Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda(8)

“Okay, boys,” says Ms. Albright. Hilarious, because Martin, Cal Price, and I are the only ones onstage who technically qualify. “Bear with me, because we’re going to do some blocking.” She combs her bangs out of her eyes and tucks them behind her ear. Ms. Albright is really young for a teacher, and she has bright red hair. Like, electric red.

“Act One, Scene Six is the pickpocket scene, right?” asks Taylor, because she’s also the kind of person who pretends to ask a question just to show off what she already knows.

“Right,” Ms. Albright says. “Take it away, Cal.”

Cal is the stage manager. He’s a junior like me, and he carries a double-spaced copy of the script clipped into a giant blue binder, exploding with pencil notes. It’s funny that his job is basically to order us around and be stressed out, because he’s the least authoritative person I’ve ever met. He’s a little bit soft-spoken, and he has an actual southern accent. Which is something you almost never hear in Atlanta, really.

He also has those kind of shaggy brown bangs I like, and dark, ocean-colored eyes. I haven’t heard anything about him being gay, but there’s this kind of vibe I get, maybe.

“All right,” says Ms. Albright, “Dodger has just befriended Oliver, and he’s bringing him back to the hideout for the first time to meet Fagin and the boys. So. What’s your objective?”

“To show him who’s boss,” says Emily Goff.

“Maybe to mess with him a little?” says Mila Odom.

“You got it. He’s the new guy, and you’re not going to make it easy for him. He’s a nerd. You want to intimidate him and steal his crap.” That makes a couple of people laugh. Ms. Albright is moderately badass for a teacher.

She and Cal put us into position—Ms. Albright calls it “setting the tableau.” They want me lying down propped up by my elbows on a platform, tossing a little coin bag. When Dodger and Oliver enter, all of us are supposed to jump up and make a grab for Oliver’s satchel. I have the idea to stuff it under my shirt and stagger around the stage with my hand on my lower back like I’m pregnant.

Ms. Albright totally loves it.

Everyone laughs, and honest to God, this is the absolute best kind of moment. The auditorium lights are off except for the ones over the stage, and we’re all bright eyed and giggle-drunk. I fall a little bit in love with everyone. Even Taylor.

Even Martin. He smiles at me when he catches my eye, and I really just have to grin back at him. He’s such a freaking asswipe, seriously, but he’s just so gangly and fidgety and ridiculous. It takes some of the passion out of hating him.

So yeah. I’m not going to write a poem in his honor. And I don’t know what he expects me to say to Abby. No clue. But I guess—I’ll think of something.

Rehearsal ends, but Abby and I dangle our feet off the edge of one of the platforms, watching Ms. Albright and Cal make notes in the big blue binder. The south county late bus doesn’t leave for another fifteen minutes, and then it’s another hour until Abby gets home. She and most of the other black kids spend more time commuting to school each day than I do in a week. Atlanta is so weirdly segregated, and no one ever talks about it.

She yawns and leans back flat on the platform with one arm tucked behind her head. She’s wearing tights and one of those short patterned dresses, and her left wrist is loaded with woven friendship bracelets.

Martin sits across the stage, a few feet away, zipping his backpack so slowly it must be deliberate. He seems to be making a point of not looking at us.

Abby’s eyes are closed. She has the kind of mouth that always rests in a faint smile, and she smells a little like French toast. If I were straight. The Abby thing. I do think I get it.

“Hey, Martin,” I say, and my voice sounds strange. He looks up at me. “Are you going to Garrett’s tomorrow?”

“I, uh,” he says. “Like a party?”

“It’s a Halloween party. You should come. I’ll send you the address.”

Just a quick text to Monkey’s Asshole.

“Yeah, maybe,” he says. He leans forward and stands, and immediately trips over his shoelace. Then he tries to play it off like some kind of dance move. Abby laughs, and he grins, and I’m not even kidding: he actually takes a bow. I mean, I don’t even know what to say to that. I guess there’s this hazy middle ground between laughing at someone and laughing with someone.

I’m pretty sure that middle ground is Martin.

Abby turns her head to look at me. “Didn’t know you were friends with Marty,” she says.

Which is just about the most hilarious f*cking statement ever.





4


FROM: [email protected] TO: [email protected] DATE: Oct 30 at 9:56 PM

SUBJECT: Re: hollow wieners Blue,

I guess I never tried to pull off something truly scary. My family is really all about the funny costumes. We used to get competitive about whose costume would make my dad laugh the hardest. My sister was a trash can one year. Not Oscar the Grouch. Just a trash can full of trash. And I was pretty much a one-trick pony. The boy-in-a-dress concept never got old (until it did, I guess—I was in fourth grade and had this amazing flapper costume, but then I looked in the mirror and felt this electric shock of mortification).

Now, I’ll say I aim for the sweet spot of simplicity and badassery. I can’t believe you’re not dressing up. Don’t you realize you’re throwing away the perfect opportunity to be someone else for an evening?