Babe in Boyland (14 page)

Chapter Fourteen

“
P
sst! Nat. You awake?”

I’m dreaming, of course, fast asleep. Rachel Webb and Chas Marshal ask me in snide tones where my Story of the Year entry is. I slap it onto the table before them in triumph, thinking, Ha! That’ll show ’em. Their eyebrows arch in unison. I look down to see what I’ve presented is a bulky pair of tube socks.

“Nat? Wake up.”

My eyes fly open. There’s a figure towering over my bed, fully dressed. I flinch, startled.

“It’s okay. It’s me, Emilio.”

“Wha? Arrgh.” I’m always very articulate at—I blink at the clock—two in the morning.

“Come on.” He crouches beside my bed. I notice, even in my groggy state, that he’s so close I can smell the salt on his skin. That wakes me right up.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“It’s a surprise.”

Okay, I know this is dangerous. Surprises aren’t exactly welcome when you’ve got everything to hide. The excitement in his voice is contagious, though. I find myself rolling out of bed. As usual I’ve gone to sleep in sweats and a hoodie, for maximum boob camouflage. All I have to do is pull on my tennis shoes.

“Seriously? You won’t tell me where we’re going?” I whisper.

“Just follow me.”

We say nothing and try to move without sound as we make our way down the stairs and out the back door of the dorms. Once outside, the warm night air envelops us, smelling of pine and dry grass. Even now, in the middle of the night, the heat of the day clings to the parched earth. Every few minutes, though, a breeze wafts inland, carrying with it the cool, moist kiss of the ocean.

“This way,” Emilio whispers.

I follow him down the footpath that leads to the New Media building, but before we’ve gone far he veers toward the forest.

“Where are you taking me?” I ask again.

“I told you. It’s a surprise.”

We walk a little farther without speaking, just the sound of the crickets in our ears and the occasional hoot of an owl. Our feet move soundlessly through the spongy, well-manicured lawn.

When we reach the edge of the forest I hesitate. “Are we going in there?”

I can just make out his white smile in the darkness. “You scared?”

“No.”

“Well, then, shut up and follow me.”

I can’t see that I have much choice, when he puts it that way. The last thing I want is for Emilio to think me a wuss. I crave his respect more than anyone I’ve ever met in my life.

Whoa.

I flash on all my crushes before this, from the unnamable longing I felt for Todd Wright in the fifth grade to the halfhearted interest I took in Paul Pacaud last summer. I wanted them to like me, to lust after me, to worship me, even, but for some reason respect wasn’t a huge consideration. I was too busy trying to seem hot to ever be myself. Now, stripped of my lip gloss, my shiny hair, all my girly trappings, the thing I want most from Emilio is for him to get who I am and respect that.

There isn’t much time to analyze this train of thought further, though. It takes all my concentration just to follow his faded yellow T-shirt through the maze of shadows and trees. The moonlight can’t penetrate the thick canopy of foliage, and I can barely see. As we walk, every snapping twig, every flurry of movement in the underbrush has me jerking my head around, jumpy as a cat. Once, a bat swoops close to my face and I can’t stifle my yelp of surprise, though it sounds babyish, even to me.

“Easy there, cowboy.” Emilio chuckles softly.

“A bat almost got caught in my hair!” I say indignantly.

“So naturally you scream like a girl.”

We go on walking, and eventually we’re able to move side by side instead of single file. The trees are less dense, and a little moonlight trickles through the branches, casting patterns of silver lace here and there on the ground. Our footsteps fall into a rhythm, the cadence so exact we could be one person. Neither of us says anything for a while. This is how guys do it, I think: less conversation, more action.

In the distance, I can just make out the gentle gurgle of running water. I cock my head.

“You hear that?” he asks, sounding happy.

“Yeah. What is it?”

“We call it Dead Man’s Creek. Don’t know if that’s the official name or not.”

I shiver. “Why do you call it that?”

“Don’t know. To scare the freshmen, I guess. Or maybe because of the corpses they’re always finding there.”

“The—?”

He laughs and starts running ahead. “Come on! We’re almost there!”

It’s hard keeping up in the dark. Emilio’s fast, his agile form weaving through the trees and bounding over rocks like a fleet-footed stag. Luckily, I’m a much better sprinter than I am a basketball player, so I run as fast as I can and manage not to lose him.

I’m not sure how deep into the forest we go. All I know is just as I’m starting to pant and wheeze, wondering how much longer I can keep it up, we pass under a big redwood tree and stop short.

“What do you think?” Emilio asks, sounding maddeningly unaffected by our race. “You like it?”

There before us is a swimming hole, about twenty feet in diameter. Its banks are studded with rocks and ferns. The glossy surface glitters in the moonlight. It’s breathtaking.

“Yeah,” I murmur, strangely touched. He wanted to show me this—me, and nobody else. “It’s—wow.”

“I know! Isn’t it awesome?” He starts peeling off his shirt, his movements hurried. When he reaches to unbutton his jeans I grab his arm.

“Wait! What are you doing?”

He looks puzzled. “Going for a swim.”

“Now?” My voice sounds strangled. “Here?”

“Yeah, of course. Why, what’s wrong?”

My mind races. “Um, is that a good idea?”

“It’s still warm out. Why not?”

I rack my brain for a way out of this. “It is. Warm. It’s just that . . . well, in my family, um . . . this will sound stupid.”

“Don’t worry—just say it.”

Even as I open my mouth, I’m not sure what will come out. “We’re religious.”

“Uh-huh . . .”

“Very old-fashioned. Practically Amish.”

He looks confused. “Okay . . .”

“And very modest. I mean, like no nudity. Ever. In our house.”

He widens his eyes in sudden understanding. “Is that why you took a locker way the hell away from everyone else?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And why you never change when I’m in the room?”

I nod. This is so good! I’ve unwittingly stumbled on the perfect explanation for my chronic fear of nudity. “You noticed? Yeah, that’s why.”

His brow furrows. “So you’re like . . . ashamed?”

“Well, you know how it is when you grow up a certain way, and . . .” I trail off. Since there have never been any guys in our house, my mom and I have always been very clothing-optional. In the summer, we’re practically nudists. I decide the less I say about this fictional puritan family of mine, the better. “It’s just awkward for me.”

“Okay.” He stands there, bare chest gleaming in the moonlight, one button of his fly undone. I feel a distinct swoon coming on, but I keep it under control.

“You think I’m a freak?” I ask quietly.

“No, man, not at all.” He claps me on the back. “Listen, we just won’t look, okay? Once we’re in the water you can’t see anything, anyway.”

My heart pounds. “You promise not to peek?”

“What do you
think
?” He shoots me a look, adding, “Like you’ve got anything I’m interested in.”

It’s risky. The water looks so smooth, though, so inviting. I’ve worked up a sweat during our run, and I can just imagine how great it’ll feel, slipping into those cool depths. Besides, to refuse him now would be all wrong. Bringing me here was his gift to me; not getting in would be like throwing that generosity back in his face. I’d rather blow my cover and forget about Story of the Year than do that.

“Okay,” I say, “but you go first.”

“I’m on it.” He unbuttons his fly and drops his jeans.

Through sheer willpower I manage to close my eyes.

Okay, I peek. But just once.

Then I hear him splashing around and laughing, so I know it’s my turn.

“Don’t look!” I order, trying to sound threatening.

“I told you.” His voice ripples across the water. “You’re not my type.”

I huddle in the shadow of the big redwood tree and tear off my clothes with superhuman speed. I don’t bother to fold anything, just fling my clothes onto a sprawling fern and dash for the swimming hole, using my hands to cover as much of me as I can.

“
Scheisse!
Ahhh!” I let out a little scream when I hit the water. God, what’s up with that? I never realized I made so many involuntary girly sounds. I seriously need to get a grip! It’s colder than I’d expected, though. I feel that initial pang of shock, the breathless
why the hell am I doing this?
Then my body shivers once and surrenders to it, letting it surround me and make me weightless. Delicious.

“Nat?” I hear him about ten feet away, but can barely make out the shadow of his head bobbing in the water. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” I laugh—okay, giggle, then try to disguise it as a grunt. “It feels great!”

“Told you.” He swims toward me. I can see the concentric circles radiating from him.
Oh, God, why do you torture me?
The urge to swim right up to him and feel the cool velvet of his skin underwater is overwhelming.

He stops about five feet away. The water’s deep; we tread it for a moment in silence. I want to float on my back and relax, but I’m afraid too much of me will show. It occurs to me that this is exactly the sort of quiet, unguarded moment when I should be working through my list of questions to see if I can get some honest answers. I’m starting to think the list of questions isn’t exactly the best approach, though. Too awkward and formal. Maybe just being here, experiencing what guys experience, is enough.

“It’s colder than I expected,” I say, shivering again.

“Yeah? Is that what the squeal was about?” I can tell he’s trying not to laugh. “Listen, man, don’t take this the wrong way, but you scream like that in East LA, you’re sure to get your ass kicked.”

I splash him in response.

After a pause, he says, “I never really fit in there.”

“Where?”

“In El Sereno, where I grew up.” His voice is different, now—more serious.

“Why not?” I ask.

“Just didn’t, you know? My best friend back home, Gustavo? He’s a dealer now. Not the hard stuff, just pot and X, but still. It pisses me off, man. I so can’t relate. It’s like I can’t even go home and feel at home, you know? I’m stuck between worlds.”

“Yeah. I can see that.” A part of me thrills at the chance to be his confidante; something tells me he doesn’t talk like this very often. Another part of me writhes with guilt. The guy he’s confiding in doesn’t even exist.

“You’re the first person I really wanted to talk to here,” he says.

My throat feels tight. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I hate giving up my privacy, but if I have to have a roomie, I’m glad it’s you.”

“Same here.”

We tread in silence again, listening to the symphony of crickets punctuated by the occasional croak of a somber bullfrog. I wonder what he would say if he knew my secret. Would he like Natalie as much as he likes Nat? Would he tell her his secrets?

Yes,
I tell myself.
Nat is just Natalie in pants. The person he likes is
you
.

Deep down, though, I’m not so sure.

Chapter Fifteen

T
hursday morning I wake to the sound of Darcy’s personalized ringtone—“Super Freak,” at her insistence. The frantic, tinny rhythm slowly infiltrates my brain, a crew of disco inferno elves hacking at my skull with tiny pickaxes.

I force my eyes open with great effort. The first thing I see is Emilio sprawled beautifully across the crisp white sheets, his broad brown back half illuminated by the spill of amber light slipping through the curtains. Again with extreme effort, I tear my gaze away from that delicious sight and manage to locate my cell on the nightstand.

Rolling over to face the wall, I whisper into the phone, “This better be good.”

“Where were you last night?” Darcy cries about four decibels louder than I can bear. “Why didn’t you meet us after rehearsal?”

Still half asleep, I tumble out of bed, shuffle across the floor, and shut myself into the small closet Emilio and I share. “I didn’t know where to meet you. The prop closet hardly seems safe now.”

I can hear her saying something to someone else, then, “Chloe says you’re paranoid. Did Josh say anything about the other night?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh my God! What did he say?”

I rub my forehead. “I got like four hours of sleep last night. Think you might stop screaming at me?”

She takes no notice. “Tell us!”

“Okay, okay!” God, girls are so demanding. “Josh and his friends think I’m a total player now.”

“Seriously?” She reports to Chloe, then returns to me, laughing and breathless. “That’s too precious! How’s the facial hair working out?”

I touch my cheek. Hmm, not so sure the swim last night did my stubble any favors. “Actually, ask Chloe how to touch it up if—”

Suddenly the door swings open and light pours in. I squint up at Emilio, who stares down at me with a bemused little grin.

Quickly, I cough and force my voice into a more masculine register. “I’ll figure something out.”

Darcy pauses a second, then bursts into maniacal laughter. “You’re getting pretty good at that.”

“Yeah, I can’t talk now. See you later.” I end the call and stand up, hunching over so my boobs won’t show in my oversized T-shirt. It got too hot for the hoodie last night. “Morning.”

“What the hell are you doing in the closet?”

I shrug. “Didn’t want to wake you.”

He’s wearing just his boxers again. I can make out the subtle etchings of a pillow pattern on the side of his face. Somehow it makes him even sexier. As I walk past him my arm accidentally brushes his; electricity sparks across my skin. I pretend not to notice and keep walking, even though I desperately want to look for signs in his face that he felt it too.

“I’m awake.” I think I can detect the slightest huskiness to his voice.

Does he sense it—this crackling energy between us? If so, what does he make of it? If he’s attracted to me as Nat, does that make him gay? God, the whole thing is so confusing. My groggy, pre-coffee brain struggles to keep up.

“Everything cool?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“You reporting back to the mother ship?”

“Just some girl I know.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Should I tell Erica you’re taken?”

“She’s a friend.”

“Uh-huh. So you’re not planning to ‘tap that ass,’ as you put it?”

I shrug. “Not in the immediate future, anyway.”

He chuckles, then stops abruptly. He peers at my face, leaning toward me slightly. I’m overcome by self-consciousness about my morning breath. My God, is he going to kiss me? Is this seriously happening? His hand moves in slow motion toward my cheek. His fingers extend, floating closer, a look of concentration in his eyes. I lick my lips, hoping they’re moist and kissable; my eyes flutter closed. I pucker up, heart pounding . . .

“Dude, what’s up with your face?”

My eyes fly open. “What?”

“Your skin—it looks, like, waxy or something.”

My face burns, probably turning the attractive hue of a rotten tomato. Both of my hands fly to my cheeks, covering as much as I can. Without answering his question, I dash to the mirror hanging on the back of the closet door.
Scheisse!
The water from last night’s swim has rendered my five o’clock shadow a mess of waxy, flaking bits. The tiny hairs are bunched up in random spots like a cheap sweater that’s started to pill.

Panicked, I race down the hall to the bathroom. Disgusting odors fill the air; several guys are busy relieving themselves at the urinals. These details barely register, though, as I run to a sink, turn on the water full force and scrub at my face. Since I was in too big a hurry to grab a washcloth, I have to use the rough brown paper towels from the dispenser to get the remaining stoppelpaste off.

“Hey, Rodgers. Whattup?”

I turn and see Josh is one of the guys using a urinal. He jerks his head in greeting. I force my eyes away from what’s in his hand, flash an awkward smile, and go back to my scrubbing. Please, God, don’t let him notice the tiny clumps of hairy wax I’m frantically washing away.

“How’s the mack daddy today?”

“Fine,” I say, distracted.

I’ve almost got my face clean now. It’s distinctly less manly than it was yesterday, but at least I don’t look like a walking lint brush. A drawn-out farting noise comes from one of the stalls, followed by several plops. I cringe in disgust.

“Listen, want to hang at lunch? I got a couple things I want to ask you.”

Good Lord, Josh is still peeing! He must have a bladder the size of a beach ball. The guy could irrigate a small country! I can’t help staring, fascinated by the golden stream that continues to flow unabated.

“You okay?”

“Huh?” I shake my head, force myself to focus on his face. “Sorry, still waking up. What did you say?”

Finally, mercifully, he gives the trouser snake a little shake and tucks it into his boxers. “You free at lunch?”

“Uh, sure.”

“Cool.”

I examine my pink, freshly scrubbed face one last time in the mirror and hightail it for the door.

I sure hope this morning isn’t an omen of the day ahead. Nobody should be exposed to so many horrors before eight a.m.

At lunch, it’s a little awkward telling Tyler, Max, and Earl that I won’t be sitting with them today. Their faces cloud up when I stop by their table and, casually as I can, mention I’ve been summoned by Josh.

“It’s no big deal,” I add with forced insouciance. “He just wants to ask me something.”

Tyler shrugs, matching my tone. “Whatever.”

Max mumbles something under his breath.

“What?” I ask him, leaning a little closer.

“I see how it is. Too good for us now.” He stares at his turkey sandwich, refusing to meet my eye.

I’m a little surprised to realize just how eager I am to prove him wrong. When I first got here, I considered these guys social barnacles I had to pry off if I wanted to get in with the crowd that mattered. Now, strangely enough, I find myself actually caring about what they think; in fact, their opinion matters more to me than Josh’s. I wonder when
that
happened.

Natalie wouldn’t even think twice about a handful of pimply misfits. She’d follow her hormones straight to the hotties. Nat’s a different story. Still, the fact remains that I’m here to get answers, and my little geek-boy trio here can’t provide me with much when the only girl they know anything about is Lara Croft.

“I’ll be right back.” I try without success to get them to look at me. They all feign fascination with their food.

Frustrated, I take my tray to Josh’s table, where the buzz and banter instantly hushes and I’m greeted by silent, knowing nods. They’re still looking at me like I’m some sort of god. It’s amazing what a little
ménage à trois
action in the prop closet will do for a guy’s credibility. Needless to say, it wouldn’t have the same effect on a girl’s rep.

I walk over to Josh, trying not to blush when I consider what they’re all picturing. The guy next to Josh scoots over instantly, making room. I set my tray down and have a seat while Josh slaps me on the back.

“Natman, what’s happening?”

“Nothing much. You wanted to see me?”

He nods, chewing his sandwich and regarding me thoughtfully. The way his jaw works in slow, determined circles reminds me of a cow. I thought he was so cute when I first saw him at the mall; now that I know him better he’s a lot less attractive. It’s weird how seeing someone like Josh through a guy’s eyes changes everything. I’m not so blinded by his perfect skin or his athletic build. Now he just looks like a self-satisfied prick with a mammoth ego.

“What do you think of Underwood? You like it here?”

I nod, wondering where he’s going with this. “It’s great.”

“You moved here from out of town, right?”

I nod again, taking a bite of my coleslaw. The guys around us have resumed their conversations, but they shoot us covert glances now and then.

“So, uh, how do you know Darcy and Chloe, if you don’t mind me asking?” He frowns, waiting for my answer.

“I . . . met them through my . . . cousin.”

“Your cousin?”

“Yeah.” Man, this cousin of mine sure does get around. “She’s friends with them.”

Josh leans back in his chair, folds his hands behind his head. “Look, I’m not sure how to ask this, so I’m just going to say it straight out. Are you like
with
Chloe, or was that just a one-time thing?” When I don’t answer right away he jumps in to elaborate. “Not that it’s any of my business. It’s just, you know, I think she’s kind of hot, and I’ve been working on her for a while now, so I’m just wondering—”

“Working on her?” I stare at him.

“You know . . .” He looks slightly uncomfortable. “Getting to know her. Greasing the wheels, so to speak.”

I’m not sure what sort of look I give him, but it must convey disapproval because he jumps in again, eager to clarify. “I haven’t touched her, dude, I swear. If she’s yours, tell me and I’ll back off. But I figure not many guys get it on with their actual girlfriend and her best friend, so maybe you’re not, you know, into her . . . like that.”

“You want permission to move in on Chloe?”

His smile tells me I’m testing his patience. “Permission? Not exactly. I just want to know the score.”

My mind is a mosh pit of clashing impulses. Chloe likes Josh, so I should give him the answer he wants. If I imply I’ve got some sort of claim on her, that would be working against her best interests.

On the other hand, just sitting next to this guy makes me feel slimed. His flashing blue eyes, perfect complexion, and silky smooth voice all make me inexplicably queasy.

Still, it’s not me who has to like him. It’s Chloe. Is it my place to interfere when she’s into him?

Then again, she doesn’t know him like I do. All she sees is Mr. Suave, the same guy I’d see if I was a girl. Naturally, I
am
a girl, but—anyway. Shouldn’t I use my inside knowledge to help my friend? Isn’t that part of why I’m here in the first place—to enlighten girlkind?

This is getting incredibly confusing.

“So you really like her?” I study him carefully.

“She’s hot.”

“But do you
like
her?”

He jerks his head back, his face creasing with alarm. “I don’t know.”

“Look, I’m only asking because she’s kind of a friend and I don’t want to see her get hurt.”

He rips off two-thirds of his sandwich with his teeth and says between chews, “A friend? I guess! The scene in that closet sure looked friendly enough.”

“You still haven’t answered my question.”

He glances around, bored. “I’m not looking for a girlfriend. She just seems like a good time.”

“Uh-huh.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You can still do whatever you want with her—I just want to borrow her for a night or two.”