Isn't She Lovely

by Lauren Layne

  “A charade,” she says, getting a crazed look in her eyes. “That’s brilliant.”

  I take another sip of beer. “Yeah, yeah, your little performance saved you from a date with a slimy bartender, I get it.”

  “No, for the project,” she says, shoving away her glass and plate and reaching for her backpack.

  I watch as her hand scrambles for several seconds before coming up with a pen. She’s writing at warp speed, not even glancing up at me, so I take the opportunity to eat more nachos. Smaller bites this time, in case she decides to tell the entire bar that she’s pregnant with my demon baby.

  Finally she looks up with a beaming smile, and for a second she actually looks pretty instead of totally scary.

  She holds up her notebook for me to read, and then her smile slips a little when I don’t respond.

  “Help me out here,” I say, squinting at her messy scribbles.

  She taps a black fingernail at the top of the page where she’s written PYGMALION in big block letters. “You see?”

  I finish my beer and reach for hers. “Do I look like I see?”

  Ah, there’s that familiar scowl. “Did your parents care nothing for the performing arts?” she asks.

  “Goth, just tell me what you’re so manic about.”

  She sets the notebook down and pulls the nachos toward her, scooping up more than her fair share of the guacamole. “So Pygmalion goes way back to ancient Greece—”

  “Oh, sweet Jesus,” I mutter. “Give me the short version, I’m begging you.”

  “There’s this guy, that’s Pygmalion. And he’s a sculptor who, for some reason I forget, isn’t real big on women at the moment—”

  “Maybe because a woman loudly announced that he uses lavender bath bubbles.”

  She snatches her beer back. “Anyway, so even though he’s off flesh-and-blood chicks for a while, he’s apparently open to creating a statue of a woman. And apparently he’s really good at what he does, because the statue is a total babe, and he falls in love with her. Then, blah blah, some goddess or other grants him a wish, and the statue comes to life.”

  Stephanie takes two big sips of beer and gives me a wide smile as though to ?

  I don’t.

  “So tell me what an ancient dude falling in love with a rock has to do with our project,” I say.

  She purses her lips in consideration. “Actually, I think it was ivory, not rock—”

  “Stephanie. Some mercy?”

  She takes a deep breath. “Right. So … the story of Pygmalion doesn’t stop there. It’s been used in poems and paintings for centuries, but the most notable version is a play written by George Bernard Shaw—”

  “Is this really the short version?”

  “—which becomes a movie. And then it becomes the inspiration for a bunch of other movies about men falling in love with women that they’ve created.”

  I’m not gonna lie. Good student or not, I’m struggling to keep up with the girl. “Okay, so you’re telling me that there are multiple movies about men who build a female statue out of rock—ivory—and fall in love with it?”

  She scribbles something else in her notebook. “No, that’s the beauty of film. There have been a bunch of reimaginings. The most classic is My Fair Lady, of course, but there’s also Pretty Woman, She’s All That … all movies in which the guy dresses the woman as someone she’s not in order to fulfill a bet or some sort of social obligation. You know. A charade.”

  Finally the pieces kind of fit into place. “Okay, I’m with you so far. All we have to do is transcribe your little monologue there about how the Pygmalion story has permeated Hollywood, and then put our own fresh take on it?”

  “Exactly.”

  I catch Steven’s eye and gesture for two more beers. “All right, I’m in. What’s our spin on the story going to be?”

  Stephanie stuffs a stack of nachos into her face and chews thoughtfully. “Well, it’s like this, partner. Seeing as I’ve done all of the thinking up until now, it’s about time you put that pretty, overgelled head to work. Our screenplay idea? That’s gonna be your contribution.”

  Chapter Seven

  Stephanie

  “Steph, you sure you don’t want to watch the movie?”

  I look up from the tiny kitchen table where I’ve been working on Ethan’s and my film project for the last hour. Not that I want to work on the project, or even need to, since it’s not due for a couple of months.

  But the alternative is cuddling up on the couch with David and Leah while they watch some sort of indie-drama nonsense. I’m all for independent films, but I hate the ones that wear “indie” like a big middle finger to Hollywood. Small budgets are no excuse for producing garbage, and judging from the number of angsty montages in this one, it’s pure, lazy filmmaking crap.

  That, and the couch isn’t that big. Joining them would mean sitting hip to hip with David as he occasionally gropes Leah while making sexy eyes at me.

  It’s been like that lately. I don’t think the guy wants me back, but he seems to be grossly turned on by having his current girlfriend and ex-girlfriend in the same space. It’s totally skeeving me out, but I’m trying to be adult about it.

  Although if this is adult, it sucks balls.

  Back in high school—back before everything happened—I used to imagine what college would be like. I pictured late-night study groups and gossiping with my girlfriends, beer pong and parties, and maybe a few cute boyfriends here and there so that when I finally met the one, I’d know what I was doing.

  My vision wasn’t even close to reality.

  Instead, my social circle consists of a handful of fellow film nerds, a cheating ex-boyfriend turned roommate, and now a beefcake of a rich boy who probably plays rugby and drinks wine coolers in his spare time.

  I frown and push my notebook away. I’ve been thinking about Ethan Price a good deal more than I’d like lately. As a film partner, he’s absolutely wretched. But he hasn’t been half bad company. For a second there in that pub, it almost felt like we were friends. Or at least as close to friends as a punk arts student and a whitewashed business student can be.

  Because, charming or not, the guy doesn’t know the first thing about me.

  You could go home, he said.

  No, Price, that’s the one thing I can’t do.

  David and Leah could start having sex on the couch I was supposed to sleep on, and I still wouldn’t go home.

  And judging from the way David’s hand is now fully palming Leah’s boob, that scenario isn’t nearly as far-fetched as I might wish.

  There’s a knock at the door, and all three of us look at each other in expectation. But apparently nobody is expecting a visitor, because Leah and David merely turn their eyes back to the television.

  “I’ve got it,” I mutter. For as little as I’m paying David to stay here, the least I can do is play butler.

  I stand on my toes to look through the peephole, as is an automatic reaction for any sane female living in a non-doorman building in New York City.

  My heart jolts a little, and I drop back to the flat of my feet. Then I rise again to get a second look, just to be sure.

  Yup, still him.

  “Who is it?” David asks.

  I ignore David and slowly open the door, giving my mind time to recover from the tricks it’s playing on my eyes.

  But there are no tricks.

  Ethan Price is standing on the other side of my door, looking 100 percent out of place in his unwrinkled khaki shorts and blue-and-white button-down.

  “Hey, partner,” he says with an easy grin. “Can I come in?”

  I don’t move.

  “Steph?” David asks.

  I mutely move aside, letting Ethan step into the tiny apartment, and fiercely resist the urge to run around and pick up the random piles of clothes, the empty beer bottles, and the all-around filth that results when three people share seven hundred square feet.

  “Whoa, it’s like a
J. Crew catalog just came to life,” I hear Leah whisper.

  “Ethan, welcome to my—”

  “Home,” David says with an easy smile as he stands and comes to face Ethan. “I’m Steph’s roommate. And you are …?”

  “Ethan Price.”

  The two shake hands, and I want to karate-chop their hands and request that they not exchange words. My two worlds are colliding, and it’s … weird.

  I notice that Ethan doesn’t identify his role in my life, and from the slight narrowing of his eyes, I see that David notices as well.

  David was a semi-jealous boyfriend—ironic, since he’s the one who strayed. I just hope to God he isn’t going to prove to be a jealous ex as well.

  “David, you’re missing the movie,” Leah says, oblivious as ever to the slight tension in the room.

  Ethan catches my eye and wiggles his eyebrows. “The foreign vagina?” he mouths, careful not to let David see.

  I ignore him. “How did you find me?”

  “When you were on the phone with your bank the other day, you gave them your updated mailing address.”

  “And what, you memorized it?”

  He taps his temple. “Steel trap, Kendrick. Nothing escapes.”

  “And yet you’re apparently selective about what goes in,” I mutter, thinking of the futile hours I spent rambling at him only to realize that he hadn’t absorbed a single fact.

  David is still watching us carefully. “Dude, you’re stalking her?”

  “At least I’m not cheating on her,” Ethan says, never losing the white smile.

  I pinch Ethan’s arm hard before moving between them. “David, you don’t get to be protective anymore. And Ethan, why don’t we sit down and discuss the project.”

  Translation: Let’s sit down and you can explain why you’re invading my personal space.

  David reluctantly goes back to Leah on the couch, and Ethan joins me at the kitchen table. There are four chairs, and he needlessly picks the one closest to me, rather than the one across from me, which makes way more sense.

  “What is going on?” I hiss.

  His eyes skim my face briefly. “You still wear all that black stuff on your eyes, even when you’re sitting at home in sweats?”

  I flutter my eyelashes. “Well, one never knows when one can expect gentleman company.”

  Actually, the truth is, I feel naked without my eye makeup. It’s stupid, but I always imagine that the gunmetal-gray shadow and the black eyeliner are my shields against prying eyes.

  A sympathetic expression flits across Ethan’s face, and I have the oddest sensation that he’s on to me.

  “So I had an idea for our screenplay,” he says, reaching out to fiddle with one of my earrings.

  I jerk back at the unexpected touch. “What are you doing?” What game are you playing? “Continuing the charade from the other day,” he whispers. His fingers move down to my collarbone, and I get goose bumps. I shoot him a murderous look, but he’s glancing at David, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that the two of them are having a male staring contest like a couple of simpleminded bucks.

  “What charade?” I ask stupidly, my brain struggling to process anything as the pad of his finger finds the sensitive skin along my neck.

  “The one where I pretend to be your sexy stallion of a boyfriend to protect you from creeps,” he says out of the corner of his mouth.

  “I don’t need protecting from David. Five minutes ago he was playing with Leah’s basketball boobs,” I whisper, grateful that Leah plays her movies obnoxiously loud.

  “Well, he doesn’t like having me here.”

  “Neither do I,” I hiss. But I sneak a look over my shoulder all the same. Sure enough, David has lost all interest in the movie and in Leah and is watching us like a jealous boyfriend.

  “Don’t piss him off.” I turn back to Ethan. “The last thing I need is him kicking me out because he thinks I have a new boyfriend.”

  But Ethan doesn’t respond. Instead he’s staring at me with this lovey-dovey expression that I know is all for David’s sake but which kind of makes me feel fluttery anyway, and I finally bat his hand away from where it’s playing with the tips of my hair.

  “You have two minutes to explain your new screenplay idea to me, then I’ll take two minutes to tell you why it sucks. Which means you should be back on your way to Park Avenue within five minutes.”

  “I don’t live on Park.”

  “Madison?”

  “No.”

  “Lex?”

  Ethan remains silent, and I give a smug smile. I did my online research. The Price family is old money. Really old money. There’s only a handful of streets that they’re likely to live on.

  “I don’t live with my parents anymore,” he says, out of nowhere.

  I reach for my water bottle. “Do they live on Park?”

  His eyes fall on the table. “Yeah.”

  This time I don’t feel quite as smug, even though I’m so right it kills me. Because instead of looking smug or gloating about his family’s ridiculously rich zip code, he looks … embarrassed.

  “So the screenplay?” I prod.

  We’re both ignoring David now, although I can tell by the crescendo of music in the background that the movie is gearing up for its angsty finale. Leah is starting to sniffle, and I know she’s finally figuring out what I’ve known since the opening credits: that this movie isn’t going to have a happy ending. That’s the thing about indie romantic “comedies”: the only one laughing at the end of the movie is the screenwriter.

  Ethan’s hand goes back to my hair and he tugs slightly to get my attention. “Okay,” he says. “So I went through the list of Pygmalion-themed movies you gave me and watched them all—”

  “You did?” I interrupt. I expected him to go searching on the Internet for the CliffsNotes version.

  “Yep.”

  “How many did you stay awake through?”

  He runs his tongue over his front teeth, considering. “Some of them were pretty bad.”

  I don’t deny it. Some of them are pretty bad.

  “And that one with the singing? God help me—”

  I raise a finger in objection. “Do not touch My Fair Lady.”

  “Okay, well anyway … the movies have been set in all sorts of genres and age groups, but so far there’s nothing set on a college campus.”

  I shrug. “So? There actually aren’t many movies set on college campuses. Not all moviegoers go to college, so it’s not entirely relatable.”

  “Neither is shit set in space, but the nerds are still getting their sci-fi fixes.”

  I rub my temples. The guy is choosing now to take up an interest in cinema?

  The apartment goes suddenly silent, and I realize that the movie is over. David and Leah peel themselves off the couch—my bed, yay—and turn to stare at us curiously.

  “Night, Steph,” Leah says with her usual vapid smile.

  “Night,” I mutter. Even though I’m totally over David, it sort of chafes that I’m expected to be civil to the woman who’s sleeping with him, especially since I didn’t even have sex with him (though I was moving in that direction, truly).

  Guess he wasn’t able to wait.

  “You going to bed soon, Steph?” David asks.

  “Yup, just need to give my ‘bed’ time to lose the scent of your ass,” I say sweetly.

  But David’s not listening to me and is back to giving Ethan man-glares.

  “Hey, Dave, let me ask you something,” Ethan says, draping his hand on the back of my chair as he rocks his own chair back on two legs. “Before you hooked up with the ginger, did Stephanie ever make this weird bobcat noise when you guys, were, you know …”

  “Ethan,” I warn.

  He ignores me. “She swears she doesn’t realize she’s doing it, but it’s kind of hot and distracting at the same time. I never know if she’s in heat or—”

  I kick at the legs of his chair, hoping to send him sprawl
ing on his ass, but he sees me move and clamps a hand on my knee before I can make contact.

  David, thank God, opts not to engage and retreats to the bedroom, closing the door with a communicative slam.

  “You happy now?” I say, glaring at Ethan.

  He shrugs. “Revenge for your comment about the bath bubbles. Plus I can’t stand dudes like that—the ones who treat a girl like shit but still try to mark their territory when a new lion’s on the scene.”

  “Okay, what is with all of the Animal Planet references tonight? First the bobcat, now the lion … and you’re hardly a new lion on the scene, by the way. You’re more like—”

  His fingers tighten briefly on my knee, and I completely lose my train of thought.

  “Like what?”

  “Never mind,” I say, ordering myself to break eye contact. Except I don’t.

  His hand slowly slides off my leg, and I don’t think it’s my imagination that it lingers. Not that I think the guy’s into me or anything, but this isn’t the first time he’s accidentally-on-purpose touched me and not moved away immediately. And at that stupid party, I would have guessed he was a second away from kissing me.

  I feel like I’m in the middle of some game and nobody’s told me the rules.

  He clears his throat and gestures at my fridge. David’s fridge. “You mind if I grab a beer?”

  “Sure,” I say with a shrug. Anything to get him to stop looking at me just for a second so I can catch my breath.

  “So, this Pygmalion thing,” he says, removing the bottle cap and putting it in the garbage. “I’m thinking that we should deal with college-age kids. It’s what we know, and it hasn’t been done in this Pygmalion context.”

  I gesture for him to continue, even though I’m pretty sure I’m about to hear an exact duplicate of She’s All That, which was set on a high school campus. When it comes to movies, high school and college campuses are almost interchangeable. Same drama. Same schoolwork. Same insecurities. Same hormones.

  I realize that I’ve been studying the pattern of golden hair on his forearms, and jerk my gaze away. His arms, Stephanie? Really?

  He’s still going on about this screenplay idea, and my ears catch on one particular phrase. A crucial phrase.