The Pretty One (17 page)

“Of course not.”

“When you first broke up with me I was so devastated, I couldn't sleep.” I'm speaking in a monotone voice, with no inflection, no emotion, no nothing.

“I couldn't eat…I couldn't do anything. And then I thought…I'll be okay as long as he doesn't date anyone else. As long as I know his heart still belongs to me.”

Drew gives me a little smile that is definitely not in the script. It's as if he knows I'm nervous and he's sending me a message, like,
don't worry, I'll be gentle
. I gag on a lump of saliva and clear my throat again.

“When I heard that you and Wendy were hanging out,” I say, “I told myself that you guys were just friends. And last night, when you saw me talking to that guy, I could see the pain in your eyes and I knew you were jealous. I knew you still cared about me.” I pause and look directly at Lucy. She narrows her eyes and shifts uncomfortably in her seat. I look back at my script, but I've lost my place.

“And then you touched my arm,” Drew says, feeding me my line.

“And then you touched my arm,” I say, reading my line.

“Okay,” Drew says. “As you say that line I want you to walk over to me and stand in front of me, slightly downstage.”

“And then you touched my arm,” I repeat yet again, walking toward him. Four steps to go. Four steps and I'll be touching his lips to mine. My breath catches in my throat as I take another step. Three, two…my heart is banging against my chest. “Remember ‘I miss you,' you said.”

“Okay,” Drew says, stopping me. “I want you to run your finger down my arm as you say the next line.”

“You still love me,” I say, pointing my finger and running it down the length of his arm. I know it's supposed to be a sexy sort of move, but mine is anything but. It's more like, hey you have a bug on your arm and I'll just squash it and smear right on down.

“But that doesn't change how I feel about us,” Drew says, reading his line. “Now I'm going to turn away from you,” he says, as he proceeds to explain the blocking. “I want you to walk stage right.”

I know (of course) that stage directions are the opposite of what they seem. Yet I still move to the wrong side.

“Stage right,” Drew repeats. “Over here.”

Out of the corner of my eye I see Lucy grin and look at Marybeth, as if to say:
My sister is such an idiot she doesn't even understand stage directions!

“Then Guy says: I can't…I don't want a relationship right now. I want you to come up from behind me and stand as close as you can without touching me and say your line.”

I stand behind him, as close as I possibly can. OHMYGOD.
Just breathe,
I command myself.
Just breathe
. I stare up at the back of Drew's head as I take a big whiff of his musky-smelling hair.

“So we won't call it a relationship,” I say. “It's just about what feels good. And this feels good.”

“Okay,” Drew says, out of character once again. “I want you to be the aggressor, so as soon as you say your line, put your hands on my shoulders and spin me around and let me have it.” And then he gives me that smile once again, the smile that makes me go weak in the knees, the smile that makes it feel as if someone is squeezing my heart like a bottle of ketchup.

I can do this, I can do this, I can do this…I purse my lips as I put my hands on his shoulders. As he spins toward me, I step forward, stand on my tiptoes, and pucker up. I give him a smooch right on the lips that ends with the unmistakable sound of a plunger unclogging a toilet.

My sister and her friends begin to snicker. I step backward in horror as I raise my hands to my lips. What the hell was that? This was not the kiss of my dreams. No, no,
NO!

“Very funny,” he says. “One more time.”

I don't want to kiss Drew anymore. I want to get off this stage and find a quiet place to cry and blow a lung through my nose.

Lucy straightens in her chair and crosses her arms. She's smiling and I can tell she's enjoying this. I glance offstage, as if I'm hoping to see Simon waiting in the wings, cheering me on. I really wish he were here. I'm totally outnumbered.

Drew gives me a little nod as if encouraging me to continue.

I have no choice. I take a deep breath and lick my lips. Just as I'm going in for the kill, I hear my sister give a little snort that is masquerading as a giggle. I hit Drew smack on the kisser. With my eyes and mouth wide open and my arms straight down beside me, I slowly and robotically swipe my lips across his: up, down, right, left. There's more snickering in the auditorium. “Okay,” Drew says afterward, silencing the audience. He looks like he's just been attacked by a slobbering mastiff. “From the kiss I want you to move stage left…”

Afterward, Drew thanks everyone for coming and then takes me by the arm.

“Don't worry,” he says, as he leads me offstage. “This was your first time onstage, right?”

First time on stage,
obviously code for first kiss. Ugh. Just shoot me. Shoot me and put me out of my misery. I nod.

“By the time you get back onstage you'll have this scene down pat. I promise.”

I feel a tiny bit of relief. This may have been the most humiliating experience of my life, but I take a small shred of comfort in the fact that Drew is not giving up on me.

At least not yet.

eighteen

mime (noun): the art or technique of portraying a character, mood, idea, or narration by gestures and bodily movements.

When I arrive at school the next morning, there's a note from Drew taped on my locker. My hands start to shake as I open it. I was so terrible at practice the day before that in spite of his reassurance to the contrary, I'm pretty sure I'm getting canned. But the note doesn't say that, at least not exactly. He wants me to meet him in the production studio at four-thirty. I read it over again just to make sure I've got it right. Yep. The production studio. Why would he want to meet me there? And why at four-thirty? Why not immediately after school? Whatever the reason is, I don't think it's good.

I'm so nervous that at three-thirty I walk to the Inner Harbor and back just to kill time before our meeting. I arrive a couple of minutes before we're scheduled to meet. The production studio is empty with the exception of Drew, who's sitting on a stool beside the table saw, reading his dictionary. In his faded Levis and a snug-fitting black T-shirt, he looks more like a teacher than a student. As I glance behind him at the paint cans and the background scenes stacked neatly against the wall, I feel an immediate sense of relief. We're on my turf now, my territory. Whatever I look like, I can work a miter saw better than Bob the Builder. Whatever Drew's about to tell me, I can handle.

“Hey, Drew,” I say cheerfully, as though there is nothing on my mind.

All he does is grin.

Weird.

“So,” I say, swallowing and forcing myself to plaster on a smile. I glance at the floor beside the table saw where someone has left a big pile of sawdust. Freshmen! This incoming class are a bunch of knuckleheads. Besides being incompetent, they're slobs. “What's the word?”

“Mea culpa,” Drew says. “An acknowledgment of error or guilt. As in I never should have had you block such a difficult scene in front of all those people, mea culpa. I'm sorry.”

“It's not your fault.” I walk over to the corner where the cleaning supplies are kept and grab the broom and dustbin.

“I put you in an awkward position.” Drew looks at me curiously as I begin to sweep around his feet. Then he jumps off the stool and grabs the dustbin, holding it on the floor for me. “I know it can be pretty intimidating to be on the stage. Especially having to perform a…well, difficult scene in front of your sister and her friends. I could see you were nervous. I should've called it quits.”

“That's nice of you to say, but I was the one doing the stinky acting.” And now he's helping me clean up. It's almost too much sweetness for a girl to take.

“I just want to reassure you that by the time we get back onstage, kissing me will be as comfortable for you as shaking my hand, okay?” Drew hands the empty bin back to me.

“Thanks,” I reply, although I didn't hear a word of what he just said.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“Yes, fine.” I turn away and pretend to cough just so that I can catch my breath. “So why did you want to meet here?” I put away the broom and dustbin and turn back around to face him.

“Because the other day I could tell how comfortable you were in here. You seemed so relaxed. I thought it might be a good place to block a tough scene. I asked Lucheki if he would mind if I borrowed it this afternoon and he gave me permission.”

“Really?” We're blocking the kissing scene in the production studio? Right next to the turpentine?

“Acting is acting,” Drew says with an authority that's self-assured instead of arrogant. “It doesn't matter where you are. Onstage or in the production studio. It's all the same.”

He gives me a smile of encouragement.

“Whew,” I say, jiggling the top of my hoodie. “It's usually freezing in here, but today it's smoking. Aren't you hot?”

“Not really. But then again, I don't have a coat and a hoodie over my T-shirt.” I can tell by his grin that he thinks he's pretty funny. But then, I do, too.

I take off my peacoat, followed by my hoodie. Although I hated to part with it, I was not about to have another sweating fit like I did yesterday.

“What does your T-shirt say?” Drew squints at my boobs.

“Mmm…mmm…good!” he reads out loud.

I'm gaping at my B cups bulging out from underneath my sister's undersized T-shirt as if I've never seen them before in my life. Why did I take off my hoodie? And why didn't I pay more attention to what I wore? “Campbell's soup,” I say quickly. “Gotta love it.”

“Yeah.” He grins. “I do.”

I shake my head. I can imagine Lucy snickering to herself. I take a quick look around to make sure no one is hiding behind the garbage cans.

Drew stands in the rectangular open space in between the old set screens stacked against the wall and the table saws. “This is our stage,” he begins.

Since I'm an adult (not really) and a professional (not really), I stop staring at my boobs and put the Campbell soup incident behind me (not really) as I walk over to him.

Drew is suddenly all business and we begin running our lines, doing the blocking as if there's nothing unusual about our location at all. I have to admit that Drew might be onto something about this whole rehearsing in the production studio thing. I
am
better than I was onstage. I'm even better than I was in the classroom. I interrupt him once to ask if we can do the actual performance in here, but he just smiles at me and keeps going. Even here, though, I'm still nervous, and by the time we get to the first kiss at the bottom of page five, my knees are so wobbly I have to keep a hand on the table saw just to steady myself.

Drew stops and sets down his script. He crosses his arms and leans against a stool. “I have an idea. I'd like to try this exercise with you that I saw a teacher use once to help an actress get through a love scene in a play. It's a little like hypnosis. Are you game?”

“You're not going to make me act like a chicken, are you?”

Drew just smiles and I'm prepared to squawk. “I want you to remember the last time you felt really, really attracted to someone. Close your eyes and think about him…try to picture him in your mind.”

Not a hard assignment, considering my one eye is still open.

“Keep your eyes closed,” Drew advises. “And we're going to switch gears. I want you to picture a hot fudge sundae.”

I close my eyes tight, attempting to visualize my sundae. It's in a big parfait glass, loaded with whipped cream, no nuts, and no cherry. Four scoops of creamy chocolate-chip cookie dough loaded with thick hot fudge.

“Take a bite,” he says. “Think about how good it tastes, how good it feels on your tongue…sliding down your throat. As it melts, I want you to commit every sensation to memory as if this is the last hot fudge sundae you're ever going to have and you want to remember every single second, every single detail.”

In my mind, I see Drew that first day of school, sitting on the window ledge, reading a dictionary. His hair is tousled, his backpack swung over his shoulder.

“Now, I want you to think about your crush. I want you to imagine touching your lips to his. I want you to savor his lips just like you did that sundae, enjoying the touch, the feel, the sensation…and then, when you're ready, I want you to become the character of the Girl. I want you to kiss me.”

I open one eye. Drew is standing across the room from me, his arms slightly behind him while he leans against the table saw as casually as if he is going to play ball with a friend, as in, I've kissed so many girls, what's one more?

I close my eyes again as my heart continues to clang at warp speed.

Focus.

I open my eyes and stand up straight. I take a deep breath and begin to march toward Drew like a soldier entering a battlefield.

“Okay, stop,” he says. “You look terrified.”

I tuck my shaking hands behind me as I flash him what I have the feeling is an idiotic grin. He bites his lower lip as he looks into the distance, thinking
if it looks like a doofus, talks like a doofus and acts like a doofus, it's a doofus.

“Just forget about the whole sundae thing,” he says finally. “It was dumb anyway. I want you to tell me how to work the miter saw.”

“The miter saw?”

“That one,” he says, pointing to the saw beside me. “The one you used to make the star.”

I breathe a huge sigh of relief. Kissing scene postponed! “Well, first you…” I begin, as I head toward it.

“Don't show me,” he says. “Just stand still and tell me.”

Huh?

He nods, encouraging me to continue.

“All right.” This is going to be a little tough, but I'm not about to complain. Anything is easier than a stage kiss. “First, you need to turn it on.”

“Okay,” he says, walking toward me.

“What are we making?”

“Let's do a star again.”

“Well, you're going to need a board. Not too thick. Maybe…oh, an eighth of…”

He takes my hand.

Whoa. I'm staring at our hands locked together.

“How thick?” he asks.

His other hand is on my cheek. HIS OTHER HAND IS ON MY CHEEK.

“Like an inch, two inches?” he asks.

I close my eyes. Think miter saw. “Since you've never done this before, I wouldn't go more than an eighth of an inch.”

“Why?” His face is about two inches from mine.

I can feel his breath on my face. Oh God. Oh God. Houston, we have a problem.

“Why?” he repeats.

Miter Saw, miter saw, miter saw…

“If it's too thick…,” I begin. Houston? Are you there?

He's getting closer. Five, four, three…

“Too thick and you won't be able to rotate the…” Houston, if you can hear me, abort! Abort, abort…

But it's too late. The
Eagle
has landed.

His lips are soft and warm and taste a little like peppermint. The kiss is nice and dry, gentle and sweet. Not nearly as passionate as my make-out sessions with my pillow, but not at all platonic, either. Either way, my toes are literally curling.

Drew steps back and looks at me, giving me a sly grin. “See? Nothing to it.”

I smile and then I lean against the table saw so I don't collapse and die of happiness.

         

I'm at the top of Federal Hill Park, skipping toward home gleefully, when I see Simon. He's sitting on the front steps of our row house, reading
Moby-Dick.
Once again he's retired his shorts and sneakers and is wearing jeans and loafers with a crisp-looking button-down shirt under his corduroy jacket.

I blink twice, convinced that I'm experiencing some sort of apparition, because it can't possibly be Simon sitting there in front of my house since he has gone out of his way to avoid me since the whole Catherine incident.

“Hi,” Simon says, standing and giving me a little wave as I walk down the hill toward him. We meet halfway, across the street from my house.

“Can we talk for a minute?” he asks.

Even though he sounds pretty serious and I'd really like to enjoy my kissing high a few more minutes, I nod and follow him back toward the park and up the hill. I'm pretty sure I don't have a choice. Listening to your best friend even if you don't want to hear what he/she has to say is like the number one BFF rule.

We sit side by side on a bench overlooking Key Highway, the Inner Harbor, and his apartment building. “I just wanted to tell you that, well, I'm sorry,” Simon says. “I have been acting like a jerk lately. I just—I've been going through kind of a tough time. I'm…I'm trying to deal with a couple of things.”

I know I could really go off on a tangent with all this stuff that just came out of his mouth,
like what kind of tough time
and
what things are you dealing with,
but even though I kind of have to listen to Simon, I don't think the best friend manual requires that you totally trash your good mood by getting into a serious tête-à-tête. I'll have to check, but I'm willing to swear that I just have to listen.

And so I say cheerfully, “I'm sorry, too. I didn't mean to lose my temper like that.”

“Catherine deserved it. She was being a bitch. She can be like that. I've talked to her about the ways she was treating you and she agreed it wasn't anything you'd actually done to her. She's just jealous. Ignore her.”

The news that Simon spoke to Catherine on my behalf, that he actually stood up for me, is actually a little surprising since he's been such a jerk lately. But why bring up that unpleasantness now. What's past is past, right?

“It's not all Catherine's fault,” I say, doing my best to be gracious. “I'm still trying to feel my way, you know? Everything is different this year.”

“It's hard to be beautiful? Harder than it looks, at least?”

I hate it when Simon uses his sarcastic voice. (Well, that's not exactly true. I hate it when he uses it on
me
.)

I'm just about ready to start swinging the nasty retorts when he says, “So how was practice today?”

All right. I was willing to forget about the nasty retorts (they weren't that good anyway), but there is no way in hell I'm going to regal him with the truth, specifically the truth about Drew. “Good, I guess.”

“You…you haven't talked too much about Drew lately.”

“I haven't talked to
you
too much lately.”

“I know,” Simon mumbles. “I miss you.”

Poof. Just like that all my anger fades away. Unfortunately, so does any remnant of Drew-inspired happiness. I stare back at the water and we're both quiet for a minute.

A fly lands on his jacket and I attempt to change the direction of our conversation by playfully brushing it off. “Hey, by the way, I saw the set you're working on for Drew's play. It's looking great.”