Babe in Boyland (17 page)

Chapter Eighteen

E
milio gets back to the dorm minutes before curfew. I’ve had almost an hour to cook up an excuse for bolting; I’ve even rehearsed it in front of the mirror a couple times, trying to strike just the right balance between explaining and groveling.

I’m sitting on the bed with my cell at the ready; as soon as I hear his footsteps in the hall I snatch it up. He lets himself in and I glance up, trying to look distracted, as if I’m thoroughly embroiled in a heated discussion that’s been going on way too long.

“No, Mom . . . I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can make it to the funeral.... It’s such short notice, that’s why. . . . Well, I think Aunt Marsha will understand, don’t you? It’s almost midterms. I can’t just fly to Chicago tomorrow! I’ve got class.”

I risk a peek at Emilio. He’s taking off his shoes. I can’t read his expression.

“Okay. I love you too, Mom. Bye.” I put the phone down and force the air from my lungs, hoping to sound depleted and mildly depressed. “Sorry I had to bail on you guys so abruptly. My uncle died. Mom called to tell me while I was hanging with Erica.”

Emilio looks up. “Really?”

“Yeah. Terrible. He’s been sick for a while, but nobody thought he’d go this soon.”

He appears to mull this over as he peels off his shirt. God, does he have to do that right this second? I need all my concentration to keep my lies straight. He’s merciless, though. Completely oblivious to my squelched whimpers, he unbuttons his jeans and lets them drop to the floor. Burgundy boxers hang loose on his hips. His body couldn’t be more divine.

“That’s weird,” he says.

“Mm?” I tear my eyes away from his rippling abs.

“Erica said nobody called while you were at the café.”

“Called? Did I say called? I meant texted.”

“She said you never even looked at your phone.” It’s not like he’s accusing me, exactly—in fact, I can tell he wants me to offer up an explanation he can believe. Still, he’s not going to buy some trumped-up excuse that’s obviously just that—an excuse. I don’t blame him.

All at once I’m so exhausted by my lies. It feels like they’re stones piled on top of me, a tremendous weight rendering me immobile. I long to fling them all off, send them flying in every direction. I could just blurt it out right now: Emilio, I’m a girl.

I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.

“If you don’t like her, it’s okay,” he says, running a hand over his face.

“Who?”

“Erica! Come on, man, what’s wrong with you?”

“She’s nice. Really,” I say weakly.

“So why are you feeding me this bullshit about your dead uncle?”

Our eyes meet and lock. The muscle in his jaw pulses.

“Emilio,” I say in a low, steady voice, “there are certain things I can’t tell you right now. I want to, but I can’t.”

“Like what?”

I groan in frustration. “You’re right, okay? I don’t have a dead uncle. Sorry if I hurt Erica’s feelings. I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“So don’t then.”

“It’s not as simple as that.”

“You totally ditched her. It was rude, man.” His eyes blaze.

“I know, but you’ve got to trust me when I tell you I had no other choice. I’m not going to lie to you—”

“You already did.”

I sigh. “I’m not going to lie to you again. I had to leave right that second, and I had a good reason, but I can’t tell you what it was.”

He stalks around the room for a moment, clearly angry but trying not to be. His hands are shoved deep into his pockets. Finally, he stops at the foot of my bed, studies me, and says, “Okay. You had your reasons. Fine.”

“Whatever happens, I want you to know I really like you. You’re a great friend. Seriously. Okay? Will you keep that in mind?”

He sits on his bed, regarding me warily. After a long silence he says, “You okay?”

I collapse back into my pillow. “It’s just been one of those days. I’ll call Erica tomorrow and tell her I’m sorry.”

“She’s not doing too great right now, what with Julio and all that.”

“Yeah. Shit. Sorry.”

He doesn’t respond; he just crawls under the covers. After a moment I do the same. We turn out the bedside light and stare at the ceiling, neither of us speaking. I think about how understanding he’s being, despite my bizarre, erratic behavior. In contrast, I wonder what it’ll take to patch things up with Chloe. I ask myself why everyone seems mad at me today. Then I think about all the ways I screwed things up in the last twenty-four hours, despite my best intentions, and that pretty much answers my question.

I’m just starting to fall into that state between waking and sleeping. The world behind my eyelids is slowly sucking me in, sparks dancing in abstract, pre-dream shapes like a moving Kandinsky. I’m yanked back to reality when a shrill beeping explodes on the bedside table. Assuming it’s my cell phone, I reach for it instinctively. Instead of finding my phone, though, I feel warm flesh—aaagh! The light flicks on and I see Emilio’s hand groping for his cell. He picks it up and studies the screen, rubbing his eyes.

“No way.” He sits up in bed, his bare chest erupting out of the crisp white sheets.

“What is it?”

“Scheisse.”

Oh, wow. He used my signature curse. I must be rubbing off on him a little. The idea fills my heart with molten happiness. I blink at him sleepily, unable to wipe the goofy grin off my face.

“What happened?” I ask.

“It’s Summer.”

That gets rid of the grin instantly.

“What a mess.” He’s texting, his face creased with concentration. “She’s got an audition tomorrow in LA.”

“But you guys open tomorrow.” I sit up, hugging my knees.

“I know! And the audition’s at four o’clock. There’s no way she can get back in time.”

“She can’t do that! She doesn’t even have an understudy, does she?”

He shakes his head, still texting. “Nope.”

We’re silent for a moment while he sends another missive. Almost instantly, he gets a reply. “She says her agent’s making her go. It’s for a huge movie and the role’s perfect for her. She’d be playing Sarah Jessica Parker’s daughter.”

“But then you guys are totally screwed.”

Another pause as several texts fly back and forth between them. Finally, he puts it back on the nightstand, shaking his head. “She’s leaving first thing in the morning.”

“That’s horrible!”

“‘Can’t pass up the opportunity.’” The way he says it, I can tell he’s quoting her.

“Still . . .”

“We’ll have to cancel the opening.” He looks dazed. “My mom was going to come up. She’s got her tickets already—and only one night off work.”

“Oh my God!” In my distress, my voice creeps up to a much girlier register. He shoots me a look. I force it back down. “Dude! That sucks.”

Wheels inside my brain are turning. I know the role of Cecily. Of course I do! I know it so well it’s practically encoded in my DNA. I’m not familiar with Mr. Pratt’s blocking, but I’m usually pretty good at intuiting that stuff, and with a little coaching I could stumble through. But wouldn’t that be risky? Would costuming and makeup be enough to keep the guys from recognizing me? Maybe, maybe not. It would only be one night, though. And anyway, tomorrow’s my last day at Underwood. The story’s due Monday. Even if they recognize me, it will be too late to interfere; my research will be complete. I sneak a peek at Emilio, who is staring into space, a forlorn expression on his beautiful face.

I take a deep breath. “I might have an idea.”

He turns his head toward me listlessly. “What?”

“Well, remember that cousin I mentioned?”

“Yeah . . .”

“She . . . um . . . she knows the role. Really well. She learned it as an understudy once.”

“For real?”

I nod. “At Mountain View High. She still knows it, I bet.”

“Yeah?” He considers. “She any good?”

“Hell yeah.”

“No offense—I’m just asking.”

“She’s ten times better than Summer Sheers,” I say, “that’s for sure.”

He thinks for a moment. “What’s her name?”

I swallow. “Natalie Rowan.”

“She was Summer’s understudy, right?”

I nod.

“Summer mentioned her. Said she’s pretty bad.”

“Really?”

“Said she’s kind of a prima donna too—hard to work with.”

“Oh yeah?” I say through clenched teeth. “What else did she say?”

“Don’t remember. I just got the idea they don’t get along.”

“Right.”

“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re about to tear my head off. I didn’t say it, Summer did.”

I take several deep breaths and force a smile. “Anyway, the point is, Natalie can do this role.”

He sits up straighter. “You really think she would?”

“Tell you the truth, she doesn’t like Summer much either. I think she’d enjoy the chance to prove what she can do.”

“Awesome. Should I text Mr. Pratt? Oh, no, I guess you better check with her first, right?”

I nod. “Good idea.”

I pick up my cell and call Darcy.

When she answers she says, “I’m working on Chloe, but she’s still a little pissy.”

“Hi
Natalie,
” I say pointedly.

“What? Are you going crazy or something?”

“This is
Nat.
”

She says, “Oh, I get it. You’re with someone?”

“Yeah, I’m here with Emilio, my roommate, and he tells me Summer Sheers just bailed on opening night for
The Importance of Being Earnest
.”

“No way!” she shrieks. “Is this for real?”

“That’s right. So I told him my
cousin, Natalie,
can do the role of Cecily in her sleep.”

“Oh my God! Seriously? You’re going to do it? That’s crazy!”

“But you’ll probably need some help from your friends Darcy and Chloe with hair and makeup.” I look over at Emilio, who wears a worried frown.

“Hair and makeup?” he whispers. “Why, is she disgusting? Summer said she’s pretty manky.”

I shoot him an annoyed look. “No, she’s not ‘manky.’ Summer’s just jealous.”

“This is so exciting!” Darcy squeals. “Terrifying, but cool. What happened to Summer?”

“Audition in LA.”

“Beeatch!” Darcy proclaims.

“Exactly. Anyway,
Natalie
, do you think you can get
Darcy and Chloe
to help out, or are they still pissed at you?”

“Hey, I was never pissed,” she says, indignant. “And this’ll be just the thing to snap Chloe out of it. You know she can’t resist a makeover.”

“Okay, great. Tomorrow, right after school, can you meet them in the girls’ dressing room?”

“Right on,” she says. “See you then.”

I put the phone down and grin at Emilio.

“She’ll do it?” he asks.

“Oh, yeah,” I say. “She’ll do it. You can text Mr. Pratt now if you want.”

He picks up his phone and starts texting. After just a few seconds, though, he pauses to look at me appraisingly. “What’s she like?”

My heart flutters wildly, but I try my best to exude confidence. “You’re going to love her. Trust me.”

Chapter Nineteen

“
O
kay, look,” Chloe says the next afternoon in the girls’ dressing room. “I’m trying not to be mad.”

“I appreciate that.”

Her eyes widen. She’s not prepared for this softer, kinder me. Historically, fights between Chloe and me tend to be rare but epic. We both have terrible tempers and colossal abilities to hold grudges. That usually leaves poor Darcy working overtime like a frenetic Switzerland, trying to help mend the rifts between us superpowers. It’s a slightly dysfunctional triangle, but familiar.

Now, though, I’m tinkering with the ancient balance of our friendship by giving in right away. Her astonished expression tells me I’ve got the advantage of surprise, so I press that.

“I never should have messed with you and Josh.” I squeeze her shoulder. “If you don’t want to listen to my impressions of him, you shouldn’t have to.”

She looks suspicious. “You did more than share your
impressions.
”

“You’re right. I totally interfered. That was wrong of me. I’m sorry.”

Chloe cuts her eyes to Darcy, as if asking her to vouch for my sincerity.

Darcy beams at her and pats me on the back. “I think it’s great she’s admitting she screwed up. Especially since she was only trying to do the right thing, right Natalie?”

“It’s true,” I tell Chloe. “I thought I was helping, for real.”

She just looks from Darcy to me for a long moment, mystified by this radical new approach. “Fine,” she says at last. “Let’s get to work. It’s going to take a lot to make you into a convincing girl.”

“Don’t push it,” I warn.

She tousles my hair. “Just kidding. Give me an hour; you’ll be so gorgeous, you won’t know what hit you.”

If this was a movie, now would be the time to cue the montage. It would be a cross between the
Princess Diaries
makeover and the
Rocky
training sequence: me removing my stubble; Chloe applying these intricate, very realistic false eyelashes; Darcy altering Summer’s costume to fit me; me hamming it up in a shiny black wig Chloe stole from Mountain View High’s costume shop; the two of them frantically showing me the blocking. Underneath it all you’d hear a soundtrack with a driving, slightly manic beat by some hip girl singer, thus infusing the images with feel-good emotions as light and sweet as cotton candy.

Let me tell you, the montage is there because the reality is incredibly tedious. It takes hours of painstaking work and squishes it down into forty seconds of frothy fun. My afternoon has been hell. I’ve subjected myself to more primping, cramming, and correcting than anyone in the history of high school theater. It’s an Oscar Wilde triathlon, requiring enormous patience and endurance. By the time we get to the actual performance, I’ll be too exhausted to stand, let alone deliver lines.

Chloe and Darcy have gone to great lengths to ensure the boys will never recognize me as Nat. They’ve made me way girlier than Natalie ever was. I’m wearing a long wig a couple shades darker than my natural hair color. My makeup is flawlessly applied; my eyes look huge and doe-like, my cheeks a delicate pink, my complexion smooth and creamy as ivory, my lips full and lush. My costume is surprisingly flattering: high, stiff collar, a body-hugging waistline that makes the most of my limited curves, a snug little jacket, all of it in a pale violet that looks great with my dark hair and eyes. If I screw up every cue and get the blocking ass-backwards, at least I’ll look good while I’m doing it.

Though the afternoon is grueling, I have to admit it feels fantastic being a girl again. Getting gorgeous via Chloe and Darcy’s labor-intensive ministrations is kind of like going on a chocolate binge after weeks of subsisting on saltines. Cecily is an über-femme character, so every minute spent rehearsing that role means letting my softest, pinkest self come shining through. I let my voice climb soprano-high, let my laughter trill coquettishly. I flutter my lashes and indulge in coy, ladylike hand gestures. It’s so unexpectedly liberating to exaggerate every womanly instinct rather than tamping them all down. I never really appreciated how great it is being a girl—how much more we can get away with. I feel unbound, expansive, free; who ever would have guessed that playing a Victorian debutante could be so weirdly therapeutic?

At five we’re almost done with my eyelash touchup when Emilio sends me a text. I read it while Chloe continues to meticulously apply one little clump of lashes at a time—a much more difficult process than the Halloween costume variety, but (she assures me) infinitely more realistic.

Tried to find you but you’ve disappeared. Hate to ask, but can you take Erica to the play tonight and the party after? She’s bummed about last night.

“Shit! I forgot to call Emilio’s sister!”

“Move and I’ll murder you,” Chloe warns, staring at my eyelid with the concentration of a brain surgeon.

“How did that go, anyway?” Darcy’s at my feet, hemming my dress.

“Total disaster.”

“Really? Why?” She speaks with only half her mouth, since the other half is occupied with pins.

“Tell you later. Right now I have to deal with Emilio.”

I type:
Can’t take her to the play, but I can meet her at the party.

Before I hit SEND, though, I ask, “Can you guys turn me back into Nat after the show, before the party?”

“Why?” Chloe wrinkles her nose. “Don’t you want to go as a girl?”

“Emilio wants me to take his sister, which means good-bye Natalie, hello Nat.”

“What? Like you do everything he says?”

I sigh. “I know. It’s pathetic, but for some reason I can’t say no to him. Can you fix me in time to get to the party?”

Darcy looks thoughtful. “I think it’s a good idea, actually. In costume and with all this makeup, none of the guys will recognize you, but if you go to the party as Natalie they’ll probably figure it out. We’ll be fashionably late.”

“Okay,” Chloe breathes. “Man, the things I do for you.”

I hit SEND. Darcy’s right; it’s too risky showing up at the party as myself. Going as Nat might allow me some form of good-bye with Emilio, however convoluted and awkward. My nose prickles the way it does before I start to cry. The thought of seeing Emilio for the last time makes me feel like I’m standing at the edge of a cliff, staring into the dizzy abyss below.

“Christ, you’re not going to cry, are you?” Chloe asks in alarm. “You’ll ruin your makeup, and then I’ll have to kill you.”

I swallow the lump in my throat. “No. I’m fine.”

Darcy looks up at me, takes the pins from her mouth. “You really do like him, huh?”

Before I can answer, a text comes through from Emilio. I hit READ
.

Thanks, man. You’re the best.

It takes an iron will to hold the tears back, but I manage. Chloe’s being quite literal when she promises to murder me if I shed even one.

Mr. Pratt paces the stage with glazed eyes, looking vaguely crazed and distinctly sleep-deprived. His bleached blond hair stands up at unnatural angles and his skin has an unhealthy sheen.

It’s six o’clock; the show starts at eight. We’re going to run through my scenes as quickly as possible, focusing on the blocking. I’m standing in the wings, having dashed to the bathroom for a quick pee—nerves reduce my bladder to the size of a lima bean. The other members of the cast are assembled onstage, waiting. Darcy and Chloe sit on the couch, Emilio stands by the fireplace stage right, Josh sits in a high-backed chair sneaking furtive glances at Chloe. Ms. Honaker, who plays Miss Prism, my governess, stands primly near Josh’s chair. Max, Earl, and Tyler sit on the floor stage left. I know we’ve got very little time to get this right, but still I hesitate, terrified someone will recognize me. Nobody else is in costume yet, but I’m fully decked out; we’re counting on the elaborate stage makeup, wig, and Victorian garb to make it impossible for anyone to realize I’m Nat.

Mr. Pratt looks at his watch. “As you all know, Summer got called away for an audition at the last possible moment.”

“Ditched us,” Josh mutters.

“Yes, well, be that as it may, we have very fortunately secured a replacement for her tonight, Natalie . . . ?” He looks at Darcy and Chloe.

“Rowan,” Darcy supplies.

“Natalie Rowan, who knows the part well and will join us any second. Since I’m playing Reverend Chasuble I can’t be on book, but Earl has generously offered to provide prompts from the booth in case anyone gets stuck.”

I summon all my courage, stand tall, and make my entrance.

Mr. Pratt turns to me. For a fraction of a second, I think I detect a flicker of recognition in his bloodshot eyes, but then I see only relief.

“Here she is now! Natalie Rowan, our savior.”

I walk to Mr. Pratt’s side, keeping my eyes on him. Then I turn and survey the cast, heart racing. Ms. Honaker beams at me. Darcy winks. Chloe smirks. Josh lowers his chin and gives me a long, appreciative once-over. Earl and Tyler stare at me slack-jawed, while Max wears a tight little smile.

Finally, I let myself look at Emilio. He drinks me in with his dark, shining eyes. His expression is carefully guarded. It’s like peering through a window in bright sunlight; I can sense movement, but the glare keeps it too opaque to reveal any details.

“Hey, everyone.” I use my natural voice. “I know this isn’t ideal, but I’ll do my best to help out.”

Mr. Pratt puts a hand on my shoulder. I swear there’s a knowing sparkle in his eyes, and my breath catches. Oh, God, he’s going to out me right here, right now. Once again, though, the expression gives way seamlessly to pure gratitude.

“Excellent.” He removes his hand from my shoulder and rakes it through his disheveled hair. “We’ve got lots of work to do, folks. Let’s get started.”