Babe in Boyland (13 page)

“Friends you’d risk everything for—even your life.”

Emilio still doesn’t look up, but he says, “I guess I used to, back home. Not really here.”

“Yeah,” I say, relieved to have an easy way out. “Me too.”

Mr. Pratt looks from Emilio to me and back again; I can’t read the expression on his face, exactly. It’s some complicated combination of concern and compassion, I think. Who knows, though? Maybe he’s just thinking about his next cigarette.

“So imagine, then, or remember the friends you had before. Concentrate on that feeling—respecting and caring about someone so much, you’ll do anything to make them happy. Yeah? You got that?”

We both nod as some roughhousing across the room draws Mr. Pratt’s attention. “Hey! Careful, duckies. You knock over that suit of armor and you’re dead.” He darts across the room, fingers raking through his unkempt hair.

In spite of the swelling noise all around us as guys rehearse their scenes, an awkward silence settles between us. I make an effort to break it. “You want to be Antonio? You seem more like him.”

He grins crookedly. “How so?”

“I don’t know.” What I mean is that Emilio has Antonio’s style. He has a certain poise and dignity you just don’t see very often, especially in males under thirty. He has Antonio’s gravitas, his regal bearing. I don’t say any of this, of course. Instead I mumble, “You just seem more . . . mature.”

“Okay, cool. So you’re Bassanio—the dude who’s so whipped he’ll risk his best friend’s life just to get a good look at Portia,” he teases. “Cold!”

“No, man. It’s not like that.” I try on a little swagger. “I’m just confident with the ladies, is all. I know she’ll fall for me, so it’s not really a risk at all.”

“Whatever you say.” He treats me to one more lopsided grin before we pick up our scripts and start to rehearse.

Chapter Thirteen

T
hat afternoon I sit on my bed, hunched over my notebook and scribbling furiously. The side of my hand is ink-stained, but I’m concentrating so hard I barely even notice. My head is filled with a jumble of messy thoughts, half of which are splayed haphazardly across the pages. I’m trying to get it all down, no matter how crazy or illegible the sentences might be
.
I write about watching Chloe and Darcy at rehearsal the other night—how different they seemed from the girls I know and love. I write about the weirdly exhilarating power I felt today when Josh and his friends looked at me with such respect, even though that respect was totally misguided. Mostly, though, I write about Emilio: his smell, his eyes, his laugh. In some ways I feel so at ease around him, so free and weirdly myself. That doesn’t make any sense, though. He doesn’t even know my real name.

I’ve been here three days, and still I don’t have any of my seven burning questions answered. At this rate, it’s hard to imagine I’ll have enough material to fill out one good paragraph, let alone a lengthy investigative article. I mean, yes, I have plenty of thoughts, observations, and Emilio-fantasies to jot down in my journal, but none of that qualifies as investigative reporting, does it? And yeah, I could write a
ha-ha, look at the clever prank I pulled off
type piece, but that’s not really journalism, is it?

The phone on the nightstand rings, making me jump. Emilio’s at the library. It has to be for him—nobody I know has this number. I stare at it a moment. What if it’s Summer? Would she recognize my voice? I tell myself not to touch it, then watch as my hand snakes out and snatches it up on the fourth ring.

“Hello?” I’m careful to pitch my voice in the guy register.

On the other end, a long stream of Spanish erupts. The voice is female. It doesn’t take a linguist to figure out she’s crying and swearing. My stomach drops. Does Emilio have a girlfriend he never mentioned—maybe someone back home? I sit up straighter and grip the phone with both hands.

“Uh, I’m sorry, but this isn’t Emilio,” I say when she takes a breath.

Pause.

“Who is this?” Her English has a faint accent; she sounds suspicious.

“Nat Rodgers. I’m his—”

“
Ay Dios,
you’re the new roommate, aren’t you?
Mierda!
I’m so sorry. I hope you don’t speak Spanish.”

“I don’t,” I reassure her.

“I’m Erica, his sister. I got so used to him being alone, I forgot all about you.” She laughs, but I can still hear the tears in her voice. “How embarrassing! Is he there?”

“No. He’s at the library.” Now that I know she’s his sister and not his girlfriend, I find I like her much better.

“Oh. That’s why his cell’s off, I guess.” Her disappointment is palpable.

“Is it an emergency? Do you want me to run over there? I could have him call you in a few minutes.”

She sighs. “Oh, not really. Just, you know, relationship drama.”

“I hear you.” It seems presumptuous to offer my services as emergency hotline counselor, and yet I’m reluctant to just hang up. She seems so upset. “Guy trouble, then?”

“Yeah.” With that, she bursts into tears. It sounds like the kind of crying that’s been going on for hours; she’s a little hysterical, the poor thing.

When she seems more in control I say in a tentative voice, “Do you want to talk about it?”

She goes silent for a beat. I guess my offer must surprise her. “What’s your name again?”

“Nat Rodgers.”

“I feel bad. You probably have homework and—”

“No, really.” I look at my notebook, filled with pages and pages of barely legible notes. It’s not like I’m going to spin that straw into literary gold any time today. “I’m not that busy.”

“It’s my stupid boyfriend, Julio. He’s such a
capullo,
he broke up with me and I’m the last to know!”

An hour later, I have the full story. Apparently, Emilio’s from East LA. It surprises me that he never mentioned that, though I’m not sure why; I should know by now that guys don’t always volunteer even basic information about themselves. Erica took the GED last spring and became an au pair in Sausalito. Her boyfriend, Julio, was still in LA, but had promised to move north as soon as he’d saved enough money. They planned to rent their own place in the city, since Erica was having a tough time with the family she worked for. She liked the kids but hated the mom. Anyway, the despicable Julio started seeing Erica’s best friend—or ex-best friend, as of today. Erica heard it from her cousin, who spotted them kissing at a movie theater last night. Every now and then Erica lapses into a quick burst of mournful Spanish, which makes it more tragic, somehow.

It occurs to me that in one conversation with Erica I learned way more about Emilio’s family than I’ve gleaned after living with him for three days.

“You’re such a good listener.” She’s just recovered from another good cry, during which I made soothing sounds the best I could. “Better than Emilio, even! He would’ve lost patience by now.”

“Oh, no,” I say, “it’s nothing.”

“You got a girlfriend?”

“No.” Oh, God. All at once this entire conversation seems like a very bad idea. “I mean, yes. Sort of. It’s complicated.”

“You must be very popular with the girls.”

“No, I’m a disaster with girls.”

She chuckles. It’s a low, husky sound that reminds me a little of Emilio’s laugh, except femmier. “Come on! You know how many guys can deal with a girl in crisis? Almost none. And you
offered
! Most boys would run screaming, they hear somebody’s sister crying hysterically on the phone. I really appreciate it.”

“No problem,” I mumble. My cheeks are burning up. She’s totally
flirting
with me.

Emilio walks in then, looking incredible in faded jeans and a black T-shirt. The sight of him fills me with lust and relief in equal parts. I jump up and shove the phone at him. “It’s your sister.”

“Erica?” His brow furrows.

“Yeah.” I don’t want to be rude, though, so I say into the receiver hastily, “Hey, here’s Emilio, see you later!” before pressing the phone into his hands again.

He looks puzzled. I’m too embarrassed and panicked to explain, though. Besides, I figure he’ll appreciate a little privacy. I wave good-bye and duck outside, then clamber down the stairs. I do a couple laps around campus, breathing in the warm, salty air and glancing up occasionally at the puffy clouds drifting overhead like brilliant white ships.

I let myself back into our room about twenty minutes later. For some reason, nervousness thrashes around inside my belly like a trapped animal. Emilio is at his desk studying his lines. He looks up at me and smiles.

“So, you met my sister.”

“Sort of,” I mumble.

“She was impressed.”

I try making a dismissive noise in my throat. I hope it’s man-speak for
I don’t want to talk about it.
No such luck. Emilio either doesn’t understand the cue or willfully ignores it.

“You know, Josh is having a party Friday after we open.”

I don’t say anything. Under different circumstances, hearing a guy I like broach the subject of a pending party would get me all fluttery for sure. Somehow, though, I doubt Emilio plans on taking me as his date.

“I wasn’t really invited,” I say.

“So, I’m inviting you.”

“Isn’t it for the cast?” I don’t know how big Josh’s house is or how many guests will be there, but if Summer is one of them, I can’t risk going.

“The cast, and the people they invite.” He picks up a Nerf football and starts tossing it back and forth. “Maybe you’d like to take my sister.”

I just raise an eyebrow.

He laughs. “What’s wrong? Just one girl too boring?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I heard about the prop closet.”

I groan. “Wait, you heard about that and now you’re fixing me up with your sister?”

His face goes serious. “She’s not that kind of girl.”

“So then why are you—?”

He waves a hand at me dismissively. “Just because you like to have fun doesn’t mean you can’t treat a nice girl the way she should be treated. Am I right?”

“Yes. True. But the whole prop closet story was—”

“None of my business. Which is why I didn’t bring it up.”

I think about that. “Wait, but you did bring it up.”

“Whatever. You’re getting hung up on details. The point is, I scored you a date with my sister. That’s no small thing. She’s beautiful. And she’s the sweetest. You’re going to thank me.”

“I’m sure she’s great, but . . .”
But I’m a girl. A straight girl. And the only person I want to go out with is you.

“What?” His expression darkens, and a muscle pulses in his jaw. “You don’t like Mexican girls?”

“Oh my God, no!” I cry. “Nothing like that. I’m just . . . shy.”

He pauses, considering me. To my relief the anger drains from his face, replaced by an earnest, confiding expression. “I’m her brother, which means I don’t let her go out with just anyone. Take it as a compliment. Anyway, it’s not like you have to marry her. Just distract her—she’s really upset over this Julio guy.
Hijo de puta
. I’m so going to kick his ass.”

“I’m honored,” I say, truthfully, “but this Friday isn’t going to work.”

“Okay.” He nods, unfazed.

“Great. Thanks for understanding.”

“How about tomorrow night?”

“Emilio!”

“What? You can take her out to coffee. It’s a three-dollar, two-hour commitment, tops.”

I sigh. It’s starting to look like there’s no graceful way out of this. I’m already so tangled up in lies, what’s one more tiny deception?

“All right, tomorrow night.”

“That’s my man.” He puts out a fist and I punch it.

He goes back to studying, and I hunch over my notebook once again. My thoughts are more jumbled than ever, though. I can’t eke out even one decent sentence.

“Are you taking Summer to the party?” I blurt before I can stop myself.

He looks over his shoulder at me, surprised. “Maybe. It’s not really that kind of deal.”

“What kind of deal?”

“The whole cast will be there. It’s not like I have to invite her.” He squints at his script again.

“You do like her though, right?” I run a hand through my hair, thinking of how much longer and sexier hers is.

“I don’t know. I heard she has a boyfriend.”

“Robbie Herbert,” I say quickly, not thinking.

He turns around to face me. “How do you know?”

“Um, well, I heard that, anyway.”

“From who?”

“Uh . . . where did I hear that?” Think, Natalie, think! “My cousin! Remember, she goes to school with her.”

“Oh yeah. You said that.” He stares moodily at the floor.

I fiddle with my pen. “Are you in with love her?”

“In
love
?” He says it like it’s a completely foreign concept. “I don’t know, man.”

When I dare to look at him, he’s eyeing me suspiciously. I guess the L-word isn’t used much among people with Y chromosomes.

I try to remedy the slip with a dash of manliness. “Would you tap that ass?”

He’s just taken a sip of water and he almost chokes. “Oh, man, don’t.”

“What?”

“Look, I know English is your first language and everything, but don’t go messing with booty slang until you’ve got the hang of it, okay?” He shakes his head, grinning. “‘Would you tap that ass.’ That’s just
wrong
.”

I find myself smiling back, glad to be done with the subject of Summer Sheers. “Okay. If you say so.”

“And go easy with my sister. You don’t need to be tapping nothing until you know her better—maybe not even then.”

I roll my eyes. “Believe me, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

If only he knew.