The Trouble With Flirting (4 page)

After all the introductions, she and Harry quickly and confidently take charge of the conversation.

“You wouldn’t believe all the ways we’ve traveled today!”
Isabella says, leaning back in her chair and arching her flawless neck in a luxurious stretch. “First by plane—”

“No,” Harry corrects her. “Car to the airport first.”

“Oh, right,
then
the plane, then the tram to the shuttle bus, the bus to the camp van, then on foot from the dorm—”

“The only thing we didn’t take today was a horse-drawn carriage.”

“Or a ride on a camel.”

“You know, I
should
get a camel—it’d be faster than a car in L.A. traffic. Plus I could name it Lumpy.”

“Lumpy would be a good name for a camel,” she agrees.

“You’re from L.A.?” Julia leans forward. “Both of you?”

Harry grins at her. It’s a charming grin but veers toward overkill, what with the too-cute dimples under his green eyes. “Yep. From the same part of L.A.—Brentwood.”

“So you two already know each other?” Julia’s eyes dart back and forth, assessing the situation. I remember her crush on Steven Segelman, and I can kind of see how Harry is a similar type to S-squared. Pretty boys, both of them. Steven didn’t have a brain in his head. I wonder about Harry.

“Best friends since ninth grade.”

Best friends? Really? That would imply they’re not a couple.. . . Oh, wait: Absurdly gorgeous guy with a close friend who’s a girl? Who loves theater?

So he’s gay. Sorry, Julia. And then I notice that Lawrence is gaping at Harry too.

Clearly, I’d be wise to assume
every
guy here is gay until
proven otherwise.

“Not the
beginning
of ninth grade,” Isabella says. “It was during
The Music Man
, and you were dating what’s her name, the girl with the enormous . . .” She curves her fingers into round shapes.

“Nose?” he suggests mischievously.

She laughs. “That too. Anyway, she hated me ever since Jackson Trent kissed me in seventh grade, and every time I tried to talk to you she’d get between us, blocking me with her enormous—”

“Nose.”

“That too.. . . She made it clear I wasn’t welcome. It wasn’t until you broke up with her—”

He grimaces. “And what fun
that
was, what with the tears and the screams and the begging—”

“Yes, you did
get
emotional, didn’t you? But at least I was finally permitted to talk to you, and
that’s
when we became friends. And you learned to date less clingy girls.”

Girls
. Okay, so he’s
not
gay. Then why aren’t they a couple?

I give up. Sooner or later we’ll know all about one another. I don’t have to figure it all out in the first hour.

“Were you also in
The Music Man
?” Julia asks Harry.

“Of course he was,” Isabella says. “He was Harold Hill. Harry always gets the lead.”

“It helps to be a guy,” he says. “There are always more girls than guys trying out for roles. You don’t even have to be
talented, just willing to make a fool of yourself.” He jerks his chin at Lawrence and Alex. “Right?”

“I take voice lessons,” Lawrence says seriously. “And acting classes. And dance.”

Harry shrugs cheerfully. “Well, of course it doesn’t
hurt
to be hardworking and talented. I’m just saying you don’t have to be. I mean, look at how the girls outnumber the guys here.” He waves a hand at the students, and I look around. He’s right. There are probably four girls for each boy. “All we men have to do is show up.”

“Whose phone is that?” Isabella asks, because there’s an unmistakable buzzing sound of a phone set on vibrate. She glances around the table. “Didn’t they say we weren’t allowed to use our phones except in our rooms at night?”

“It’s mine,” I say, and pull it out of my pocket and read:
Lunchtime is over
. Thanks, Amelia.

“It’s the first day,” says Alex. “I don’t think they’re going to really come down on us yet. But you should still probably hide it, Franny.”

“It’s okay,” I say, texting back a quick
BRB
—I doubt she’ll know what that means, but let her spend time figuring it out—before sticking my phone back in my pocket. “I’m allowed to use mine.”

“Why’s that?” asks Lawrence. “You special?”

“My mommy always said I was.” I flutter my eyelids. “But, that’s not why—it’s because I’m not actually a student here.”

“What do you mean?” Isabella asks.

“She’s doing an internship with the costume director,” Julia cuts in.

“It’s not exactly an internship.” I get to my feet. “More what you’d call a job—I’m working for the costume mistress. Who’s also my aunt. Not coincidentally.”

“What’s it like?” asks Vanessa.

“You know those nineteenth-century sweatshops where it was always incredibly hot and people had to work long hours under brutal conditions? Basically like that. Only with folk music.”

“Sounds rough,” says Harry. “Especially the folk-music part.”

“Yeah, that stuff’ll kill you. Anyway, I really do have to go back now.”

“You’ll come to dinner here, though, right?” Julia says.

“That’s my plan.”

“We’ll save you a seat if we get here first.”

“Thanks,” I say, oddly touched.

“Oh, and one more thing,” Harry says. “If you’re going to be working on my costume, I feel it’s important you know ahead of time that I dress to the left. And that I need a
lot
of extra room over there.”

I stare at him blankly. I have no idea what he means, but Isabella is laughing. I look to Julia, who’s equally confused. “What does that even mean?” She turns to her brother. “Alex?”

He shifts uncomfortably. “I only know because Dad’s tailor asked me once, and Dad had to explain it to me. It has to do with the way guys’ pants fit . . .” He trails off.

“How they fit?” Julia repeats.

But Vanessa gets it. “He means which side they put their junk on when they get dressed,” she says calmly.

“Oh,” I say. Then I wrinkle my nose. “Ew. TMI, Harry.”

He smiles like a cat that’s pleased with itself. “Just felt someone should know.”

“Yeah, you should ignore that feeling in the future. Bye, guys.”

As I walk away, I hear Isabella saying in a low voice, “So, wait—she’s really not in the program?” I can’t hear the response.

I leave the dining hall and pause out front, adjusting to the hot muggy air. Everyone else is inside. It’s just me out there.

It’s kind of an icky feeling, like I’ve been exiled from all the fun. I know that’s not how it is. No one’s kicking me out. No one’s treating me like some kind of outsider. They were all actually really nice to me. But it still
feels
that way.

I start to cross the courtyard to the theater but have to jump back when a car comes zooming up the gravel drive. It’s not a through street or anything—there’s a sign at the entrance that says only college-owned vehicles are allowed to come down this way, but this car is a small silver Porsche convertible.

The car brakes near me in an abrupt spray of gravel, and
a guy gets out of the driver’s seat. He’s got flat brown hair and a round head and appears to be somewhat challenged in the chin department. He’s wearing sunglasses, so I can’t see his eyes, but he looks college-aged. “Hey, there,” he says, amiably hailing me. “Where is everyone?”

“The dining hall.” I jerk my thumb in that direction.

He leans down to the car window. “She says they’re all in the dining hall.”

A girl gets out of the passenger seat. She looks a little bit younger than he does—roughly my age—and pretty, with honey-colored hair, large hazel eyes, and a heart-shaped face. She’s wearing very short denim cut-offs and a tight blue T-shirt. Perfect body: small, compact, curvy. “That’s why it’s so quiet. I was wondering if I had the day wrong,” she tells me. “I was here earlier to drop my stuff off, and then we went out to lunch. I figured I should have one last good meal before I have to eat dining-hall food all summer.”

“It’s actually not too bad,” I say. “The pizza’s decent.”

“Really? I’m dubious.” There’s a pause.

“I’m Franny,” I say, since we’re just standing there.

“Oh, hi. I’m Marie.”

She doesn’t bother to introduce the guy, so he says to me, “I’m James,” before turning back to her. “Well, I guess this is good-bye for now.”

“Don’t you think we should get my purse out of the car before you take off?”

“Oh, right.” He scuttles around to the passenger side and
gets out a large quilted leather purse.

“
Now
we can say good-bye,” she says as he hands it to her. She offers her cheek to his lips and he plants a solid one there, making an appreciative smacking sound that seems to cause her pain, since she winces.

But she recovers and says, “I’ll let you know when you can come see me. There are all these rules about visitors and going off campus, but I am
not
going to be a prisoner here for the next six weeks, so expect to hear from me soon.”

“I’ll break any rules for you,” he says with awkward gallantry.

Her lip curls. “But you wouldn’t be the one breaking them; I would.”

“Right. Text me,” he says, and gets in his Porsche and continues driving down the sloping road—which means he has to drive past us again a few seconds later, because the gravel road only leads to an area that lets you turn a car around. He gives us a little wave as he goes by.

“He’s nice,” I say.

She shrugs. “Uh-huh. Let’s go in. I don’t want to miss the meeting.”

“I’m going this way,” I say, indicating the theater.

“I thought you said we were supposed to be in the dining hall.”

“
You
are. All the acting students are. I’m working on costumes.”

“Oh,” she says, her eyes darting away. “That’s great.”
She turns toward the dining room, then stops. “Hey, since you don’t have to make the meeting, would you mind doing me a huge favor and just running my purse up to my room?” She holds it out toward me. “It’s really heavy. I don’t want to have to lug it around all afternoon, but I’m already late. It would be so incredibly nice of you—”

“I can’t get in there,” I say, glad I have an easy excuse. I’m not about to be turned into anyone’s personal bellhop. “No key. Sorry.”

“I could give you mine and you could just run it back to me.” A pause. I don’t jump at the offer. She threads the bag back on her arm. “Guess I’ll have to be even later than I already am.”

“Sorry,” I say again. “Bye.”

“There you are. Finally,” Aunt Amelia says when I walk into her workroom. The Sweatshop.

“I was meeting people.”

“Were they nice?”

“Some of them,” I say, and for some reason it’s Alex’s blue eyes and slow smile that I’m seeing as I say that.

A couple of hours later I think maybe I’m hallucinating—the heat’s gotten to me—because the guy himself is suddenly standing right there in the doorway, trying to get our attention with a cheerfully uncertain “Um . . . hello?”

Before I can process that he’s maybe actually really there, Amelia looks up and says coldly, “How can we help you?”

“Sorry to bother you, but Ted—my director—he said maybe we could borrow a few hats for the rest of the afternoon? Hey, Franny.”

“So you two have met,” Amelia says with an annoying little smile.

“We went to school together.” I stand up. “I can show him where the hats are, if you want.” I hope I don’t sound
too
eager.

She’s back to working at the machine, material bunched up all around her, so she just nods absently. “Don’t give him anything that looks new or expensive. Not if they’re just using them for goofing around.”

“We’re playing an improv game,” Alex says.

“Nothing new or expensive,” she repeats. “And I want them back before dinner, clean and brushed. The key’s in the top drawer of my desk, Franny.”

I get the key and lead Alex out of the Sweatshop and down the hallway to the back of the theater, then outside and along the building to the separate entrance for the basement storage area, which I open with the key. We go inside and head down the narrow stairs. The switch I flick on the way down only connects to one small hanging bulb, but at the bottom I turn on the real lights and we stop and take in the rows and rows of racks and shelves.

Alex gives a low whistle. “Wow. Impressive.”

“I know, right? I totally want to explore. Are you in a hurry?”

“Nah. Your aunt was right—we’re really just goofing around up there.”

“What do you think of the program so far?” I ask as we start walking again.

“The first two hours have been magnificent,” he says with a laugh. “Well, there were about three minutes that were kind of boring, but I got through them.”

“Sorry. Lame question.”

“No,” he says. “It wasn’t. I was just teasing.” And he smiles his nice smile at me, and my momentary insecurity is gone.

“Can I show you my favorite costumes?” I ask. “The Restoration ones? They’re incredible.”

“Definitely.”

As we walk in the narrow aisle between the racks of labeled clothing, I run my hand lightly along the plastic-covered costumes and say, “So how’d you and your sister both end up here this summer?”

“Partially through shared interests and partially through nepotism. My uncle is the head of the program.” He gives me a sideways look. “Do you think less of me now that you know I pulled strings to get in?”

“Hey, I’m only here because of my aunt. Nepotism rules. But are you actually into acting?”

“I guess. I was Tevye in our school production of
Fiddler on the Roof
last fall.”

“That’s a huge role!” My awe is genuine. He hadn’t even
tried out for the plays in middle school—I had no idea he could carry a whole show.

He shrugs dismissively. “I got lucky. I only tried out because Julia said I should, and I wasn’t playing a sport that season.”

“But you wanted to go to acting camp?”

“‘Wanted to’ is a slight exaggeration. My parents kind of pushed me into it. They think a summer at Mansfield will help get me into college. I play baseball, so there’s that . . . but so do a million other guys, and after I got the
Fiddler
thing, they thought maybe the combination of sports and theater would make me stand out from the crowd. It’s all they can think about these days—my getting into college.”