Authors: Emily Franklin
“You call this fun?” The bodice on my dress pinches my waist and I’ve noticed quite a few Westies staring in disbelief. Yes, folks, call a summit meeting—I’m not in sweats.
“You say that all sarcastic and everything, but the truth is, you look pretty glad you’re here.”
Shrugging feels appropriate about now, if only to mask what’s roiling inside me. Excitement bubbles within me but I’m keeping it shoved down, dark and hidden like my hand and Eddie’s clenched in the box. “Well, it’s difficult to focus with all the weirdness here.”
Charging from the left of the gym, atop one of the gymnastic horses cleverly mounted on coasters, Crissy Limler leads the female jousters. She angles her rod and tries to poke at Fairlee Sykes, who everyone calls “fairly psyched” because she’s generally happy all the time.
“I’m gonna get you, Fairlee!”
“Not if I get you first!”
Knights—some in rented armor, some in tinfoil garb, cheer and spill their mugs of ginger ale. The joust continues. Leyla fiddles with the flowing sleeves on her dress. She looks distracted, her eyes unable to settle on any one thing. Then again, this place is sensory-overload. “So, how come you got all pukey yesterday, anyway?” I ask.
Leyla avoids eye contact. “No reason.”
“No reason? You almost chucked in class. I mean, I know you don’t like public speaking and everything, but—”
Leyla frowns. “I said no reason, okay? God, you always need to know everything.”
I feel as though she’s pushed me, but in fact she’s very still. My voice softens. “I was just asking, that’s all. You know, checking on my friend?” I tilt my head and try to get her to open up. “And if I annoy you with questions, remember that I
am
a reporter.”
She gives a half-hearted laugh. “True. You can’t take the nosiness out of the girl.” This slips out of her mouth and then she panics. “Oh, oh, not like that. I mean, nosy like you’re curious, like a newspaper person, not like you’re … you know what I …”
Maybe on another night I’d lash out at her. Maybe if she were Wendy or Jill or some random PBV I’d rail on her, but right now, on this night, with Eddie’s hand and our as-yet-unspoken conversation on my mind, I just pat her back. “No problem,” I say. “I know what you meant.”
Leyla looks relieved. She can’t handle a verbal lashing any better than she can give a speech. “Anyway,” she says, her eyes searching for something—or someone—in the crowd, “I was just nervous, that’s all.” She sees what she’s looking for, and smiles. “But I’m okay now, and I’m glad you came out tonight. You won’t regret it. You’ll see.” Her smile makes me almost believe it—that plus my inner excitement.
On the overhead speakers, a voice announces that the spectacle we’ve all been waiting for is about to start: the joust of nations. The school is split into “principalities.” This is supposedly arbitrary, but if you look on the printout in the main corridor, the names are actually sectioned off by popularity. Suffice to say, if the nations were real, Leyla and I would require passports to enter each other’s land—and mine would no doubt be revoked at the border.
Heading up one fake nation is Beef Anderson. His name isn’t really beef, but he’s been called that for so long no one remembers his real name.
“Hey there, nation buddies!” Linus comes up from behind and taps me on the shoulder, all twitchy and carrying a notebook.
Leyla grabs his shoulder, glad to see him. “I’m thinking of deflecting.”
Linus’ eyebrows scrunch up, but his confusion is momentary. “You mean ‘defecting’?”
Leyla blushes, but recovers. “Yeah—like, leave my nation and join yours.”
“We’d be happy to have you,” I tell her, and scan the crowd for the familiar hair … listen for the timbre of his voice.
Linus wedges himself between my shoulder and Leyla’s. “What’s Beef’s real name again?”
Leyla shrugs. I shake my head. “No idea. Sorry. Guess you’ll have to research that for the article.”
Linus stares just a little too long at me, and I recall that feeling I had before, when he said he had something to discuss with me. “Hey, Cyrie, do you think …”
I cut him off, distracted by the dimming lights, the rising cheers. A strobe light flashes, and I know that half the people will stay to gawk at the faux brutalities of jousting and half will wander toward the dance floor. It’s the time I dread. Or one of the times I dread. All the pretty girls, all the average ones, all the tall and gracious ones, all the short and perky ones—all of them dance with their noses looking normal.
Then I see him.
Eddie’s eyes find mine across the floor. Does the strobe light make my face look worse? Better? Horrific, like in some creature feature? “Can we talk later, Linus? I’m kind of hating the fact that I’m here and I don’t want to—”
Linus nods and writes in his notebook, sticking close by but with enough space that he doesn’t get nudged by Eddie, who comes trudging toward us through the crowd. Princess girls and knightly guys back up, parting so Eddie can pass.
Leyla’s eyes sweep the room and land back on Linus, who makes his exit to interview Beef for the paper. “I gotta talk to you,” she whispers to me. Her hand squeezes my arm so tightly that my skin pinches.
“Ouch!” I try and pry her off while looking at Eddie. He looks—I swear—right at me and nods. My heart does an arrhythmic dance and I glance at Leyla. Did she see that? Does she care?
“Cyrie—hey,” Eddie says and gives me a side-hug. It might have been a full-on body hug if only Leyla hadn’t been attached to my limbs still.
“You look dashing,” I say, brave and dumb at the same time, which is maybe how love (or serious like) is—more exposure.
“And you look …” Eddie takes in my gown, and has me twirl like we’re in a musical. “Magnificent.”
My new favorite word. In my head I do a mental thesaurus: stunning, splendid, glorious, outstanding. All good. “Thanks,” I say, and feel my dress against my bare legs, the fabric soft against my skin. I think of Eddie’s rough hands finding mine in Drama.
“So, Leyla, how are you this fine evening?” Eddie bows to her, ever the knightly knight, and tries to sound gallant in his Robin Hood-inspired outfit.
“I’m …” she starts to answer but then grabs me again. “I’m just a … you know, like one of those things with the way of the …”
Eddie looks amused, and then worried. “Have you been drinking?”
Leyla shakes her head. “No, I wouldn’t do that.” She looks to me to back her up.
“She’s not drunk or anything—I mean, we got ready together, and …” Just as I’m about to explain more, Eddie puts a hand on Leyla’s shoulder, trying to steady her as she starts to sway a little.
“You okay?” His eyes register concern; the corners of his mouth turn down. He looks to me as to what to do next.
“Leyla, maybe you should …” I start.
“I’m. It’s. I’ve gotta—” Leyla bolts from the gym, tripping on her gown and ripping the bottom of it; she now appears more Cinderella-during-working-hours than at the ball. She doesn’t stop until she’s burst through the double doors that lead to the dark corridors of school.
Immediately, I turn to go after her. I make it to the basketball net.
“Wait, Cyrie!” Eddie’s voice is insistent. I turn back. He catches up to me. “I know it’s bad timing, but … can we talk now?
I’m torn. Be a good friend or have the talk? The talk that could lead to everything I’ve been wanting. I stare up at Eddie’s face, his perfect mouth, his questioning eyes. “I should see if Leyla’s okay,” I say. Friendship trumps crush, I guess.
“Fine,” Eddie nods. “You’re right. Let’s find her.”
In our costumes, we traipse the hallways, searching. Past the cafeteria with its badly painted mural of aquatic life (“we’re all in this ocean together”), past the science labs and homerooms, we repeat her name but can’t find her.
“I’ll check the bathrooms,” I say, sure she’ll resurface in a stall and that food poisoning or whatever’s ailing her will give her pause by the sink. But I come out of the last bathroom holding out my hands. “Nada. She’s gone.”
Eddie sighs and I follow him, roaming and looking until we’re outside another set of heavy double doors. He takes stock of where we are. “Hey, back to the drama of drama class.”
I open the doors and look around. “Yeah, back to Harold’s world.”
Eddie strides down the aisle and sits on the stage, legs dangling. I join him. “It’s like we’re going swimming,” I say, pretending to test the water with my ballet-flat-covered toes.
“Splash,” Eddie says, but in a deadpan voice that makes me laugh. He laughs while I laugh. “You know, there’s just not very many people I could do this with.”
“Do what?” I ask. “We’re not doing anything.”
Eddie shrugs. “I know, but that’s my point. Make up stuff with, or just sit on the stage and mime with.”
“Miming is silent. We were doing improv.” I notice our thighs are nearly touching. “Nice tights, by the way.”
He doesn’t pause, but plucks a bit of stretchy fabric away from his leg. “Yeah, I’m going for studly but kind, Robin-Hood-meets-action-adventure-hero.” He clears his throat and adjusts his position so one leg still dangles but the other is up on stage, touching mine. We’re only inches apart. “I’m serious, though. You know we have something special, right?”
Magnificent. Special. This is it. These are the words I’ve been waiting for, the ones that change everything. “We do.” I meet his gaze. We’re going to kiss. We’re going to be a couple. We’ll go to the prom and hold hands in the halls and kiss by the ugly dumb aquatic mural in the cafeteria with the stench of dry meatloaf wafting all around us.
“And so …” Eddie licks his lips. “I feel like I can confide in you.” He waits for my reaction. I nod. Go on, confide.
“And I can do the same with you,” I finally say, encouraging him, wanting to draw this moment out so I can remember it exactly as it happens as I try to fall asleep tonight.
“So, you probably can tell, then, about my … um …” He uses his Harold-drama voice: “Feelings.”
I act back, my voice overly deep. “Your feelings? Do explain.”
Eddie drums his fingers on his leg and hops down from the stage so that he’s right between my knees. A bit awkward for kissing, but not terrible. His voice goes back to normal, but waivers. “I like her so much, Cyrie.”
He’s so tongue-tied he uses the wrong pronoun. I love it. “Yeah …”
“And do you think she likes me?” His face pleads with me, his eyes desperate for an answer.
“I think
she
does, yes.” I make the pronoun joke back to him, but he doesn’t seem to get it.
“God, what a relief. I mean, I thought so, but she’s hard to read, you know? If only I knew her better.”
I feel confusion rumbling inside me. I draw my legs up to my chest and pull my dress down to cover myself; I’m tucked into a ball. “But—you do know me.”
Eddie smiles and looks distracted. “I know
you,
of course I do. If only she were as easy to get to know, you know? Damn, that was a bad sentence.” He shoves his hands into his pockets.
Feeling as though the floor might not be there to meet me, I jump from the stage and try to get my bearings. I sit in one of the theater seats and Eddie sits in the row in front of me, facing away from me like we’re both watching the show.
“So,” I say swallowing. “What is it, exactly, that you want to tell me?”
“I thought for sure you’d know by now, given your reporter tendencies,” Eddie says. “But since you claim to be in the dark …” In the dark where our hands met. In the dark where I was more sure of everything. “But I never thought I’d find someone so … sweet, you know?” I’m sweet. “So fun and fun to be with.” Also me. “So open to trying new things and just kind of out there, you know?” I do know, because that’s me. “Who kind of electrifies me, for lack of a better word.” I want to suggest “excites” or “thrills” or “amazes” as alternatives to “electrify,” but I don’t because right as I’m opening my mouth, Eddie says, “And so, so pretty.”
“Is that how you see her?” I ask. Gathering all my guts, I lean forward and touch his shoulder. He tips his head back to see me. “It’s true, then, all those myths about someone’s exterior not being the most important thing?” Instinct takes over and I touch my nose, the whole length of it, and I don’t curse it. I don’t think about chopping it off.
Eddie sits up and wrinkles his brow. “No, it’s totally important. I mean, I’m not the only one. Empirically, she’s hot. No one could argue that.” His eyes meet mine.
And just like that, the floor sinks away. The stage recedes. We are watching a show, only it’s not
Romeo and Juliet,
it’s not
Guys and Dolls.
It’s one where the girl does not get the guy she wants. My hand withdraws from his shoulder. He’s not describing me. He is talking about—
“Leyla.” His face lights up. “She’s awesome.”
My heart stammers, but my words stay intact. “She is. She certainly is.” I pause. “And really, um …” My voice falters. “Really pretty, as you say.” I want to cry, not just out of disappointment but because I feel so lame. Why would he want me, when he could have her?
“I need to get going, actually,” I say and stand up. I’m suddenly exhausted, but it’s going to take lots of list-making or college essays to make me bored enough to go to sleep tonight.
“Wait—the thing is this, Cyr …” Eddie flicks my shoulder: the ultimate in
just friends.
“She’s so shy, you know? And I really want to hang out with her but she kind of …”
I get it. All her nerves, her near-vomitous episodes. “She bolts. Yeah. She’s …” I could tell him to forget it. Say that she likes someone else, or that she doesn’t like him, or that being around him makes her feel ill. But instead I just say, “She’s just nervous, is all.” I look at his face. The same face, attached to the same boy, attached to the same wit and smarts and charm that I’ve crushed on for so long. I should write crappy love songs. Then pretty girls could burn them onto mixes for guys who like them back. “What exactly do you want me to do?”
“I know
about
her but I don’t really know
her,
if you get what I’m saying.”
My lips are dry and chapped from the stale Drama air, and my heart feels worse. “You want to find out her innermost thoughts and all her intimate details?” I paraphrase “Somebody,” a Depeche Mode song I downloaded only days ago.