The Pretty One(13)

“No excuses,” Mrs. Bordeaux replies, raising her hands to silence her. “Everyone in this school is busy with extracurricular activities.”

I sink even further into my chair as I roll my eyes toward the dirty white plaster ceiling. Nancy Abercrombie has a lot of nerve. For one, she’s a sound person, so all she needs to do is flip a switch and hand out the microphones. But still, I can tell from the approving nods that most people agree with her. If I weren’t such a loser and had more of a social life, maybe I wouldn’t be such a star student. It’s enough to make me wish that I hadn’t gotten an A. I wonder if this is how Carrie felt before she got the bucket of blood dumped on her.

After class, I’m standing beside my desk pulling a tiny piece of nail out of my mouth when I see Drew walking toward me, his eyes cast over my shoulder in such a fashion that I can almost see why someone might think he was stuck up. But for some reason, I can sense that this is a defense mechanism, like he averts his gaze so he can seem aloof instead of…afraid.

When this thought sinks in, I whip my thumb out of my mouth. Then my heart speeds up and my hands start to shake, because Drew is standing right in front of me, but not quite looking me in the eyes.

“Thanks for making us all look like idiots,” he says, smirking.

My witty retort is “Ha!”

Thankfully, Drew ignores me and pulls a manuscript out of his binder. “You should read this.”

“What is it?” I’m acting as though he just gave me a ring-shaped box tied up with a bow.

“Chris Vicker’s play. He’s going to start casting next month. I thought you might be interested in reading for it.”

“Auditioning?”

“Yeah. Maybe if I get you busy enough, you’ll bring down the curve.” He gives me a nod and grins before turning on his heel and walking down the hall.

“By the way,” I call out after him. “I’ve decided to go to the fall festival.”

“Oh,” he says, glancing back over his shoulder at me as he continues to walk in the opposite direction, heading toward the steps.

I look down at the script in my hands. If I weren’t intending to frame it, I’d smack it right on my forehead. Why would I think Drew might care that I’m going to the fall festival?



After lunch, I’m on the first floor heading toward production class when I see a small crowd gathering across the hall from the production studio, outside the auditorium. I’ve always found it a little cruel that the production studio is tucked away in a dank corner of the school, right underneath the cafeteria kitchen and directly across the light-filled hall that leads to the auditorium. I know it makes sense since we’re building the sets, and the farther we are from the theater the farther we have to drag what in some cases are pretty heavy set designs. But it’s torture.

There we’d be, covered in sawdust and splattered with paint, walking out of what resembled a giant, cold, windowless garage, practically gasping from the Salisbury steak fumes radiating through the ceiling, and there would be all the drama majors, leaning against the sun-drenched windows looking freshly scrubbed and glamorous, reciting their lines. To make matters worse, the bathrooms where we washed our hands were down the hall, past the dance studio where all the fit little dancers were swirling around in their tights, and past the art studio where all the painters were sketching their Picassos.

I make my way through the crowd of drama majors and have my hand on the door to the production studio when, out of the corner of my eye, I see George Longwell drop to his knees in front of pretty senior drama major, Michelle Berkowitz. George is one of Lucy’s friends. He’s a natural comedian who loves the limelight, breaking into song at the strangest times, like in the middle of a fire drill or after an exam. George takes Michelle’s hand and begins to sing a cappella:



Oh, Michelle, you are divine,

Please, please, say that you’ll be mine.

Your beauty continually haunts my mind,

You are, hands down, one of a kind.

Say you’ll go the festival with me

And so, so happy, I will be.



“What the hell is going on?” Simon loudly whispers, nodding toward George as he sticks his head out of the production studio.

“George is asking Michelle Berkowitz to the fall festival,” I whisper back. I swipe some sawdust off the top of Simon’s head and move closer to the hubbub to get a better look.

I get there in time to see Michelle nod yes and the small crowd, all ten or so of us who have gathered to watch, erupt into applause. All except Simon, that is.

“How pathetic,” Simon says, doing a little jig in an attempt to dislodge some of the sawdust coating his T-shirt.

“I think it’s sweet,” I say. “He wrote a song just for her.”

Simon rolls his eyes at me as George gets off his knees. George blows Michelle a kiss and pats his heart twice. Michelle says something that I can’t quite make out and the two of them begin walking toward us. I move out of their way as I say, “Hi, George.”

But even though George has been at my house with Lucy and has met me a million times, he doesn’t acknowledge me. He just walks right past me, like I’m invisible or something.

“Asshole,” Simon says, when George is out of earshot and past the dance studio down the hall.