My Invented Life (12 page)

And I have a bunny who does my homework in exchange for ear massages. NOT
.

Picture this—moldy peach flesh smeared across the
shiny chrome of my scooter. And scrawled in black on the body:
DYKEBYKE
. That
swag-bellied measle
! Except Carmen doesn’t have an extra ounce of fat on her. I spit on the word and scrub at it with my palm, but the homophobic twit used permanent marker. At that moment, I decide to follow her around for the day. It could prove educational.

I throw my besmirched scooter through my bedroom window and change from frilly frippery into gray sweats, which are better for spying. After hiding my scooter under my bed, I cruise to school on foot. When I reach the bike racks, I notice that the paint on Carmen’s bike has been scraped to the metal where my
SAVE THE GAYS
! bumper sticker used to be. Oh, that.

When I enter homeroom, Carmen sits up straight and throws every bit of skill she has into ignoring me. Despite her flirty pink crop top and fur-lined clogs, she looks forlorn sitting by herself. She had a fight with her best friend, dropped out of cheerleading, barely got the third-best part in the play, and then some quasi-lesbo delinquent tagged her bike. I shake off the sympathy moment. It’s not like she’s Mother Teresa either.

I slip a note to Eyeliner Andie after I’m settled.

wouldn’t u like it if someone thot u were perfect?

She pretends to strangle herself with her ring-covered fingers.

what a burden! i want to be loved for who i am
.

But did Marilyn Monroe expect to be loved for who she was? How about Madonna? They invented themselves and became international icons. Settling for your
plain old self lacks ambition. If everyone loves you for who you are, why improve? Then again, Madonna’s kind of creepy (in a fun way), and Marilyn killed herself.

Nico slides into his seat and reads the note. His hair twitches as he writes, so I can tell he’s blinking. He flicks the paper my way.

i AM perfect
.

During gym I pseudo-sprain my ankle on the basketball court, cursing under my breath and hopping on one foot so sincerely that the coach sends me to the school nurse. Free at last to spy on Carmen, I ensconce myself in the empty bathroom she usually primps in before lunch. Before entering the center stall, I grimace at my reflection in the mirror. Am I sinking too low?

Someone comes in. From under the partition I see that she has very large feet in boyish loafers. I wisely stand on the toilet seat. Just what I need is another rumor about me. Did you know that RoZ iZ constipated? When the bell rings, Bigfoot goes into a stall. A half dozen other girls pile in and stand in front of the mirror.

Carmen:
My lip gloss has disappeared again.

Carmen Groupie I:
Use mine. God, I wish I could get my hair to grow like yours.

Groupie II:
Is it true you dropped out of cheerleading?

Groupie I:
I heard you had a fight with Eva.

Carmen:
Eva who?

As one actress evaluating another of lesser talent, her words sound forced.

Groupie II:
Eva’s so stuck up.

I restrain myself from bursting from the stall and smacking groupie II.

Groupie I:
Who are the beautiful lips for?

Carmen:
Someone else’s boyfriend.

Groupies I and II, in unison:
Oooooooh!

No matter what Andie says, that girl is SO after Bryan. I offer a prayer to the goddess of spy-chick luck. If I can catch them alone together, Eva will have to admit she was wrong. When the bathroom clears out, I flush the toilet. That wastes water, I know, but social convention demands it. Bigfoot and I exit at the same time. Only she’s not a girl. She’s Jonathan.

I
grab Jonathan’s arm
and drag him out of the bathroom. Our hasty exit unfortunately doesn’t escape notice. A boy from my English class—a wrestling team–type dude—veers from his path to bother us.

“What’s up, girly-man?” MuscleBound says. He sniggers at his own dull wit.

“Get out of my way, you
gorbellied clotpole
,” I say.

“What did you just call me, lawn mower?”

“At least I don’t have a dick in the middle of my face like you,” I say.

The mood turns ugly. I clench my fists ready to fight. It’s Jonathan’s turn to drag me.

“Let’s go,” he says.

“Sissies,” MuscleBound yells after us.

Jonathan tightens his grip so I can’t turn back to deck his sorry butt. BlueDragon joins our escape. A strand of yellow construction-site tape clings to his fur and trails behind him as he walks. We make an awesome threesome. A good distance from campus we slow down.

“Sissy,” I say to Jonathan. We both laugh hard at this, but he gets serious again.

“Aunt S would kill me if I got into another fistfight,” he says.

“Is that why you left your school in Bakersfield?”

“More or less,” he says. “What
did
you call that guy?”

I recognize the ploy—asking a question to evade answering another question—because I use it all the time. He’ll tell me when he’s ready. “I called him a fat dummy.”

He flashes me a genuinely happy smile, and I feel good. The morning fog has burned off, revealing naked blue sky in all directions.

“What were you doing in the girls’ bathroom?” I ask.

“Freshening my makeup,” he says. I can see by the curve of his lips he’s having me on. “Where to?” he adds.

I’m so glad he wants to hang out with me, I don’t care that he evaded another question.
Pariah
might be too strong of a word, but lately I get more brooding stares than friendly hugs. I debate where to take him. The Silo is too public, and the benches at Yolo Park are usually sticky from spilled toddler snacks. “Follow me.” I lead the way up a trail to the reservoir overlook. “Did you hear what Carmen said in the bathroom?” I ask as we climb upward.

“Yeah. So?” he says.

“So she’s way worse than a
gorbellied clotpole
.”

“Hmmm,” he says.

By that I gather he doesn’t agree. “You don’t know her as well as I do,” I say. If I’m the serpent under the flower, she’s the Hydra—a nine-headed snake—under the swamp. He’ll find out soon enough. When we reach the top and catch our breath, I gesture grandly to the view below. “Are not these woods more free from peril than the envious court?”

Jonathan hugs himself against the cold. “But here we feel the churlish chiding of the winter’s wind, which bites and blows.” Translation? Jonathan thinks I’m a heartless gossip. Where’s my stylish mouth gag when I need it? Then again, maybe he’s just cold. The gusts make waves across the silvery water surface of the reservoir. We flop over on a stone bench against a small cliff that offers some protection from the elements. BlueDragon rests his weight against me and goes to sleep.

“Your voice is made for Shakespeare,” I say.

He snorts. “Shakespeare is a white dude’s dude.”

“Othello is black.” I flick his new earring, a gold hoop.

“And a murderer.” He props himself up against a boulder and stretches out his legs like he owns the place. His easy smile gives me the courage to be bold.

“Sapphire told me you had a girlfriend,” I say. “Was that weird? I mean being with a girl when you’re gay?”

“Girls are okay. I go both ways, I guess.”

“That’s how I am too,” I say, venturing slightly off the path of reality.

“No shit.” He looks at me with interest.

“No shit. I don’t like limiting my options to half the population.” When said aloud, it sounds like one of my better ideas, to be honest.

He takes my hand in his and holds it in a friendly way. A delicious feeling comes over me. Normally holding hands causes more anxiety than bliss. Are my teeth clean? Are my lips chapped? But Jonathan isn’t giving me the kissing vibe. The only flaw is the lie that I’m living. It’s like when you spill soda on your new white tank top, just a drop, but it lands right next to your nipple, so everyone
can’t help but notice it. Maybe I should tell him the truth. I shiver at the thought.

“You cold, Broadway? Let’s make a fire.”

“Sounds nice. But if you have to call me names, can you at least pick something cute? Broadway makes me sound fat.”

“I’m all over it, Short Stuff.”

“Thanks a bunch, Pyro.”

“Don’t mention it, Pee Wee.”

When I’ve gathered a pile of sticks, Jonathan pours yellow powder from a container of nondairy creamer into a paper cup.

“What else do you have in that mystery pack?” I say, admiring his weirdness.

“This stuff burns like crazy,” he says. When he lights a match, the powder bursts into flame and the dry wood catches. He looks like a proud kid. I stretch my hands over the fire to show my appreciation.

“Have you ever had a boyfriend?” I ask.

“Have you ever had a girlfriend?”

“No. But I made one up to impress my friends,” I say.

“Me, not even that.” He spreads his fingers and looks at me through the gaps. “But I daydream about my brother’s best friend.”

“Maybe he likes you back,” I say.

He holds his hands over the fire next to mine. I can almost see through his pale palms to the bones beneath. His face reads pained, like when Dad talks about his failed college grunge band. “No chance. He’s pure hetero.”

A small beetle trundles up his pant leg. I pick it off and
set it on his arm. We watch as it negotiates his sweater’s nubby terrain.

“Did you always know about yourself?” I ask.

“Pretty much. How about you?”

“No, but I’m easily confused.” The beetle reaches his hand and cruises across his smooth skin. We’re friends, and it feels good. Since he’s new at school, I don’t have to share him with anyone else, either.

“I’m glad you moved here.” Immediately I see that I said the wrong thing again. “Hit me. I’m a jerk,” I add.

A flock of geese in arrow formation passes overhead. He looks wary now, like Marshmallow when she has a bird in her mouth. “You’re not a jerk,” he says.

“If you ever want to talk about it . . . .” But why would he tell me? I’m the gossip geek of Yolo Bluffs, the Typhoid Mary of secrets.

He shakes off the beetle into the fire.

I punch him hard in the arm. “Why did you do that?”

“What?” he says, all innocent. “What’d I do?”

When I enter the Barn for rehearsal, Carmen’s all cozied up to Nico, sitting on the stage with her legs dangling over the edge. Eva and Bryan are in a private corner reviewing a script. I flop down next to Carmen.

“Excuse me,” she says. “We’re talking.” She turns her back on me. I massage her rigid shoulders for the two seconds it takes her to slide off the stage away from me. “Just because you’re an anomaly of nature doesn’t mean we all are,” she says.

“You can’t catch it from casual contact,” I say.

“Catch what?”

“The lesbo-virus.”

Carmen yanks off her platform shoe and hurls it at me. Sadly for her, she throws like a girl. I catch the red-beaded thing with one hand and pinch my nose. “A very ancient and fish-like smell,” I say before tossing it on top of a high speaker out of reach. Eva looks up from her script and scowls at me.

Nico makes no move to rescue her shoe. I like that in a boy. “My shoulders are a little stiff today,” he mumbles.

I press my thumbs in the space between his scapula and spine. His muscles feel like river rocks through his shirt. When Andie arrives, she winks at me and starts to massage my back. She’s strong, despite her small hands and slender wrists. Jonathan comes in and joins the chain. No wonder people think Californians are nuts. Then Carmen ruins it by massaging Jonathan. Must she pursue every single person of the male persuasion in the tri-county area?

Fortunately, Sapphire calls us to start before I think up an evil plan to put her in her place. Bryan goes on first and bounds around the stage, posting love notes to me on chairs representing trees in the forest. After he dashes away, Jonathan—as Touchstone—exchanges witticisms with a shepherd. I walk on next and read one of Bryan’s love poems:

From the east to western Ind,
No jewel is like Rosalind.
Her worth—

“Did someone take my script?” Eva interrupts loudly.

“Quiet, please,” Sapphire says.

I launch into my poem again, but halfway through, Eva’s watch alarm goes off.

“Sorry,” she says, feigning confusion. When I begin for the third time, I’m so out of the zone that I sound as flat as a rice paddy.

When Eva enters the scene to tell me that the love of my life has appeared in the forest, I say, “Dost thou think, though I am caparisoned like a man, I have a doublet and hose in my disposition? I prithee tell me who is it quickly—” at which point her cell bursts into song.

“I forgot to turn it off,” she says. Sapphire confiscates it anyway.

In the next part, Bryan and I are alone onstage. Rosalind, disguised as a man, offers to cure Orlando of his hopeless love for Rosalind. I should enjoy this scene, but with all the interruptions, I’m performing on par with a zombie in a B-movie. I can read regret all over Sapphire’s face written in Day-Glo marker. She wishes she gave the lead to Eva.

Sapphire ambushes me after rehearsal. “Can we talk?”

“I’m memorizing my lines,” I say. It comes out harsh, like I’m talking through ice that I’ve ground into slush with my teeth. Ever since that day in the bathroom when she hemmed and hawed over Jonathan’s sexual orientation, I’ve demoted her to the realm of unfathomable and irritating adults.

“Can we talk about your new persona? It’s not like you to keep things from me.”

“You don’t tell me everything. You never mentioned a sister.”

“We’re estranged.”

“What does that mean?”

“We’ve barely spoken in years. You can ask about it another time. This conversation is about you. I thought you were head over heels for the opposite sex.”

I meet her gaze at last, taking in her friendly eyes filled with questions. My teeth warm up a little. “I am crazy about boys. I’m just expanding my options. It’s not carved in stone, or anything.”
And if you say I’m confused, I’ll deck you
.