Babe in Boyland (18 page)

Chapter Twenty

“
Y
ou’re amazing.” Darcy’s gloved hand squeezes mine tightly just before I go onstage for the second time. “So much better than stupid old Summer Sheers.”

“Is my makeup okay?”

She studies me a moment in the dimly lit wings. “Perfect.”

This is my big proposal scene with Emilio’s character, Algernon. So far, the show’s run so smoothly it’s almost scary. Just before I went on for the first time I thought my heart might explode, it was beating so recklessly; as soon as I felt the heat of the stage lights on my face and heard my voice saying my first line, though, I knew I could do it. It was like my whole body filled with helium. I became instantly buoyant, invincible. Every line popped right out of my mouth before my brain could get in the way.

“Knock ’em dead,” Darcy says, giving me a little push.

I step out onstage, my heart rate accelerating once again. My stomach feels like it’s inhabited by a litter of newborn kittens. Before I know it, though, I’m saying my lines, and Emilio’s answering, and we’re cutting through the dialogue like a sailboat slicing across the open water. The audience loves us; I can feel them hanging on our every word.

I know what’s coming, though. It’s like the roar of a waterfall getting louder and louder, pulling us toward it, drawing us in. The kiss. The one bit of blocking we didn’t rehearse this afternoon.

“What a perfect angel you are, Cecily.” Emilio kneels before me, his eyes searching my face.

“You dear romantic boy.”

That’s his cue. He stares at me, his face filled with both fear and wonder, like a child watching a lightning storm. I lick my lips. A trickle of perspiration slides down the back of my neck. Everything’s in slow motion. My senses are so heightened, I can smell our makeup, our sweat, the waxy-clean scent of the recently mopped stage. Our bodies seem to be connected by an intricate net of electric impulses, crackling threads pulling tighter as our faces inch closer, our lips almost touching now. Finally, after what seems like hours but must be seconds, our mouths meet. His lips are unbelievably soft and warm. Behind my closed lids I see explosions: fireworks unfurl slowly against a tangerine sky. I lose all sense of the world beyond the crush of his mouth on mine, the melding of our tongues, the pressure of his hand on the back of my head, pulling me in to deepen the kiss.

I have no idea how long we linger there, getting drunk off each other. The moment hangs suspended, weightless. Then someone in the audience sneezes and my awareness snaps back to the stage. He seems to regain consciousness simultaneously and reluctantly we pull apart.

I’m dizzy. Opening my eyes, his expression reflects my own dreamy surprise.

As Mr. Pratt instructed, I run my fingers through his short, dark hair. “I hope your hair curls naturally, does it?” The line doesn’t make a lot of sense, since his hair is way too short to curl, but the audience doesn’t seem to mind.

“Yes, darling.” His voice is husky. He clears his throat. “With a little help from others.”

After the curtain call, backstage, everyone is cranked. We all hug and laugh and scream with such self-congratulatory jubilance you’d think we just launched a space shuttle or cured cancer or something.

Mr. Pratt wraps me in a bear hug so tight I can barely breathe. “You saved us, you brilliant girl!”

“Ah, it was nothing.”

“Nothing? It was amazing! You didn’t flub a single line. I have half a mind to drop little Blondezilla and put you in for the run of the show.”

“Thanks,” I say sincerely. “That means a lot to me. You’re a great teacher, by the way.”

He stops short. His eyebrow, several shades darker than his platinum hair, quirks sardonically. The chaotic hoots and spastic laughter of the cast and crew continues unabated all around us.

“A great teacher, huh?” he repeats slowly.

Scheisse!
My hand nearly flies to my mouth when I realize my mistake, but I manage to halt the motion just in time.

“How would you know?” he asks, narrowing his eyes.

“Of course you’re a great teacher—everyone says so. I’m sure it’s true. And you taught me the blocking so easily. You’re obviously really good at explaining things. I wish I could go to Underwood! I’d love to take your class,” I babble.

“I bet you would.” He nods, a mysterious smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Chloe and Darcy pounce on us then, their hats torn from their heads and their faces flushed with triumph. They engulf me in a fierce hug. Over their shoulders, though, I can see Mr. Pratt backing away, wearing a crafty, knowing expression that makes me nervous.

“You kicked ass!” Chloe says. “And man, those eyelashes still look awesome, even though you sweated like a sumo wrestler.”

“Shut up,” I laugh.

Darcy leans in closer and says in a conspiratorial tone, “That kiss in Act Two?! Holy shit. I thought you guys might set off the fire alarm!”

“No kidding.” Chloe fans her face with her hands. “Mama mia, get a room!”

I squeal with delight in spite of myself. Remembering the fragile perfection of that moment obliterates any worries about Mr. Pratt or his suspicions. Somehow, hearing my friends say out loud what I know in my bones gives me hope. It’s the best sort of validation. Emilio and I have chemistry. We have spine-tingling, toe-curling
je ne sais quoi
. Everyone in this whole theater felt it; does it get any more real than that? We became friends as guys, yes, but can’t soul mates overcome even that? Doesn’t a kiss that perfect deserve an encore?

“Don’t look now,” Darcy breathes, “Algernon incoming.”

Of course I jerk around like a spaz and find myself nose to nose with Emilio. Heat spreads across my cheeks. Chloe and Darcy giggle and stumble away from us, holding each other up like a couple of drunks.

“Hey,” Emilio says.

“Hey,” I echo. Brilliant, Natalie. Such a scintillating conversationalist.

“Good work out there. You put the rest of us to shame.”

I shake my head. “No! You were fantastic.”

“I, um . . .” He looks at his shoes, looks up at me, looks at his shoes again. “I really loved working with you. It was so fun.”

“Yeah. Me too.” I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. It’s a total rush being a girl with him! I can’t believe I’m finally allowed to flirt. At the same time, it feels so weird starting over as strangers when I already know him so well. I’m afraid if I open my mouth, something Nat knows but Natalie doesn’t will fly out, incriminating me, like with Mr. Pratt.

Emilio shrugs. “Anyway, I just wanted to tell you what a great job you did.”

“Thanks.” I ransack the contents inside my head, searching for some way to prolong this conversation, but come up empty-handed. This could be my last chance to be a girl with him! Yet here I am, struck with a deeply inconvenient case of brain-freeze.

“You going to Josh’s party?”

I frown. “Wish I could . . .”

“Oh, man! You’ve got to go. You’re the guest of honor.”

“I really can’t.”

“Why not?”

Because I’ve got a date with your sister
.

“Previous obligations,” I say vaguely.

It’s both gratifying and heartbreaking to see how disappointed he looks. “Okay. Well, I guess I’ll see you around. Thanks for saving the day.”

Before I can think up a response he’s turned and slipped into the crowd. I watch him go, feeling elated and crushed and confused all at once—a swirl of contradictory emotions so intense it takes my breath away.

Chloe and Darcy materialize once again at my side.

“He didn’t recognize you, did he?” Darcy cranes her neck to catch a glimpse of him through the throng. Parents and friends from the audience have streamed into the greenroom, adding to the chaos with flashing cameras, exuberant hugs, and cellophane-wrapped bouquets.

“No,” I say, “nothing like that.”

Chloe blows her hair out of her eyes, annoyed. “Well, what did he say?”

“Nothing much.” I flash a brave smile, trying to shake the melancholy threatening to kill my post-show buzz. “Come on. Let’s turn me into Nat one last time. After tonight, I’m going to be all girl all the time.”

Getting back into Nat mode feels like putting on a sopping wet, too-tight pair of pants. Everything about it chafes and irritates.

Before Underwood I’d always assumed guys enjoyed more liberties than I did. They can get away with so much more, like walking alone late at night, sitting with their knees splayed wide, hocking up a loogie in public. So many of the issues girls agonize over don’t seem to register with them—gaining five pounds or being called a slut or waking up with disastrous hair. I assumed being Nat would be a mini-vacation from all those worries and restrictions. I had vague notions that being a guy would mean stretching out in first class when I’m used to suffering through the cramped indignities of coach.

The reality? Going from being a girl to being a guy means amputating huge parts of myself. I’ve had to tamp down my instincts over and over again: Don’t squeal, cry, or emote in any way; don’t touch people or express interest in their welfare; do not, under any circumstances, be vulnerable. Of course, any time you’re trying to act like someone you’re not it’s bound to be awkward, so I doubt being male feels this claustrophobic to actual guys. Knowing that does nothing to assuage my reluctance about jamming myself into the Nat Rodgers personae one last time.

“Are you sure you did the stoppelpaste right?” I sound peevish, even to myself, but I can’t help it. “My jaw itches.”

Chloe’s makeup brush freezes in midair. She gives me a hard look. “I’ve spent all afternoon fixing your face, okay? I believe ‘thank you God for saving my ass’ is the correct response.”

“Sorry. I’m just a little depressed.”

Darcy is perched on the bathroom counter, flossing her teeth. “Depressed? That’s crazy. You should be stoked.”

“I guess.” My voice is flat, listless.

“You did it, Natalie!” Darcy insists. “You did everything you set out to do and more.”

I sigh. “What did I really accomplish? I have no real answers for my article. I’m not sure I understand guys any more than I did before all this. In the meantime, though, I’ve totally fallen for Emilio, who’ll be pissed if he finds out I lied to him. And now Erica’s involved—what will she say when she learns she’s been crushing on a girl? What will Tyler, Max, and Earl think when they realize they’ve been had?” I fold my arms across my chest. “All I really did is tangle myself in lies. I’m hurting people I care about, for what? An article I probably won’t even write.”

Chloe puts her makeup brush down and fixes me with an inscrutable stare.

“What?” I challenge. “It’s true.”

She looks at the ceiling a moment, gathering her thoughts. “I’m only going to say this once, okay, so listen up. In the past week you’ve done more walking the walk than anyone I know. Yes, maybe this whole stunt’s been crazy and misguided—so was doing this show with only a couple hours of rehearsal—but you tackled both, and you pulled it all off. Darcy and I look up to you, okay? You’ve totally proven just how bad-ass you can be.”

Darcy jumps off the counter and hugs me. “She’s right. You’re amazing. We love you.”