Cloudy with a Chance of Boys (7 page)

Me:
I didn’t mean to! See, I rewrote this one Juliet scene, you know, in my own words. To make sure I really had the meaning down. So I actually did that for my monologue, thinking it would be super unique.

Sock Monkey:
That sounds kind of cool.

Me:
Yeah, except it wasn’t. And Mr. Cannon kept crinkling his eyebrows. Then I said the words “innocent as a rose,” and it made me think of that song from
Sound of Music,
so I just started singing “Sixteen Going on Seventeen.”

Sock Monkey:
(Silence.)

Me:
Say something.

Sock Monkey:
What did Mr. Cannon do?

Me:
Nothing. He just sat in his chair. He didn’t clap. He didn’t say “Good job” or “Nice effort” or “Bravo” or anything.

Sock Monkey:
Well, maybe it was like a poker face — he doesn’t want to give it away. You know, who he’s picking for Juliet.

Me:
The worst part is, he didn’t scribble any notes. He always scribbles notes on his yellow tablet. Instead, he just thanked me and looked down at his clipboard.

Sock Monkey:
Maybe you were actually good and he didn’t need to make notes.

Me:
But there were tons of other girls flinging their hair around and saying, “Romeo, Romeo,” and he made notes on them.

Sock Monkey:
But think about it. He knows your work. You have way more experience. You’ve been in tons of plays, like
Beauty and the Beast.

Me:
That’s just it. What if he wants somebody new? Somebody different? What if he’s thinking that I already had a shot at the lead when I got to be Beauty and Scott was Beast. Oh, no. What if he doesn’t want us to be together again? Or what if he decides to give somebody else a chance?

Sock Monkey:
Somebody like maybe . . . Jayden Pffeffer?

Me:
Uh! Don’t even say that name. It makes my blood boil. Queen Aggravating.

Sock Monkey:
What does Queen Aggravating have that you haven’t got?

Me:
Long hair, for one thing. She looks exactly like Juliet.

Sock Monkey:
But Mr. Cannon isn’t going to pass you over just because you have short hair. He knows there’s more to acting than looking the part, right?

Me:
Her audition
was
pretty lame.

Sock Monkey:
What did she do?

Me:
A Princess Mia monologue from
The Princess Diaries.
It wasn’t great, but it was better than mine!
What
was I thinking?

Sock Monkey:
C’mon. You’re always freaked out about Jayden. And most of the time you end up with the lead, and she has to be your understudy.

Me:
Not always. Once she got to be the bunny in
Mushroom in the Rain
, and I had to be, like, Second Mushroom from the Left.

Sock Monkey:
In kindergarten!

Me:
But Mr. Cannon scribbled down tons of notes after Jayden’s audition. He even had to flip over a page on his tablet.

Sock Monkey:
Ooh, this
is
bad.

Me:
It is! Now Princess Mia is going to get the part and Jayden Pffeffer is going to kiss Romeo.
My
Romeo. In front of the whole entire world. And he’s going to be a prince, not a toad, and kiss her back. Owww!

Sock Monkey:
You don’t know that.

Me:
Just tell me it’s going to be okay.

Sock Monkey:
It’s going to be okay . . . hey, stop shaking meeeeee!

On Thursday morning, Alex would not open the door to her room. What was she doing in there? Probably trying on that
blankety-blank
shirt that she didn’t want anyone to see. Ever since finding it yesterday, a feeling had started in the pit of my stomach. Kind of like when you’re a kid on roller skates going down a hill and are not sure if you can stop.

“Hurry up, Alex. I made French toast,” I said, trying to sound normal. “We’re going to miss the bus and Dad’ll be mad if he has to drive us. Again.”

Mom opened the door to Alex’s room, pressing a button on the thermometer. “Honey, Alex isn’t feeling well.” She felt Alex’s forehead. Alex was still in her Dick and Jane pajamas, propped up against a mountain of pillows, trying to look pathetic. Plus, she had some serious bed head going on. Not pretty.

“You’re not even dressed?” I asked. My voice sounded edgy inside my own head, and I couldn’t keep my eyes from looking at the drawer with the T-shirt.
Why was that stupid shirt bugging me so much?

“I’m sick,” she croaked, clutching her throat. “Can’t you tell?”

“But you’re going to school, right?”

“I told Alex she doesn’t have to go today,” said Mom. “Here. See if you’re running a fever. Leave this in for three minutes. Are you sure you’ll be okay?”

Alex nodded. Outside, the sky was darkening. Heavy gray clouds threatened more rain. Mom flicked on Alex’s bedside lamp, a small circle of warmth against the gloom.

“I’m late for work, but I’ll make sure Dad comes up to check on you in a bit.” Mom headed downstairs.

Alex yanked the thermometer out of her mouth.

“You are so not sick,” I said. “I can’t believe Mom actually believed you.”

“Why wouldn’t she?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe because you don’t have a fever or a sore throat and you’re not covered in measles or chicken pox. So unless you have the Queen Mab plague . . .”

My sister clutched her stomach. “I think I have food poisoning from the dinner you made last night.”

“All I made was the mashed potatoes. Dad made the rest. Besides, you don’t get food poisoning from mashed potatoes.”

“You do if they taste like cotton balls!”

Sheesh. Can I help it if Joey stored a bunch of cotton balls in an empty marshmallow bag and Mom accidentally put them away in the kitchen cupboard and they fell out and landed in the potatoes? “I fished them out,” I told her. I’d sooner have believed a frog in her throat.

“Okay. So I don’t have food poisoning. But I think I might have skittles.”

“Skittles?” I asked. “Isn’t that a candy? Unless you have fruit-flavored chicken pox. Never mind. I don’t even want to know.”

Alex slunk down and pulled the covers up to her chin. I could still see a curly-headed kid with overalls and a red balloon and the words
Jump, Puff. Jump, jump, jump. Oh, Puff
on the piece of pajamas sticking out from under the covers. I couldn’t help letting out a laugh.

“It’s not funny.”

“You can’t be sick. Not today. Isn’t today the day you find out if you got the part of Juliet?”

Alex started fake-coughing.

I opened my eyes wide and pointed at my sister. “Wait a second. Now I get it. You don’t want to go to school because . . . you don’t want to find out the Drama Club results because . . . you’re afraid you didn’t get the part! Ha!”

“Whatever, Sherlock. You’ve got a whole little mystery going on there, but it has nothing to do with reality. I told you, I’m sick.” She hunkered down under the covers some more, trying to look miserable.

“You’re not
that
good an actress,” I said.

“Join the club.”

“What club?”

“The club of people who don’t think I’m a good actress.”

This is the part where I’m supposed to tell my sister how great she is at acting, reassure her, make her feel better. Like I always did. But I wasn’t sure anymore — was this the same Alex I knew yesterday?

She looked like the same Alex she’d always been, minus the long hair, of course. On one hand, she wore Dick and Jane pajamas and talked to her sock monkey. On the other hand, she read one-syllable titled books about things I didn’t understand, harbored smuggled T-shirts in her bottom drawer, and secretly wanted to kiss a boy.

This was definitely
not
turning out to be a French toast kind of morning. I could almost feel the atmospheric pressure in the room. I rubbed my temples. It made my head ache, trying to figure this stuff out. Besides, I had problems of my own. Like in-class detention after school today.

“Hey, can I ask you a question? Have you ever had in-class detention?”

“Sure. Lots of times. Why do you ask?”

“No reason.”

“Wait!
You
got detention?” Alex must have seen my face fall, because she said, “It’s no biggie. It’s not like detention with a capital
D
where you have to go to the library and spend two hours with a bunch of delinquents.”

“Ha, ha. Very funny.”

“Look, you just stay after and help your homeroom teacher. Once I had to write a short essay about some famous genius that flunked out of middle school. But most times there’s nothing for you to do, so you get to play Sudoku.”

How did Alex know so much about big- or little-
D
detention? First the shirt, now this . . . Or maybe she
got
detention for wearing that shirt to school?

“So, are you coming to school or not?”

“Not.”

“Well, don’t think I’m going to go look at the Drama Club list and find out for you. I can’t, anyway.”

“Can’t? Or won’t?” Silence. Alex flipped over onto her side, facing away from me. “Fine.”

“Fine,” I said, turning to go.

“Can you at least get my homework?” Alex asked. “Algebra and biology.”

“Boy-ology,” I muttered. It just came out. In less than thirty minutes, I’d gone from making French toast for my sister to acting as mean as stinging sleet.

“And bring me home some Skittles?”

“You are
so
not funny.”

Just then, the sky opened up and rain slashed the window.

Great. Now I’d get poured on. I’d really have to run if I hoped to have a prayer of catching the bus. One more late slip might land me in
bad kids
detention. In capital-
D
detention, I would
not
be playing Sudoku.