders. “That’s my sister you’re talking about,” she says.
At that moment, I remember how Sapphire called Jonathan confused, and the piranha inside me slips her leash. “That’s no excuse to treat him like a criminal.”
My Invented Life Page 15
