TWO
The bell for lunch rings and I make my way toward Drama. I’ve got the blues and the only thing that will even slightly cure me is the next forty minutes. The Roosevelt High drama room is my personal sanctuary. I love the black velvet curtains, how they hang there like a promise, and the cumbersome wooden blocks we use in scenes to act as tables, benches, or chairs. You’d never know we’re in Central California, agriculture Mecca of America: we build kingdoms here, big-city love affairs, and the ancient houses of gods and monsters.
This is my favorite part of the day, when I open the heavy metal door, which is extra tall to allow sets to be brought in, and am immediately submerged in the din of voices, laughter, singing.
We are the music-makers and we are the dreamers of dreams.
We thespian types laugh loudly and often, tumble over one another’s sentences, a dogpile of exuberance. Look at us, we’re saying to anyone nearby. Let me entertain you, let me make you smile. Our ears are fine-tuned; we wait for applause.
Every time I walk into this room I know that someday, even if it seems impossibly far away, I’m going to New York City, a small-town girl with stars in her eyes like what’sherface in Rock of Ages. I’m not forging a new path in my desire to run away from my home, from a mother who squeezes the life out of me and a stepfather who’s always two seconds away from a slap—I’m walking, as fast as I can, down a well-trod path. I’m the girl who’s desperate to get out of her small town because if she doesn’t she knows she’ll die. She knows her soul will start to rot, like fruit gone bad.
One more year, I tell myself. One more year until graduation. I can make it that long.
I think.
I step through the door and let out the breath I didn’t even know I’d been holding in. The whole gang is here, focused on the current obsession over auditions for the spring musical, Chicago. I’ll be stage managing, a part I’ve already been cast in, by choice. According to Miss B, it’s a stepping-stone to directing. For the first time in a long while I sort of wish I were auditioning—I don’t think I could get away with wearing black fishnets and a leotard as the stage manager. I secretly want you to see me like that. I actually had a moment of doubt and told my mom I was thinking about auditioning.
You can’t sing, she said.
My mom went to one of those hard-core Catholic schools. She’s big on Being Realistic. She’s not trying to be mean; she’s trying to help me. It’s just that sometimes her words feel like a nun’s ruler smacking across my knuckles.
Grace and her pipe dreams, The Giant says whenever I talk about directing plays on Broadway. He’s big on Being an Asshole. The Giant has a life motto and this is it: Money is king. It’s the code he lives by. Obviously we don’t see eye-to-eye on the whole starving artist thing.
So instead of being in the cast, I’ll help run rehearsals and for performances I’ll be in charge, calling the show. Light cue 47, Go. Sound Cue 21, Go. Blackout. I always feel like such a badass, like I’m in Air Traffic Control or something.
Today, I laugh and smile with the others, but I’m not paying attention, not really, because on top of dealing with the fact that there are no boys in love with me (especially you), I’m thinking about how to sneak off to the cafeteria to grab my food without anyone coming along. Sneaking off is hard to do when you’re wearing a bright pink skirt with a black poodle on it. See, my friends pay with money, but my currency is the little green tickets the poor kids who need free school lunches get. I’d use my own money for lunch, but I need it for stuff like clothes and books and deodorant because The Giant sure as hell won’t buy me any of that. I should have gone to the caf first, but what if you came in to say hi before going off campus and I missed you?
The group’s up to its usual antics. Peter does the voices of his favorite video game characters. Kyle stands around looking like a young Bruno Mars, occasionally bursting into song. Our whole group is comprised of juniors, except for three seniors: you (Lead singer of Evergreen! Love of my life!), Ryan (your best friend and bass player for Evergreen), and your girlfriend, Summer (boo, hiss).
Natalie and Alyssa are discussing the pros and cons of leggings worn as pants rather than as a substitute for tights. Normally I get all I-read-Vogue-every-month when the subject of fashion comes up, but today I just listen: I’m too whatever I am to join in.
“They make everyone look fat,” Lys is saying. She nods to a group of freshmen passing by the drama room. “Case in point.”
Nat swats Lys on the arm. “Be nice. That is so not cool.”
Lys shrugs. “Neither are leggings.”
My two best friends are polar opposites. Nat wears a dress to school almost every day and has perfect makeup and hair with flipped ends, like it’s 1950. She wears a tiny cross necklace and this thing called a promise ring, which represents how she’s going to wait to have sex until she’s married (she says she takes it off when she messes around with her boyfriends, LOL). I can totally imagine her as First Lady someday, with pearls and Jackie O sunglasses. Lys has a wild bob, bleached so that it’s almost white, and wears sexy manga clothes like she’s Sailor Moon. She’s always getting in trouble for violating the dress code—she’s got this thing for Catholic schoolgirl plaid skirts. Sometimes she wears tulle, like she’s just performed in a psychedelic ballet, all neon and crazy patterns. I guess I’m in the middle because I’m the one who wears vintage thrift stuff, scarves in her hair, and lip gloss that tastes like Dr Pepper.
Peter switches from video game impersonation to strutting across the drama room’s makeshift stage, busting out his best vintage Britney Spears moves. He’s on this whole Britney kick right now. Last month it was Katy Perry. He’s not gay—he’s got a hard-on for pop stars that he takes to ridiculous extremes.
“Hit me baby one more time!”
“Not that you were ever remotely cool socially,” Lys says, “but you’ve just taken away any hope of that status changing.”
Today she’s wearing a black tulle skirt over neon-green tights, crazy platform boots, and a T-shirt with a knife stabbing a heart.
“Hater alert!” Kyle calls. He boos Lys and she rolls her Cleopatra eyes.
I scan the students passing by the door, which is propped open and gives a good view of the quad. I’m hoping to spot a certain black fedora.
“Where’s Gavin?” I ask, casual. At least, I hope I sound casual and non-stalkerish.