The Pretty One (11 page)

twelve

protagonist (noun): the leading character, hero, or heroine of a drama or other literary work.

I have always wondered what it might feel like to be cast in a starring role. I imagined that the minute the cast list was announced I would be immediately transformed into a star, parading through school with an almost halolike glow over my head as a wind machine blew my perfectly straight, blown-dry hair behind me. I'm wearing a shiny sequined outfit and (for some reason) twirling a baton. I'm surrounded by secretly jealous well-wishers who I would immediately charm by my grace and modesty. “Oh thanks,” I would say casually. “I was
shocked
to get the role because from what I heard,
you
were fantastic!”

Unfortunately, I don't have a portable wind machine or a flunky to drag it around in front of me. And my hair, due to impending rain, is a giant mass of frizzy curls. And because the jeans that Lucy had assured me were ultracool and extremely flattering are starting to feel tight, I'm at school the day after the cast lists were posted wearing my more comfortable but not nearly as flattering Levis, so maybe it's a good thing—unlike in my fantasy—no one seems to care that I have landed the starring role in Drew's play.

And it's also probably good that I'm not surrounded by well-wishers, because I don't exactly feel full of grace. Maybe it's the three doughnuts I polished off the night before, maybe it's the fact that Lucy acted like Drew had thrown me a bone, maybe it's the fact that Simon hasn't returned a single one of my million messages, maybe it's the fact that I'm not a hundred percent sure I won the part fair and square, maybe it's the fact that I had to get to school early to finish up my work in the production studio and am currently covered in sawdust and wearing protective goggles that cover half my face and make me look like I'm preparing for an underwater expedition (instead of what I am doing, which is cutting a straight edge on a foot-long board with a table saw), but I am pretty much graced out.

“Hey,” I hear a voice say as I feel someone tap me on my arm.

It's Drew. I lose my concentration, causing the board to go veering off course and spraying him with sawdust. I narrowly miss my finger and avert disaster by turning off the saw. I turn toward Drew, my heart racing.

“Sorry if I scared you,” he says, casually brushing the sawdust off his black, short-sleeved T-shirt. “I guess I should know better than to sneak up on a girl wielding a…whatever that thing is.”

“Circular saw.” I'm staring at the muscles in his arm. They're totally defined but not like the gross guys in the fitness-machine ads who drank one protein drink too many.

“I just wanted to congratulate you, since I didn't get a chance to do it yesterday.”

I look away from his muscles and into his deep blue eyes. I wipe my suddenly sweaty hands across the front of my jeans. “Oh, thanks.”

“We should exchange e-mails and stuff. Anyway, the first practice will be on Monday. I'm not sure what the schedule is yet for the auditorium, but we're going to be trading off with the other groups. When we're not in the auditorium, we'll be in a classroom. And you're familiar with the performance schedule, right? The performances are the week after the fall festival. There's one play each night, Monday through Friday. We're up first, Monday, October sixteenth.”

“Okay,” I reply.

He picks up the board I just cut in half. “Wow, that's a pretty intense machine.”

“It's good for cutting long straight edges. And those over there,” I say, pointing to the next table, “are jigsaws. We use them for cutting shapes.”

“Cool.” Drew pauses a beat and for a moment I'm afraid he might just keel over from boredom. Why am I talking about saws when he's just trying to be nice?

He holds up half of the board and says, “So, you could make this into a star if you wanted to?”

The board he's holding is actually my homework assignment (which was to make two five-inch clean cuts), but I couldn't care less. If Drew wants a star, I'm going to give it to him.

I take the board from him and say, “Sure.”

He follows me over to the table saw, standing beside me as I turn it on. I haven't actually cut a star before, but I have cut a triangle. How much harder can it be? “Damn,” I say, as the blade runs off the wood.

Drew touches my arm, causing a tingle to run down to my fingers. “Don't worry about it.”

The tingle only makes me more determined to impress him. I pick up the other piece of wood. “I can do it.”

I look from the board to the machine, giving myself a pep talk as I plot out my strategy. I turn the saw on and five minutes later, he has his star. “Here you go,” I say, handing it to him.

“Are you always so determined?” he asks, his blue eyes twinkling. I watch as he touches his finger to a sharp point on the star. I don't care that I'll have to do my homework assignment all over. I have impressed Drew, which was well worth it.

Our eyes lock and we both stand there for a minute, just looking at each other. I twirl my finger around a loose strand of hair and pull it across the top of my mouth, like it's a mustache.

“I guess I should get going,” Drew says. “I'll see you later, though, right?”

“Later?” I ask, dropping my mustache. I thought he said our first practice was on Monday.

“Danny's party. Lucy said you guys were going.”

“
You're
going?” I ask.

“Thought I might,” he replies nonchalantly.

“Great,” I exclaim. Up until now, I haven't been looking forward to Danny's party, simply because of George. But he no longer matters. What matters is that I'll get to see Drew.

Drew gives me a nod and grins. Only after he's gone do I realize that I'm still wearing my protective goggles. I make a mental note to take them off before the party.

         

I experience a Drew-inspired high that lasts all the way until third period, Mr. Lucheki's sound production class. Even though it's in the auditorium and there's only twenty of us in the class, Simon and I always sit in the same seats: J 19 and 20. But today Simon arrives late, and instead of sitting in his regular seat next to me, he takes a seat by the exit, directly behind Catherine and her new best friend, Laura, a freshman techie who all the guys are gaga about.

Simon doesn't even look at me and I can tell he's trying to avoid my eyes. What is going on here? No congratulations on the part, no I'm happy for you…zilch.

Even though he's been acting weird lately and I probably shouldn't be surprised, I am. After all, he, more than anyone else in this school (besides Lucy), knows how terrible last year was for me. He, more than anyone else, knows how badly I want to act and how much this part means to me. And he, more than anyone else, knows how I feel about Drew.

After class Simon doesn't wait for me. Even though we always walk to lunch together, he takes off like a jackrabbit the minute it's over. And that's when I realize that he's a class-A jerk.

I return my books to my locker and pull out my lunch, growing angrier by the second. I march into the cafeteria where I spot Simon eating by himself in a corner trying hard to pretend like he doesn't see me. I tighten my grip on my lunch bag and head straight toward him. He looks up, surprised.

“What's going on?” I ask angrily.

“I…ah…well…”

“Why didn't you return my messages?”

“Sorry,” he says. “I meant to but I just got busy.”

Busy.
Suddenly my anger is replaced by an ache deep inside and I'm blinking back tears, struggling to keep it together. The last thing I want is to start bawling in the middle of the cafeteria.

“I just…I was surprised I didn't hear from you, that's all.”

“Oh…,” Simon says. “Sorry. Congratulations on the play.”

“Thanks,” I mumble. I take the seat across from him and discreetly wipe my nose with my napkin before opening my sandwich bag and pulling out my breadless “sandwich” (a piece of rolled turkey), a punishment for all the doughnuts I've consumed.

“I volunteered to work on the set,” he says.

“You did?” I ask, surprised. From the way Simon has been behaving, I would've thought that he didn't want to have anything to do with Drew's play.

Catherine and Laura pass by our table. Even though I wave at both of them, only Laura waves back. “I'll see you after school,” Laura says to Simon as she walks past.

“Laura's going to do the set design with me,” Simon explains as he watches them walk away. No wonder Simon volunteered to do Drew's set. He is doing it to be closer to Laura, not to be supportive of me.

“I have to go,” he says, making a point of checking his watch. “I have an appointment with my ophthalmologist.” He scoops up his lunch and practically runs toward the door.

I'm tempted to chase after him and tell him how he's ruined my whole fantasy. Instead I take an oversized bite out of my one-hundred-calorie apple as I blink back tears and look across the table at the empty space in front of me.

         

“Lucy?” I call out when I arrive home. “Lucy?” I repeat.

The house is silent. My heart drops as I slowly trudge toward my bedroom. Now I really wish I wasn't going out with George. The only bright spot to my date tonight (besides seeing Drew) was this fantasy I had about Lucy and I getting ready together. I've watched her get ready for parties with her friends a million times and it always looked like so much fun. Up until two seconds ago, I had big plans. Our recent squabbles would be forgotten as we laughed and shared secrets, rummaging through our closet, borrowing each other's clothes and makeup.

I walk into my bedroom and…

Ah!
Jesus!

I jump backward, clutching my chest in fear. But it's not a burglar, nor is it a dead body. It's just Lucy lying on her bed, dressed in yet another velvet sweat suit (blue this time), reading
Backstage,
the New York theater magazine. Even though you could read it online and a subscription to a hard copy costs $195, Lucy had been getting it delivered pretty much ever since she could read.

“Hey,” she says casually, not even looking up. “John Lloyd Wright just got cast in another play. I'm not surprised. He's so brilliant.”

“You scared the crap out of me! Didn't you hear me calling you?”

“I said hello back,” she says.

“You must not have said it very loud,” I say.

She just shrugs.

I take a breath. I'm about one hundred percent certain she's lying, but I don't want to get into an argument about something so lame, especially when I was so looking forward to being with her.

“I'm glad you're home,” I say. “George is coming over in a couple hours.”

“Oh,” Lucy says, turning the page in her magazine.

Okay, she obviously isn't feeling very social and so I'm going to give her the benefit of the doubt and assume that she, like me, has a pounding headache. Maybe it's going around.

“So what do you think I should wear?” Even though it's not looking good, I'm still hopeful that she'll come around.

But Lucy just shrugs.

“Any ideas?”

“I don't know,” she says, her eyes still glued to the magazine.

Okay, now I'm getting frustrated. “What's the matter with you?”

“I'm reading.”

“You were the one who wanted me to go out with George. I thought you'd be happy for me.”

“I am.”

Ugh. I open our closet door and Lucy's dollhouse falls on my foot. I'm tempted to kick it off but in the interest of sisterly goodwill, I bend down and gently place it out of harm's way. “Can I wear your pink shirt?” I ask (in what, for me at least, is a very sweet voice).

“Which one?”

I pull out the T-shirt she found on a clearance rack at TJ Maxx for ten dollars and wave it in front of her.

“That's my Michael Kors shirt,” Lucy says.

I try not to roll my eyes. “Are you wearing it?”

“No,” she says, as she begins to read her magazine again. “And neither are you.”

Ouch. Someone less determined might retreat, but not me. “Why not?”

Lucy sighs long and deep, as if I'm asking if I can borrow her brand-new one-hundred-and-seventy-two-dollar jeans. “All right,” she says finally.

“Forget it.” I put it back on the hanger. “I'll just wear one of my old hoodies.” Lucy
detests
my hoodies and I know the thought of her sister looking like a ragamuffin in front of her friends will inspire her to take action.

“Whatever,” she says.

Lucy doesn't care that I'm going to wear an old hoodie on my date with George? “I just didn't think it would be such a big deal,” I say, once again trying to bait her. “Wearing that Michael whatever shirt.”

“It's not,” she says simply.

I walk over to the foot of her bed and cross my arms over my chest. “Is this about the play?”

“What?” Lucy puts down her magazine. I've got her full attention now.

“The fact that I got cast in Drew's play and you didn't.”

Lucy sits up straight. She angrily tightens her lips and squints her eyes. I can tell by her fiery expression that she's ready to dress me down. Not that I didn't think mentioning the play would incite a riot. Truth of the matter is that I know exactly what I'm doing. I'd rather have a fight than endure another day of this ridiculous silent treatment.

But I forgot that Lucy isn't the fighting type. “Oh please,” she coolly replies. And then hugging her magazine to her chest, she walks out, slamming the door behind her.

I give the dollhouse a kick, causing the balcony to fall off. I throw the balcony in the kitchen and then shove the whole thing back in the closet.