Pretenders (19 page)

Ohmygod

Ohmygod

Ohmygod

Ohmygod

Ohmygod

Ohmygod

Ohmygod

Ohmygod

OH MY GOD!

I am at Starbucks decompressing with a decaf caramel latte. Why? Because caffeine would detonate my heart.
⁴⁰
Instead of journaling on a worn velvet couch by a fake fireplace, I should be under police protection. Far away in another town with a new name and a wig. I could be tortured for what I know. Arrested. But I won’t be. Because I won’t use this classified information to my advantage. Even though I want to. Even though I could.

STOP THINKING ABOUT IT, VANESSA! WRITE ABOUT SOMETHING ELSE. WRITE ABOUT BLAKE.

Blake is my catnip. He makes me feel giddy and playful. I am a spoon sinking into his hot fudge eyes, scraping the edges for every last bit of sweetness I can get.
⁴¹
And Lily isn’t like any girl I’ve ever met. She makes me want to be less… normal. In a good way. Her best friend is a boy. She never has to study. She skateboards and eats special food and wears highlighter on her nails because she doesn’t want to waste her computer money on cosmetics. Getting to know them has been full of wonder and excitement. A treasure chest full of hope for a super-fun tomorrow. Like discovering a cure or a new country. Christopher Columbus, I know the feeling.

My EKG may be up but my GPA is down. Way down. Columbus’s would be too if he had to choose between island
hopping and reviewing his notes on animism. Point is, the Good Grade Ship has sailed off without me.

UGH, HOW DID I GET BACK TO GRADES???? FINE. I SURRENDER. I’M GOING TO WRITE ABOUT THE THING I DON’T WANT TO THINK ABOUT. MAYBE THAT WILL MAKE ME STOP THINKING ABOUT IT…

I joined the debate team to compensate for my weak grades. DT looks great on college applications and I know how to argue. After all, fighting is the soundtrack of my life.
⁴²

The club was all boys. They sat up taller when I walked in. At least one was gearing up to flirt. I couldn’t exactly come right out and tell them I’m taken because, technically, it’s not true.
⁴³
Still, my heart was not on the auction block. Intimidating these potential suitors with my skill and confidence was the only way to ward them off. Thusly, I accepted Mr. Cannon’s offer
⁴⁴
to “hit the ground running.”

Then the orphan stepped up. After arguing in favor of the death penalty I understood why he is called “the Orphan.” News of his parents’ imminent death was a lethal injection to my dignity. So I hit the ground running straight to Principal Alden’s office to review alternative club options.

His secretary gave me a tissue and had me wait in his office. Apparently, he was grabbing a danish from the teachers’ room.

One should never underestimate the power of an unexpected Christmas gift from a student. So I scanned the decor to home in on his taste. A framed photo of two Bernese mountain dogs on a hiking trail. A space needle of folders piled high on his desk. A navy cardigan on the back of his ergonomic chair. A list of students’ names on his computer. Some I recognized. Most I didn’t. I leaned closer. There were letters to the right of the names. Grades.
Our
grades. Grades that would determine our futures. Futures that could be changed with a keystroke. Or the touch of—

“Miss Riley,” said Principal Alden, chewing. “Denise said you had some concerns. Something about your GPA?”

“Me? No. I’m fine. I, um, I just wanted to introduce myself,” I stammered. “You know, personally.”

He wiped his hands on his Dockers and then shook my hand. His was sticky. Mine was sweaty.

“This must be my lucky day,” he said, more annoyed than flattered. “You’re the seventh student who’s come to kiss my caboose since lunch.”

“I’m sorry?”

He tapped on the space bar of his computer. The names were gone. “There’s going to be a lot of competition for the Principal’s Award this year. A real nail-biter.”

“Good, because I haven’t had a manicure in weeks. All that studying…”

I bolted before he could look at me funny. Because, ver? I had no idea what I was saying. My jammed circuits could only process one thing—that list of grades.

One simple keystroke… one! That’s all that stood between me and a 4.0. That and access to his office. Maybe a password. But A.J. could teach me to hack and—

STOP!

This is exactly the kind of thinking I need to avoid. Anyway, if A.J. keeps doing well at Spencer BMW, my grades won’t matter as much. We’ve had Beni’s two more times since I last wrote. So it’s not like this very illegal opportunity is tempting me in the least. Because it’s not. I’ll work harder and smarter and I’ll forget everything I just saw.

Starting now.

10.1.12

INT. STARLIGHT AUDITORIUM, THE WINGS—LATE AFTERNOON.

It’s Monday, October 1st—the first day of blocking. SHERIDAN has learned so much already.

Being an understudy is underrated. I’m a ghost. Present but invisible. And, show of hands if you haven’t dreamt of being invisible at some point? Mr. Kimball has been positioning and repositioning the leads for the past hour while I get to kick back in the wings and quill. Passive theater. Who knew?

In case you can’t tell, I am channeling a good sport—specifically Leighton Meester, who plays Blair Waldorf on
Gossip Girl
. It’s no secret that Blake Lively’s Serena has a much better
wardrobe. She gets boho’s best while Leighton is candy-coated in unflattering blues and yellows. But does Leighton kick off her ballet flats and UGG off the set? No. She sucked it up for six straight seasons. She tasted that costume rainbow. Choked on it, even. But she still showed up. And so shall I.

Yesterday, Audri and I hung in the blue rocket for hours. It’s this metal rocket ship on the playground in our gated community. We go there to have deep conversations. Usually around dinnertime when the little kids go home. The following was our deepest yet:

FLASHBACK.

I love this day.
(Me.)

Why?

You’re not at your dad’s.

Yeah.

Do you like going there?

Only cuz I miss him.

Did you ever find out why they split up?

Audri pulled the pink lace on her sneakers so hard it broke.

Do you think they still love each other?
(Me.)

Dunno.

Maybe we could do a musical fund-raiser or something. And use the money to buy them a trip to Paris.

What’s that gonna do?
(Audri.)

Make them fall in love again.

This is my life, Sher, not a romantic dramedy.

What’s that supposed to mean?

Just—

What?

Nothing.
(Audri.)

Tell me.

Fine. It means that everything with you is always so…

What?

… Dramatic!

“Dramatic” echoed through the rocket ship. It felt like a slap every time I heard it. Not because I thought being dramatic was bad. But because she did.

What’s wrong with being dramatic?
(Me.)

Nothing. It’s just all you talk about.

So?

Sometimes I want to talk about other things.

Like what? Tennis?

She shrugged.
What’s wrong with tennis?

Nothing. I just never knew you were so into it.

I’m not sooo into it.
(Audri making air quotes.)
But I like it. And I’m good.

Do you like it more than acting?

No… I dunno… It’s just something different.

Different like Octavia, the girl who cursed my audition?

She looked out at the treetops that lined the play area.

Or different like tight jeans and Jagger and everything else you’re suddenly into.

She didn’t answer. I got all quiet too because if I kept talking, I’d cry. So I just sat there for a minute, running my finger along the metal grating. The rustling leaves sounded the way my loneliness felt.

Does all this have to do with your parents’ divorce?
(Me, finally.)

All what?

Admit it, Audri. You’ve been weird lately.

Weird because I like a sport and a boy and someone other than you? That’s not weird, Sher. It’s normal.

Not for us.

(More silence.)

Most people have more than one friend or hobby.

So?

So, the only thing you have more than one of is personalities.

They’re not personalities. They’re personas. And I thought you liked them.

I do. I love them. But they’re not enough.

I could channel more.

Audri smiled.

Sher, you’re my best friend. I don’t want that to change.

So why are you doing all of this?

I want variety. Like an ensemble cast instead of a one-woman show. Sometimes I get sick of acting and costumes and drama. It’s nothing against you.

I always suspected Audri needed more. Which is why I tried so hard to give it to her. I just never thought that “more” meant more than me.

You okay?

My insides churned.
Yeah.

I lived in fear of this “talk” for years. Not because I don’t have other friends. I do. And I know my parents love me even though H&M get more attention. But Audri was
mine
. I didn’t
have to share her with anyone.… Anyway, that’s what I thought. Mine… mine… mine.

Maybe I was more like Octavia than I thought.

So what do I do now?
(Me, trying not to cry.)

Nothing. That’s the point. Don’t do anything. You be you and let me be me.

But what does that mean, exactly?

It means don’t keep asking me when I got into tennis. And stop picking fights with Octavia. And don’t look at me like some future star of
16 and Pregnant
because I like tight jeans, and don’t roll your eyes when I mention Jagger and—

Okay!

Oh, and try to be a good sport about this whole
Wicked
thing. Let someone else be the lead for a change.

I wanted to cry: Octavia doesn’t need the lead like I do. She’s never felt alone at her own birthday party or needed applause to feel seen. Or wanted to be someone else so desperately she’s willing to make a career out of it. But I have! I
do
!

Not that I said any of that. Audri wanted less drama, not more.

I’m happy for you, Audri. You deserve the lead. But Octavia?

I know it’s so random, right? She is good, though.

She’s skilled. She’s not talented and she’s definitely not nuanced. That stuff makes a difference.

Just try to be nice.

I will.

One more thing.
(Audri, pushing it.)
Stop acting like being the understudy is the worst thing in the world.