Babe in Boyland (12 page)

“Except Emilio.” Darcy nudges me. “You like him, huh?”

“I—well—I think he’s really nice,” I say, flustered.

Chloe’s jaw drops. “Oh my God! Natalie’s got a crush! Natalie, you never like anyone.”

I can’t help grinning. “Okay, he’s dreamy.”

“And you’re sharing a room with him!” Darcy pulls at her pink hair. “How hot is that?”

“It’s very unnerving, actually!”

“Does he fart in his sleep?” Chloe wants to know. “I bet he does! Eugh! So gross. I take it back—you are suffering!”

“What is it with you and flatulence?” I say. “It’s just gas—it’s not deadly.”

“Change of subject.” Chloe clutches her stomach. “Unless you want me to puke all over the props.”

“Yeah, actually, we need to focus.” I walk over to a mirror propped up on one of the utility shelves and examine myself, finger-combing my hair. “How can I be more of a man? I need street cred.”

Darcy comes over and examines my profile. “You could use some piercings.”

“Not at Underwood. Try again.”

“I’ve been doing a little research. I brought supplies.” Chloe produces her aluminum makeup box from her enormous Louis Vuitton bag. She does makeup for the Mountain View High shows. She’s really good at it. Now she undoes the latches, all business. “It should be easy. What you need is stubble.”

“Stubble?” I can’t help sounding less than enthusiastic.

“You’re too baby-faced. They can’t respect you if you look like a child. We’ll just cut up some wool crepe”—she pulls a braid of brown, hair-like stuff from her box—“and apply it to your cheeks with stoppelpaste.” She shows us a small tube of waxy-looking stuff. “I read about it on the Internet.”

I consider this. “Will they be suspicious, though, since I didn’t have any before?”

Chloe shakes her head. “Not at all. Guys grow facial hair. It’s what they do.”

“But can she sleep in it?” Darcy asks.

“Yeah, like do I keep it on all the time, or reapply it every morning?”

She pulls out a hair dryer and hands it to Darcy. “Warm up the stoppelpaste with this. Otherwise it won’t go on smoothly.” She’s so focused on her task now, I wonder if she even heard the question. She’s got scissors out and is cutting the wool into tiny bits.

“Chloe? This is kind of elaborate. I won’t be able to do it on myself in the dorms. Can I sleep in it?”

“I’m pretty sure,” she says. “If it gets funky I’ll just touch it up each night after rehearsal.”

I grin at her. “Thanks. You’re the best.”

She shoots me a look. “Whatever. You know I can’t resist a makeover challenge.”

It takes about forty minutes before Chloe will even let me peek in a mirror, but as soon as I do I can tell I look way better. The stubble adds a certain elusive, rugged charm to my face while simultaneously making my jawline stronger and more defined. I never realized how much a guy’s overall attractiveness rests in his jaw. In a little over half an hour, Nat aged like three years and upped his hotness factor by several notches. He’s no Zac Efron, but he’s not bad.

“I should have thought of this earlier,” Chloe chides herself as she adds another layer of tiny hairs, trying to perfect the look.

“It’s okay,” I say. “Nat’s a work in progress.”

We’re all three scrunched together on the beanbag, since there aren’t any other comfortable places in the closet to sit. Chloe’s using a big, soft makeup brush to apply the tiny bits of stubble to my chin. Darcy’s curled up next to me, texting. It’s nice being close to them, to tell you the truth. It seems like Nat never gets touched—well, unless you count Coach Vroman’s pat on the ass today (ew!). Guys are way more careful about keeping their distance from each other, I guess. The Bay Area is known for its progressive sexual politics, but that doesn’t necessarily change anything. It might be the most liberal place in the world; it’s still weird for guys to reach out and make contact, which is kind of sad.

“I miss you two,” I say softly.

“What are you talking about?” Chloe’s eyebrows pull together as she applies another patch of stoppelpaste. “You’ve only been here two days and you’ve seen us every night.”

“Time moves more slowly here. It reminds me of summer camp in that way—every day seems so intense.”

Darcy looks up from her phone. “Because it’s foreign. Your brain’s trying to adjust. It was like that when I went to Israel with my mom.”

“Yeah.” I nod. “It’s like I’m in a foreign country.”

“Well,” Chloe says, still concentrating on my stubble application. “While you were off in a foreign land, Darcy’s been falling into bad habits again.”

I turn to look at Darcy, but Chloe pulls my chin toward her again. “You’re not back with Rob, are you?”

She cringes. “I had a brief relapse, but nothing fatal.”

“They made out in the recording studio,” Chloe reports.

“And I feel terrible about it, but we’re not together or anything. He just—it was a moment of weakness.” She stares at her lap. “I
miss
him. But I know I have to get over it.”

I shake my head. Darcy deserves so much more than what he gives her. She knows it. I know it. We all know it. I guess sometimes it takes a while for the heart to get the memo from the brain.

I pat her knee. “You will. It takes time.”

Chloe puts her makeup brush down and examines me, her eyes moving over my face like an artist skimming the canvas, searching for flaws. “I think you’re done.”

“Wait a sec,” Darcy says. “I have something to contribute to Nat’s new, manlier look too.”

I put my hands over my head. “No more haircuts! It’ll take forever to grow out as it is.”

“Nope. Something much, much better.” She smiles wickedly, reaches into her messenger bag, and pulls out an extra large pair of tube socks.

I laugh. “No!”

“Yes! Nat needs a bigger package.”

“Oh my God,” I groan. “I’m a junior in high school, not a porn star!”

Chloe nods solemnly. “She’s right. You need a penile implant. Size does matter.”

Let me just say it’s late; we’re punchy. We get the giggles. Chloe’s holding me down and Darcy’s on her knees, trying to zip up my fly after having just stuffed the enormous sock into my pants.

That’s when we hear the closet door open.

We look up, startled. There’s Josh Mayer, his expression utterly surprised.

For a second we all freeze: me with the absurd sock straining against my fly, Chloe using both hands to pin my shoulders against the beanbag, Darcy kneeling in front of me. We’re quite the tableau, I’m sure.

Chloe breaks the silence with one of those suppressed laughs that sounds like a cat struggling to hock up a hair-ball. That sets Darcy off too. I cover my mouth with one hand, wanting to laugh but also terrified that we’ll ruin everything.

Josh blinks once, says, “Uh, sorry to interrupt.” Then he turns around, walks back out, and shuts the door behind him.

“Scheisse!”
I whisper the second he’s gone. “What do I do now?”

“Be cool,” Chloe says. “I don’t think he knows anything.”

My eyes widen. “Really?”

She holds her hands up. “Who’s to say Nat isn’t hanging in the prop closet with his favorite drama sluts?”

Darcy cracks up again.

I look at my watch. “Oh God! It’s ten fifty-six and curfew’s at eleven. I’ve got to go!” I yank the sock from my pants and toss it at Darcy.

“Uh-oh,” Darcy says, “there goes your manhood!”

“You guys are terrible!” But of course I can’t really be mad. They’re the best friends in the whole world. I turn to Chloe, a new thought just occurring to me. “You don’t think this will screw up your chances with Josh, do you?”

She shakes her head, her expression blasé. “In my experience, a little competition never hurts.”

I say my good-byes quickly and sprint all the way back to the dorms.

Chapter Twelve

I
t’s morning break and I drag myself over to the vending machine for really bad coffee. God, I miss Starbucks. I seriously think I’m going through caramel-soy latte withdrawals. I need caffeine though, even if it does taste like something excavated from a Dumpster and strained through an oily rag.

I tossed and turned for hours last night, my head filled with anxious dream fragments. They all featured Josh discovering me in various compromised positions and me getting kicked out of Underwood in disgrace. Emilio’s face showed up repeatedly too, his eyes great dark pools of disappointment. Then I would wake and see him sleeping beside me, the beautiful lines of his body gilded with moonlight.

If there’s a hell, I suspect it involves sleeping five feet away from somebody you’re strongly attracted to but cannot touch.

Nobody’s dragged me from my morning classes with accusations, though. That means either:

Josh suspects nothing.

Josh does suspect but isn’t sure, so hasn’t done anything about it.

Josh knows but hasn’t ratted me out, at least not to administration. Yet.

Cradling my piss-poor coffee, I shuffle out into the courtyard, squinting into the dazzling sunshine. I spot Tyler, Max, and Earl seated at a picnic bench. They’re still the closest thing I’ve got to friends, unless you count Emilio, and he’s not anywhere in sight. I sit down next to Earl. He’s poring over an astronomy textbook while Max and Tyler talk about
The Importance of Being Earnest,
which opens in two days
.
They have very minor parts; they play the servants of Josh’s and Emilio’s characters. Still, they’re totally into it. I admire that. No matter how small the role might be, I still think you should play it with everything you’ve got. Even if you’re the understudy.

Max’s hair looks especially poufy this morning. It glistens like reddish gold cotton candy in the sun. “When Josh says, ‘Merriman, order the dog cart at once,’ he always forgets the second part of the line, ‘Mr. Ernest has been suddenly called back to town.’ If he does that Friday I won’t wait for it—I’ll just come in with my ‘Yes, sir.’ Otherwise it’ll look like I screwed up.”

“Try running sound,” Earl complains, not looking up from his textbook. “Nobody ever gives me the right cue.”

Tyler rolls his eyes. “That’s because you’re so picky. A cue is still a cue, even if it’s not the exact words in the script.”

Earl shakes his head in disgust. “That girl—the one playing Lady Bracknell?”

“Darcy?” Tyler says, then blushes. Just saying her name, he blushes! Interesting . . .

“She always gets that one line wrong. It drives me crazy.”

Tyler frowns. “But she gets the gist of it.”

Max gapes at him. “The gist of it? Is she trying to
improve
on Oscar Wilde’s work? The poor man’s spinning in his grave!”

“You sound like Mr. Pratt,” Tyler says.

“Because Mr. Pratt is right!” And then Max blushes.

My, my. These guys may not talk too much about relationships, but they sure do blush at telling moments, don’t they? Maybe that’s the key to understanding the opposite sex; I could invent a science, call it blushology.

“Ow!” Max grabs his hand. “I just got a splinter from this stupid table.”

“Oh, let me see.” I reach across and cradle his hand in mine without thinking. “Hold on, I’ve got some tweezers.”

“You have tweezers . . . on you?” Tyler asks, a note of disbelief in his voice.

“Sure.” I dig through my backpack until I find the zippered hemp bag where I keep my essentials: ChapStick, Advil, Rescue Remedy, that kind of stuff. I locate the tweezers and pull them out. When I look up again all three of them are staring at me suspiciously.

“What?” I say.

“What is all that stuff?” Tyler asks, peeking into the pouch like it’s full of tarantulas.

I feel a twinge of panic. I could have sworn I got all the tampons out of there. I look back inside the bag to be sure; yep, it’s feminine hygiene product-free. Guys use tweezers, right? ChapStick is perfectly gender neutral. Why are they all looking at me like that?

“It’s just . . . stuff,” I say.

“Stuff?” Max echoes.

“Yeah.” I deepen my voice and splay my knees wider. If it’s possible to swagger while seated, I do. “Just shit I carry around. You got a problem with that?”

“Hey, Natman!”

I turn around and my panic gives way to incredulity. Josh and his entourage are strutting across the courtyard. They’re all grinning at me like I just won
American Idol
or something. Wow. Who knew facial hair could be so crucial?

As Josh draws near he holds a fist up and I, unsure of what else to do, punch at it awkwardly.

“Dude!” he says.

I try a knowing laugh. “Dude!” I say back.

“Man, can I talk to you a minute?” His expression is conspiratorial.

I just chuckle. What the hell is going on? “Me?”

He punches my arm, laughing. It kind of hurts—actually, it really hurts—but something tells me not to bring that up right now.

“Sure.” I get up from the table and follow him a little ways away from the others. I glance uncertainly over my shoulder at Tyler, Max, and Earl, but they look just as amazed as I feel.

“I don’t know exactly what was going on in the prop room . . .” He trails off.

“With Darcy and Chloe?”

“Obviously, man. What, you think I wanted to quiz you about the inventory?”

I shake my head, trying to figure the best way to play this. “We were just messing around.”

He nods, blue eyes boring into mine like he’s trying to see into my soul. “Two at a time? I didn’t think you had it in you.”

I rub my jaw in what I hope is a man-of-the-world gesture, then notice tiny pieces of wool sticking to my fingers, which I hastily conceal in my pocket. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

He continues staring at me. “You’re a freak.”

“Hey—”

“But I like you. And so do the bitches at MVH, apparently.”

I want to slap him for that, but stop myself. I’m finally getting somewhere with the upper crust; this is no time to ruin everything by giving in to feminist impulses. Instead I move my head back and forth like a cocky prizefighter. “What can I say? I got a way with the bitches.”

I so can’t believe I just said that.

He snickers. “Don’t know what they see in you.”

“I’m sensitive.” I leer at him like this is code for something pornographic. “They like that.”

He slaps me on the back so hard I nearly fall over. Then we walk over to join the others. Everyone looks at us with expectant faces, as if we’re world leaders emerging from a summit meeting.

Josh nods at me, swipes me upside the head. “This guy’s okay.”

His friends laugh, but it’s not the humiliating laughter I heard yesterday in the locker room. It’s different. Their eyes shine with something like respect.

Here’s the weird part: Even though I know it’s all based on an absurd, convoluted misunderstanding, their laughter lifts me up like a warm, effervescent river and carries me right along. It’s completely illogical and messed up, but after the beating my ego took the last couple days, it feels so good to do something right with these guys for a change.

Josh reaches out his fist again. I punch it with a little more confidence this time.

The chimes sound then, alerting us to the end of break. Josh leads his pack into the Hammond House, some of them turning now and then to get another look at me. I wink and flash the hang loose sign.

Tyler, Max, and Earl haven’t moved. They’re staring at me, slack-jawed.

“What?” I ask, all innocence.

“Nothing,” Tyler says.

“I’ll get that splinter out at lunch if you want,” I tell Max.

“Sure,” he says.

I go to grab my zippered pouch and the Rescue Remedy falls out.

“What’s that?” Tyler asks, picking it up.

“Rescue Remedy. It’s homeopathic. You want some?” He thinks about it for a second, glances at the last of Josh’s friends as they disappear into the building. “Sure.”

“I’ll take some,” Max says.

Earl nods. “Yeah, me too.”

In drama class, Mr. Pratt breaks us into pairs and asks us to perform scenes he’s selected from various plays. To my horror and delight, he partners me with Emilio. I feel giddy when he hands us a photocopied scene between Antonio and Bassanio from
The Merchant of Venice.

“I love this play!” I gush. “People don’t do it that often because of the whole anti-Semitic thing, but it’s got such cool roles.”

Emilio looks a little surprised. “So you’ve read it, then?”

“Oh, yeah. I was in it.”

He scans the script. “Who were you?”

“Portia,” I blurt without thinking.

His dark eyes fasten on my face. “Isn’t that a girl?”

I have to think fast. Something about Emilio makes me let down my guard, which is something I can’t afford to do here. “Yeah, she’s a girl. I mean, she plays a guy for one scene, but . . .” I get distracted by the weird wobbly feeling his intense gaze produces in the pit of my stomach. Concentrate, Natalie! “We did it the way they did in Shakespeare’s day—you know, with guys playing all the roles, even the female ones.”

“Really?” He studies me with even more interest. “Wasn’t that kind of embarrassing? Playing a girl, I mean?”

“No way,” I say, indignant. “A great role is a great role.”

Emilio appears to consider this. I wonder what he’s thinking. Have I lost all manly credibility with him now? Did I ever have any to begin with? God, why did I bring it up? Step one in making your roommate think you’re a complete freak: Admit you not only played a girl but enjoyed it. Great, now he’ll probably get all homophobic on me and sharing a room will be totally awkward.

“That takes
huevos,
man,” he says at last.

“Sorry?”

“Huevos, cojones.”
When I still look at him blankly he clarifies. “Balls. Nobody gave you shit for that?”

I feel myself swelling with pride. He thinks I have
cojones!
Okay, it’s a twisted sort of compliment, given my actual anatomy, but the point is he respects me. “Sure, some people did, but I didn’t worry about it.”

Mr. Pratt comes over to check on us. “Have you read the scene?”

I shrug. “I know the play pretty well.”

“Yeah, me too.”

I look at Emilio in surprise. He elbows me. “What? I can read! I like Shakespeare.”

“Okay, great.” Mr. Pratt rubs his hands together, dark eyes shining. “So Antonio and Bassanio. What do you know about these two?”

“They’re friends?” I offer.

“That’s right,” Mr. Pratt says. “In fact, these guys have a friendship most of us only dream about.”

Emilio nods. “Antonio’s totally got Bassanio’s back.”

“Right! How do you know that exactly?” Mr. Pratt asks.

“Because he risks everything for Bassanio,” Emilio says. “He’s already invested all his money in those ships, so he’s got nothing, but when Bassanio shows up he’s like, ‘Sure, use my credit.’”

Mr. Pratt looks pleased. “Exactly! That’s how much Antonio loves his friend, right? He’s willing to risk his life just to be sure Bassanio can have whatever he needs.” He pauses, taking us both in. “Do you have any friends like that?”

We’re both a little taken aback by the question. It’s a classic drama teacher move, though; one minute you’re talking about Elizabethan merchants, something totally removed from everyday life, the next you’re being asked to reveal your innermost secrets. That’s how they get you to play a role convincingly—by connecting the experiences of the characters to your own.

I glance at Emilio, who just studies his hands, brow furrowed.

“Friends like what?” I know what he means, but I’m stalling, unsure of how to answer. Natalie has friends she’d do almost anything for, but Nat? Nat has Tyler and company, who are better than nothing, but I hardly think I’d give up a pound of flesh for them.