The Law of Tall Girls

by Joanne Macgregor

  She hurried off and was soon back with two steaming cups. “Cinnamon spiced pumpkin tea for me.”

  “Sounds gross,” I said.

  “And calming chamomile for you. I think we can both agree that you could use it,” she said, handing me the cup.

  “Did you see that stall with the vintage clothing? Wasn’t it beautiful?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Old and moldy doesn’t do it for me.”

  “I love all those old-timey styles. I’ve been thinking that for my fashion range, I might pick a retro theme. Choose an era from the past and then reinvent modern items in that style — an old-meets-new kind of thing. What d’you think?”

  I’d been watching old movies on TV and researching on the net, thinking about how to adapt the fashions for modern tastes.

  “Well, it’s good that you like vintage styles, because you’re going to be working on the project for the next couple of months.”

  “I can hear a ‘but’ coming.”

  “Bu-ut, I’m not sure it’s original enough to stand out. Every few years some designer changes up old-fashioned designs instead of coming up with something new. You don’t think maybe it’s been done to death already?”

  “Hmm.” It was something to think about.

  Just then, Chloe’s mother and little brother walked up to our stall. Ben leapt into my arms and demanded to climb onto my shoulders. “You’re so high, Peyton, it will be like being on top of a tower.”

  “Benjamin!” said Mrs. DiCaprio, clearly embarrassed.

  But Ben was unabashed. “I want to see the whole world! This is my favorite thing.”

  It was one of my favorite things, too. I loved to wrestle with Chloe’s brother and to sneak in quick hugs when I could. I loved his wiry body, his cheeky smile, the little-boy smell of him.

  “Hi, Mrs. D,” I said.

  “Hello, girls, how are you? Hungry yet? I brought you some lobster rolls.”

  “Mrs. D, there’s a place in heaven for angels like you,” I said, biting into the warm, buttery, salty goodness.

  Mrs. DiCaprio smiled fondly at me as I polished it off in a few more bites, then tapped Ben on the knee. “Come on, time to head home. Daddy’s waiting to take you to soccer practice.”

  “Yeah, scram, kiddo,” Chloe said.

  “Aww.” Ben slid reluctantly down my back.

  “High five?” I said.

  Instead of slapping the hand I held up for him, he placed his own hand against it. Comparing the sizes of our body parts was another of Ben’s favorite things.

  “I think you’re a giant, Peyton,” he said.

  “Maybe, you’re just a gnome. Or a little goblin!”

  He laughed loudly at that and marched off beside his mother chanting, “Fee Fi Fo Fum!”

  “Argh!” Chloe made a noise of disgust. “Sorry about that. Little brothers are just the worst, most annoying nuisances that ever …” Her voice trailed off, and she cast me a look full of concern. “Oh, Peyton, I’m sorry. That was so thoughtless of me.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “When I know what it’s done to you, and your family …” She still looked mortified.

  “I said, don’t worry about it.”

  “Am I forgiven?” Chloe asked.

  I gave her a hug, holding on tight until the lump in my throat eased, then changed the subject. “So, are you still going to Greg Baker’s party tonight?”

  “Sure. My mom bought me a zombie costume, so I’m all set to join the walking dead. Do you still have to work tonight?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Bummer,” Chloe said.

  Not really. I was pretty sure Jay would be at his cousin’s party, and I did not feel like watching him and the felon circling the dance floor, or worse, making out in a dark corner.

  “Jim wants us all to wear Halloween costumes tonight to add to the vibe, so I’ll have to put together an outfit after rehearsal.”

  “There’s a stall selling costumes in that far corner.”

  “Thanks, but I don’t feel like spending money on a once-off outfit, especially not one for work.”

  “I’ll buy it for you,” said Chloe impulsively. “They’re not expensive.”

  “No, it’s cool. Thanks anyway.” I had to hold the line against her buying me stuff. Her family might not have the financial woes mine did, but I didn’t want to be anybody’s charity case. “I’m thinking I’ll just go as a witch. When I get home from rehearsal, I’ll sew a cloak out of some black trash bags and make a pointy witch’s hat — ha, I’ll finally have a hat that fits me!”

  “A trash-bag witch? That won’t get you much in the way of tips. I thought you wanted to make money. You should wear a sexy outfit — go as Wonder Woman, or a nurse in high heels and fishnet tights.”

  “I think you’re describing a hooker, not a health-worker.”

  “Whatever. Wear a short skirt to show off those long legs, and put the ladies on display, too,” she ordered, nodding at my chest.

  By the time we started packing up the stall — a bit early, so Chloe could drive me to rehearsal on time — we hadn’t yet sold all the stock.

  “Here.” Chloe crammed the leftover treats into a cardboard cake box and gave it to me. “Snacks for the cast.”

  “Excellent! I’ll be popular for once.”

  “What — they don’t like you?”

  “No, it’s not that. But I can tell they thought Wren was a better Juliet. They’re not convinced I can play the part well enough.”

  “Do you think you can?” Chloe asked, eyeing me shrewdly as she folded the tablecloth.

  “Yeah, I think I could.”

  “So, what’s stopping you?”

  What was stopping me? Only the fear that if I let go, if I released myself fully into the part of a girl infatuated with a guy she couldn’t have — myself, basically — I wouldn’t be able to reel it back in. Everyone would see, and know how I really felt about Jay. He’d know. And he’d pity me.

  I didn’t think I could stand that, so I kept on holding in and holding back.

  ~ 19 ~

  That afternoon’s rehearsal went about as well as usual — in other words, not very well at all.

  Doug grew more concerned with every week we inched closer to December eighteenth. It was supposed to be our first books-down practice, but most of the cast-members were hiding their script pages in pockets and under sweaters, sneaking quick looks when they thought Doug wasn’t looking. No one, not even Jay, was anywhere close to being word-perfect.

  “You know what makes me grateful about this production?” Doug snarled halfway through the afternoon.

  “Our talent?” Zack said.

  “No, Zack. Not the talent. There are members of this cast who would seriously need to brush up on their talent for me to be grateful.”

  I studiously avoided meeting anyone’s eyes.

  “No,” Doug continued, running his hand through his hair so furiously that I worried he’d yank out a chunk of it by the roots, “what I am grateful for is that we’re not doing the play in the original Shakespearean English, because it seems hard enough for this cast to memorize their lines in normal effing English!”

  “Sorry,” a couple of us muttered.

  “Or to inject the smallest amount of energy or passion into your dry, lifeless performances!”

  All six foot something of me shriveled, because I was sure he was talking about me. My performance was corpselike, I could feel it.

  We all apologized and promised Doug that we’d learn our words and try our hardest to bring our characters to vivid, passionate life. But that was a promise I broke a mere half-hour later, when Jay and I had to rehearse the scene where we kissed each other for the first time. Or rather, when Jay got to kiss me — because I just stood there, still as my dressmaker’s dummy.

  On the inside of me, though, it was a zoo. My heart leapt about like a mischievous tiger cub, my stomach was home to a tumult of butterflies, and my mind bleated pl
eas not to let anyone see the effect Jay was having on me.

  He was only giving me a peck on the lips each time — nothing to freak out about. But because it was Jay, because he pressed his warm lips against mine so softly and tenderly, and seemed to pull back so reluctantly; because he stared down into my eyes with such intensity as he said his lines of love, I did freak out. Not a crazy, screaming, eye-rolling, limb-flailing, whackadoodle freak-out, but a silent, stiff, holding myself tight, pressing my lips together, and keeping all my crazy tightly buttoned up kind of freak-out.

  Jay’s passion was just acting. Between scenes, he was completely laid back — no more or less friendly to me than he was to any other member of the cast. So I knew these kisses were just a performance, but still, they felt real, and I was distracted in the lines leading up to them, and flustered afterwards.

  It did not help that we had an audience — the rest of the cast, plus Faye in the auditorium. And Zack, who watched avidly from the wings.

  Doug grew increasingly frustrated with each of my half-hearted smooch attempts, and eventually yelled, “Peyton! What is the matter with you? You’re all over the place today — what is your actual problem? Why are you so awkward and distracted?”

  “I am distracted, Doug. Sorry. It’s just …” I hesitated, trying to think up a possible excuse, because no way could I tell him the real reason. “It’s just that we’re running late.”

  “Because we keep having to repeat this scene!”

  “Yeah, I know it’s my fault, sorry.” I pulled an apologetic face at Jay, who was looking as chill as ever. “But I’m really worried I’ll be late for work tonight. I cannot afford to lose my job, Doug, and I’m scared my boss will fire me if I’m late again.” That was a total lie. Jimmy would never fire me for being late. Jimmy would never fire me, period. I doubted he’d ever fired anyone in his life. “And,” I continued, ignoring my hot ears and laying on anxiety thick enough for anyone to be dead impressed by my performance if only they knew I was acting, “I’ve still got to go home and make a Halloween-themed costume to wear to work, and I’m running out of time.”

  “Fine, let’s just finish this scene with you and Jay, and then you can go, and we’ll work on a scene without you,” said Doug.

  Damn. I’d been hoping he would call this love scene quits and let me escape, but no such luck.

  “Here.” Doug fished in his pocket and brought out a set of keys, singling one out for me to see. “This is the key to the backstage wardrobe room where all the costumes from old productions are stored. I’ll let you raid it for something to wear tonight.”

  “Really?” I asked, delighted.

  “On one condition, Peyton: that you put some of your heart and soul into this scene, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  My voice didn’t sound very confident, but I was determined to force myself to relax and pretend well enough for one run-through of the kissing bit. Sometimes, as Chloe likes saying, the only way out is through.

  “Now, once more, what’s your motivation for this scene?” Doug demanded.

  My motivation? I needed to escape — my nerves couldn’t take much more of this.

  “Love,” I said.

  “Yes! And I want to see that love. Throw yourself into your performance — especially the kiss. Make it convincing, or the deal’s off.”

  I must have appeared worried, because Jay gave me a reassuring smile and said, “Don’t worry, it’s not a real kiss.”

  “It isn’t?” said Doug.

  I was surprised, too. I’d been dreading that kiss — well, both dreading and longing for it — precisely because I’d thought it would be the real thing.

  “No, we’ll do it the way professional stage actors do it.”

  “Which is how?” Doug asked.

  “Yeah, how?” I wanted to know.

  “Open mouth, no tongue,” Jay said.

  “No tongue?” Zack said from his spot in the nearest wings. He sounded both outraged and disappointed.

  “No tongue?” I said, massively relieved. I’d be able to keep my head in that case, surely?

  “No tongue,” Jay confirmed. “We just move our mouths together, trying not to block each other’s faces from the audience, or mash our noses. It’s pretty cold-blooded, technique-y stuff. In fact, we should probably block it out. How about I go this way first,” he tilted his head one way, “count to three, then the other way. And maybe kiss the side of your mouth before and your lip after, each for a count of two. Okay?”

  “I guess.”

  If it wasn’t real, if it was “cold-blooded” choreography rather than passionate tongue-wrestling, then I didn’t have to worry.

  “I’ll put my arms around your waist, like so” — he demonstrated — “and you should probably put yours around my neck, okay?”

  “Sure. That’s fine, I can do that.”

  I could. Trying to remember the sequence of moves and all the counting would keep me grounded.

  “To be honest, I don’t care whether or not you use tongue, just make it look like the real thing, I beg you,” said Doug.

  He marched off, Zack hid behind a wing curtain, and Jay and I were left alone on the stage.

  “Right, so from the part where Romero says, ‘I want you, I need you’,” Doug instructed from the first row.

  And, just like that, Jay switched on. His green eyes turned golden-hot and heavy-lidded, his mouth twisted into a sexy half-smile and his hand reached to take mine, caressing my knuckles with his thumb.

  “I want you. I need you, Juliet,” he said, pulling me closer.

  I gazed up into his eyes and, just like that, I was falling.

  Jay dipped his head and kissed the corner of my mouth, once, twice. That was the last counting I got done, because when the actual kiss started, all capacity to think, let alone count, evaporated. He pressed his lips against mine, harder than before, and they were firm and warm. Then he turned his head so his open mouth slanted across mine, and his lips moved. Slowly. And it was just like kissing.

  The roaring started in my head again. I couldn’t catch my breath, and it was all I could do not to kiss him back — properly. The talk of technique and choreography had lulled me into a false sense of security, because the caresses were still real, and the kiss was anything but cold-blooded.

  It felt like we were making out. Naked. And in public.

  ~ 20 ~

  As the rest of the cast watched Juliet kiss Romero, I melted into Jay. My body softened, and the edges of me blurred as I molded against him. My hands inched up his back, moved over the top of his shoulders and tunneled into his hair, tugging his head down. In just another second it would be a real kiss, because I couldn’t seem to stop myself.

  But then Jay pulled back.

  “Much better!” someone called from very far away.

  I took a deep, ragged breath. My eyes were still locked on Jay’s. He stared down at me with a quizzical expression, like he was perplexed about something. He was probably just waiting for my next line of dialogue, but I was so dazed, I’d forgotten what to say. Forgotten how to speak, probably.

  “Well, that was a lot better,” said Doug from downstage.

  Jay was apparently as cool as ever, ready to receive direction. I was totally flustered. And blushing too — I could feel it. I tried to focus all my attention on Doug, who still didn’t look satisfied.

  “But, Peyton,” Doug continued, “if you can’t act and remember your lines at the same time, then we have ourselves a real situation, now don’t we?”

  “Yeah,” said Zack, who’d inched out of the wings and was standing close by. “We do.”

  “For God’s sake, will you stop answering my questions! They’re rhetorical — do you even know what that means?”

  “Not really, man.”

  Doug, turning his back on Zack as if to blot out the sight of a village idiot, said, “That’s why you — all of you — need to be word perfect, so the words come automatically, and you can ju
st inhabit your characters. That’s when you forget about trying to remember them.”

  Down in the auditorium, Liz gave a loud snort. “Well, that makes perfect sense.”

  “Books down next rehearsal!” Doug bellowed.

  “Um, may I be excused now?” I asked.

  “I suppose,” said Doug, and he handed me the set of keys.

  I scurried backstage, unlocked the door to the wardrobe room, stepped inside and sat down on an old trunk to calm down. This had to stop — I couldn’t lose my head, and more of my heart, every time Jay touched me. I needed to find a way to lock up the soft, sappy, needy part of me and stay in control.

  I rubbed a hand over my face and scanned the dusty treasure trove of costumes surrounding me. None of them looked particularly Halloween-y. The longest rail was crammed with heavy Victorian dresses and tattered urchin street wear from a production of David Copperfield a few years back. I was interested in the gowns from the point of view of my fashion-school project, but I didn’t have time to study the bustles and puffed sleeves because now I truly was running late for work. I’d have to hustle if I wanted to catch the five-thirty bus.

  I had a quick look through a rail hung with faux animal skins — costumes from an adaptation of Clan of the Cave Bear both Doug and I had acted in two years ago — but had no desire to spend the night waitressing in a loincloth or leopard-print wrap.

  At the far end of the room was a rail hung with the costumes from last year’s farce, in which I’d played the butler. I felt a moment’s nostalgia when I laid eyes on my old costume. I missed that role now. There had been no emotion to express, no need to hold back or open up, no discombobulating kissing scenes. Doug’s directions to me had amounted to: keep a poker face, no matter what’s happening onstage. Easiest role ever. And not only had the butler not done it, but he’d been killed off at the end of the first act, so I’d only had to attend half the rehearsals and could spend the last two acts of performances chilling backstage.

  I took the butler’s suit off the rail and held it up against me. It smelled of mothballs, but it would fit. And, frankly, how many outfits in this room would fit me, especially the girls’ costumes? But Chloe had been right — wearing a man’s suit would hardly rake in the tips. And I could just imagine what Tori would say. “Ah, Peyton, finally you’re dressing the part. Hey, you look kinda hot, want to go on a date?”