Babe in Boyland (3 page)

“Forget that. It was stupid.” I flash what I hope is an alluring smile and lean forward. “What do you
really
look for in a girl?”

His eyes dart toward my cleavage, which is pretty minimal, though the top I’m wearing makes the most of what I’ve got. “Uh, look for?”

“Yeah. Honestly. What do you find most attractive?”

The goofy, slightly buzzed grin he wore earlier returns. He looks at my hair. “I like brunettes. A lot. You’ve got great hair. It’s so long and . . . shiny.”

“Thanks. What else?”

He swallows. “I like a girl with long legs. Like yours. You ever think about modeling? You can make serious bank—”

“What about . . . you know . . . other qualities? Like personality-wise.”

He frowns in concentration. “Well, I don’t know you that well, but you seem really nice.”

“Tony!” I cry in frustration. “This isn’t about you and me or you and Jen, okay? It’s research! Can’t you just answer me honestly?”

He looks hurt for a second, then sudden understanding widens his eyes. “Ah, I see where you’re going with this . . .”

“Yeah? So you’ll be straight with me? No bullshit?”

“No bullshit.”

I scan my list of questions and blurt out the first one that catches my eye. “Is it true that guys think about sex every eight seconds?”

He puts a hand on my knee. “Around you, more like every second.”

“This isn’t working,” I say, pushing his hand off my leg.

“Natalie, you’re cute. I like you. What more do we need? This whole interview thing is just getting in the way. Why overthink it?” He leans forward, his lips moving in for the kill.

I jump to my feet. “Forget it!” I shove the recorder, notebook, and pen into my purse. “Forget I ever asked.”

I push through the crowd around the keg and head to the bathroom. I don’t really have to pee, but I need a moment to regroup after my disastrous first attempt at a serious interview. I close the door behind me and study my face in the mirror. Is there something about me that’s sending the wrong signals? Maybe I shouldn’t have worn this top.

I go to Darcy’s room and find a light gray cardigan to put on over my halter top. Then I try on a pair of reading glasses she keeps by the bed. I check out the effect in the mirror. The glasses make me dizzy if I look through the lenses, but if I peer over the top of the frames I’m fine. A little less kegger bimbo, a little more serious reporter. Why not? My first technique bombed miserably, so this time I’m going to be all business.

As I’m making my way through the shadowy yard toward the house, I spot Kevin Snodgrass toting a bag of garbage outside. He tosses it in the big gray bin, then looks down at it regretfully.

“What’s wrong?” My question makes him jump. “Sorry—didn’t mean to startle you. What are you looking at?”

“Oh, nothing. I just know there’s probably lots of recyclables in there. I should have sorted through it first.”

I don’t know whether to laugh or hug the poor guy; he’s so earnest and sincere. Is that why he’s also so unsexy, or is it the belted chinos? Maybe I should interview Kevin. Okay, so he’s not exactly on Mountain View High’s Most Desired list, but if anyone’s going to cut the games and give it to me straight, it’s him. I can start with pure-hearted, unsophisticated Kevin and work my way up to the sexier players once I’ve got my reporting chops down, right?

“Kevin, do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

He pushes his glasses up onto the bridge of his nose and blinks at me owlishly. “About what?”

“Well, I’m working on an article about the way guys think. Would you help me out with an interview?” I concentrate on keeping my tone completely straightforward—no flirtation, no nothing, just what-you-see-is-what-you-get.

“Is it for a class?”

“Journalism. You know, for the school paper.”

He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Natalie, I’d like to help you out, but I don’t think I can.”

“Why not?”

“If you quote me as an expert or something, Brent and those guys might hassle me even more than they do now.”

“Brent and those guys” translates as jocks. The kind of guys who are forever compelled to deposit the Kevin Snodgrasses of the world into garbage cans.

“It would be anonymous,” I assure him. “I totally respect your need for privacy.”

“Still, they might find out.” He’s already backing away from me. “Sorry.”

“Wait, can’t you just—?” But it’s too late. He’s already ducked inside.

Gawwwwd! What am I supposed to do? My potential sources either fear me or feel me up. All those guys who posted complaints about my cluelessness should witness this! Here I am, busting my butt to get a few measly insights, and you’d think I’m after classified information or something. I mean really, what the hell? Is being a guy so fascinating and controversial that they have to protect their trade secrets at any cost?

I hear the doorknob rattle on the back door before it flies open with extreme force. Chuck Hughes stumbles out, burping with such force it sounds painful. He zigzags unsteadily across the grass, obviously wasted. Chuck Hughes is always the super-trashed-puking-guy at every party. Ever since junior high, he’s ended up in someone’s bushes by midnight. Nobody ever invites him, but he’s got bionic party-sensing powers; he can sniff out a keg from a hundred miles away.

Okay, I
really
don’t feel like talking to Chuck Hughes, especially because of the potential puke factor, but watching him weave his way across the yard does give me an idea. Tony wouldn’t be straight with me because he had sex on the brain, and Kevin wouldn’t talk because he didn’t want to snitch. Maybe my best chance at honest dishing is with someone too inebriated to make a play or to fear the consequences.
In vino veritas,
right? So maybe in Budweiser there’s a little truth too.

“Hey, Chuck,” I call. “Come over here a second, will you?”

He stops his loopy waltz across the lawn and looks around, confused. “Huh?”

I walk up to him, eager to get this over with. If I wait for his damaged brain cells to locate me and command his legs to carry him in my direction, it could take hours.

“What’s up?” I’m going for home-girl casual this time.

“Natalie,” he says, stumbling over the syllables. “How you?”

“Not bad. Listen, I want to ask you something, okay?”

He makes a gun with his fingers. “Shoot.”

“What’s the surest way to tell the difference between a guy who’s being sincere and one who’s just looking to score?”

He sways unsteadily for a long moment, blank-faced.

I wait as long as I can stand to wait. “Chuck? Did you hear me?”

“Sorry, whaz the question?”

I repeat myself, enunciating so clearly I feel like an ESL teacher. Again, he just stands there, looking like a stunned bear in the moonlight. Finally he rubs his face. “Yeah. Okay. We’ll pretend this never happened.”

“Wait, what? It’s a question. Can’t you just answer it?” My tone has gone from home-girl to strained patient to totally irritated.

He points an accusing finger in my direction and bellows, “You trying to take advantage of me! Just because I’m wasted doesn’t mean I’m stupid!”

I throw my hands up. “Whatever!”

I storm back into the house, searching through one crowded room after another for Darcy or Chloe. I need a reality check here. What the hell am I doing wrong? What are these guys so scared of revealing? That’s when I feel a cool hand on my arm.

“Natalie! It is you. Didn’t recognize you at first in those glasses.”

I turn to see Summer Sheers and hastily take off the borrowed specs. She’s wearing a pink tube top, a short skirt, and her signature shoes: high-heeled pale brown Dolce & Gabbana boots. Her mounds of glossy blond hair are meant to look windblown and tousled but have obviously been meticulously arranged over her tan, luminous shoulders. Her lips are so coated in lip gloss it looks like she just polished off a whole tub of fried chicken.

“Hey, Summer.”

She smiles an innocent, sympathetic smile. “I didn’t know you had vision problems. That must be a drag.”

I shrug. “I was just trying them out. How’s the play going?”

Summer’s in
The Importance of Being Earnest
at the boys’ prep school just outside of town, Underwood Academy. Tons of girls from our school auditioned for only three roles; Darcy, Chloe, and Summer got cast. It’s a pretty rare opportunity to meet guys from Underwood, who are rumored to be cuter, smarter, and way more chivalrous than the losers at our school. I didn’t even try out. We did the same play last year at our high school, and I got stuck as Summer’s understudy. Despite learning every single line and fervently praying she’d get a bad case of dysentery, I never even got to perform. That’s when I decided to stop focusing on theater and start pouring more energy into my writing.

“Oh, it’s great!” she gushes. “I’m learning so much. It’s amazing how much more in depth you can go when you play the same role a second time. Plus the guys at Underwood are so hot! Why didn’t you audition? You already know all the lines.”

My stomach churns. “I knew you’d get it.”

She slaps my shoulder playfully. “Nuh-uh!”

“Obviously. You’re great in that role.”

I despise the rituals of fake friendship Summer and I enact whenever we meet. I wish we could just claw each other’s eyes out and call it a day; instead we put on huge, radiant smiles and spout compliments until my teeth hurt from the saccharine sweetness of it all.

“Oh, I think you’d do it beautifully,” she says. “We’ve got to get you back on the stage. I heard we’re doing
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
in the spring. Won’t that be fun? You would be an amazing Titania.”

Translation:
You don’t stand a chance.

“We’ll see . . .” I hope my enigmatic grin masks my murderous impulses. “Oh, you better get in line for that keg. Looks like it’s running out.”

She swivels toward the keg crowd and I make my escape.

This party is turning out to be the turd-encrusted cherry on the top of my shit-shake of a day.

Chapter Four

“
C
ome on!” Darcy spoons batter onto the waffle iron and laughs. “It couldn’t have been that bad.”

“Oh, it was worse!” I’ve just finished recapping my disastrous foray into investigative reporting. “The whole night was a total bust. Either they told me what they thought I wanted to hear, or they were suspicious and clammed up. Nobody said anything worth writing down.”

It’s almost two in the afternoon on Saturday, and we’ve finally finished cleaning Darcy’s house, erasing all signs of the party so her parents won’t freak when they come home Sunday night. Now we’re finally getting around to breakfast. I’m washing and slicing the strawberries while Darcy makes waffles and Chloe brews another pot of French press Sumatra.

“Call me crazy,” Chloe says, “but maybe a kegger isn’t the most scientific environment for research.”

I wave this concern away. “If they’re not comfortable telling me the truth after a couple beers, they sure as hell won’t open up anywhere else. No, I don’t think the environment was the problem.”

“So maybe it’s your technique.” Chloe’s always eager to offer a little brutal honesty.

“Maybe, but I doubt it. I tried all kinds of approaches: sexy, friendly, intimidating—nothing worked. I’m starting to think there’s an invisible force field that prevents honest communication between X and Y chromosomes.”

The waffle iron beeps and Darcy opens it, impales the waffle, deposits it on a plate. “Chloe, you take this one. If you get too hungry you’ll be bitchy.”

“Don’t you mean bitchier?” I correct.

Chloe shoots me an evil look and takes the plate from Darcy. She smothers it in strawberries and syrup, pours herself more coffee, jumps up on the counter beside me, and digs in. I watch, envious, breathing in the sublime smell.

“Oh, and to make things worse, I had a delightful conversation with Summer.” I make my voice all fluttery like hers. “‘It’s so
amazing
playing Cecily again! It’s just a
mazing
what you can learn when you do the same role twice.’ I was like
excuse me, I just puked inside my mouth.
”

Chloe swallows hard and glowers at me. “Hello! Some of us are eating.”

“I wish you were in the show with us instead of her,” Darcy says. “You should have auditioned! You totally would have gotten it.”

“She didn’t last time,” Chloe says.

“Thanks!” I bump her with my shoulder.

Chloe holds up a hand. “You didn’t let me finish! I was going to say you didn’t get it last time
because
you let Malibu Barbie psyche you out. She’s not half the actress you are and you know it.”

“Being in a show at Underwood is so fun, Natalie.” Darcy’s tone is sincere—she’s not rubbing it in, just telling it straight. “The campus is gorgeous and their theater’s so big. Their guys are better actors too.”

“It’s true. Plus they’re much more hygienic.” Chloe licks the syrup from her lips. “I challenge you to find anyone half as perfect for me as Josh. He’s so polished.”

“And clean,” I remind her.

Darcy giggles. “He’s almost as anal as her.”

“What is it with you people?” she scolds. “First ‘puke,’ now ‘anal.’ You know how sensitive my gag reflex is.”

Chloe has an incredibly weak stomach. In the sixth grade, when we got a perfunctory lecture on menstruation from Mrs. O’Malley, Chloe threw up. There have been countless other incidents over the years. Just about any mention of bodily fluids or the digestive process sets her off.

“Maybe you could go to rehearsal with us sometime at least,” Darcy suggests. “I know you’d love the campus. And the guys. You ready for your waffle?”

I just sit there, blinking at her. I’m getting an idea. A wonderful, awful idea.

“Natalie?” Darcy asks. “You okay?”

“Why didn’t I think of this before?” I spring off the counter and do an impromptu Snoopy dance. “Oh, God, it’s brilliant! It’s so perfect!”

“What?” they ask in unison.

“Underwood! I’ll get my story at Underwood!”

Darcy tilts her head sideways. “You’ll interview guys there?”

“Why would they tell you any more than the ones you talked to last night?” Chloe asks.

“Because I won’t interview them as a girl.” I lower my voice to a dramatic whisper and lean toward them. “I’ll go undercover . . . as a guy!”

I wait for this to sink in. As it does, their eyes light up and all three of us start cackling madly like the witches from
Macbeth,
the second carafe of Sumatra and my brilliant idea hitting our systems simultaneously.

“It’s so Shakespeare!” Darcy cries, clapping her hands. “Like when you played Portia in
The Merchant of Venice
, remember?”

“Wait, you’re not seriously considering . . . ?” Chloe trails off.

“I can pull it off, right?” I glance down at my chest. I’m wearing a T-shirt, no bra, and there’s very little there to write home about. “It’s not like my ample breasts will get in the way.”

“It’s so James Bond!” Darcy twirls around like a little girl. “Undercover! Secret agents! We can have code names and communicate via walkie-talkie.”

“Cell phones might be less conspicuous, 007.” Chloe rolls her eyes, already recovering from her brief brush with enthusiasm and returning to her natural state of bitchy skepticism. “Hold on, though. How are you going to get in? Even if they believe you’re a guy, it’s not like you can just enroll. You’ve got to apply and stuff, don’t you?”

That stops us all for a moment.

“I have an idea,” Darcy says. “This is probably unethical, but my cousin Granger is a seriously accomplished hacker. I bet he could get into their system.”

“Would we have to pay him?” I ask.

She scoffs. “It’s all he does. He lives for it. He’s twelve and he has access to FBI files! I’ll see if he can fix it so they’ll think you’re a new student.”

“We’d have to move on it fast,” I say. “The deadline’s coming up.”

She pulls her cell from her pocket. “I’m on it.”

“So we’re really doing this?” My voice edges up in excitement.

“Hold on, hold on.” Chloe puts a hand up. “How are you going to miss school without anyone noticing?”

“I don’t have to be gone long. A week, tops.”

“What about your mom? Everyone at Underwood lives there, you know. You can’t just go home at night. Won’t your mom get worried if you’re missing for days on end?”

“She can say she’s staying with me,” Darcy puts in. “I’ll cover for her.”

“And homework?” Chloe demands.

“You guys can get me my assignments and I’ll make it up later.”

Chloe purses her lips, considering. I bump my hip against hers playfully.

“Come on! You know you love it. If I pull this off we’ll be legendary.”

“Hmm . . . I don’t know.”

“Where’s your spirit of adventure?” I ask. “It’s a mad-cap scheme full of intrigue and danger! What’s not to love?”

“Umm . . . the fact that it’s completely misguided and insane?”

“Exactly! That’s what’s so great about it. So are we doing this, or what?”

“I’m in,” Darcy says without hesitation.

Chloe’s lips curve into a reluctant grin. “It’s twisted and probably doomed to failure, but if you’re determined, I guess I have no choice.”

I squeal and jump around while Darcy calls her cousin.

If we really want to pull this off we’ll have to haul ass. Story of the Year entries are due at five o’clock a week from Monday. That means I have to get in, get out, and get the thing written in eight days. Even though my rehearsal time is tighter than usual, especially for such a demanding role, I’m kind of glad. This has to do with what I call the eating-insects-on-a-dare principle. The crazier the idea, the less time you can afford to spend thinking about it. If I hesitate to consider all the possible ways this stunt can go horribly askew, I’ll never have the nerve to show up at Underwood Monday morning. It’s now or never.

Saturday night Darcy, Chloe, and I talk strategy over Chinese takeout and Diet Coke. Darcy’s cousin Granger is all over the hacking challenge. He’s promised to call as soon as he’s made headway. In the meantime, we’ve got our work cut out for us. I make a quick to-do list in my notebook:

1. Extreme makeover: haircut, etc.

2. Vocal training: lowered voice, typical male speech patterns

3. Costume: assemble suitable boy clothes until uniform can be obtained

4. Body language: walk, gestures, handshakes, spitting

5. Plan for absence: Decide how to keep normal life at bay for one week

“At last,” Darcy says when she sees number one on my list. “I’ve been dying to cut your hair for ages!”

Oh, God. I feel a little sick to my stomach as she pulls me toward her room. Chloe trails after us with a stack of
Vogue
s. Darcy produces her gleaming silver scissors, holds them close to her face, and slices the air a couple of times dramatically like a serial killer testing her weapon of choice.

“You can’t escape, my pretty,” Chloe cries in her Wicked Witch voice.

Darcy creeps toward me, scissors outstretched.

I back away. “Lots of guys have long hair, right?”

“Not the boys at Underwood,” Darcy says.

“Couldn’t I just . . . wear a hat?”

She stops stalking me abruptly and lowers her chin to give me a look. “Are you committed to this role?”

“I’m committed! I am.” I swallow my instincts and scramble over to the little cushioned stool before Darcy’s dressing table.

Darcy puts on her black hairdresser’s PVC apron. (I’m serious—she’s way into this stuff. If she doesn’t make it as a famous character actress, she will definitely be hairdresser to the stars.) She tucks her scissors into the pocket and stands behind me. Running her fingers through my hair in a professional manner she studies my reflection in the mirror.

“Hmm,” she says, cocking her head this way and that.

Chloe holds up a picture from
Vogue
of a runway model with a shaved head. “I think we should go all the way.”

I cringe. I’m not obsessed with my looks or anything, but I do have certain strengths in the beauty department. I’ve got great legs, big hazel eyes, a full mouth, and long, shiny hair. Of those four assets, I have to say it’s my hair I’m most attached to. I guess that’s because my body is already so boyish, what with the total lack of hips and barely there boobs, that my hair is hands down the most feminine thing about me. Without it, I really will look like a boy.

Of course, that’s the whole point. Still, I can’t help but feel like we’re about to amputate the girl right out of me.

“Don’t worry,” Darcy chuckles. “This is going to look awesome.”

“We’re not shaving it, right?”

Chloe holds up another picture, one of a male model with slightly choppy short hair. “More like this, maybe?”

Darcy turns and studies the photo. “Uh-huh. That’s good. Really short in the back and sides, with a little more fullness through the top. We could throw some highlights through the front—”

“No highlights,” I say. “Just the cut.”

Darcy shrugs. “You’re the boss.”

She grabs a spray bottle and wets my hair with one hand, combing it carefully with the other, all the while studying me from various angles with a look of intense concentration.

I close my eyes. “God, just do it.”

“Relax. It grows back.”

“I know, I know. It’s just—”

A snipping sound stops me mid-sentence. My eyes fly open. A huge shank of hair is missing from the right side of my head. I squeeze my eyes shut again. “Oh, God.”

Chloe says in the Moviefone voice,
“She was a woman, struggling to know the hearts of men . . .”