Babe in Boyland (7 page)

I turn my attention back to the fountain and see that Josh has just caught the Frisbee and is about to toss it again. He really is gorgeous; perfectly mussed hair, beautiful dark blue eyes. His skin is a delicate peaches-’n’-cream, rosy along the rims of his cheekbones in the cool morning air. If it weren’t for his strong, athletic build and impressive height he might almost be too pretty. I can see why Chloe’s into him.

I decide it must be fate when the breeze derails the Frisbee Josh just threw and sends it in my direction. Okay, only vaguely in my direction; I have to leap for it, but I manage to intercept it, albeit clumsily.

Tyler looks horrified. “Just toss it back,” he orders out of the side of his mouth.

“Why? I’m going to introduce myself.”

“Not a good idea.”

“Oh, come on,” I say. “What’s the harm?”

Tyler shakes his head, staring at the ground. “I’ve got to review for that history quiz. Toss it back and I’ll take you to your first class.”

“You go ahead. I’m going to network.” Ignoring his terrified expression, I grip the Frisbee and make my way over to Josh. Is it my imagination, or has a hush suddenly come over the courtyard? What’s the big deal? I’m just going to talk to the guy.

“Hi.” I present Josh with the Frisbee and smile my friendliest smile. “How’s it going? I’m new here.”

Josh takes the proffered Frisbee, but eyes it suspiciously. “Uh-huh. I can see that.”

“I hear you’re an actor. And water polo captain too. Impressive.”

Josh shoots a look at his friends:
Can you believe this guy?
I can feel myself starting to blush, but there’s no way to terminate the conversation gracefully now that I’m committed, so I stick out a hand. “I’m Nat.”

Josh grins. “Nat. The name fits.”

“Thanks.”

“An annoying insect who doesn’t know when it’s not wanted.”

Josh’s friends burst into raucous laughter just as the chimes signal the start of first period.

Okay, then. That went well.

Chapter Eight

B
y the end of third period I have to pee so badly, I swear my bladder’s swollen to five times its natural size; it’s squeezing all my other internal organs into remote corners of my body like a fat lady on a crowded subway. I just can’t face the urinals! They’re way too terrifying. The smell, the exposed bits, the shame. Isn’t using a stall the same as announcing I have to take a dump? How completely embarrassing! Yet I can hardly line up with the others and whip out my sock.

After several agonizing hours of holding it, though, I can’t handle another second. I scuttle to the bathroom with my knees together. Despite my urgent need to relieve myself, I pause at the door, heart pounding. A couple guys walk by covertly fishing cigarettes from their blazer pockets; when they see me standing there gazing at the door, their laughter stops abruptly and they exchange a look.

Obviously I can’t hesitate another second or I’ll arouse suspicion. I take a deep breath and shove. I guess I’m a bit too aggressive about it, because I hear the door thwack against something solid. Cringing, I step inside and see Emilio, my gorgeous roommate, pressing the heel of his right hand against his eyebrow.

“Scheisse!”
I cry, alarmed. “I’m so sorry!”

He shakes his head like someone waking from a dream. “Whoa. Wasn’t expecting the door to attack. Did you say

‘scheisse’
?” When he pulls his hand away I can see blood on his forehead.

“Oh no, you’re bleeding!”

He examines his face in the mirror, but offers no comment. I rush to the sink, yank a paper towel from the dispenser, and wet it. I suspect this isn’t very guy-like, but I hand it to him anyway, stopping myself from actually dabbing at the wound.

He takes the damp towel from me with a skeptical expression. “Uh, thanks.”

I hear the sound of streaming liquid to my left and almost jump when I see two guys peeing at the urinals. Aaagh! The smell! The sordid publicness of it all!

“You okay?” Emilio asks, looking amused.

“Yeah!”

I say it too loudly and one of the guys at the urinals glances over his shoulder, annoyed. I can’t imagine the concentration it must take to pee in public, especially standing up.

I turn my attention back to Emilio, who is watching me with an amused expression as he presses the paper towel to his forehead. “You sure you’re okay? You look freaked out.”

I nod and try for a casual shrug. “I’m going to use a stall.”

His eyebrows arch in surprise. “Um, okay.”

“Not that I have to—you know, pinch a loaf or anything—I just prefer privacy.” Stop. Talking. Stop! Talking!

Emilio puts both hands up in the universal
not my business
gesture and backs out the door.

I want to die. I seriously want to die. I just said “pinch a loaf” to the cutest guy I’ve ever seen.

I scurry into one of the stalls, lock myself in, and frantically pull my pants down. I remember to grab the sock before it falls into the toilet, thank God. Not sure how I’d deal with that one. When at last I get to pee, the release is almost excruciating in its pleasure. I want to moan, but settle for a satisfied sigh.

The dining hall is, like everything else at Underwood, imposing and majestic. It has a vaulted ceiling, gleaming oak floors, and long, polished mahogany tables. The evening light pours in through the towering, skinny windows of the west wall, spilling into the room in buttery pools. It feels more like a church than a cafeteria.

This is the first time I’ve been in here, since I skipped lunch. After my disastrous attempt to make friends with Josh this morning in the courtyard and my equally mortifying run-in with Emilio in the bathroom, I spent the forty-minute break between fourth and fifth period eating vending machine chips and a Snickers bar in my car, talking to Darcy on the phone, lying down in the backseat so no one would see me there and get suspicious.

I’ve made it through the day without blowing my cover, though, and for that I’m incredibly grateful. It’s been a lot more challenging than I imagined—I can’t remember the last time I felt this out of my element. I’m in a completely foreign culture with its own language and customs, yet I’m only fifteen minutes from home.

Luckily, classes pose no threat since they’re lecture style. I don’t have to say a single word; so long as I look marginally engaged, the teachers seem satisfied. I’ve gotten past the initial terror of thinking each new person I encounter will take one look at me and yell, “But she’s a
girl
!” At the most basic level I’m obviously passing. Still, the subtler aspects of guyness elude me. The way they move, cocksure and easy. The way they interact with each other—so understated and terse they’re practically talking in code. I’ve gone to school with guys, hung out with them my whole life, and yet somehow I never noticed just how different they really are. It’s not like I’m the femmiest girl in town, yet now that I’m trying to camouflage my girly qualities I see just how pronounced those aspects of my personality really are.

Everything I do naturally earns me funny looks here. I don’t catch myself until just a second too late, but by then it’s impossible to remedy. When the drama teacher made a joke, my laugh came out too shrill and everyone turned to stare. Walking across campus between classes, I didn’t notice I was swinging my hips until I saw the raised eyebrows and double takes. In math class, out of sheer boredom, I started winding a lock of hair around my finger, but stopped when the guy next to me snorted. It’s like all my instincts backfire here. I never imagined just how deeply ingrained my own girlyness is, or how suspect that girlyness makes me in a man’s world.

I sit in the corner of the dining hall nibbling my mashed potatoes, peas, and sliced turkey breast. It’s not exactly restaurant quality, but it’s better than your average high school cafeteria fare. I’m hungry, but the nervousness that’s turned my stomach into a war zone makes me wary of eating too much too quickly. My whole body is bone tired; being someone you’re not all day takes way more energy than you’d think. I can’t wait to see Chloe and Darcy tonight when they come to campus for rehearsal. The thought of being able to let down my guard with people who know me sounds like heaven.

I watch as Josh and his friends come in, pile their plates high with food, and sit at a table in the center of the room. They move with the easy, loose-limbed assurance of athletes. They sit with their knees splayed, talking and laughing so loudly that their voices ricochet off the high ceilings, punctuated now and then with the slap of a high five. What’s it like to have that much confidence? How does it feel, knowing you own the world? More importantly, how will I ever get guys like them to answer my questions? I can’t reach them as a girl because then I’m either the mark or the enemy, but as nerd-boy I’m no closer to knowing their secrets.

A couple tables away, sitting by himself, I spot Emilio. He gazes out the window, a faraway look in his eyes. The evening light shines on his face as he chews slowly, lost in thought. With a blink he snaps back from his reverie and turns his head. I realize with a start that he’s staring directly at me. My ears burn as I look away.

“How’s it going?” Tyler sits down beside me, and I can’t help smiling. I might not be popular here at Underwood, but at least I’m not a complete social leper.

“Okay, I guess.”

Max and a very short guy with shaggy dark hair sit down opposite us.

Tyler says, “You met my roommate, Max, this morning.”

I nod in acknowledgment, trying not to recall the naked butt-flossing mid-chew. Max salutes again. What’s the deal with that? He’s like a weird little wind-up soldier.

Tyler gestures at the short guy. “This is Earl. He’s a genius.”

“Oh, yeah?” I grin, careful to keep my tone relatively unimpressed. I’m learning to tamp down my natural exuberance. In Boyland, enthusiasm is suspect. “That must be cool—being a genius, I mean.”

“Technically, his statement is accurate, though I don’t go around announcing it. My IQ is one eighty-one on the Wechsler Scale, which is considered by most to be within the genius realm.” He speaks in a mumbling monotone, and I have to lean closer to hear him. “Of course, some people say all IQ tests contain ranking fallacies and cultural biases, though my strongest area of cognition is in calculating number sequences that are impossible to imbue with gender or ethnic partiality—”

“He never knows when to shut up,” Tyler interrupts, spearing a piece of meat and shoveling it into his mouth.

I’m thrown by Tyler’s bluntness. Girls hardly ever say mean shit like that to someone’s face! Unless they’re Chloe, that is. A strangled chortle escapes before I can stop it. Everyone within earshot glances over, looking annoyed. I offer an apologetic little smile and concentrate on my mashed potatoes. Great! Now even the weirdos think I’m weird.

The anxiety that’s been slowly burning at the back of my brain all day starts to gain momentum. Sure, I’m behind enemy lines, but what good is that unless I can get some real answers to my seven questions? I’m like a spy who manages to infiltrate a terrorist cell but never learns anything because she doesn’t speak the language. So far I’ve got exactly nothing to bring back to the girls of the world who are counting on me and my insights.

I cast a wistful eye over Josh’s table again; he and his friends are cracking up about something. One of them catches me staring and makes a face—not a friendly, come-on-over-and-hang-out face, but a you’re-such-a-retard-you-don’t-even-deserve-to-look-at-us face. That makes the other guys laugh still harder. God, I’m a full-on certified loser! How am I going to undo this reputational damage fast enough to get in with those guys? It’s impossible. They’ve decided I’m sub-cool, so that’s what I am.

I look around at Tyler, Max, and Earl, who are talking about the improved graphics on some video game. No doubt about it: I’ve landed smack in the middle of Dweebville. Nobody in this dining hall looks quite so gangly or awkward as these three. Still, they were nice enough to sit with me. They’re kind of cool in their own way. Well, okay, not cool-cool, but sweet, sort of. Why not start my research here? Granted, these guys aren’t the ones most girls are dying to know about, but they are
guys
, right? Maybe there are certain qualities all males have in common, no matter where they are in the social hierarchy. Anyway, how are readers going to know what ilk of boy I got my answers from? It’s not like I’ll include pictures.

“So, I was wondering,” I say, interrupting their enthusiastic discussion of first person shooter graphics. “Have any of you ever told a girl you’d call her and then just blown her off?”

The silence that ensues is deafening, even in the noisy dining hall.

“Let’s just say, hypothetically”—my cheeks burn as they all stare at me—“if you met a girl and you said you were going to call her but then you didn’t, what might be the reason for that?”

“Wait, what’s the question?” Tyler glances at his friends like maybe he’s missing the joke, but they just stare at me blank-faced.

“If you said you’d call her and you didn’t, why didn’t you? She’d totally be expecting you to, or at least text or e-mail or whatever, and then when you don’t do
anything
, when you just disappear without a trace, she’s like, God, what happened? I mean, I can imagine that, anyway.”

“What are you talking about?” Tyler says finally. “What girl?”

I sigh. “Let’s back up. Have any of you ever told a girl you’d call her?”

They glance at one another, then shake their heads in unison.

“None of you have ever said to a girl, ‘I’ll call you’? Are you
serious
?” I’m not trying to be mean, but God, this is sad. These are seventeen-year-old red-blooded males we’re talking about, not monks!

“I don’t know if you noticed,” Max says defensively, “but there aren’t any girls at Underwood. You want us to ask out Ms. Honaker?”

Tyler and Earl snort.

I frown at them. “You’re not prisoners here, right? Don’t you ever get out and meet chicks?”

Tyler cuts his eyes at Josh’s table. “Girls like those kind of guys. They’re not into us.”

“Some do, sure, but not all of them.” Admittedly, that was my main objection to getting answers from these odd-ball new friends of mine—girls
aren’t
interested in what they think. Now, though, I find myself suddenly resisting that basic truth. I mean, they might not be super-sexy, but they’re the only ones who befriended me here, and that’s got to count for something. Surely there are girls somewhere in the world who would find them attractive. “Plenty of girls would dig you if you put yourselves out there more. Haven’t you heard of geek-chic? Look at Michael Cera!”