The Law of Tall Girls

by Joanne Macgregor

  ~ 24 ~

  Jay’s house was in a different universe, on a planet called Happy Families.

  He lived in an enormous two-story colonial-style house, with a neat front yard and flower boxes below the windows. His mother — slim and elegantly dressed, with a shiny bob of brown hair — smiled as she welcomed me inside and led me to the living room.

  My eyes took in all the gorgeous details: luxurious Persian carpets resting on the gleaming expanse of polished wood floors; framed black-and-white photographs and original paintings on the walls; tiny, tasteful collections of interesting objets d’art displayed on side tables; thick, luxurious drapes in light colors; fresh flowers in vases — yellow lilies in the hall and white roses in the center of a low table set between dark leather couches in the living room. Everywhere, there was a sense of space.

  It felt like I’d stepped into a full-color spread from Beautiful Homes.

  The cast members, most of whom had arrived before me, were the only messy elements in the lounge. They sprawled on the couches and armchairs, tossed their coats and scarves on a club chair, and spoke in voices somehow too loud for this beautiful room. To me, it seemed created for quiet, refined pursuits — some meditation, perhaps, or listening to soft classical music while reading one of the books neatly stacked on the tall shelves against the far wall. But now it was filled with the noisy troupe of actors displaced from the school auditorium by a high-school debate competition.

  “Grab a seat,” Jay said.

  Zack moved to the middle of a couch, patted the spaces on either side of him in invitation, saying to Jay and me, “Tall thing one. And tall thing two.”

  I met Jay’s raised eyebrow and suppressed a giggle as I opted instead for the floor, leaning up against a soft leather ottoman. Jay took a seat in an armchair opposite me, and Zack pouted in disappointment.

  Doug clapped his hands twice — always his signal for us to shut up. “So, we won’t be able to rehearse with movements, obviously, or the audiovisuals. But we can’t afford to lose any rehearsal time. Opening night is December eighteenth, which is only three short weeks away, people!” He stared around at us severely. “I thought that tonight we should talk about our characters, maybe give each other ideas about what might be motivating them in different scenes. I’ll give you my thoughts on where you can deepen emotion.” His eyes strayed to me when he said this, and I dropped my gaze and tugged at my socks (men’s), trying to cover the ankle gap between the hem of my jeans and my sneakers.

  “But first we’ll do a couple of speed run-throughs,” Doug added. “It’s a fabulous way to cement your memory of your lines. I still think some of you are thinking so hard about your words that you’re not fully inhabiting your characters.”

  Certain that he was talking about me again, I kept my eyes down, this time staring at my arms, at the five or six inches of bare forearm between my shirt cuffs and my wrists. A familiar irritation gripped me. This was supposed to be a long-sleeved shirt, but long-sleeved shirts always ended just past the elbow on me, unless I bought a man’s shirt. Honestly, did no one in the world make clothes for tall girls? How hard could it be for a store to carry a tall girls range — clothes that fit in the waist but had longer sleeves and legs, shoes and socks long enough for our feet, dresses with lower hems? Someone ought to design that.

  A thrill of something — anticipation? Excitement? Exhilaration? — rippled over my scalp. Energy surged through me. Finally, I had it — the perfect theme for my fashion school project. The somebody who ought to design a range of clothing for tall girls was me. Why had I never thought of it before? I’d make beautiful garments, ones that flattered the long limbs and lines of tall girls, ones that showed we did have waists and boobs, dresses that weren’t indecently short, tops that didn’t resemble circus tents, necklines that were generous enough to slip easily over our large heads, gloves that didn’t cut off circulation, bathing suits long enough in the body that they didn’t threaten to slice you up the crotch, fitted T-shirts that didn’t constrict your breathing, and an elegant evening dress that would make any tall girl feel like a princess for a night.

  “Peyton, Peyton?” Someone was calling my name.

  While I’d been lost in my glorious super-sized visions, Mrs. Young had brought in trays of refreshments and was now asking me what I’d like. I blinked — half to clear the image of a slinky black velvet dress with plunging backline, and half because I was dazed by the splendor of the offerings. Fresh coffee in a French press, mugs of hot chocolate topped with teeny marshmallows, homemade snickerdoodles, and apple pie.

  I took a slice of the apple pie with a dollop of whipped cream on the side, and a mug of hot chocolate.

  “Thank you so much,” I said. “This is wonderful!”

  “Why thank you, dear,” Mrs. Young said, looking faintly bemused at my obvious enthusiasm.

  A quick glance at the others told me no one else was raving. Did they also regularly get feasts like this in their homes? Amazing.

  Although I was desperate to start sketching my ideas for the new range, I forced myself to concentrate on the discussions and read-throughs. I think some of my inner excitement must have shown in my expression or filtered into my voice, because Doug complimented me on my “almost manic energy”. At least, I think it was a compliment.

  We were into the second run-through when the door burst open with a bang, and a tall, dark-haired man stuck his head inside. There was enough of a resemblance for me to realize that this must be Jay’s father.

  “Well, hellooo, troubadours! How goes the rehearsal?” he said loudly.

  I snuck a quick glance at Jay, just in time to see an unreadable expression flit across his features before they settled back into their usually relaxed expression.

  “It’s going great, sir,” said Doug.

  “Yeah, especially with the cookies,” added Zack, who’d eaten three-quarters of them by himself.

  “Good to hear, good to hear!” said Mr. Young with hearty enthusiasm. “Well, you kids have fun with your play-acting, now. And shout if you need anything.”

  After that, we moved into the character analysis that Doug had promised. Jay, who was always serious about acting, seemed even more intense than usual when speculating about Romero’s motivations and his sources of anger and antagonism, while Zack kept saying things like, “I’d like to motivate you, Candypants,” and Liz speculated about whether her nondenominational religious-leader-type person of unspecified gender might be bi and therefore “both equally attracted to, and jealous of, Romero and Juliet.”

  We were close to calling it quits for the day when I slipped out of the room, in desperate need of a toilet.

  “Can I help you, dear?” Mrs. Young was passing by with a tray, presumably on her way to collect our dirty cups and plates.

  “I was looking for the bathroom?”

  “The one down here’s occupied, but if you go upstairs and turn right, you’ll find another at the end of the landing.”

  When I’d finished in the bathroom (fluffy towels, a rose-shaped bar of soap, fragranced hand lotion, and clear marble counter), I walked slowly back down the landing, hoping to get a glimpse of the upstairs rooms. Surely one of them had to be Jay’s. The first door was ajar and, after a quick look around to check I was unobserved, I pushed it open with my toe and stuck my head in for a quick peek. It was a neat room with a black-and-white color scheme, a couple of books on shelves dominated by a music system and an enormous CD collection, and a painting on the main wall of a stormy ocean scene.

  Was this Jay’s room? Somehow, it didn’t seem to fit him. He must have a brother — older, probably. A younger kid’s room would be more messy, have some toys and school books lying around. This space had the empty feel of a visitor’s room.

  The door of the next room along the landing was wide open, and I knew at a glance that it was Jay’s. The walls were filled with framed posters of famous stage productions — Les Mis, The Glass Menagerie and Othello. The w
indow was framed by red velvet drapes, held open by roped tie-backs — a theatrical look which seemed to suggest the world outside was merely a stage. The bed was extra long. I’d bet his feet didn’t hang off the edge of his bed.

  There was a pile of books on the bedside table and another on the desk, and Jay’s black leather jacket hung over the chair. The room wasn’t messy, but it was lived-in. I was tempted to slip inside, to scrutinize every aspect. I wanted to check the titles of the books he was reading and see what type of music he liked. Hell, I was tempted to fling myself on his bed, bury my face into his pillow and inhale his scent, but an outburst of laughter coming from below brought me to my senses.

  I scampered away from Jay’s bedroom and was halfway down the stairs when the front door opened and a young woman stepped inside. She was tall — though not as tall as me — with a rangy build and short, spiky hair.

  She spotted me at once and gave me a big, confident smile. “Hi, who are you?”

  “I’m one of the cast members, from Jay’s play? We’re rehearsing here today.”

  “Ah,” she said, nodding. “Can you —”

  Just then, Jay came out of the living room. When he saw the new arrival, his face lit up with joy.

  “Hey, it’s so good to see you!” he said, flinging his arms wide and hugging her tight.

  Oh. Like that.

  ~ 25 ~

  “Have you met Peyton?” Jay said.

  “Hey, Peyton,” the new girl said.

  “Peyton, this is my sister, Jack.”

  “You have a sister? Called Jack?” I said, equal parts relieved and puzzled.

  “Her real name is Jacqueline,” said Mrs. Young, walking into the hallway and embracing her daughter before stepping back to examine her face. “Look at you — you’re so sunburned!”

  Jack pulled a face. “Mo-om.”

  “She’s never answered to Jacqueline,” Jay told me.

  “Would you?” challenged his sister.

  “I’m a boy,” Jay said.

  “Just because a person is female doesn’t mean they should get names that are so … ornamental,” countered Jack, but she grinned as she said it, and I had the sense they were running through a familiar old argument.

  “I tried calling her Jackie and even Jaycee, but no luck there either,” said Mrs. Young.

  “Jackie is a name for a dog. And Jaycee — what am I, Jesus Christ? My name is Jack.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Jack,” I said. And I was — she seemed amazing.

  “Hey Peyton, can you help me with my bags?”

  I saw then that she had dropped two huge duffel bags just outside the front door.

  “Sure.” I grabbed one and slung it over my shoulder.

  “Here, I’ll help you with that,” said Jay, offering to take the bag I was carrying.

  I would gladly have let him take it — that bag was heavy — but Jack smacked his hand away and said, “She’s female, not handicapped. Besides, this one looks strong!” She winked at her brother, grabbed my hand and half-dragged me up the stairs with her.

  I glanced backward over my shoulder. Smiling, Jay shrugged and gave me a look that clearly said, “I know. She’s crazy, right?”

  Jack’s room was the black-and-white one.

  “Home sweet home,” she said, flopping onto her bed and sighing with pleasure. “I know it seems a little impersonal, but I hate clutter. I like things neat and tidy.”

  “I like neat and tidy, too,” I admitted.

  “You’re not a pink and frilly type of girl, are you?” I was already shaking my head when she continued, “I couldn’t handle it if Jay dated pink and frilly.”

  “Oh, we’re not dating. I’m just on the cast.”

  “You sure?” She cast me a doubting look.

  “Yeah, I think I’d have noticed.”

  Jack laughed. “What play are you doing?”

  “It’s an updated version of Romeo and Juliet.”

  “Let me guess, Jay’s Romeo?”

  “Of course.”

  “And you are …?”

  “Juliet,” I said, hastening to add, “but only because I’m tall. They swapped me out for the short, pretty girl who can act because the height difference between her and Jay was making everyone laugh. Your brother’s really tall.” I was horrified to hear myself sigh on the last two words.

  A knowing look came into her eyes, but she merely nodded and said, “I wouldn’t sweat it. Just trust him and go with the flow. He’ll make you look like Oscar material. Nobody’s as good as he is when it comes to acting, and there’s nothing he wouldn’t do to get the perfect performance.”

  She sat up, hooked the strap of the nearest bag with her foot, and pulled it toward her. “Better start sorting the laundry for Mom.”

  “Have you been away on vacation?”

  “I wish. No, I’m just back from a month-long stint offshore. I’m a trainee driller on an oil rig.”

  “An oil rig?” I couldn’t keep the surprise out my voice. “Oh, so that’s why he had that book.”

  “What book? Who?”

  “Nothing, never mind.” I waved my hand as if to erase the words from the air. “That’s such a cool job!” I was impressed. I’d rather work on an oil rig than be a kindergarten teacher, or an accountant (sorry, Mark) or, say, a butt-doctor. Though I would still rather be a fashion designer. But not, definitely not, of pink and frilly clothes.

  “Yeah, it is cool. Don’t get me wrong, it’s freaking hard work. Brutal in fact. But it’s exciting, mostly outdoors, the pay is fantastic, and” — here she gave me a broad wink — “the men are many, manly and hot. And that’s hottt with three T’s, that rhyme with please and tease and Oh Jeez!” She writhed and gasped as she said the last words.

  Over my giggles and Jack’s chortles, I heard the unmistakable sounds of the rest of the cast departing.

  “Sorry, I’ve got to run. I need to hitch a ride home with one of them,” I said. “It was great meeting you.”

  “Yeah, likewise. You” — she pointed a finger like a cocked gun at me — “can come again. And I don’t say that to all Jay’s girls.”

  All? How many were there?

  “I’m not his girl,” I explained again, feeling I ought to set the record straight.

  “Not yet, maybe. But I’m thinking playing Juliet against Jay’s Romeo should give you plenty of opportunities to change that, eh? Am I right? I’m right, aren’t I?”

  “Uh, gotta go,” I said and rushed out of the room.

  I hurried down the stairs, but the hall was empty except for Jay. The others had already left.

  “Is your mother or father coming to get you?” he said.

  “My dad lives in Blue Crab Bay. They’re divorced.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be — it’s not your fault.”

  “So, your mom’s coming?”

  I was thinking about how to imply that she was without actually lying when Jack called from upstairs, “She was going to get a lift from one of the others, and now she’s stranded, Jay. Peyton desperately needs a ride.”

  Was it my imagination, or had she laid special emphasis on the last word? I glanced up to see her grinning wickedly down at me from the landing.

  “No problem,” Jay said, grabbing his keys from a carved wooden bowl on the table beside the front door. “Ready to go?”

  I grabbed my coat and bag, tracked down Mrs. Young to thank her, and waved goodbye to Jack, who dangled over the upstairs bannister, calling dramatically, “Farewell, sweet Juliet! Parting is such sweet sorrow.”

  Outside, the night was cold and crisp, with stars glittering in the endless darkness above, but we were soon enveloped in a bubble of warmth from the heaters inside the car. I gave Jay my address, and we headed out, neither of us speaking for a few minutes.

  “Your sister’s great,” I said eventually.

  He grinned. “My mother says I’m the actor onstage, but Jack’s the real character off it.”
>
  “You get on well, though?”

  “Oh yeah, we’re very close, though these days she’s not at home that much. She works offshore in four-week bursts, alternating with two weeks’ leave.”

  “An oil-rigger, yeah, she told me.”

  “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

  “I … no. No, I don’t.” I didn’t know how to explain things, where to begin, how to answer his question without getting into all the rest of it. “It’s just Mom and me living in ye olde Lane Mansion. Take a left at the lights, and then right at the next street.”

  We turned a corner, passing the old Frozen Fun ice rink.

  “My dad used to take Jack and me ice-skating when we were young,” Jay said. “I think he was hoping I’d become a speed-skater, and Jack would get into figure-skating.”

  “Somehow, I can’t imagine her in a tutu.”

  Jay gave a bark of laughter. “Right? Or me in one of those Lycra onesies. Do you skate?”

  “I did when I was little. Right back there at the Frozen Fun.”

  “Hey, we should go sometime. Might be fun?”

  He wanted to spend time with me? Oh, yes please.

  “I’m not very good,” I warned. “I wasn’t good even back then, and that was many, many years ago.”

  “What are you, sixty? You’ll be fine. I reckon it’s like riding a bicycle, it’ll come back to you.”

  “Are you an expert or something?”

  Just my luck he’d be a skilled, graceful skater, and I’d be the huge, clumsy lump beside him.

  “Last time I went, I could go forwards and stop. If you’re expecting more than that, you’ll be seriously disappointed.”

  “Okay, then, in that case, yes,” I said, and heard myself adding, “I’d love to go.”

  “Cool, Saturday after rehearsal?”

  “Sure.”

  “It’s a date then,” he said.

  Was it, though? Did he mean we were going as a couple on a date, or had he just been confirming the date and time?