Get Happy (3 page)

“Yes. It means ‘robust energy and enthusiasm.’ ” He popped it open. “Oooh! Serious fizz!” He took a sip and then gagged.

“Bad?” I asked.

“No, it’s good,” he said, trying to regain control of his face.

My second laugh of the day. Fin doesn’t believe in having regrets, so he likes everything he buys.

I took a sip. It tasted like carbonated tea steeped in battery acid.

We passed the can back and forth as we negotiated the sidewalk. The snow that hadn’t been properly shoveled had turned into treacherous patches of ice.

“Come on, people, some of us have to walk out here,” Fin shouted to no one. “Shovel your sidewalks!”

Our high school is about five blocks from downtown Evanston, so it didn’t take us long to get there, even with the ice and my itchy-foot zombie walk. On the corner of Grove and Sherman, Fin pulled out the flyer and double-checked the address.

“This is it. Sixth floor,” Fin said, and we both looked up at the tall white building.

“I’ve walked by this corner a million times, so why haven’t I noticed this?” I asked.

“Because it’s probably filled with podiatrists and old people getting their warts removed.” He held open the door.

I didn’t move.

“Just come up with me. If you don’t, I’m telling Pat that you murdered your new sweater.” He pulled me into the lobby and pushed the elevator button. “Energy is oozing through my veins. It’s the vim and vigor juice!” He squealed in the funniest way and I started laughing, which made him laugh.

I stopped. “Fin, your tongue is gray. Is mine?” In the reflection of the elevator doors, we examined our tongues.

“Zut alors!” he said. “That juice was probably made of endangered elephant-butt skin!”

We both started cracking up.

“They won’t hire us!” he wailed.

“They cannot discriminate on the basis of tongue color,” I said. “That is totally illegal.”

The elevator arrived. As we got in, another guy ran into the lobby and asked us to hold it.

It’s impossible to know everybody in our high school, especially people who are not in our actual grade level or people who didn’t go to our middle school, but I recognized this guy because he was in the school’s jazz ensemble, and we see those guys when we have chorus-band concerts.

“You play that big gigantic thing, right?” Fin was using his flirty voice. He uses it on everybody — grocery store clerks, cheerleaders, hot guys waiting in line at the movies, old ladies with thick glasses, puppies … you name it.

“It’s called a bass, Finnegan,” I said.

“A double bass, actually,” the guy said. “I’m Hayes Martinelli.”

Formal introductions are not exactly common among high school people. Usually, you get to know new people gradually because you sit next to them in class, so I was shocked when he stuck his hand out in
this old-fashioned way with this deliberate eye-to-eye gaze and said, “Hello, Minerva.”

I shook his hand, which was strange.

(Hayes, if you’re reading this, I didn’t mean that your hand felt weird. I will admit here that your hand actually felt nice — cold from the air, but not like a robot or a frozen fish fillet — and, if you recall, we actually connected in this perfect, smooth move without banging thumbs or squashing pinkies. Olympic judges would’ve given the handshake ten out of ten. What was strange was suddenly feeling a naked palm against my own naked palm because, to be honest, at the time, I didn’t go around shaking guys’ hands and also maybe because so much of our skin is covered up in the wintertime. It was also surprising to hear you say, “Hello, Minerva,” because I had no idea you knew who I was.)

While I was reeling from this, Hayes reached over and shook Finnegan’s hand. And Fin looked dazed and amazed by the whole thing, too.

“Sorry. It’s a reflex,” Hayes said. “I come from a handshaking family.”

“It’s debonair,” Fin said, and pushed the button for the sixth floor. “I’m going to shake hands with the Get Happy people. What floor do you want?”

“Seven,” Hayes said. “Floor number seven.”

Fin punched the button. “Podiatrist?”

“Podiatrist? No, actually,” Hayes said, “I have an appointment with a dimpiatrist.”

I wasn’t sure what that was, so I glanced at Fin, who looked equally clueless.

“I’m getting my dimples removed,” Hayes said. Perfectly straight face.

Fin and I laughed.

The metallic elevator doors in this building were like a spy tool. As they closed, our reflections appeared, so I could secretly check out Hayes. Tall, skinny, no hat, curly hair, ears and nose red from the cold, a vintage-looking wool coat, nice choice, and a slightly goofy but intense smile on his face, as if he were telling himself a really important joke. Just the right size dimples. He noticed my gaze in the reflection, and I quickly looked at the small numbers lighting up along the top of the elevator. B1, B2, B3. Next to me, Fin was doing his bouncy thing. He’s hyper to begin with, and the energy drink was making it worse.

“Um, I think we’re going down,” Hayes said.

I wanted to reply with some witty banter. “Yeah,” I said. Brilliant.

The doors opened to a parking garage.

Fin pushed the 6 button again and again and then again.

As the doors closed, Hayes said, “You’re both in chorus.”

“We are,” Fin said. “We’re chorus geeks.”

Then the most amazing thing happened. Hayes turned to me and told me that he happened to be walking behind the school last week and Fin and I were there, taking the shortcut to Park Place, and he heard me sing. “You were singing a song,” he said, “and one of the lines was ‘I’ll play a tiny violin and commit only tiny sins.’ ”

“She made that up!” Fin elbowed me. “You have a fan.” He turned to Hayes. “Are you stalking her?”

Hayes laughed and blushed slightly. “I like songs with unexpected lyrics.”

“See, Minerva, he likes your song.”

I bowed.

Fin elbowed me again. “I keep telling you that your songs are good.” He added to Hayes, “I keep telling her she should do open mics.”

I do what I always do when I am nervous: I turn
into a ridiculous clown. I sang a line from my song really high and really off-key:
“I will play a tiny violin and commit only tiny sins and all my troubles will be small.…”

Hayes laughed. “Keep going.”

I shut up. As they say in showbiz, better to leave them wanting more.

“Do you play a tiny violin?” he asked.

“No, but she wants a uke,” Fin said.

“A uke?” he asked.

“I’ve always liked tiny things.”

When we finally got to the sixth floor, Fin said, “Ditch the dimpiatrist or wherever you’re going and come with us. We’re auditioning to be entertainers at parties for kids.”

Hayes looked at me.

“I know,” I said. “It’s absurd.”

Hayes shrugged. “Okay, I’m in.”

“You’re kidding!” I exclaimed.

“Getting a job is on my list of things to do,” he said.

Maybe it was the vim and vigor juice … maybe it was the fact that I didn’t want to go home … maybe it was inspiring to see Hayes, who I had pegged
as the quiet type, saying yes.… I decided to go for it, too.

The Get Happy office looked like a preschool: one big, open room, each wall painted in a different bright color, a dozen pillows in a circle in the center of the carpeted floor. A row of costumes hung along one wall, giant plastic tubs labeled
PROPS
lined another wall, and curtained dressing rooms and a desk were toward the back.

“If they make me sing ‘The Wheels on the Bus,’ I will throw myself under one,” I whispered to Fin. Hayes heard it and laughed.

“Welcome! Come in!” A woman jumped up from behind the desk and came out to greet us, carrying a clipboard. A younger version of my mom, the kind of woman who loves coupons, whose fingernails always shine, whose hair is coiffed instead of cut. “I’m Joy Banks, manager of the brand-new Evanston branch of Get Happy. You’re here for the auditions? Come in.”

Fin whipped off his purple hat, marched up, and shook her hand. Hayes and I exchanged a smile and stepped up with the charm, too.

After hanging up coats and filling out forms, we sat in the circle on the floor, the empty pillows screaming a silent accusation:
Nobody wants to work for your company.

“Are we the only ones?” Fin asked.

The woman’s smile stretched like a rubber band. “So far.”

Just then the door opened and we all turned.

A tall, gorgeous girl walked in, a cross between a young Halle Berry and Rihanna, but totally natural. Huge dark eyes with dark lashes, great cheekbones, glossy lips. Her long hair pinned up in a messy and unbelievably pretty way. She was wearing a short skirt with black boots and bare thighs and, over it, a big loose guy’s jacket, like the winter had caught her off guard, and her boyfriend had given her his jacket. “Hi.” She waved with a blinding smile.

“This is why I hate auditions,” I whispered to Finnegan.

The girl took off the jacket, her exotic bangle bracelets jangling, to reveal a tight V-neck T-shirt. Hayes was checking her out. Really, I don’t understand how some girls get their arms and legs to look so Hollywood, a combination of the perfect shape — actual muscles — and
polished-looking, goddesslike, hairless skin. My legs and arms don’t have a shape, and no matter how often I shave my legs, the skin never looks right. It’s one thing I actually like about winter: You can wear long sleeves and leggings every day.

“Welcome, welcome!” Joy said, clearly relieved to see someone who actually looked like a potential star walking through the door. “You can fill out forms later. Sit down! Join us!”

As the new girl did one of those model-type moves, somehow sitting down in a miniskirt so the guys couldn’t see up it, Joy launched in, a fake gleam in her heavily made-up eyes. “Let’s introduce ourselves. Just tell us your name, why you’re here, a tidbit or two about yourself and your hobbies, and one thing you’re good at. Ladies first.” She gestured to the other girl to start.

The girl waved again. “Hi. My name is Cassie Lott. I’m here because I really want to get a job of my own and I like parties.”

Hayes and Fin and Joy all laughed.

She went on. “I go to the Parker School in Chicago. Let’s see … I love kids and I do a lot of volunteer work
on my breaks. I’m on the dance team and am in chorus. I’d say my main hobby is diving.” She smiled. “I have a blog about it.” She did this nose-crinkling smile. “Did I forget something or is that enough?”

Joy’s face almost exploded with excitement. “Wonderful!”

Hired. Really. Why bother with the charade of an audition? A singing, dancing, athletic girl! I could just see her five years from now, standing on the platform in her swimsuit, getting the gold medal and then giving it to charity and appearing on the cover of
Vogue.

“Next?” Joy looked at me.

The tension of the day opened a valve, and the acidic juices of my inner nature surged out. “My name is Minerva Watson.” I smiled. “I’d love to be part of the Get Happy family! I sing, and dance, and act, and twirl batons at Evanston High School. And I volunteer at Children’s Hospital, the animal shelter, and a homeless center.”

Joy put one hand over her heart, completely buying it. “That is so sweet.”

Fin snorted back a laugh, but I kept smiling and staring at Joy.

“And what about you?” She turned to Fin.

“I’m Finnegan O’Connor.” There was that flirty voice again. “I go to EHS with Minerva. I do lots of shows and I love to sing — ”

“His voice is amazing,” I offered.

He smiled, and then he took a big breath like he was excited to be alive, and started gushing. “I love entertaining. I love being in the spotlight and I really know how to work a crowd. I think birthdays should be full of vigor and vim, and I think Get Happy is such a great idea for a company.”

I was biting my bottom lip so hard I thought it was going to bleed.

“Thank you,” Joy said. “Yes, birthdays should be fun. I love your enthusiasm.” Joy turned to Hayes next, who threw us an amused look.

“My name is Hayes Martinelli. To be honest, I heard about this today and thought I’d check it out.” He shrugged.

“Hobbies?” Joy asked.

“I play the double bass and lately I’ve been recording original stuff. Jazz.”

“I love jazz,” Cassie said.

“Wonderful, Hayes!” Joy exclaimed. “Isn’t that
rewarding?” You could tell she didn’t give a flying fig about jazz. “Well, it looks like we have some real Get Happy material here.” Joy pulled scripts out of a file cabinet. Fin got pirate, Hayes got cowboy, Cassie got princess, and I got mermaid.

Fin shrieked when he saw mine, and started quoting our favorite
Little Mermaid
lines because I had a childhood obsession with Ariel.

Joy spoke up. “These are generic characters because of the whole copyright issue. You’ll see in your scripts. Let’s just go around the circle and each read the first page. Just try to get into character.”

We all took turns reading. I tried to think like a half fish, half girl and didn’t do too terribly. Hayes looked clueless when it was his turn, but helpful Cassie squeezed his arm and told him to relax, to which Joy said, “Isn’t that nice? And so true. Nobody here will bite you!”

Singing next. Fin sang first, and he belted it out without a shred of self-consciousness. He just doesn’t care what anybody else thinks, which makes him very lovable, in my opinion. Then Cassie sang, and she was completely intimidating. She’s got The Voice.

I had to go on after that. My voice came out mousy,
which is what happens when I’m nervous. I got mad at myself because I could do better and now I really wanted the job and I was afraid I wasn’t going to get it. Even Hayes was more confident. Finally, the whole ordeal was over, and the four of us left.

“Well, that was a hoot and a half,” Fin said. “Full of vigor and vim.”

Cassie laughed and put her arm around him. “You guys are hilarious. Thanks so much for telling me about this, Fin.”

I stopped.

Fin gave me a guilty smile. “Cassie was in that hip-hop workshop I took at Soul to Sole over winter break,” he explained.