Things Jolie Needs to Do Before She Bites It

by Kerry Winfrey

  I groan. I’d thought that maybe we were just avoiding talking about my starring role the same way we avoid talking about Derek’s dad. It’s uncomfortable, so let’s talk about lemurs and pretend everything’s fine!

  “Ugh. Whatever.” I put my feet up on Derek’s lap, not even caring that I’m wearing old socks that have a hole over my left big toe. “I’m just trying to pretend it’s not happening. Do you even remember what happened in the fourth-grade musical?”

  “You threw up. I know. But you can’t keep trotting out one vomit-related childhood memory as a reason why you can’t do something.” He rests his hands on my feet.

  I scoff. On-screen, John Travolta is twirling around wearing a leotard. I settle into the couch and Derek mutters something about how he doesn’t understand why my feet have to be in his lap, but this is our thing, the same position we’ve always watched movies in, and I don’t intend to change it just because my feet are “gross” or “I need to buy new socks” or whatever.

  “That’s a point—write it down,” I say, and Derek grabs his notebook. We have an elaborate rating system for our terrible movies. They get points for having gratuitous nudity (which terrible movies reliably have), an unexpected celebrity cameo, a grisly-but-fake-looking death, bad wigs, a continuity error, or, in this case, a dance sequence. There are about a million other ways to get points because at this stage, Derek and I are basically terrible-movie experts.

  After he writes down the point, neither of us says anything as we watch the movie. That’s the great thing about being around Derek. I mean, I love Evie so much that I would probably murder someone for her (not that I can imagine a situation in which that would happen, since Evie takes self-defense classes and could kill a grown man with her bare hands), but when we’re together it’s nonstop talking. And that’s great sometimes. But Derek and I can carry on a conversation without even saying anything.

  “I just don’t really understand what’s going on,” I finally say.

  “John Travolta’s trying out for a part in some show and he’s wearing a bonkers headband,” Derek says.

  “No, I mean with the musical.”

  Derek doesn’t pause the movie as he turns away from the screen to look at me. That’s part of the allure of bad movies; it’s not like you’re going to miss some important plot point.

  “Like, I keep thinking this is all some elaborate prank, and someone’s going to post a video of my terrible audition online and then the ensuing bullying will get so bad that Good Morning America will do a story all about how teens these days don’t have empathy or something.” I take a breath.

  Derek nods slowly. “That’s a possibility. Or—and hear me out—you could’ve just done a good job in your audition.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “So,” Derek says, and this time he actually does grab the remote and pause the movie. “You said Noah thought you were good?”

  “When did I say that?”

  “At Applebee’s.” He watches the screen, even though it’s just paused on a blur of pink and purple spandex.

  “Uh, yeah.” I shift slightly on the couch. “He was actually really nice about it. I didn’t think he even knew who I was.”

  “Wow,” Derek says sarcastically. “The great Noah Reed deigned to know your name.”

  “Very funny,” I say. “It’s just … nice to hear a compliment.”

  “I compliment you all the time,” Derek says.

  I roll my eyes. “Yeah, but you have to, because you’re my best friend. It’s kind of a given that you think I’m okay-ish at most things.”

  He looks at me. “Okay-ish at Most Things: The Jolie Peterson Story.” Then he runs a finger slowly down the bottom of my foot, sending me into convulsions of giggles.

  “Ugh, stop!” I squeal, pulling my foot back and then kicking him in the leg. “You are the literal worst. You know I’m super ticklish.”

  “Then maybe stop putting your most ticklish body part directly on my leg. Just a thought.”

  I lunge at him—this is normal for us, goofing off and forcing each other to endure tickling. But I guess I’ve forgotten how much stronger he’s become, because he easily pulls me into a headlock, and when I squeal and he releases me, I end up falling right into his lap.

  “Hey,” he says with a small smile as I look up at him, and I can’t help noticing how impressively solid he is now. I open my mouth to say something, but all that comes out is an exhale.

  Okay, so it’s not like I’ve never thought about what it would be like to date Derek. I like boys and he is a boy, so of course it’s popped into my mind before. And there was this one time last year when I thought that maybe there was something between us.

  It was during Brentley’s Movies on the Lawn thing at the park last summer, and they were showing The Wizard of Oz. I guess I fell asleep, because one minute there were flying monkeys on the screen and the next thing I knew I was waking up with my head in Derek’s lap as everyone was picking up their blankets. I blinked a few times as I yawned, then looked up and saw that he was looking down at me and smiling. “You fell asleep,” he said, and he brushed my hair out of my face. I don’t know what it was—the way he said those three words, the way his touch felt different than it normally did, the way he was looking at me—but I felt something, some inkling that maybe there was just possibly something between us.

  But then Evelyn was like, “You guys, if I don’t get home by ten p.m. Patricia is going to call the police and report me missing,” and the moment was gone. And a few weeks later Derek started dating Melody, so I figured it had been all in my head. It was a relief, honestly, because Derek and I have spent our entire lives being best friends, and I didn’t want to ruin that, but at the same time, it stung a little. Because part of me does wonder: If I were prettier, would Derek have a crush on me?

  But right now, I’m wondering if maybe I was right during that movie at the park, if maybe, just maybe …

  Derek’s phone buzzes, and he shifts to pull it out of his pocket, spilling me off his lap and back onto the couch.

  “It’s Melody,” he says, waving the phone at me. “I’m gonna take this.”

  And then he walks into the kitchen, talking in a low voice. I wonder if he tells Melody when I’m here, or if he tells Melody about Terrible Movie Night, or if he tells her that I was just sitting on his lap. I mean, it’s not like anything happened—obviously—but still. I just wonder if that’s the type of thing a girlfriend gets mad about.

  I pull out my phone and scroll through the IMDB page for Staying Alive for a few minutes until Derek comes back into the room and tosses me a half-full bag of jelly beans. “I found this in the kitchen—I think Mom’s been holding out on us.”

  Derek’s mom is all about a low-sugar lifestyle, so this is a real find. I pull the bag open and shove a handful in my mouth.

  He sits down. “Ready?”

  I put my feet back in his lap and with a mouth full of jelly beans I say, “Ready.”

  “You’re disgusting, you know that?” he says, but he’s giving me one of his wide Derek smiles, so I know he doesn’t really mean it. I lean back against a pillow and make a face at him, thinking about how I’m glad this is how things are: We’re best friends, I can count on him, we have our spots here on the couch, and that will never change. He presses play and rests his hands on my feet, and just for that moment, it’s like everything in the entire world makes sense.

  Chapter Ten

  I still can’t believe this is happening.

  I tap Evelyn on the shoulder and pass her the note. We’re in study hall, which is ruled by Mrs. Wise’s iron hall pass. She used to be an algebra teacher, then she retired, then she came back to be a study hall monitor. All of which means she’s approximately one million years old and is prone to telling us, disapprovingly, about how kids acted in “her day.” She usually says this when she sees a story about a new app on the Today show, which she watches every morning on mute. I’m relatively sure tea
chers aren’t supposed to be openly watching daytime television, but no one tells Mrs. Wise what to do.

  I watch Evelyn read my note and then start writing. This would be so much easier if we could just covertly text like normal people, but the last time Mrs. Wise saw Sam Grady playing Candy Crush she took his phone away and then gave us all a lecture on how mobile gaming destroys our attention spans, and then I didn’t even have time to finish my trig homework. She doesn’t care if we’re actually studying or if we’re just asleep, like Oliver Norton, who’s currently drooling on the desk next to me, just as long as we don’t interrupt her TV viewing.

  Evelyn keeps her eyes on Mrs. Wise, who keeps her eyes on Al Roker, as she slides the note behind her back.

  Well, believe it. It’s all happening/baby you’re a star/etc., etc. Are you ready for practice tonight?

  Beside that, she drew a big pair of lips, presumably mine.

  Absolutely not, I write. I don’t even know how to act, in case you forgot. And I hate the first days of stuff. What if we have to do icebreaker activities? I don’t want to tell everyone one interesting fact about myself. There are no interesting facts about me. I wish I was Lana Meyerhoff. Her parents own a llama farm, and every time she has to tell an interesting fact about herself she just says, ‘I live on a llama farm.’ She can coast on that one forever.

  I slide the note to Evie and she reads it, smirks, and starts writing. Al Roker’s still talking about the weather and Mrs. Wise is rapt. All the while, Oliver Norton lightly snores.

  She passes it back.

  Why in the name of Mrs. Wise’s turtleneck would there be an icebreaker activity? This is Brentley. We’ve all known each other since kindergarten. You’ll probably just get your scripts and go over the schedule. The musical’s so soon, you’re going to have to practice constantly. God forbid BHS actually, like, not half-ass something.

  PS: Do you think Lana’s parents just really love llamas and wanted to name her Llama? But they were like, “No, that’s too weird” and decided Lana was the next best thing?

  I’m barely even a part of the musical yet and I’m already kind of offended at Evelyn’s suggestion that it will be half-assed. Although, yes, the reluctance to spend any money and the one month to rehearse it would lead one to assume that this is, at best, partially assed.

  I’m still not 100% convinced that I’m going to stay in the musical, I write. I think maybe this was all a mistake. Like, maybe Mrs. Mulaney meant to write Marla’s name on the cast sheet but got distracted by Peter’s constant whining and wrote my name instead?

  Evelyn audibly snorts when she reads the note and Mrs. Wise looks up, her eagle eye roaming the room. Evelyn makes a big show of coughing, then primly says, “Excuse me.” Mrs. Wise doesn’t look happy (maybe in her day kids never coughed), but she turns back to the television. Evelyn slides the note back.

  JOLIE. Get it together. I’m getting so tired of telling you how great you are that I’d rather be doing my algebra homework. PS—I need help with my algebra homework. Mr. Kader keeps talking about the quadratic equation, but he still hasn’t explained why I should actually care. Also, did you realize that there’s a kiss in the musical?

  I have to stop myself from shouting What? which would surely get Mrs. Wise’s attention. Somehow I completely missed this information, probably because my brain was playing a song called “I’m Totally Freaking Out, I Can’t Possibly Do This” on loop.

  Um, no. I most certainly did NOT realize this, I write.

  I’m so distracted by this kiss information that I don’t notice Mrs. Wise looking right at us when I pass Evelyn the note. Mrs. Wise slaps her palms on her desk and crosses the room toward us. With a snort, Oliver Norton wakes up.

  “Do you ladies have something you’d like to share with the class?” she asks.

  “No, we don’t, ma’am,” Evelyn says politely, folding her hands over our note.

  Mrs. Wise holds out her hand.

  Uggggh. Everyone in the class is looking at us, and the only thing worse than feeling awkward in front of people is everyone knowing how awkward you feel.

  Evelyn hands something to Mrs. Wise, but I can tell right away that it’s not our note.

  “The ABCs of Abstinence?” Mrs. Wise reads, confused.

  Oh, geez. That’s the pamphlet we got in health class earlier this year, and Evelyn keeps it in her notebook so we can read it when we need a laugh. It’s so cheesy and poorly written, and even though I’m clearly not considering having sex with anyone, it’s a thoroughly unconvincing document. E stands for “Everybody’s not doing it!” and X is for “X-Cuse Me: Hands Off!”

  “I would actually love to share this with the class,” Evelyn explains. “I think it’s a super important message.”

  Mrs. Wise considers it skeptically, then takes it back to her desk.

  “That was close,” Evelyn mutters as she turns around. “But I’m really going to miss that pamphlet.”

  “Ladies!” Mrs. Wise barks.

  I lean back in my chair and spend the rest of study hall worrying about practice.

  * * *

  I walk into the auditorium after school and see everyone onstage, talking to each other in clumps. These are the types of situations I hate: showing up somewhere alone and knowing that everyone else knows each other, but you don’t know anyone. And then you’re forced to either sit there by yourself and look super awkward or elbow your way into a conversation and look even more awkward. Basically you’re awkward if you do, awkward if you don’t.

  It’s not that I don’t know these people at all—after all, BHS isn’t that big. But other than study partners in some of my classes, I don’t really hang out with anyone other than Evelyn and Derek. That would involve actually, like, putting myself out there.

  I walk up the stairs to the stage, trying to look casual while I scope out the groups of people and figure out who I can talk to, when Peter Turturro steps in front of me.

  “Uh, hey, Peter,” I say, craning my neck around him to see if I can spot Noah.

  “Jolie.” He nods. “I just wanted to apologize for my behavior at auditions. I may have been a bit … overzealous.”

  I look at him and take in his ensemble: a black turtleneck and a scarf. Not a winter scarf, but a fashion scarf. He looks sort of like a caricature of what someone thought a serious stage actor looked like.

  “You were oddly obsessed with a TV shrink,” I say, trying to edge past him. “But thanks for the apology. I appreciate it.”

  “I just didn’t think you’d be any good,” Peter says.

  I stop walking.

  “I mean, before you did your audition, I just assumed you were going to be terrible.”

  I tilt my head. “Thanks?”

  Peter puffs out his cheeks and blows the air out forcefully. “Oh, man, I’m really screwing this up. What I’m trying to say is: I didn’t think you were serious. You kind of shuffled out onstage with your head down, looking all mousy—”

  “Not helping, Peter.”

  “Right. Well, I thought you were just wasting our time, and Mrs. Mulaney and I are taking this musical really seriously.”

  “I can see that.” I gesture to his scarf, and he nods in thanks.

  “I just didn’t want anyone to come in here and treat it like a joke. But then when you read with Noah … well, you blew us away.”

  “I … what?” I ask, but right then Mrs. Mulaney walks into the room and claps her hands.

  “All right, everyone!” she calls. “Take a seat on the stage, please. You’ll have to get used to being up there eventually.”

  I sit down next to Peter—at least that problem is solved. I look around the stage as discreetly as possible and see Marla (glaring at me, yikes), plenty of people I only sort of recognize, and Noah. To say he stands out from the crowd would be an understatement. It’s like his head is surrounded by little hearts, like he has his own real-life Snapchat filter.

  Next to him sits Toby Lewis. You know how
some people are known more for being sidekicks than for being themselves? Like, you don’t have Robin without Batman, or Donkey without Shrek, or that weird scary purple guy without Ronald McDonald. That’s what Toby is to Noah.

  And yet Toby is nothing like Noah—where Noah is tall, Toby’s short. Where Noah has hair like a member of One Direction (may they rest in peace), Toby’s is short and nondescript. Where Noah walks through his life like he’s the star of every scene, Toby’s more like the side character that’s just there to make dick jokes.

  As I’m staring at the two of them and composing my mental list of all the ways that Noah is far superior, Noah looks over at me, smiles, then lifts his hand in a wave.

  I freeze. Noah waved at me. Noah waved at me. What should I do? What would Evelyn do?

  Before I can stop myself, I give him a thumbs-up, then feel my insides try to make a break for it by leaping out through my throat.

  Peter leans over. “Did you just give Noah Reed a thumbs-up?” he whispers.

  “Shut up, Peter!” I hiss.

  Mrs. Mulaney pauses to give us a stern look, then keeps talking.

  “As you all know, this year we’re lucky enough to be performing onstage for the first time To the Moon and Back by BHS’s own Johnny McElroy.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Marla rolling her eyes.

  “Most of you probably aren’t familiar with this musical, but let me assure you: Although it may not be as famous or well-known as, say, Oklahoma! or The Music Man, it provides just as many opportunities for you all to shine.”

  It also features many more songs about space travel.

  “And speaking of shining,” Mrs. Mulaney continues. “You’ve all seen the cast list and you all know who’s playing who. I’m sure some of you may be disappointed”—and here I think I see her look pointedly at Marla—“but please remember: Every single part is essential to this musical. We can never pull this off if each and every one of you isn’t doing your best.”