Babe in Boyland (10 page)

“Thanks,” I say, listless.

Chloe stands up. “Tomorrow I’ll bring my makeup case. We’ll see what we can do to make you more George Clooney.”

Darcy jumps to her feet and holds out a hand to help me up. We go to the door, peek out to make sure nobody’s there, then turn off the light in the prop closet and head out into the night. I walk them to their car, whisper a quick good-bye, and watch them drive away.

Now that the adrenaline rush of this weird adventure is wearing off, I’m starting to wonder if I can really hope to accomplish anything here. What if the entire mission is totally misguided? Maybe guys don’t have any interesting secrets to reveal, even if they wanted to. Meanwhile, my real life will just keep piling up in my absence. I think of the homework assignments Darcy handed over. Maybe tomorrow during lectures I can get some of them done on the sly. There’s no chance I can work tonight. Hopefully tomorrow everything will look clearer. Right now I feel so bone tired and my head’s so full of half-formed ideas, I hardly know what I think about anything.

Chapter Ten

A
s I make my way up the empty stairwell toward my room, I start to feel butterflies swirling in my belly. I’m sharing a room with a guy I hardly know. Not just that: I’ll be sleeping like five feet away from the sexiest guy I’ve ever met. I walk down the hall, listening to the night sounds: a TV explodes into laugh track, a bass beat pulses softly through the ceiling. In a matter of minutes I’ll be in a very small space with Emilio. I’ll have to figure out a subtle way to change from my uniform to the sweats and T-shirt I plan to sleep in. It’s like going on a first date and knowing it’s a sleepover.

There’s no light visible under the door when I reach room 333. Using my key, I slip inside as quietly as I can, then lean against the wall a second, letting my eyes adjust. I pick up a scent in the air, a boyish smell of sweat and soap that I find oddly soothing. I stand there breathing it in, trying to get my bearings. After a moment I can make out the shape of Emilio under the covers. Our beds are lined up under the room’s two windows. A faint wash of silvery moonlight has seeped in through the glass, and I can see the outline of his shoulder as he lies on his side.

I cross to the dresser I filled with underwear and T-shirts earlier that afternoon. Sneaking a glance back at Emilio’s inert form, I hastily take off Tyler’s blazer, tie, and button-down shirt. Hopefully he won’t be in a hurry to get his uniform back; looks like I’ll need it all week. Maybe I can get Darcy to bring me some white button-down shirts, at least. This one’s not going to smell too pretty if I have to wear it every day. God knows how I’ll manage my tie in the morning. Will Emilio think it’s weird if I ask him?

Standing there in the dark wearing my undershirt and Tyler’s pants, I hesitate. The original plan was to sleep in my two sports bra and tank top, but now I wonder if that’s really necessary. The elastic in the double layers is cutting into my armpits. The thought of sleeping in even one is unbearable. Then again, what if Emilio wakes up and notices that his roommate has boobs? No matter how unspectacular said boobs might be, they’ll still be very difficult to explain away. I’ll just have to face the wall and keep myself covered up, then wake up before him and get dressed inside the shower stall where nobody can see.

Emilio makes a soft sound, a cross between a moan and a sigh. I listen for his breathing. When I’ve convinced myself it’s so steady that he has to be asleep, I hastily turn away and yank off my undershirt and both bras.

I’m naked from the waist up, digging around in the drawer for a baggy T-shirt when my elbow catches my toiletries kit on top of the dresser. It lands on the floor with a loud thud. Behind me I hear Emilio stir, and in an instant the bedside lamp floods the room with light. Panic surges through me as I instinctively cover my chest with both hands, cowering away from him.

“What the . . . ?”

“Scheisse!”
My back still to him, I spot the T-shirt I need in the drawer. I yank it on, getting my head stuck in the armhole in my frantic scramble.

“What’s going on?” He sounds drunk with sleep.

My head is still firmly lodged in the armhole, blinding me. I stumble away from the sound of his voice and stub my toe on the dresser, sending a searing arc of pain up my leg. “Ouch!”

“What are you doing?”

I somehow extricate my head from the wrong hole and force it through the right one. I still don’t turn around, though, for fear he’ll notice the boobage. “Everything’s fine. Mind turning out the light?”

He grumbles something unintelligible but complies. Once the room returns to darkness I quickly shuck off my slacks and pull on a pair of sweats. My toe continues to throb. I limp over to the bed and dive under the covers, pulling them up to my chin and facing away from him.

Within minutes, Emilio starts to snore very softly. Careful not to make a sound, I turn over and study him, my body still carefully shrouded in covers. His face looks so innocent and young, one cheek smashed against his pillow. With each gentle breath his lips move ever so slightly, the tiny gap between them closing as he inhales, then opening again as he exhales, forming a miniature diamond of darkness between them. His dark eyebrows furrow briefly, then smooth out again.

Suddenly, as if responding to something in his dream, he casts off the covers so that most of his torso is exposed. No shirt.
Good God
. By now my eyes have fully adjusted, and the moon casts just enough light to see by. My eyes trace the lines of his shoulder, the place where his waist dips down and disappears into a tangle of sheets. I listen for his breathing, and when I’ve convinced myself it’s so steady and even that he has to be sound asleep, I prop myself up on one elbow very carefully so I can get a better look.

Without warning, his eyelids fly open. I let out a little squeak of surprise before I can stop myself.

He sits up and glowers at me. “What?”

“What do you mean, what?” I clutch the sheets tightly to my chest.

“Why are you staring at me?”

“I’m not. I mean, I was, but just for a second.”

He continues to pin me with his suspicious glare.

“I wanted to see if you were awake,” I add lamely.

He snorts, fluffs his pillow, and collapses against it, facing the ceiling. “Well, I am now.”

There’s an awkward silence, during which I consider and discard a variety of possible comments to jump-start the conversation. This should be a dream come true: alone in the dark with an incredibly hot guy. Of course, I can’t think of a single thing to say.

I’m beginning to wonder if he’s drifted off to sleep again when he breaks the silence. “Where’d you go anyway?”

“What do you mean?”

“In the theater. I turned around and you were gone.”

“Oh, that.” My brain seizes up as I try to think of a plausible explanation. I go with the liar’s rule of thumb: Stay close to the truth. “I didn’t want to get in the way. Seemed like that girl was kind of, you know, into you.”

He blows out a breath. “I don’t know about that.”

“She your girlfriend?”

I grit my teeth as I wait for his answer. Please, God, don’t let him like Summer Sheers. I’ll do anything, just grant me this one wish.

“No . . .” But his tone leaves a slight question still hanging in the air.

“What? You don’t like her?”

“She’s cool. And she’s a good actress.”

“You think?” It’s out of my mouth before I can stop myself.

He sits up on one elbow. “Why, you know her?”

Scheisse!
Backpedal, backpedal. “Oh, I just know
of
her.”

“Really? How?”

I clear my throat, stalling for time. “Um, I have a cousin who goes to school with her.”

“Yeah? What did your cousin say?”

God, how do I get myself into these situations? “She said Summer—that’s her name, right?”

“Uh-huh . . .”

“I don’t know, like she said Summer’s from LA and did a lot of commercials, modeling, a few sitcoms, stuff like that, but that she’s not really that good of an actress and if her dad wasn’t in the business she never would have gotten all those parts.”

Emilio considers this for a long moment. I said too much. Way too much. I need to have my mouth surgically removed.

“Sounds like your cousin’s jealous.”

It’s my turn to sit up now. “No she’s not!”

He holds up both hands as if to fend me off. “I’m just saying . . .”

“Summer’s just not that good, is all.” I lie back down. My voice has been steadily getting higher and higher; I make a conscious effort to lower it. “According to my cousin.”

“Girls say shit about each other,” he says.

“So apparently you do. Like her, I mean.” In spite of my best efforts, it comes out pouty.

He makes a strangled noise in his throat. “I don’t know! Why are you so interested?”

“I’m not.” Long pause. “I’m just making conversation.”

Okay, enough about Summer already. She’s stolen every role from me. Does she also have to steal the only guy I’ve had a crush on in ages?

Wait, what am I thinking? I can’t crush on Emilio! He thinks I’m a dude. And anyway, this whole mission is about getting answers—real answers from real guys who think
I’m
a real guy. I can’t let myself be distracted by some random attraction. Everything I saw tonight at rehearsal indicates that sexual chemistry is the main thing getting in the way of honest communication. I need to tame my libido and focus on my article. Since Tyler and company can’t give me answers, and Josh’s friends all think I’m too lowly to warrant a hello, Emilio might be my only shot at the truth. I need to work some of the seven questions into this conversation. How hard can that be?

Okay Natalie, concentrate. You need to be smoother than you were tonight at dinner. I deserve an Academy Award in the “awkward” category for that performance. How would a guy ask about this stuff? But see, that’s the thing: He wouldn’t. At least I don’t think he would. I’ve got no idea what guys talk about when I’m not around because I’m—well, duh! Not around.

If I don’t get a move on here he’s going to fall asleep on me. I review all seven questions in my head and decide to start with number three. It’s the easiest to bring up without sounding like a complete tool.

“Emilio?” I’m half hoping he’ll be asleep so I won’t have to risk making a fool of myself.

“Yeah?” his voice is husky.

I feel my pulse racing. “What do you, uh, look for in a girl?”

Pause. The same deadly pause I got at dinner. I can hear crickets chirping through the open window.

He fluffs his pillow and turns over onto his side, facing me. “What do I look for?”

“Yeah.” Okay, so he’s not immediately changing the subject to Blood Frontier, at least.

“You mean . . . in a girlfriend?”

“Right. What do you find . . . attractive?” I whisper this last word, marveling at the lines of his sculpted cheekbones in the moonlight.

“I don’t know. I guess I like a girl who can be natural, you know? Be herself. It creeps me out when they try too hard.”

I’m dying to point out that Summer is the
grande dame
of trying too hard, but I manage to restrain myself. Just listen, Natalie. He’s telling you things. “Try too hard in what way?”

“Oh, you know. You can just sense it. Like when her laugh is fake and everything she says is all planned out. Like she’s reading from a script. I don’t like that.”

“Yeah,” I agree. “What else?”

He smiles, staring off into space. “Legs. I like long legs. Short girls don’t do anything for me.”

I want to jump up on top of my bed and do a victory dance; finally, being five eleven is coming in handy! Then I remember that Summer’s almost as tall, and I deflate slightly. “Yeah. Legs are good.”

“But the most important thing . . .” He pauses.

I can hardly breathe. “Yeah? The most important thing?”

“Is her ringtone.”

“Get out!”

“No, seriously.” He grins. “You can tell so much about a girl from her phone.”

“You’re so full of it.”

“Not at all! Check it out. Girl’s got a nostalgic ringtone, you know, like The Cure or some shit like that? She’s trying way too hard to be ironic.”

“Right . . .”

“If she’s got the latest pop hit on there, also trying too hard, but in the other direction—like she thinks she’s got to be super-trendy just to be liked.”

“I can see that,” I say grudgingly.

“Those ones that sound like alien spacecraft? Forget it. She might be fun for a little while, but pretty soon she’ll be reading you your horoscope and spending every penny on 1-800-PSYCHICS.”

“Sounds like you speak from experience.”

He shudders. “And the reggae ringtone? Unless you want to spend every weekend at some dusty music festival where they sell patchouli soap and glass bongs, run the other way.”

“Duly noted.”

“It’s all true.” He nods. “The fine art of ringtone interpretation.”

I smile up at the ceiling. The moon has cast an intricate pattern of shadows up there, and the wind stirring the trees outside makes the whole thing shiver. “Okay. So those are the red flag ringtones. Is there one you find acceptable?”

I sneak a sideways glance at him. God, he really is perfect. His skin is so gorgeous in the moonlight; like blue-tinged cinnamon.

“You know what I like?”

No,
I think,
but please God tell me.

“I like a phone that actually sounds like a phone. You know, that rings. Really rings. Like a phone.”

I giggle, then hastily try turning it into a manly chortle. “Pretty old-fashioned of you.”

“I guess so.”

For a moment we both stare at the ceiling in silence, listening to the crickets, watching the shadows slide around the ceiling.

“Girls should just be who they are, you know? Is that too much to ask?”