The Trouble With Flirting (20 page)

“That’s so not true.” I sit down and take a sip of my soda.
“It’s just that with rehearsals for
Twelfth Night
and all the costume work piling up—”

“Oh, I’m sure it has
nothing
to do with your being joined at the hip to Harry Cartwright,” Lawrence says. “I’ve finally conceded, by the way: he’s not gay.”

“Um, Lawrence?” Vanessa says. She points to Harry and Marie, who are walking into the dining hall together, her arm tight around his waist, his arm draped loosely over her shoulder.

“Excuse me?” Lawrence says. “What are
they
doing together?” He turns to me. “What’s going on, Franny?”

“We broke up.” It’s amazing how calmly I can say it.

Vanessa says, “Marie told me last night, but I wasn’t sure . . . I mean, I never believe anything she says.” She puts her hand on my arm. “Franny . . .”

I cut her off. “If either one of you expresses sympathy for me, I’ll scream and throw food. I’m so okay with this I can’t even begin to tell you.”

“Really?” she says.

“Want me to swear on my aunt’s dead body? I’d have to kill her first, but I’ll do it if it proves my point.”

“You’d like an excuse to do that, wouldn’t you?” Lawrence says. I’m glad I can still make other people laugh. I’m faking it myself at the moment—seeing Harry smile down at Marie makes my skin crawl.

Alex
, I tell myself sternly.
Remember about Alex. He’s the one who matters. Not Harry.

Where is Alex, anyway? I need some reassurance that I wasn’t imagining what happened last night, because it’s starting to feel very unreal in the light of day.

Vanessa picks up an apple and rotates it, searching for imperfections. “All I’m going to say on the subject is that any guy who would prefer Marie to you is an idiot.” She takes an emphatic bite of her apple.

“I agree,” Lawrence says. He stands up. “Anyone else want a glass of milk?”

We shake our heads, and after he leaves, Vanessa leans over to me. “Seriously, Franny, about Harry . . .”

“I’m fine.”

“And it’s over?”

I nod.

“Good. I didn’t want to say anything, because it’s none of my business, but I thought the whole thing was a mistake. Guys like Harry don’t really care about anyone but themselves.”

I nod, relieved to hear someone I trust confirm my decision. Especially since it wasn’t entirely my decision. “Hey, where are Alex and Isabella?” I ask casually. “Why aren’t they here?” I’m wondering if there’s any gossip going around about them, about how they’ve broken up or something like that. Or maybe he’s breaking up with her right
now
and that’s why they’re not in the dining hall.

Except they are: Vanessa points past my shoulder and says, “They’re right over there.” I turn and see Alex and Isa
bella sitting with Julia and Manny at a table in the corner. Their backs are to the room, so I guess I just didn’t see them.

Now I feel like I’ve been punched in the stomach. He’s been here the whole time I’ve been here. With her. Just sitting there. Not even looking for me.

Like nothing happened last night.

Am I losing my mind? Didn’t Alex kiss me? Didn’t he say the conversation wasn’t over?

Vanessa’s sharp eyes are studying me curiously. “Something going on you’re not telling me?” she asks.

I shake my head, and fortunately Lawrence comes back to our table right then with his milk and a plate of cookies and she’s distracted.

I sneak another peek at Alex and Isabella. Their chairs are close and their knees are touching.

Maybe I’m just an idiot. Maybe I just didn’t understand how the rest of our “conversation” was going to go. Maybe he was planning all along to say,
And, by the way, even though I kissed you, I’m not leaving the really gorgeous girl I’m already seeing. And, hey, how about those Mets?

That’s making conversation too, right?

When I clear my tray, I have to walk by their table. His eyes flicker up—and then suddenly he’s very busy eating a cookie.

The afternoon feels endless. We do costume fittings with the
Winter’s Tale
cast, and then I spend a couple of hours ripping
out hems and seams.

And then it’s time to go to rehearsal.

I’m lucky. Charles wants me and Raymond—who plays Sebastian—to work on a short scene that just the two of us are in. I quickly suggest we go off by ourselves and work in the hallway so the others can keep rehearsing in the practice room, and Charles says that’s fine and he’ll go back and forth.

Marie is whispering to Harry when Raymond and I walk out.

She’s always whispering to him when I’m around. You’d think he’d get tired of her sputtering in his ear like that.

With just two of us in the scene, I don’t have any downtime, which is good. I have to remember my lines, respond to his, focus on where to stand, figure out how to create the character—I don’t have time to obsess about why Alex was ignoring me at lunch or about the curling feeling I get in my stomach every time I see Harry with Marie.

I’m lying.

I still think about all that.

After we’ve worked on the scene alone for a while, Charles joins us and has us run it through for him. He gives us a few notes, then tells us to follow him back into the practice room so he can give some general notes to the whole cast.

I sit next to Julia. When Charles dismisses us, she and Manny say they’re going to dinner. “You coming?” she asks me.

“I should check in with my aunt first.” That’s just an excuse—I’m planning to skip dinner tonight. I don’t need to see Isabella with Alex, Marie with Harry. I don’t need to feel ignored and passed over up close. I can enjoy those feelings just fine from a distance.

Amelia is still sewing away when I show up. “What time is it?” she asks, looking a little dazed.

I tell her, and she asks me if I want to go to dinner. When I say I don’t, she puts me to work ripping out some seams. We work in silence for about an hour—well, silence except for her folk music—and then she sends me down to the costume archives to see if I can find a red scarf. She’s sure there’s one in there somewhere. I find one that’s dark red—but plaid—and one that’s a solid red—but orangey—and bring them back up the stairs and outside, where I’m suddenly pounced on by Vanessa and Lawrence.

“We’ve been waiting for you,” Vanessa says. “Amelia told us you were down there. We’re kidnapping you and taking you out on the town.”

“Now that you’re a free woman again, we want you back in our lives,” Lawrence says.

“I was never out of them!” I protest.

“We accept your apology,” Vanessa says. They walk me back into the Sweatshop, where the two of them explain to Amelia—with straight faces—that it’s a Very Important and Special Night for all the Mansfield actors, and that we’re not allowed to tell her anything about this very important and
special night, now or ever, but that she should know that it might go very late because it’s so very important and special.

She
buys
it. That’s the weird thing about Amelia: she’s nervous and negative and theoretically suspicious . . . but she’s also oddly gullible. She nods and reluctantly says that it sounds too important and special for me to miss, and thanks the two of them for including me.

She doesn’t have to tell us twice. We’re out of there before she finishes her sentence.

“Where should we go?” Vanessa asks as we race away.

“Can we run back to the apartment for like ten minutes so I can shower?” I ask. “Please? I promise to be fast. I just feel like such a grunge ball right now. I don’t want to go out like this.”

“You
look
like a grunge ball,” Lawrence says. “Whatever that is. No offense.”

“Is there anything to eat at your aunt’s?” Vanessa says. “I was waiting to eat and now I’m starving.”

I try to think of what I can offer her that’s at least slightly appealing. “There’s Greek yogurt and hummus and protein bars and rice cakes—”

“I love hummus!” Vanessa says.

Hey, maybe my luck is changing.

I take a shower and come out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel to find Lawrence and Vanessa standing around my bed, studying some clothes they’ve laid out there. Lawrence says,
“We got bored so we picked out an outfit for you.”

“You have to wear it,” Vanessa says. “Because we were nice and came back to your apartment and waited for you and the hummus sucked. You didn’t tell me it was homemade.”

“You didn’t ask.”

“It was like solid chickpea. Someone needs to introduce your aunt to the wonders of tahini.” She points to the clothing on the bed. “Hurry up and get dressed. My blood sugar’s dropping, and if I don’t get dinner soon, I’ll turn into a raging lunatic.”

“How will we know the difference?” Lawrence says.

“I just have to dry my hair first,” I say. “Don’t be mad.”

“Be fast and I won’t be mad.”

“Be mad and I won’t be fast.”

“Both of you shut up and maybe we’ll get out of here before midnight,” Lawrence says.

They leave the bedroom, and I put on the outfit they picked out: dark skinny jeans with a silky pink tank that has ribbons crisscrossing its bodice. They’ve even laid out shoes: the strappy spike heels that I wanted to wear with the green dress but didn’t because they’re so impractical. I put it all on, like an obedient child. I’m happy to have someone else making choices for me. I’m glad Lawrence and Vanessa are here.

I blow my hair dry quickly, leaving it naturally wavy since that’s the fastest way to get it dry, but at least it’s clean and soft and
not
in a ponytail. While I’m finishing up, the two of
them knock on the door, and Lawrence says he wants to try putting makeup on me because he’s never done it before and he thinks he’d be a good makeup artist.

“I’m not going to let you train on my face!” I say.

“I’ve done stage makeup,” he says. “Just not girl-going-out makeup. What’s the difference?”

“About ten pounds of foundation,” Vanessa says. “Let me show you how it’s done.” She sorts through the makeup in my toiletry kit. Amelia and I have to share one bathroom, so I’ve never really unpacked my stuff; I just keep it all in the bag so I can bring it back to my room when I’m not using it.

“This is fun,” Vanessa says, as she brushes blush on my cheeks. “You’re so pale and smooth, it’s like painting on a blank canvas.” She looks pretty drop-dead herself tonight, her crazy corkscrewing hair swept up in a big pouf that’s held in place with one of her wide headbands. The headband shouldn’t work with the big black glasses, but it does. It’s all about style, I think. And bone structure. I gaze at her as she goes to work on my face, leaning forward to dab and brush, shifting back to study her work. Yeah—if you have the right cheek- and jawbones, like she does, you can do crazy stuff with your hair and glasses and people still know you’re pretty.

I don’t have her bone structure, but as Vanessa finishes and I turn to the mirror, I have to admit that I’ve come a long way from grunge ball. She didn’t go overboard with the makeup, just kept it soft and flattering, so I look like me, but
me on my best and prettiest day.

Miss Smith after she’s taken off her glasses.

Who said that?

Oh, right. Harry.

Forget that, then. It’s a stupid compliment. And he’s long gone.

“What are you doing?” Vanessa asks Lawrence.

He’s leaning close to the mirror, carefully outlining his eyes in black pencil. “What do you think?” he asks, turning to us. It’s astonishing what a difference it makes. Usually he looks like he’s barely fifteen and kind of nerdy, but with the guyliner he suddenly looks dark and goth and sensual.

“I think your poor little Midwestern mother would have a heart attack if she saw you,” Vanessa says.

“Good thing she’s hundreds of miles away, then,” he says. He fluffs out his curls, tells me I look gorgeous, and declares himself ready to go.

Out on the street we link arms and I feel warm and happy. Like Dorothy with the Tin Man and the Scarecrow, I think.

Although . . . maybe Vanessa is Dorothy. Or Lawrence. Maybe
I’m
the Tin Man. He had no heart, right? Sounds pretty appealing to me right now. I’m ready to give mine up. It’s done nothing but get me in trouble. And ache.

Amelia lives just a few blocks away from downtown Mansfield, which is about halfway between her apartment and the college campus. We walk briskly in that direction now, Vanessa’s heels and mine echoing on the concrete sidewalks,
Lawrence’s rubber-soled boots silent.

“I thought we’d just go grab some fast food for dinner, but now I’m thinking we’re too beautiful for that,” Vanessa says. “I mean look at us. Just look at us. We are three very fine-looking individuals.”

“So where should we go?” Lawrence asks. “If I don’t eat soon, I’m going to start gnawing on my own arm.”

“You’ll have to share it with us,” I say. “We’re hungry too.”

“Won’t work for me,” Vanessa says. “I’m a vegetarian.”

“You can have my toe jam,” Lawrence says.

“You are so gross. How about this place?” She stops and points to a sign that says Mansfield Pub. “There’s a menu in the window.” We study it for a moment and agree it looks fine. I push open the heavy door and we go in.

The place is big on wood—the tables, the chairs, the stools, and even the floor are all made out of the same kind of fake-weathered oaky stuff. It’s pretty dim inside and moderately noisy, and crowded enough to make me hopeful the food will be decent. There’s loud rock music playing through the system, but someone is setting up band equipment on a small platform in the back of the room, so it looks like there will be live music soon.

Vanessa spots some people paying and nabs their booth the second they’re on their feet. “Takes a New Yorker to score a table before anyone else,” she says smugly as we slide in.

A waitress brings us menus. Lawrence and I order hamburgers and fries and Vanessa gets spaghetti marinara. We polish off a basket of bread just in time for the food to come.

Vanessa stops eating the fries off our plates long enough to check her phone when it buzzes.

“You guys mind if Julia and Manny join us?” she asks absently as she punches back a response to the text. It’s not really a question, so we don’t bother to answer it.